Page 8 of Humans Don't Have Horns
I keep walking, too frightened to stop. My thoughts drift. How strange it is to hear the Mongans speak so openly of the forbidden Goddess. The Renyans are not allowed to worship her or speak in the old language. Aldonian is the only language permitted in Amada. To even say the name of the Goddess is a death wish.
I will find Renya on my own and finally prove that I’m not some useless ornament, as my father sees me. I was so worthless that night, frozen like that. Tears of shame burn my eyes. I don’t bother to wipe them away, for I’m alone in the swamps, and the night is a heavy blanket.
The crescent moon hides behind the clouds. I remember with anger that the moon didn’t hide that awful night before my wedding. No, it was a full moon, and the tent was bathed in light. The moon should have hidden that night so I wouldn’t see everything so clearly.
I stop and take three deep breaths. They are supposed to calm me down but only make me aware of the sounds around me. Every noise can be a leaf dancing in the light breeze or a predator moving toward me. There is no such thing as trolls, Daton said. But that reallydoesn’t help me if I get eaten by a giant spider. I continue walking, not entirely sure of the right direction but too afraid to stop. Two hours later, I reach the end of the swamps.
Ha, not entirely useless after all. Outside the swamps, I see a meadow with tall grass. Behind it is a grove. Soon it will bedawn, and I’ll rest. I walk toward the grove, where I would be less exposed than in the open meadow. But as I reach the center of the meadow, I hear howls. I’m entirely defenseless and with not even a knife. The greatest weapon I have is a half-full waterskin. I search for stones in the grass, but it is too tall for me to see them.
Then I spot the creatures. Five of them. They are looking at me like I’m their next meal.
Direwolves. They are at least double the size of a normal wolf. In a heartbeat, I’m utterly surrounded. The direwolves howl, and I freeze, just like that night. Panic sets in as my body shivers. The moon emerges from the clouds to watch me as I lose everything again.
The largest direwolf leaps toward me, its huge paws hit my chest, and I quickly crash to the ground under its weight.
The direwolf’s claws are sharp at my torso and collarbone. But then its weight lifts off me. “Run!” Daton shouts as he hauls the direwolf into the air. But I’m glued to the ground, paralyzed with fear and shock. It’s a habit I seem to have these days.
Daton fights the direwolves with bare hands, having surrendered all his weapons to the Mongan warriors. He punches one direwolf in the jaw, and it whimpers in pain. He kicks another in the underbelly, and the direwolf howls. But as much as he fights them, there are five of them, and soon enough, they are all on top of him. He falls to the ground. He is going to be eaten right in front of me. Because of me.
I’m furious at myself for being so weak. Furious to the point that something erupts in me for the first time. I scream. But it’s not a scream that comes out of me. It’s more of a howl.
All the direwolves come to a halt and stare at me. The biggest direwolf, the one who jumped me, curiously tilts her head. “Humans don’t speak our language,” she says.
What in Sun’s name is happening? Why can I understand her?Why can she understand me? I notice she’s female. She has a white spot on her face, while the rest of her fur is silvery gray. I also can tell by the big scars on her chest and back that she isn’t young and has survived her share of injuries. I think she’s the pack leader.
I overcome my shock and improvise, “I do. You must stop this. Spare him.”
She gives me a long, pensive look. “We will spare him. But out here, some creatures will not give grace even to a human who speaks their language. Be more careful in your ways.”
I fight to keep my jaw from falling open and manage a thank-you with a weak voice. She lowers her head in acknowledgment. She and her pack head back into the forest.
I hurry to Daton. He’s lying on the ground, breathing heavily, blood gushing from his injuries. He has significant, mean-looking gashes on his torso and at his throat that look like canine marks. He seems in such a bad condition that I think it’s my imagination when I hear him speak.
“What the fuck was that?” he asks.
“That was a pack of direwolves,” I answer while trying to figure out how to treat his wounds.
“Don’t play coy,” he snaps. His lips curl in scorn. Or maybe in pain.
I’m not being coy. I have no idea what happened, and his accusing tone rubs me the wrong way. This man has the ability to enrage me as I have never experienced.
He starts to rise, only to groan in pain and fall to his back. He passes out.Good, I think to myself. This way, he is less annoying. I tear off what remains of his shirt and tie it around the most significant injuries in an attempt to stop the bleeding.
I know I’m not supposed to move him. It’s one of the worst things you can do with injuries like this. But the meadow is too exposed. But he’s so heavy, it takes me almost half an hour to drag him to the nearest tree to lean on. Daton looks awful. It’s a wonder he’s still alive with all the blood he’s losing. He’s not going to make it.Think! You need to think.
I see a binerra tree close by. Its pointy, succulent leaves look tempting, but their use is for different cases. If I can collect the tree sap and mix it with a forest mushroom and a powder from a pine tree’s bark, maybe it will heal his wounds. I remember! Pure joy washes over me while I remember my mother teaching me and my sister Renyan healing. Another memory is revealing itself to me.
In my satchel, I find a spoon and a small bowl. I use them to collect the binerra’s sap. I locate a forest mushroom about half a mile from where I left Daton. I hurry back to find him in the same position. His eyes are closed, and his breath is heavy. The bleeding has slowed down, but at this point, I’m not sure it’s a good sign. I peel some bark from a pine tree and grind it with a small rock.
I mix all the ingredients, add a bit of water, and make the paste. I don’t know if it will work, but it feels so good practicing healing after all these years. And it most certainly feels better than just sitting there helplessly watching him die. I gently start rubbing the paste into the large wound, and he grabs my hand in a death grip. I cry out in pain, feeling my bones nearly crush. I twist in vain, trying to pull my hand away from him.
“No Renyan witchcraft.” His eyes burn with that hate I remember from the first time I saw him. The nerve of the man. Calling my mother’s healing witchcraft.
“It’s not witchcraft. It’s healing,” I snarl at him as I try to release myself from his grip.
“I mean it. Take that shit away from me,” he orders, his voice full of danger.
“It’s a miracle you’re still alive. You will bleed to death or die from infection if I don’t heal you,” I cry in frustration.
