Chương 16: B1 Chapter 15

I looked toward my blowgun, but the movement pulled at my injured shoulder and sent a hot, tearing pain through my chest. For a moment, the weapon seemed impossibly far away. Then my shoulder reminded me that having a weapon wouldn't matter if I couldn't use my arm. Blood had soaked most of that side of my body. It ran beneath my arm, down my ribs, and gathered in the hollow of my waist before dripping onto the packed earth. I pulled my hand away from the wound and stared at my palm. Red covered it. Too much.

The spear had gone through the thick part of my shoulder rather than my chest, which was probably the only reason I was still breathing. Even so, every beat of my heart forced more blood from the holes it had left behind. I could feel the warmth spreading beneath my skin. I could feel my strength leaving with it. I couldn't leave the wound open. Using my good arm, I dragged myself toward the baskets along the wall.

Each movement made my injured shoulder scrape against the floor, and each scrape sent another wave of pain through me. I clenched my teeth and kept moving until my fingers reached the nearest basket. I pulled it toward me and began throwing things aside. Food. Cord. Dried leaves. Roots. A bundle of fishing hooks. Not that one. I shoved it away and opened another basket. My vision blurred for a moment. I blinked hard, waited for the hut to stop tilting, and searched through the contents again. There.

I pulled out a small bundle wrapped in leaves and tied with thin cord. Inside were dried leaves, strips of clean cloth, and a small container filled with dark red sap. We called it dragon's blood because the tree bled red when it was cut, just as we did when a blade or spear opened our skin. I'd used it on cuts before. Small cuts. The kind that stopped bleeding after a little pressure and a few days of rest. Never on anything like this.

I tore open the cloth with my teeth and pressed it against the front of my shoulder. The moment I pushed down, pain tore through me so violently that my stomach clenched. A sound escaped my throat. I nearly vomited. For several breaths, I could do nothing except kneel there with my forehead pressed against the wall, waiting for the worst of the pain to pass. My injured arm hung uselessly at my side. I couldn't lift it, and I could barely feel my fingers. The bleeding continued beneath the cloth.

I forced myself to look at it. Then I pressed harder. The wound had to be closed enough to slow the blood. If I stopped now, I'd lose more before I ever reached the fight. I packed the cloth against the opening as best I could, using my good hand and the side of my body to hold it in place. My fingers slipped several times. Blood made everything wet and difficult to grip, and I couldn't see the hole at the back of my shoulder. I had to work by touch.

When the cloth was wedged tightly against the wound, I opened the small container of dragon's blood. The sap was thick and dark, almost black in the dim light of the hut. I scooped some onto my fingers and smeared it over the packed cloth and around the edges of the wound. It clung to my skin, sticky at first, then began tightening as it dried. I reached behind myself and tried to cover the second hole. I could barely reach it. My fingers brushed the torn flesh, and the pain made my vision flash white.

I almost dropped the container. Still, I forced myself to continue. I spread the sap as far as I could, then pulled a strip of cloth around my chest and injured shoulder. I wrapped it once, pulled it tight, and wrapped it again. The pressure made my arm go numb, but the bleeding began to slow. I kept wrapping. Once more. The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. Then again. I pulled the knot tight with my teeth and good hand.

The cloth cut into my skin, and my shoulder throbbed beneath it with every heartbeat. For a while, I remained still, listening to the sounds outside. Shouting. Feet striking the earth. The dull impact of wood against wood. Someone cried out, and the cry was swallowed by the noise of the fight. I looked down at the bandage. The cloth was already stained red, but it was no longer filling as quickly as before. That was enough. It wasn't healed. Nothing in this hut could heal a spear wound.

The sap might help protect the injury, and the pressure might slow the bleeding, but the spear had torn through muscle. Every movement could open it again. All I'd done was convince some of my blood to remain inside me. Now I needed to convince my shoulder that it didn't hurt enough to stop me. That required something else. I reached into another pouch and pulled out several dried coca leaves. They were small, tough, and slightly curled from being stored. I placed them into my mouth and began chewing.

The taste was bitter and green. I worked the leaves between my teeth and cheek, mixing them with saliva until they formed a rough, damp bundle. I'd chewed coca during long hunts, cold nights, and journeys when hunger made every step feel heavier than the last. It didn't erase pain. It didn't restore blood. It didn't make a wounded body whole. But it could push exhaustion farther away. It could make hunger quieter. It could give a man enough distance from his pain to keep moving when his body wanted him to lie down.

Slowly, the sensation in my mouth changed. Then the edge of the pain began to change with it. The wound still burned. My shoulder still throbbed with every heartbeat, and moving the arm sent deep pain through my chest, back, and neck. I simply cared about it less. The weakness dragging at me retreated enough for me to think around it. My breathing steadied. The hut stopped spinning. I could hear the fight outside more clearly, separating individual sounds from the chaos. A spear striking a shield.

A man shouting for help. The heavy rhythm of someone running across the village. Enough to move. Enough to fight. That was all I needed. I spat the crushed leaves into my palm and wiped them against the floor. Then I looked toward my blowgun. It hung from the wall where I'd left it, smooth and dark from years of handling. I crawled across the hut and reached for it with my good hand. The movement pulled at the bandage. Fresh pain flared beneath it.

I stopped, breathed through the pain, and continued until my fingers closed around the weapon. The blowgun was long, light, and familiar. Its weight settled against my palm in a way that made the rest of the hut feel less uncertain. This was something I understood. I pulled my dart pouch toward me and opened it. Two bundles were inside. The larger bundle held my hunting darts. Their tips were prepared for small animals and birds, strong enough to pierce flesh but safe enough that the meat could still be eaten.

I pushed them aside. The smaller bundle had been wrapped tightly in broad leaves and tied with cord. I rarely touched it. Nobody did unless there was a reason. The cord had been sealed with resin, and I had to work at the knot with my teeth before it finally loosened. They weren't hunting darts. They were killing darts. The poison came from the little tree frogs that lived deeper in the forest, the bright ones everyone learned never to touch. Their colors warned you before their poison did.

Even the hunters who'd handled them for years treated the darts with care. The poison ruined meat. Completely. Anything killed with one of these was left where it fell. You didn't cut around the wound. You didn't feed the good pieces to the dogs. You didn't cook it longer and hope the fire fixed what the poison had touched. You left it. Using that poison on an animal you intended to eat was waste. A hunter killed because people needed food. These darts existed for things you wanted dead. I opened the leaves fully.

The darts rested inside, each one held in place by a narrow strip of fiber. Their tips were dark with poison, glossy where the coating had dried. I chose one carefully by the shaft, keeping my fingers away from the tip. Outside, the Bone Jaw tribe had spears. Axes. Clubs. Numbers. They had men surrounding the village, and every one of them knew how to kill at close range. I had a blowgun. Poison meant for killing. And I wasn't hunting for meat.

I pushed myself toward the back of the hut rather than returning through the entrance. The front opening was exposed, and anyone watching the fight could see it. If I stepped out there, I'd become another target before I had the chance to raise the blowgun. There was a narrow gap beneath the woven wall where I sometimes pushed tools through while working outside. It was barely wide enough for my shoulders, but I had no other way out. I drew my knife and cut the opening wider. The woven fibers resisted at first.

I sawed through them slowly, pausing whenever the movement pulled at my shoulder. Sweat ran down my face and mixed with the blood on my skin. When the gap was large enough, I lowered myself onto my stomach and pushed through. The earth scraped against my ribs. My injured shoulder caught on the woven wall, and pain exploded through me. I bit down on the blowgun to keep from crying out, then pulled myself free with my good arm. I came out behind my hut. No one saw me.

The rear of the hut was shaded by palms and hanging vines. From there, I could see part of the village without exposing my whole body. Smoke drifted between the shelters, carrying the smell of dust, sweat, and blood. I slid the poisoned dart into the blowgun and held the weapon close to my chest. Across the village, the hunters were still being forced backward. Timoteo lay where he'd fallen. I couldn't tell whether he was dead or only stunned.

His spear was several steps away, and one of the attackers was moving toward it. The Bone Jaw tribe moved among my people. They didn't rush. Their warriors walked with the confidence of people who believed the village already belonged to them, and their men made space for them as they advanced. The defenders gave ground whenever one of the Bone Jaw fighters raised a weapon. The sight of them made my wounded shoulder tighten. The question kept scratching at the back of my mind. Why were they here?

The Bone Jaw tribe hadn't come for food. They hadn't come to trade. They'd brought too many men for a simple raid, and they were moving through the village as if they'd come for something specific. Whatever the answer was, I could worry about it if we survived. I rested the blowgun against the edge of the hut and searched for a target. I couldn't charge them. I couldn't chase them. I couldn't stand beside my father and fight spear against spear.

With one arm nearly useless and blood still leaking beneath the bandage, I'd be dead before I reached the center of the village. I didn't need to. A hunter didn't need to be stronger than his prey. He needed patience. He needed position. He needed to understand where the prey believed it was safe. And he needed one clean strike. I watched the movement of the attackers and waited for one of them to separate from the others. The dart wouldn't travel far enough to cross the entire village, and I couldn't risk missing.

If the poison struck the wrong person, I'd lose the only advantage I had. A man with an axe stepped around the side of a shelter. He was close enough. He had his back turned toward me. I lowered my head and placed my mouth against the end of the blowgun. The wood felt cool against my lips. I drew a slow breath through my nose and held it. The man turned slightly. I waited until his body was clear of the others. Then I began to hunt.