So while she warms herself by the fire, I dote on my mate, like I should. I examine her wrist and then cut a strip from one of the furs, binding it tightly and splinting it against one of my bone knives. It will hold until I can take her to the healer. She gives me a grateful smile and points at another one of the bone knives on my vest.
“Kinnihafwon?”
I shake my head to indicate I don’t understand, and with gestures, she shows me she wants to hold it. Ah. She wants to defend herself. I give her one of the blades. I wear six, and now I am down to four. Tomorrow, I will show her how to use it and how to stab with it so if she is attacked by metlaks again, she will be able to fight back. They are cowardly creatures at heart and will run if endangered.
At the gifting of the knife, her smile widens and she beams happily at me, as if I have given her the greatest of treasures. “Iveel betterwit it.”
I nod, though I don’t know what she’s rambling about. Just that she’s smiling. It’s enough for me. I will do more, though. There are furs in this cave, furs left for comfort for hunting warriors who venture out this far. They’re stale and stiff with age, but they’re warm. When we leave in the morning, I will break the rules of hunting politeness and she will wear them as we travel. I won’t have her shivering any more.
“Cookh?” she asks and points at the kill slung at my belt. “Cookhnao?”
“Cookkh?” I repeat, holding the quilled beast up for her to see. “Is that what you call it? Cookh?”
“Eeeht,” she says and smiles up at me, her small teeth gleaming. She points at the beast, then at the fire. “Cookhden eeht plis.”
Ah. Instructions. I point at the fire. “Cookh?”
“Wellthassfire ifyewont tewget teknikal butyess.” She nods. “Cookh.”
Even though it goes against every instinct I have, I do as she asks. I skin the animal and skewer tasty bits on one of my bone knives, and she holds them up to the fire and then eats one with happy smacking noises. She exclaims over each bite, and by the time the food is gone, her eyes are getting drowsy and content.
I’m content, too. We’ve stopped early, but Georgie is warm and safe and fed.
I explain to her with hand signals that I must collect more wood and set traps for more food. She is to stay in the cave and keep the fire going and rest. She looks uneasy but nods, and I leave her with my bone knife and water skin.
I hurry through the gathering, finding dvisti dung instead of wood. I have no axe with me, and this far up the mountain, the trees are stunted. I set snares for more quilled beasts and the scythe-beak birds. Dvisti are the best eating, but Georgie seems determined to go up the mountain and we cannot carry so much meat. If she were another sa-khui, it would be easy, but my Georgie is delicate and not nearly as strong as our weakest warrior.
I return to the cave near dark to find Georgie sound asleep, curled up in the blankets, knife in hand. The fire is banked to coals, and her hair has dried into shiny, golden-brown curls that are lovely to see.
They’re almost as lovely as the soft smile she gives me when she wakes up. She sits up in the nest of blankets and gives me a sleepy look. “Mountain?”
I shake my head and set down the fire supplies off to one side in the cave. There’s a fierce snowstorm outside, and the drifts we must wade through to go up the mountain are getting deeper by the moment. I pull back the hide door to show her the snow, and she looks crestfallen.
“Tomorrow, we will go to the mountain,” I tell her. I’m not sure why she is desperate to go, but it must mean something to her. I gesture with my hands, trying to explain that we will go when the sun rises again and the storms stop. Eventually, I just settle for soon.
“Soon,” she echoes and gives me a smile. She seems satisfied with my answer.
The day is going to be a long one. The suns would still be high in the sky if they were out, and we are snowed in, tucked away against the bitter cold. Georgie cannot withstand it like I can, and having her with me slows me down. I would not trade her presence for the finest hunting, but I must acknowledge that having my mate with me means I must make different choices than I would if I was alone. Caring for her has now taken priority.
The thought of being with her all day feels like a gift.
She gestures at the fire and says my word for fire.
“Yes, fire.”
“Fire,” she repeats. Then she grabs a handful of the furs she is sitting on and gives me a questioning look.
“Furs.”
“Furs,” she echoes. The words sound funny in her mouth, as if she has a hard time making the rumbling throat noises that I do. But I’m pleased she wants to learn how to communicate with me. For the next while, we name off things that are easily pointed at, and Georgie tries to pronounce them. Then, she goes back and repeats them in different orders each time, trying to learn the words.