bottom. His lungs threatened to burst as precious air bubbles escaped his lips.
Failure slapped him harder than the current against the rocks. He’d die today as a nobody, just a clumsy kid who couldn’t catch a trotter in spawning season. A little voice nudged him to keep trying, that there was more to life than excelling at trotter fishing, but under the weight of his failure it seemed like too little encouragement too late.
Hands reached around him and pulled him just as the last bubbles of air slipped from his mouth. He breached the surface and gulped in a deep breath, his entire body shaking.
“You…okay…Weave?” Striver struggled against the current, holding Weaver’s head above the water. Weaver coughed and spat.
“My rod. I lost it.”
“It doesn’t matter as long as you’re safe.” Striver gripped him under his arms and swam them back to shore.
Embarrassed and defeated, Weaver felt like a pincushion with prickles sticking him everywhere. A deep, dark shame festered in his soul.
“I thought I’d lost you. But you’re gonna be just fine.” Striver dragged him to the shore and laid him on his back. Weaver hacked up water and hugged his arms close to his chest, shaking.
“Is he all right?” Dad ran beside them and draped his shirt over Weaver’s shoulders. The warmth of the boar’s hide blocked the biting wind but could not take away the sting in his heart.
“I think so.”
“I knew he was too young to take with us. I should have listened to your mom. Thank goodness for your quick reaction and your excellent swimming skills, Striver. I couldn’t have reached him in time with my bum leg.” Dad’s pride in his brother made Weaver feel like he’d eaten a whole bowl of pearl berries, the sweetness sickening him to the point of hurling. Every time Striver looked good, it made him look bad.
“I’m just relieved he’s okay.”
“You shouldn’t have gone so far, Weave.” Dad’s voice was more plaintive than angry. “We can’t watch over you if you run away.”
“I don’t need anyone to watch over me.” Weaver’s voice came out as a weak cry and he winced. “I can do things by myself.” But the truth nudged him in his gut. He needed them more than they needed him.
Weaver buried his head in his arms and curled into a fetal position. He hated Striver for catching the trotter, for being better than him at everything, and for saving him. He would always live in his older brother’s shadow.
“Sure you can, Weave. I’m just here to help if you need it.” Striver placed a hand on his shoulder. Instead of comforting him, the gesture heightened Weaver’s aggravation and he pulled away.
“Come on, help me carry him back to the village before he catches cold. Mom can brew him one of her herbal teas and wrap him in blankets.” Dad’s voice was tired and agitated, making Weaver feel worse. “She’s going to whip us into swillow wisp stew.”
Arms reached underneath him and he melted into their embrace, wishing he could climb under the water once again and freeze forever.
…
“Put them here.” Jolt’s rough-edged voice cut through Weaver’s foggy mind. He sat up, eyes blurry from deep sleep. Remnants of his dream sent a shiver of disquiet through his gut. He felt like he’d traveled fifteen years into the past and back again in only moments. But somehow, the past wasn’t exactly as he remembered it. His father’s stern reproach from that day burned in his memory. Looking back through the dream, Weaver knew his father had just been worried about him and what his mother’s reaction would be when he came home soaking wet. He’d probably gotten his old man in a bunch of trouble. Guilt and shame burned in Weaver’s heart. He had gone too far down the river.
Crusty, Snipe, and a few other Lawless men carried two people wearing strange camouflaged uniforms into the cavern. Weaver stared, openmouthed, as they lowered the tied bodies to the cavern floor.
“Sleeping on
Failure slapped him harder than the current against the rocks. He’d die today as a nobody, just a clumsy kid who couldn’t catch a trotter in spawning season. A little voice nudged him to keep trying, that there was more to life than excelling at trotter fishing, but under the weight of his failure it seemed like too little encouragement too late.
Hands reached around him and pulled him just as the last bubbles of air slipped from his mouth. He breached the surface and gulped in a deep breath, his entire body shaking.
“You…okay…Weave?” Striver struggled against the current, holding Weaver’s head above the water. Weaver coughed and spat.
“My rod. I lost it.”
“It doesn’t matter as long as you’re safe.” Striver gripped him under his arms and swam them back to shore.
Embarrassed and defeated, Weaver felt like a pincushion with prickles sticking him everywhere. A deep, dark shame festered in his soul.
“I thought I’d lost you. But you’re gonna be just fine.” Striver dragged him to the shore and laid him on his back. Weaver hacked up water and hugged his arms close to his chest, shaking.
“Is he all right?” Dad ran beside them and draped his shirt over Weaver’s shoulders. The warmth of the boar’s hide blocked the biting wind but could not take away the sting in his heart.
“I think so.”
“I knew he was too young to take with us. I should have listened to your mom. Thank goodness for your quick reaction and your excellent swimming skills, Striver. I couldn’t have reached him in time with my bum leg.” Dad’s pride in his brother made Weaver feel like he’d eaten a whole bowl of pearl berries, the sweetness sickening him to the point of hurling. Every time Striver looked good, it made him look bad.
“I’m just relieved he’s okay.”
“You shouldn’t have gone so far, Weave.” Dad’s voice was more plaintive than angry. “We can’t watch over you if you run away.”
“I don’t need anyone to watch over me.” Weaver’s voice came out as a weak cry and he winced. “I can do things by myself.” But the truth nudged him in his gut. He needed them more than they needed him.
Weaver buried his head in his arms and curled into a fetal position. He hated Striver for catching the trotter, for being better than him at everything, and for saving him. He would always live in his older brother’s shadow.
“Sure you can, Weave. I’m just here to help if you need it.” Striver placed a hand on his shoulder. Instead of comforting him, the gesture heightened Weaver’s aggravation and he pulled away.
“Come on, help me carry him back to the village before he catches cold. Mom can brew him one of her herbal teas and wrap him in blankets.” Dad’s voice was tired and agitated, making Weaver feel worse. “She’s going to whip us into swillow wisp stew.”
Arms reached underneath him and he melted into their embrace, wishing he could climb under the water once again and freeze forever.
…
“Put them here.” Jolt’s rough-edged voice cut through Weaver’s foggy mind. He sat up, eyes blurry from deep sleep. Remnants of his dream sent a shiver of disquiet through his gut. He felt like he’d traveled fifteen years into the past and back again in only moments. But somehow, the past wasn’t exactly as he remembered it. His father’s stern reproach from that day burned in his memory. Looking back through the dream, Weaver knew his father had just been worried about him and what his mother’s reaction would be when he came home soaking wet. He’d probably gotten his old man in a bunch of trouble. Guilt and shame burned in Weaver’s heart. He had gone too far down the river.
Crusty, Snipe, and a few other Lawless men carried two people wearing strange camouflaged uniforms into the cavern. Weaver stared, openmouthed, as they lowered the tied bodies to the cavern floor.
“Sleeping on
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