Steph's Outcast

"Maybe I do not have to talk to them," he says, and it is clear he has thought about this a lot. "Maybe I can just play alongside them?"

"You have to understand," I say carefully. "We are not like them."

"But neither was R'ven and they kept her." He clutches the decorated egg to his chest. "Why can we not be friends?"

"It is complicated. R'ven stays with them because she is female."

This makes him frown. "But my mother was a female and they did not keep her. They made her Outcast."

I have no answer for that. The females on the shore with the survivors of the other clans do not look like any females I have ever seen before. They must be some sort of tribe that has lived on these shores. I think of R'ven and the male—U'dron. He did not care that she had no horns or tail and her skin was a strange pale color. He wanted her and grew angry at the thought of me keeping her, even though by law, she should have been Outcast.

But rules are always different when it comes to females, now that there are none left. It is why I fought so hard to keep R'ven. I remember two of the Shadow Cat members returning to our island after the first death throes of the Great Smoking Mountain. How they demanded that Pak's mother Haal go back with them, to be part of their fractured clan. Other than a lone female in Strong Arm, there were no other females left, and they were willing to forgive her “Outcast” nature because of that.

I remember that Haal spat on them, and I was never so proud to be Outcast as I was in that moment. Suddenly, we were the lucky ones. Our luck did not last, though. The moon turned through its cycles, Haal resonated to her mate, and then little Pak was born. Haal died not long after he was born, her body slowly wasting away as the light of her khui faded from her eyes. Her mate, Ezz, wanted nothing to do with their son, and the other member of Outcast clan, Nen, thought caring for a child was beneath him, as chief hunter of our small group. It was up to me to feed the small, squalling child. It was up to me to watch him day and night, to make sure that he was safe and protected, to clean his bottom when it was dirty and when he got older, to teach him how to swim and fish. Just like Nen, Ezz passed in the second death of the Great Smoking Mountain, and I do not think Pak cried. It is just as well. Ezz was never a father to him.

I am. He is mine though we share no blood.

I run my hand through my son's fluffy, wild mane, similar to my own. "Just because they have changed their rules for a female does not mean they will not change them again. We cannot count on them, my son."

He sighs heavily, clutching the egg to his chest. "I know."

There is such fierce longing on his small face that it makes me ache. I am a bad father, to keep telling him no to so many things he wishes I would say yes to. "We should put it back in the basket," I tell him gently. "Return it to them."

"But it is food—"

"Food they have decorated," I agree. "It must mean something special, and we cannot trust it."

"Tricky clans," Pak says, his expression sad as he gazes down at the egg. "It is so pretty, though. I want to keep it."

"I know." I ruffle his mane again. "We will check the basket and eat their food if they left some, yes?"

His expression brightens. "To teach them a lesson?"

I chuckle. "Exactly."

Pak's little tail swishes back and forth happily, and he skips down the beach ahead of me, the egg still clutched in his hand. Maybe when we get to our new home—wherever it will be—I will let him paint eggs. It seems a silly thing to do, but he is so delighted with this one and I do not want to deprive him of all the things that make him happy. If throwing a few splotches of paint on the shell of an egg brings him such joy, we will do so, also.

I am lost in thought, my mind occupied with all the things we must do if we are to leave. Perhaps that is why I do not notice that the female waits by the basket, smiling brightly at us.

5

JUTH

Pak immediately grows shy, racing back to my side and clutching my hand, the egg tight in his other. "She was hiding, Papa. Do you think she was waiting to say a greeting to us?"