Steph's Outcast

He says the words automatically, without a hint of emotion, and I know he is simply repeating what I have told him many, many times. It is also clear from his stance that he does not agree with me. I waver, torn between amusement and the need to be stern. "Well, Pak, you are half of Outcast clan. What is it you wish to do?"

He puffs up with pride at being asked, his small chest full. "I should like to see what they left for us this day. If we are going to leave, perhaps it is something we can use for our journey."

I nod thoughtfully. "A wise decision."

Pak beams at me, pleased he has given a good answer.

I gesture at the shore. "Lead the way, young hunter, and we will see what these foolish ones have left for us this day."

"Not foolish, Papa," Pak scolds me. "Just soft. Like the female."

I grunt. They are indeed soft. Soft to live in little huts they have crafted to protect them from the elements. Soft to cover their feet and bodies in furs and cling close to the fires. Soft to work so hard to make food and leather, only to give it to us because they pity us.

They do not know how hard we are, how much we can endure. They will grow weak, and Pak and I will remain strong.

Pak takes the lead, skipping ahead. His small body brims with happiness, and I know he is hoping for more carved toys or another ball to play with. Or paints. Ever since they painted the rock with the strange colors, Pak has been obsessed with getting paints of his own. He would never ask them, because he is my son, and he knows I will not ask. But I know he thinks about them all the time, and sometimes I ache that I cannot give him these things. I ache that he cannot sit amidst that cluster of huts and eat their warm food and use their bright paints. He would love that. Instead, I teach him as my father taught me.

To be an Outcast is to learn to be tough at all costs. There is no softness allowed in our world.

Pak loves the visits to the strangers' rock, though. Even when we do not go, he talks of it all day long. He wonders what gifts they will leave us, what foods they will have brought. He is young enough that the foods are a constant temptation…and I suppose I am, too, because they tempt me, as well. How easy would it be to sit all day on the beach and have fools bring me food and drink? To insist that they care for me and clothe me and I do nothing all day long? I snort at the thought. I do not know who would be dumber in that scenario—them, for catering to me, or me, for allowing myself to become so weak.

"Maybe they left us food today," Pak babbles, talking endlessly as he skips down the sand. "Food that's dry and hard. Or the yummy food with the spices. Remember that? And the bag of leaves? That was weird. What do you think they wanted us to do with the leaves?"

"Mmm." I barely listen, thinking instead of the rock with the drawings on it. It will smell like the red-maned female, I think. R'ven was the one that brought us things for a while. She was strange but kind, even if she did not respect the rules of Outcast clan. I think of how she constantly tried to make fires and babbled at me in her odd language when I objected. I thought to take her as my mate for a time, since I stole her, but she did not listen well, and it was clear her heart belonged to the large Shadow Cat hunter that came after her. I did not mind releasing her back to him, so long as we received something in return. That female was strong and opinionated and scowled a lot.

The reddish-maned female is nothing like her, I think. They are built differently. R'ven was lean and strong, with a pale mane the color of the snows. She could take care of herself, I think. She would be strong and fearless when confronted with danger. This other female, not so much. She is the thing I mean when I say the other clans are soft. She is not lean and strong. She is gentle. She does not hunt like the others, or throw nets. She is all soft curves and full teats that jiggle when she walks down the beach.

I know this, because I have watched her far, far too often.

She thinks that no one sees her when she puts out the basket. That I do not watch. Pak thinks the same, too. That I ignore the things she leaves because I am disgusted by them.