I stopped very still with my head to one side, trying to catch the sound I had almost heard, a sound very much like a moan. It was difficult to imagine who might be out there making such sounds, as it was growing nearer the time the gates of the stockade would be closed and barred. Earlier it might have been one of my brothers teasing me, or one of the other boys of the community doing nearly the same, but at that late an hour . . .

The noise came again, and this time I was able to tell it was more of a feeling than a sound, strangely wordless but filled with a great deal of pain. It seemed to be coming from the small stand of trees to the side of the pasturage, away from the stockade I should have already started for. I wavered very briefly, knowing without doubt what I would get if I was late bringing the goats back inside the stockade, but that very knowledge seemed to make up my mind for me.

If I was to be beaten again then I would be beaten, but not before I found out what was making that noise.

I didn’t quite creep up on the stand of trees, but moving silently through thick grass isn’t difficult for anyone. There were bushes as well as trees in the stand, and it wasn’t until I looked behind the third bush that I saw him. Yellow hair, tanned features, slender and wiry rather than broad, dressed in trousers and shirt that showed more blood than dirt—a savage, one of those who made our stockade necessary. He moved feebly behind the bush he had chosen to hide him, unable to rise, and then he looked up to see me. Had it been possible for him to regain his feet he would have done it then, but it was patently impossible. The last of his strength had been used dragging himself into the bushes, and he simply had no more of it left.

Over the years I had been given very little reason to feel concern even for the people I knew, let alone for a stranger and an enemy. I might have simply walked away, possibly to tell someone about his presence and allow them to finish him properly—if not for the look in the blue eyes that came to me. Badly wounded, deeply in pain, helpless even against an unarmed girl, the look the savage sent told me he refused to surrender, would rather die than surrender. Caught he might be, but beaten he would never allow to happen to him; I was challenged to do as I wished, but could expect nothing in the way of victory over him.

I made a sound of great annoyance at myself, but it wasn’t possible to turn my back on someone who faced life so closely to the way I did. The savage’s people had undoubtedly left him behind to live or die on his own, too busy with their own lives to concern themselves with someone who was so badly wounded, and that, too, felt more than familiar. Rather than turning and walking from him, I moved closer and then knelt beside him in the grass.

For some unknowable reason I had brought my sack of sewing with me into the stand, which saved me the trouble of having to go after it. My habit was to take a number of finished articles along with one that needed working on, a ruse my father had never been able to see through. From time to time he met me on my arrival home and demanded to see evidence of hands which had not been idle, which I then gave him. The single unfinished article, usually partly done by the end of the day, had always been enough to show that I had sewed the entire time I also kept watch over the goat herd. Each time the partly finished article was a different one, and had always earned me a grunt indicating lack of disapproval. Approval was never given to anyone under any circumstances, but lack of disapproval had become more than enough.

My sack held a variety of sewing materials, which meant I was able to bare the savage’s wound, discover it was made by an arrow which had already been broken off and pulled from his shoulder, and then stitch it both front and back. It was scarcely the first time I’d stitched a wound, but must surely have been the fastest I’d ever performed the task. The savage gritted his teeth at the first touch of the needle, attempting to hold fast against the greater pain, but although he made not a single sound the pain was quickly too much for him. He sighed as his senses left him, and then I was able to do as I had to as rapidly as I had to, ending with binding his wound with a length of my supposed sewing. It was all I was able to accomplish with the time and materials available to me, but there was one final thing I did before hurrying away. The apple and cut of bread I would have had to rid myself of before reentering the stockade I left beside him, to be accepted or not as the savage was inclined and able.

Had I been outside the stockade alone, it was quite possible the gates would have been shut without me behind them. As I hurried the goats inside I knew my lateness would not be overlooked, but it made very little difference. I was filled with a sense of triumph that I had no need to speak of, a sense of having accomplished something that no one would have approved of. It was childish to feel that way, not to mention dangerous, but I was far too delighted to care—until a figure stepped out to block my way up the street leading to the goat pen.

“Shame on you, Banni,” Pember said in the bantering tone he had lately taken to using with me, clearly enjoying the thought that I was in for it. “You really must remember how dangerous it is to be outside the stockade when darkness falls, most especially these days. Didn’t you hear about that great band of savages our hunters came on and fought with, and then drove off? If that band had come on you instead of grown men, they most likely would have carried you off to a lifetime of shame and degradation. Since I would find that most annoying, it will likely be necessary that I speak to your father about your tardiness.”

“Our hunters fought with a band of savages?” I asked, not surprised that I had been told nothing about it. “When did it happen, Pember, and how many of them v/ere there?”

“It happened late this morning, and Arris swears there were hundreds of them,” Pember answered, his snort of cjisdain coming immediately after the words. “Of course we all know how Arris enjoys telling tales, which means there were probably no more than twenty or thirty of them. Arris also said he would be busy tonight asking your father if he might call on you, but that, you see, was just another of his tales. He won’t be calling on you tonight because I will be, and I expect you to greet me in something other than the clothing of a goatherd.”

I stared up at Pember in shocked speechlessness, all thoughts of savages gone out of my head, disappointment and dismay mingling inside me. I’d known Arris was intending to ask my father if he could call on me, but Arris was shy and had kept putting it off. He was still much of a boy even though he was now considered a man, and although I had no real interest in him I’d realized I might have caught the eye of someone much worse. Now Pember was saying I had caught the eye of someone much worse, and I simply couldn’t understand why he was doing it.

“You’re going to call on me?” I asked, barely able to see the smirking face looking down at me. “After all the years of our hating each other? That makes no sense at all, Pember, not even for you.”

“You’ve never hesitated to be insulting to me, have you, Banni?” he said softly, strangely sounding very satisfied as he raised his hand to stroke two fingers down my cheek. “All the people in the community, knowing I’ll be taking my father’s place, give me the respect they give to him, but not you. You do as you please, and even refuse to give me that apology you’ve owed me for all these years. How long do you think you’ll continue to refuse once you become my wife? You’ve grown into a deliciously delightful woman, Banni, and I intend enjoying having you as my wife. You go home, now, and we’ll continue this discussion later.”