Chapter 48: The Feast of Thanks
The exhaustion was a physical weight, a leaden blanket that pressed Aidan into the furs. He slept through the day in a cascade of deep, dreamless hours, the six women shifting around him in a tangle of warm limbs and soft sighs. It was near dusk when the sounds of the compound—the increased tempo of drums, the scent of roasting meat weaving through the sandalwood—finally pulled him up from the depths.
He was alone.
A clean linen wrap lay folded beside him. As he stood, his muscles protested, a deep ache in his thighs and back. He felt hollowed out, scraped clean. He dressed and pushed the hide aside.
The central clearing was transformed. The fire pit roared, a pillar of flame casting long, dancing shadows against the circular huts. The entire tribe was there, seated on mats or standing, their faces turned toward the heat and light. Children wove through the adults, their laughter sharp against the rhythmic thump of hide drums.
A space was reserved near the fire, a mound of the same dark ceremonial furs from his hut. The eldest matriarch saw him and lifted a bony hand. He was guided to sit beside her. The heat from the flames was immense, pricking his skin with immediate sweat.
His brides arrived not as a group, but individually, emerging from the crowd to serve him. Kioni came first, her walk subtly changed, a hand still resting low on her belly. She offered him a gourd cup of something thick and fermented. “To restore your strength,” she said softly, avoiding his eyes. Amara followed with a skewer of spiced meat, her gaze bold and assessing as she fed him a piece directly from her fingers. “You look like a man who ran a long race,” she murmured, a smirk playing on her lips. The others brought sweet fruits, their touches lingering, their eyes wide with a new, proprietary curiosity.
The feast swirled around him. Dancers with painted bodies moved in the firelight, their feet kicking up puffs of dust that glowed orange. The drumming was a heartbeat in the earth. Aidan ate and drank, the rich food and sour drink settling in his empty stomach, a low warmth spreading through his limbs. He was a spectator at his own celebration, a statue at the center of a ritual he only partly understood.
Then the drums stopped.
A hush fell, broken only by the crackle of the fire. The crowd parted, and the oracle emerged from the shadows between two huts. She seemed to draw the darkness with her, her silhouette sharp against the blaze. She walked directly to the open space before Aidan and the matriarch.
Her milky eyes seemed to see everything. They swept over Aidan, over each of his brides now clustered together nearby, over the expectant faces of the tribe.
“The night’s work was good,” she announced, her voice carrying without effort. “The seeds are planted. I have seen them quicken already in the dark water of the womb.”
A murmur, pleased and excited, rippled through the crowd. Aidan’s stomach tightened. Already?
“But the goddess is not yet satisfied.” The oracle’s head tilted. “She has given her bounty. She demands witness. Public devotion. A display of gratitude so bright it burns away all doubt.” She extended a gnarled finger, pointing directly at Aidan. “The fire has seen our joy. Now it must see our devotion. The blessing must be sealed in its light, before all.”
Aidan’s blood went cold. The warmth from the food turned to a hard, indigestible knot. He knew what was coming. The matriarch beside him gave a slow, single nod.
“The unions will be celebrated again,” the oracle commanded. “Here.Now. Each vessel, filled again under the sky, before the eyes of the tribe. So all may see the source of our fortune and know it is true.”
No. The word formed in his mind but died in his throat. The crowd didn’t revolt or gasp. They leaned forward. A low, eager hum rose from them. This was the show they’d been waiting for.
The drumming started again, a slower, deeper, more insistent beat.
Amara stood first. Of course she did. She shed her wrap with a theatrical flourish, her body gleaming in the firelight. She walked to the central furs and laid down upon them, looking not at the tribe, but at Aidan. Her expression was a challenge. You have something that belongs to me.
The matriarch nudged him. “Go. The goddess watches.”
His legs felt like wood. He stood. The eyes of the village were on him, a palpable pressure. He fumbled with his own wrap, the knot impossibly tight. When it fell, the heat of the fire was nothing compared to the heat of their collective stare. He was already half-hard, a traitorous response born of adrenaline and the raw, pulsing energy of the scene.
He knelt between Amara’s spread legs. She reached for him, guiding him in, her touch firm. A collective inhalation from the crowd. Then he was inside her, and the drummers found a new, syncopated rhythm to match his thrusts. Amara was loud, her cries theatrical and fierce, her fingers clawing at the furs. She arched and climaxed with a shuddering wail that was swallowed by the beating drums and the rising cheers. He finished in her, a shallow, nervous release, and rolled away, spent and exposed.
Kioni was next. She was crying silently as she took her place, her body trembling. He tried to be gentle, but the drums demanded pace, and the watching eyes demanded spectacle. Her whimpers were lost in the noise. When he came, her tears cut tracks through the dust on her cheeks.
One by one, they came. The tall one with the braids moved with a stern, ritualistic precision, her beads clicking a counter-rhythm to the drums. The shy one kept her eyes squeezed shut the entire time, as if she could disappear. The one with the scars traced them as he moved over her, her chants now a public declaration. The youngest was last, her earlier awe now replaced with a frozen, wide-eyed fear. The crowd’s energy was fever-pitch, a living thing that choked the air.
He was a machine now, operating on instinct and the relentless thump-thump-thump that vibrated up from the ground. His body was a stranger’s, numb with overuse, yet somehow responding robotically to each new demand. Sweat dripped from his brow, stinging his eyes. The world narrowed to firelight, drumbeats, and the next body beneath him.
As he emptied himself into the youngest bride, a final, dry spasm that felt more like pain than pleasure, a great roar went up from the tribe. The oracle stepped forward, raising her arms. “It is sealed! The blessing is affirmed! The harvest will be plentiful!”
Strong hands were on him then, pulling him off the furs. His brides, his wives, surrounded him, their own bodies slick with sweat and marked with dust and him. They supported his weight, his legs buckling. They didn’t look at the crowd. Their focus was on him, a closed circle, as they half-carried, half-dragged him away from the fire, away from the roaring celebration, back toward the dark quiet of his hut.
He caught a final glimpse over a shoulder. The villagers were surging forward, dancing around the fire where the scent of sex and smoke hung thick in the air. The oracle stood still amidst the frenzy, her sightless eyes fixed on his retreating back.
Then the hide doorway fell shut behind them, muffling the world. The only light was the faint glow from the banked hearth. They laid him on the furs, a mess of trembling limbs.No one spoke. Hands wiped him clean with damp cloths. A cup of water was held to his lips. He drank greedily.
He felt them lie down around him, their breathing slowly settling into the rhythm of sleep. Their hands rested on him—an ankle, a shoulder, the nape of his neck—small points of contact in the dark. He was too exhausted for thought, for shame, for anything but the shallow rise and fall of his own chest.
Outside, the drums played on, celebrating the vessel they had used and the future he had just, irrevocably, planted.