My eyes linger on Noni’s father while fear surges inside me like a gust of wind. I see him like I see things in a dream: inexact, smeared by memory. His face shining red, his sharp stare piercing like a knife, I see him pursuing me and Lees out to sea.
With a jolt the dream fades, the past yields to the present, and I move forward with all the strength in me. My arms work the paddle in my hands, pushing the surface as if burying that remembered threat. That memory cannot hurt me now. The real threat is the man with a loaded atlatl right in front of me, the man who will take Kol from me if I do not act.
My eyes on him, my arms digging hard at the sea, I know that now is the time to ready my shot. I slow my strokes, pull up my paddle, and reach for a dart. My fingers are just wrapping around it when a searing pain smashes through my temple. A thud reverberates inside my head, like something heavy dropped to the ground, and everything goes dark.
Although I sit in a boat atop the waves, I feel as if my feet have gone out from under me. I reach out a hand to hold on to the sky as the kayak flips and the surface comes up to meet me.
Upside down, I hold in my breath as I hold in my cry, reminding myself that water has tried, and failed, to beat me. The pack with my darts and atlatl slides from my arm, but I sweep out a hand just in time to catch it before it sinks.
Above me the hull of a boat floats like a cloud in a storm-darkened sky—a flatter, wider hull than those of the Olen or Manu. The pain in my head fades and the darkness rolls away from my sight, and I know it’s a Tama boat. I reach up, the water blurs as silt and sand churn around my flailing arms, but finally my hands find the skin at the front of the Tama boat.
How long have I been submerged? When my clutching hands grab at the sealskin, my fingers digging in like they’re digging into air itself, I know it’s been too long. I pull the skin toward me, lifting my body and righting my kayak. My face breaks into the day, the boat in my grip tips toward me and over, and I see a Tama woman’s face wide with fear as she flips into the sea.
I catch my breath. I am upright. My paddle is too far to reach, so I grab the paddle of the Tama boat and row as hard as I can toward the place I last saw Kol.
But he’s not there. In that place I see Morsk, a dart protruding from a spot under his arm. He’s chasing something—a kayak receding toward the shore. Noni’s father. Behind them both, in a kayak with a slash across the deck, I spot Kol.
Kol sees me. He gestures, telling me to get down. I do as he says, folding my chest over my legs. As I watch, Kol loads a dart into his atlatl and throws it at a target beyond my right shoulder.
A cry mixes with the slap of the waves against paddles and boats. I turn to see a face I’ve seen so many times before, a face that draws bile up my throat.
Dora’s eyes bore into me as she tugs Kol’s dart from her side, just below her rib cage. Blood spurts from the wound, spattering the deck of her kayak before being rinsed away by the spray. Her mouth twists into a grimace of pain. One gnarled hand curls into a knot around Kol’s dart, while the other reaches for her atlatl. As I watch, she loads the bloody dart and aims at me.
I know I don’t have time to row far enough to escape her reach. Even with blood pouring from her side, she could make the shot. It won’t take much strength or skilled aim. I am too close to avoid her.
She reels back. I have only one choice. At the moment her arm begins to come forward, I roll my kayak and again plunge into the sea.
The sea was cold before. This time the water bites into my skin like teeth. My hands, my throat, my face ache like they are being shredded by the jaws of a cat.
I watch, but I don’t see the dart break the surface. I wonder if she held the shot. Wary, I know I can’t resurface where I am. A dart could pierce me before I was able to draw my first breath.
I reach for the knife in my belt. I don’t have much time. I cut through the sash that holds me in the seat and swim out, letting the harpoon that was tucked by my feet slide into my waiting hands. Kicking hard, I shoot to the bottom of Dora’s kayak and slash at the hull with the knife in my right hand and the harpoon in my left. When a gash hangs down and blood from her wound starts to tint the sea pink, I pull myself up on the side of her boat. She spins to face me, and when she does I pull my body up onto the deck. The boat is narrow and slippery, the hole I cut causing it to toss unsteadily in the waves. I struggle first to get my balance, then to hang on without falling. But once I have myself in position—once I am straddling the kayak right in front of her, a knife in one hand and a harpoon in the other—Dora knows she’s lost. She grabs at the bag of darts on her half-submerged deck and tries to use one like a knife, stabbing at my hands and arms. My skin tears and burns, but it’s too late for her. The boat tips backward, weighed down by seawater filling the hull, and all she can do is grab at the sash to try to escape.
Her hands slide on the knot in the cordage. She’s panicking, clawing at the sash.
And then she’s gone, pulled down by the boat as it sinks.
I know I need to get out of the sea before the cold steals the life from me. But I can’t help but swim down, sweeping the bottom for a glimpse of her. After all, I thought she was drowned once before. My lungs ache, and my legs are going numb. And I see her.
The boat touches the bottom and then floats up again, bobbing right below the surface, carried by the force of the waves. Dora, held in the seat by the sash, has gone still. A cloud of blood flows from her side.
I break the surface and find my kayak. Flipping it over, I drag myself out of the cold waves and climb on top, straddling the deck. My feet hang over the sides, dipping now and then into the sea, but wrapped in sealskin boots they resist the cold. But my hands, face, and neck ache as they thaw in the air.
I search for a paddle, finding one floating on the waves. The only way to reach it is to paddle with my hands, exposing them to the frigid water again. Still, I’m helpless without an oar, so I do what I must. Just as I reach it I hear my name. It’s Seeri’s voice. The one-word cry bursts out of her like a scream for help.
I have to paddle in a circle to see her—she and Pek are almost directly to my back. When I get turned, I know why she called out. Two Tama kayaks have targeted Roon and Lees, and they are coming fast toward either side of their boat. Both Tama fighters hold a knife in their teeth, keeping their hands free to row. Roon and Lees appear to have lost a paddle, and Roon is struggling to get them away as Lees hurries to load a dart.
But even if Lees were to succeed and get the dart loaded quickly, which boat would she target? She could load and fire only once before her time is up. Seeri waves to me—her hands are empty. She is either out of darts or her pack has tumbled overboard into the sea.
My bag of darts is still over my shoulder. I might be able to target one of the Tama kayaks if Lees targets the other. But one dart would have to be perfectly placed to stop the approaching kayak. If they can still paddle, they will have plenty of opportunity to attack with their knives.
Then I remember the harpoon—the harpoon tied to a length of rope—resting in my lap. I load it into my atlatl as quickly as I can. I hardly have time to aim. It flies over my shoulder, soaring toward the closer target, and it finds its home in the side of the boat.
The harpoon cuts right though the sealskin hide of the hull, just below the waterline. Tugging on the rope as hard as I am able, the boat jerks off course and flips before the harpoon comes loose. Lees lands her dart in the shoulder of the other Tama fighter. That boat turns and circles back, and Pek, waiting not far off, sends a second dart plunging into the man’s back.
A voice calls into the wind . . . Fall back! Noni’s father holds a paddle high in the air. A signal.
For one brief moment I think that the Tama are calling for retreat. Several of their wounded are paddling farther away, pulling out of range of our darts. Blood flows from arms and necks. Darts protrude from shoulders and backs.
But then I see that the Tama High Elder is under attack. A boat is bearing down on him.
Kol.
The High Elder is too far away for me to see clearly, but something is definitely wrong. He paddles awkwardly, as if he has the use of only one arm. I watch Kol, and as I do I notice several places where blood seeps from gashes in his tunic. Still, he rows hard toward his target. Morsk is not far away. Noni’s father raises his paddle again and I realize he isn’t calling retreat, not really.
He’s calling all the Tama to his defense.
Thern and Pada, though, won’t let them pass. Two Tama fighters are blocked, unable to maneuver around much more experienced paddlers. Niki and Evet, in their double kayak, have speed on their side, but though they hurry toward Kol, Morsk, and the Tama High Elder, the distance they have to cross is great.
I paddle closer, too, hoping to see Kol finish Noni’s father, but wanting to be close enough to help if he needs me. He holds his atlatl, loaded with his harpoon, all the while paddling to get close enough to know the shot is certain.
Morsk is not far behind Kol now, but a Tama is also closing fast. Kol surveys the water, takes stock of the paddlers and where they all are, growing ever closer to his goal. He glances back at Morsk just once before sending the harpoon sailing over his shoulder.
It hits the High Elder’s back, slipping through his body like a knife sliding through water. I see him grasp at something at his waist and I realize it’s the point of the harpoon. It has come straight through.
He drops his paddle, slumping forward. Kol turns, looking for Morsk. But instead of Morsk, a Tama fighter is right beside him. Too far away to help, I watch as the Tama raises a hand and brings it down. He raises it again and I see the dart in his hand. Another stabbing cut down through the air and he raises it again. This time I’m close enough to see that it drips with Kol’s blood.
I paddle harder, digging at the water as fast as I can, but Morsk is closer. He glides across the water like a bird through the air, a sudden burst of strength carrying him to Kol. He reaches him, ramming the Tama boat and sending it over. The hull of the boat turns up, and the tumult of the struggle all at once goes still.
Morsk paddles a short distance away, waiting and watching for the boat to right on the waves. Even the other Tama, paddling to the side of their High Elder, slow, waiting for the boat to flip.
The longer it stays capsized, the more I suspect this Tama will never surface. All the other fighters from his clan have retreated, dragging the boat holding Noni’s father into shore. A red wake trails his kayak. There is no doubt Noni’s father is dead.
Finally, when this last remaining Tama kayak has stayed inverted for so long, Morsk turns to look at Kol. He calls to him, asking if he’s too injured to paddle back.
I wait for Kol’s reply, my heart skipping nervously in my chest at the thought of how badly Kol might be hurt. Wishing to be able to check his injuries, to see for myself if any would threaten his life.
“I can row,” Kol calls. “I have plenty of wounds, but none of them is deep.”
I am almost to Morsk, almost to the overturned kayak, when a figure springs up out of the sea. The man from the inverted boat, holding a knife. He climbs the side of Morsk’s kayak and plunges the knife down. I see a flick of his wrist, the knife drawn across Morsk’s throat.
Everything changes—the wind blows harder, the waves crash higher. Blood runs down from Morsk’s neck, coating his shoulders and chest. I load my atlatl, take aim. The dart flies, lands in the Tama man’s chest. Once. Twice. Three times.
My eyes sweep from boat to boat to boat, and I see that Kol and Pek both hold empty atlatls. They both shot just as I did. Three darts stick deep into the Tama fighter’s chest.
Pulling one free, he tips backward. His balance is lost. He slides from the side of Morsk’s kayak, painting three stripes of blood on the deck as he disappears into the sea.
Paddling, climbing—I’ve taken the Tama man’s place on the deck of Morsk’s boat before I know how I got there. His blood smears on my hands and on my tunic. I grab Morsk’s shoulders, call his name, slide him back in the seat.
But he won’t answer me, won’t open his eyes.