Дэйв Дункан - Magic Casement

Fleabag!

A dog as large as a full-grown timber wolf came racing across the compound at full wolf speed, heading for Rap. As it passed Little Chicken it veered unexpectedly, careering into the backs of his knees. Dog and boy and log collapsed in a heap.

Rap staggered wildly, but he had managed to hold up his end of the tree for an instant longer than Little Chicken had. The other end had fallen first. Then he toppled into the fur robe that was thrown around him. Waiting hands snatched him up and rushed him to the lodge for treatment. Fleabag slunk away, looking confused. The spectators burst into noisy debate as they streamed off in search of warmth.

Little Chicken was left where he was, prostrate on the snow, beating one fist against the log in fury and weeping bitter tears that froze before they reached his chin.

Barely conscious, Rap was carried into the communal cabin, and there blacked out completely from the shock of sudden warmth. But the women were experienced in dealing with cases of severe exposure and they had their remedies ready. In a few minutes he became aware of their attentions, and of a large audience, also.

Not all the torture of the goblins' testing was reserved for the loser. Repeatedly he recovered consciousness and fainted again from the agonies as his limbs and body thawed, as he was compelled to move when he wanted to die, as hot fluids were forced down a tube into his stomach. He was massaged and rubbed and pummeled. Yet he hung on stubbornly to the thought that he was enduring this in public, and goblins admired courage. More important, he thought that Little Chicken would be watching. So he choked back the screams, to sweat and shudder through his ordeal in jaw-clenched silence.

The faintness passed in time, but he was left dazed and confused by shock and by the potions that had been forced into him. He was vaguely aware of voices asking what man-name he would take and he heard his own sniggering reply that Flat Nose was fine. He barely registered that they spent a long time working on his face.

Finally the mists inside his head began to clear and he found himself sitting on the men’s platform around the central hearth in the big house. He was the only one on it, as if he were a king on, his throne. The building was packed with residents and guests—men and boys in their usual shameless state of undress, women and girls swathed like tents—all standing or sitting six or eight deep around the walls, leaving a vacant space in the center of the room, between the two hearths. The great fire was blistering his back and the smoke billowed low overhead like a ceiling.

He squirmed as he realized that he was thus on display while wearing nothing but a loincloth. Then he saw that the empty floor in front of him was not quite empty. His long shadow jiggled and danced on it, while sitting cross-legged in the center and deliberately placed in that shadow was Little Chicken, face expressionless, stoically awaiting his fate. His long queue, of which he had been so proud, had been hacked off at the roots, and he was wearing nothing at all. In mixed company? The shock of that discovery was enough to jerk Rap out of his confused lethargy. He looked around.

That was the signal. High Raven came strutting forward, his bears' tooth collar clicking, his rope of gray hair hanging down over his paunch. He also wore a ceremonial cap of black feathers with a high-curved raven’s beak, sticking out above eyes that glittered in the firelight, full of hate and fury.

He raised his arms and bowed low. “Hail to Flat Nose of the Raven Totem!”

The audience echoed him. “Hail to Flat Nose of the Raven Totem!”

Rap had no idea what was expected of him, so he staggered to his feet. He was at once embraced by High Raven in a hug made slippery and smelly by their mutual coatings of bear grease.

“High Raven honors his son, Flat Nosel” High Raven embraced him again.

Two younger men came forward, looking no happier, and also embraced Rap—Dark Wing and Raven Claw. These were Little Chicken’s brothers and now apparently Rap’s, also, but the words and gestures of welcome stopped short of their eyes.

Then the new member of the family was presented with gifts—a ceremonial stone dagger and a complete set of buckskins, from boots to hood. Obviously these had been prepared in advance for Little Chicken. Equally obviously, some words were then expected from Rap, so he stammered that he was honored to be admitted to Raven Totem and the beadwork on the clothes was the finest he had ever seen. Then he ran out of ideas.

But apparently he was performing satisfactorily, for now the visiting chiefs were brought forward to be introduced—Death Hug of the Bear Totem, Many Needles of the Porcupines, and a couple of others. None of them was bothering to conceal his amusement at the way High Raven had outsmarted himself and lost a promising son. They were laughing at their host, and that humiliation was likely hurting him more than any regrets he had for Little Chicken.

Each chief said a few words, and Rap soon gathered that the inexplicable assistance he received from Fleabag was being regarded as divine intervention, which explained why Little Chicken was not howling for a rematch. Rap thought of the strange old woman he had seen. Chosen one … he is precious? Her prophecies had not come true. Obviously she had been nothing but a delusion.

The last of the honored visitors returned to his seat. So far, so good! Rap was beginning to feel more like himself, his head was clearing, and now he was apparently a goblin in good standing. He wondered if he could obtain assistance for his journey south.

He could dream again of reaching Kinvale! And after he had given Inos her warning, he might even manage to track down Darad and gain revenge.

His pleasant speculations were shattered when the next stage of the program turned out to be a wedding. He had forgotten young Clover Scent, but now she was led forward, swathed from crown to toes. She stood in expectant silence, eyes downcast, only her rather dull and plain face visible in her wimple. Her name was inappropriate. She looked much too young to be a bride, but under the gown she had a very promising figure, soft and rounded, yet youthfully firm. Rap had now accepted that he knew what people looked like inside their clothes. He just couldn’t help knowing.

But he did not want a goblin wife.

How should he address High Raven? “Honored Father,” he stammered “I must soon go away. The way of my people is to have but one wife . .”

He was worried that this refusal might be interpreted as an insult, but no—for the first time High Raven’s burning resentment seemed to cool a fraction. He bared yellow teeth in a predatory and approving smile. Darad had explained, of course, that the purpose of this murderous ceremony was to leave fewer men to share the women.

“I will take her for you?”

Rap thought that Clover Scent might prefer one of Little Chicken’s brothers, but he was not going to argue the matter. He nodded, and that was enough. In no time High Raven, as chief, performed the ceremony, marrying Clover Scent to himself, as bridegroom. The bride’s expression did not change by a flicker, so either she did not care or she was being very tactful. High Raven had lost a son and gained a wife. He seemed to be pleased by the exchange.

Rap had not eaten all day. A quick steak would be a very nice thought. But now came the moment he had been unconsciously dreading. Clover Scent had been removed. He was left standing in his place of honor with High Raven—and Little Chicken was still sitting in the middle of that arena. He knew the agenda. He rose and came forward, head held high in spite of his nudity, the center of attention. He dropped to his knees in front of Rap.