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 Adored
By The
ORC

Monster Orc Brides

RENA MARKS
 ADORED
BY THE ORC
HE’S DETERMINED TO keep her safe, despite the visions that say otherwise.
Shalia: Growing up orc was perfect—especially because I have the constant attention of Bakog, the prince of the West
Mountain Orcs. Except for one small problem. Bakog refuses to make me his.
I know he loves me. But he seems determined to set me in the same category as his own little sister, who happens to be my
age.
Then one day he kisses me and my world is changed. It’ll be six weeks, but can’t wait to get home to him to explore where
we’ll go from here.
It never dawns on me that day will never arrive.

BAKOG: Doing my best at keeping her safe wasn’t good enough. She’s always been mine, but I couldn’t claim her with a
prophecy looming over our heads.
“My mate would be stolen by others.” Easy enough to thwart, I simply won’t make her mine. But she still disappears from
my grasp.
And when I finally beat the odds to find my kidnapped love, she no longer remembers me.
*Trigger warnings: This book contains situations, sexual and otherwise, as well as violence and/or abuse, both real and
implied, that may be disturbing for some readers. If you are offended by these subjects, please do not buy this book.
 Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Zearn
Owned By The Orc
Saved By The Orc
Bought By The Orc
Matched To The Monster
Xeno Sapiens
Maddie Mine
My Alien Baby
Space Babies
Abducted
Alien Stolen
Artificial Intelligence
 Prologue

Quick Note: This is the fourth story in my orc collection. Newsletter subscribers will have access to a slice of life story and a
prequel to the series.
With that, enjoy!
PRONUNCIATION GUIDE:
Bakog —(Back-KOG)
Shalia—(Shall-LIE-yuh)
Hisa—(HEE-sa)
Jogug—(Shuh-GUG)
Silann—(SIGH-len)
Latjo—(Lach-O)
Negan—(NEE-gun)
SHALIA, VISITING NIECE of Rosemary in the town of Creede:
I LOVE RIDING behind Bakog. The son of Brun, our orc prince. Grandson of Brachard, the great orc king. Greatest in all
the land, he’s told me so.
I’m a foolish, foolish girl, but it’s the only time I’m allowed to pretend Bakog’s mine. To touch the stubborn male, and to
wrap my arms around him, hold him tight.
Normally when a woman belongs to a man, she rides in front of him on the horse. My mother rides in front of my father.
Bakog’s mother rides in front of his. Not us. No, Bakog has always put me behind him, as if making sure I know my place.
I would think it’s because I’m a half-blood, like the taunts from those in human towns had reached my ears when I was
young. But Bakog is half-blooded too. As is my best friend, his sister, Hisa. The only difference is: I look it. I took after my
father, Latsil, with rare, light green hair. And while a full-blooded orc with green skin can carry it off, a half-blood? No. It
doesn’t work. It clearly marks me as other.
I may have remembered those taunts as I grew up, but it was always worth it to visit the trading village of Creede. There I
stay with Aunt Rosemary, my human mother’s dear friend. And I do all the things human women do—I sew, I work in her store,
I cook human food and take home the recipes to try out in the kitchens of Solaya. Because the humans, at least the ones in
Creede, are more accepting of half-bloods. They think I’m one of them, until they get close and see that my light skin is tinted
green. That the darker strands in my hair are also orc-green, just tempered with human-blond.
And I get to ride to and from with my arms wrapped around Bakog’s trim waist. The only time he lets me cling to his
rugged body.
He’ll drop me off at Aunt Rosemary’s house. I’ll make dinner for her and Uncle Paul, and first thing in the morning, I’ll
head off with her to the marketplace. Used to be, Hisa would come. But she’s been lifting her skirts for Tok. He grew into a
beast of a male, as large as his father, and was Bakog’s best friend growing up, despite the age difference. There are six years
between them... and eleven between him and Hisa.
A fact that Bakog always frowned upon.
But lately, Hisa’s been wearing Tok down. And Bakog has been too busy chasing after me to track those two. Hisa and I
were both surprised when Bakog encouraged her to stay in Solaya this summer instead of making her visit to Creede. He’s
overly protective and is wearing himself down tracking both of us, even though we’re as safe as every other woman in the
village. I’m not even sure why he includes me in his umbrella of protection, unless it’s because I’m the first infant he’d been
around until Hisa was born a few months later.
I think he’s had a talking to by Brachard, the orc king affectionately known as grandfather by most of my generation.
Brachard has a way of making stubborn males see reason.
And Bakog realizes that he can step back and allow Tok to see that Hisa comes to no harm, while he focuses his own
protection on me.
Hisa begged me not to make a big deal of it because she certainly wanted it that way. And I do too, though I’d never tell her
of my crush on her brother. Of the way my heart skips a beat when he smiles at me. Of the way I melt inside when he’s sweaty
and shirtless from training, which he does hard and often. Does Hisa notice? Nay, she’s too far taken with Tok.
Today though... today I’m biting the bullet. One thing Grandfather taught us girls was to take life by the balls. A phrase our
human mothers frowned at. I’m not chasing Bakog any more... I’m letting the stubborn male know I’m his.
That when he returns for me to take me back home, I’ll ride in front of him on Tobias, his faithful steed.
Unknowingly, my arms tighten and I snuggle my cheek onto his broad, muscled back.
 “Shally,” he warns.
I want to giggle, because what would he do if I dropped my hands down to his crotch? Fondled him the way I’m sure Hisa
touches his friend? He’d be so shocked he’d probably toss us both from Tobias.
“Yes, orc?” I ask. “Do you have something to say?” I squeeze my arms tighter.
His sigh is heartfelt and deep down, I’m pretty sure he knows what’s coming. Shalia’s coming, force of nature, female who
will love him so hard his lovely head will spin.
And then, to my surprise, he drops one hand to clasp mine to his waist. My belly dips low, so low. Inside I melt.
When we get to Aunt Rosemary’s house we dismount, walking our sore muscles a bit around the yard.
“Coming inside?” I ask.
She always leaves the key under the rocking chair for me.
“Nay. I’ll head back to Solaya and arrive before nightfall.”
I purse my lips. “Why don’t you relax for a night? Stay for dinner, you can leave first thing in the morn.”
“Nay, wench. It’s best I get back while there’s still daylight.”
Dammit. A whole house to ourselves and the stubborn male won’t even give me two minutes to entice him.
“Fine,” I snap. “I can take care of myself.”
Why I toss that out there is beyond me.
“Shally.”
Just like that, the brooding, muscle-bound orc is in my face, blocking my path, shadowing the sun. I can smell the salt on his
skin, so much greener than mine. He doesn’t look at all human. Not with the tusks—which I’m missing.
Hisa doesn’t look human.
I’m the only one that looks human, and I hate it. My mother is lovely and my father dotes on her. But to be mixed? I’m not a
lovely human and I’m not a gorgeous orc. I’m a sort of weird, hybrid-looking, in-between.
But when Bakog looks at me with that intense gaze that narrows on me like I’m his entire focus? I can feel his soul. And I
know he feels me.
“I know you can take care of yourself. But I need to take care of you. I need you to be careful. To listen to me.” The pain in
his voice, the broken look in his eyes—I find myself nodding.
Giving in way to easily. Again.
“I’ll be back in six weeks to pick you up. Stay safe for me.”
“I will,” I whisper.
And then the unthinkable happens. I’m staring into his eyes, making promises I know I’ll keep, making him happy even
when he doesn’t reciprocate—when his head blocks the sun. In the next second, he leans down toward me, his big hand sliding
beneath the tail of my braid to cup the back of my neck. I can feel the callus on his thumb rub along my jaw and the warmth of
his sweat-slicked chest.
Rising up on my toes, I shove my hands into his thick, dark hair, expertly twisted into a million-zillion braids just for this
trip, making myself more level with him.
But he doesn’t need height because he’s good with bending over and locking his lips to mine.
I catch my breath. So many sensations swirling through my belly. This is Bakog, the man of my heart, the person who I’ve
followed around endlessly. The person that has always carefully kept me an arm’s length away.
Kissing me.
His tongue sweeps past my lips as he tastes me, dueling with mine, his mouth claiming me, his hand locking my head,
whimpering need escaping from me.
With every stroke of his tongue, flames zest through my body.
My first kiss is everything I thought it would be—and more. Because it’s Bakog. Bakog, the love of my life, the keeper of
my heart. It’s hot and sweet and all-consuming.
And then, I’m dazed as he gently pushes me away.
“I’ll be back in six weeks. Don’t leave the town without me, be careful, stay safe.”
He leaps onto Tobias like our first kiss didn’t even affect him, while I’m standing here with my fingers clinging to my
throbbing lips because my entire world just spun on its axis, and rides away.
When the sigh finally escapes me, joy bubbles up through my center. It’s going to be a glorious, nerve-wracking, exciting
six weeks until I see him again.
Goddess, I can hardly wait. I’m going to tell Aunt Rosemary everything. For a long time, I stay sitting on the wooden
porch, just bemused. Everything feels surreal.
My lips. He kissed my lips. I can’t wait to tell Aunt Rosemary.
I don’t have to wait. Instead of heading indoors, mayhap I’ll head to the market. I head for the edge of town, cutting through
where the trees grow, because it’s shorter. I don’t make it two steps before loud thumping footsteps run up behind me.
The only thought on my mind is Bakog. Did he come back for me?
 I spin around but before I make it all the way, a bludgeoning pain hits the back of my head and darkness descends over my
eyes.
 Chapter One

JOGUG:
ICY RIVER WATER WAKES my body before my brain.
I gasp as it enters my nose, my throat—and hack uncontrollably as the coughing tries to expel it from my lungs. I’m barely
aware of harsh, biting laughter at my expense.
When my vision clears, nothing looks familiar.
Panic hits my midsection. Five strange, varying green faces stare back at me before throbbing pain threatens to split my
skull open. “Who are you?” I gasp.
“Who are you?” one asks back, and it’s a little taunting. Immature coming from such a grown male.
But good question. I open my mouth, then close it. “I-I don’t know. I should know. Why don’t I?” My fingers fly up to my
head and I groan at a tender spot on the back. There’s dried, crusty hair that I assume is blood-soaked.
“You don’t know your own name?” one asks, his brows knotting with curiosity, which draws to attention his brows.
They’re nearly connected in the center—one huge, heavy line.
“No! I... I can’t remember.”
“You’re my prize.” The voice that comes from behind me echoes across the trees as another one approaches.
The five males surrounding me snicker.
“Prize for what?” I whisper and slide back into unconsciousness.
I love being asleep because the dreams are amazing. There’s a man I can’t place, a face I can’t see, but I can feel. He’s
caring and protective—and he makes me happy. It’s the giddiness of new love, the security of an old friend.
We’re dancing now, laughing between us, the music playing faster and louder as our feet stomp to the beat, the steps
intricately choreographed. Everywhere around us is matching laughter as others dance; flames are crackling and I can smell the
smoky blend of the burning wood.
“We’ve been in one place too long. I say we tie her to a travois and drag her along.”
There’s a woman there too, a face I can’t quite see, hard as I try. I blink several times but it feels like there’s a haze over
my vision. She’s green, I think, like everyone else. But why would I expect otherwise?
“Dance with him so I can sneak off with Tok,” she says and the naughtiness in her tone makes me giggle. There’s nothing I
wouldn’t do for her. She feels like a sister but yet, instinctively, I know I don’t have siblings. I want them, though. Enough to
conjure them in my dreams, apparently.
And dancing with the male is what I want most in the world anyway. I sidle up close, slipping my hand into his and he spins
me fast, making me giggle, throwing me off balance so he can catch me, bring me back, tight to his chest...
“You don’t think a travois is going to create dragging tracks? Someone will find that curious.”
His arms are strong and warm and his heartbeat races when I’m this close. I can smell the spicy scent of his skin, like pine
needles and rain forests, and I wonder if he’ll kiss me.
“You can go first and our horse hooves should cover the marks.”
That conversation is pulling me from the sweet dream, and I don’t want to leave the warmth of this place. “I want to stay,” I
whisper to my dancing hero.
“Then do,” he says. “Never leave me. Shali—”
With a bang, I instantly wake. Someone has dropped a heavy stone they’re lining around the base of the firepit.
Shall I... what? What was the handsome stranger asking me?
“You’re awake.” The one who had once told me I was his prize eyes me from the pot he’s setting up.
I groan, not because I’m in pain but because I still can’t remember a thing other than these five ugly faces. The same males
who are here each time I wake. I don’t know where I am, I don’t know how I got here. I don’t know... I don’t know who I am.
At the sound of my groan, the stranger is in front of me, pulling my arm until I’m up from the makeshift bed. I wobble
unsteadily on my feet.
“Even filthy like you are, you’re still a prize to be won,” he murmurs, and yanks me to him.
And I don’t like that.
I don’t like someone bigger than me jerking me without a care for my health, my injuries, my safety. I don’t like the way he
has me butted up against him, the bulge of his cock pressing into my abdomen, the stink of his breath curdling my stomach.
What happens next is unplanned and automatic, as if someone else has control of my body.
My elbow juts out, catching him in a pressure point deep in his solar plexus that paralyzes his lungs. While he’s stunned, I
hit upward, into the soft spot under the chin, until he sways.
 His beefy fist connects with my face, but I fly with it, and he can’t hit me again, not when I’m down. I’m supposed to avoid
direct hits, but I’m slow on my feet.
I’m barely aware of the other orcs approaching as he comes at me, a great bellow giving me warning before he jumps on
me.
I hike up a knee and connect with his massive orc balls. His roar of agony fills my ears and when he lands on me, the air
gets pushed from my smashed lungs. But I have the upper hand because he’s suffering.
His roar cuts off abruptly when my clawed fingers dig out his quivering voice box.
A river of blood spurts out, gushing onto me before his head collapses into my shoulder. I can feel the warmth of his life as
it ebbs from his body and coats me, sticky and rich.
There’s stunned silence in the small camp as I push him off me.
“She killed him,” someone says finally.
“Who is he?” I ask. “I still can’t remember. Not anything.”
“He was our king.”
Oh. Well, that can’t be good.
Another one, shorter and thicker, steps forward. “Now that he’s gone, I will be. And you,” his eye turns sly. “You are my
mate. Jogug of the Blackhearts.”
“Jogug,” I repeat, wondering why it doesn’t feel familiar. Neither does my husband. Yes, his face is ugly, but surely it
shouldn’t fill me with distaste? “What’s happened to me?”
“You hit your head.” He shrugs. “A fall from a wild horse. We told you not to try to break it in, but you don’t listen. We’ve
been tenderly nursing you since then. Wife.”
The others guffaw and I’m not quite sure what that means. But now I know why the back of my head is sore.
“And who are all of you?” I ask.
No one seems surprised that I don’t know their names.
“I am Stug,” my mate answers.
Lucky me, I think he is the ugliest of the lot. Maybe more so than the king I killed. He has a wild, unkempt beard and the
hair on his head is unbraided, uncombed and unwashed. He wears long, loose clothing of a rough material. He speaks with a
lisp, and I think he may be missing a tooth, but I’m too horrified to look closely.
“Doparth.” This one wears black leather, though it looks worn and frayed, the gold stitching that should look majestic
against the dark instead looks stained. His face sports a goatee instead of a beard, though I think it’s to disguise a weak chin.
“Gnark.” He could easily be a brother to Doparth, though at least he’s clean shaven. Like the other, he wears his hair shorn,
which probably keeps them cooler considering they take pride in wearing black leather in the midday sun.
“Shodun.” Like my mate, he’s also bearded and scruffy. I’m not sure why two of my clan mimic their styles to each other,
but there’s probably much I’ve forgotten with my aching head.
“Grilud.” The last of the males is another one dressed in black garb, though he’s the most heavy and muscular of these
vicious orcs. It gives credence to the story that they may have stolen their clothing to mask themselves.
“We’ll take pity on you this day,” Stug says. “Allow you to take it easy. But enough is enough, Jogug. Five males in this clan
are starving. Take your time, but know that the evening meal is yours to prepare.”
I automatically look up at the sun. ‘Tis midday, so I guess it’s not that hard—if I didn’t have a massive headache that makes
me go cross-eyed.
And then my mate puts his hand on my leg, his thumb rubbing my inner knee.
“Of course, if you would like to pay in other ways, would probably be easier on you to stay laying prone—”
“I’d rather serve fish.”
His face darkens as the others laugh.
“Uppity bitch. Think you’re too good for us? Then, you’ll catch it yourself and serve it to your clan.”
It’s not too bad being away from the loud males, I think, as I wade through the gurgling stream. I have a fishing pole set up
and I brought a pot to boil some water. It feels good to dump the cool water over my bump and carefully rub the dried strands
to loosen the blood.
Odd I’m clueless as to who I am, or to who the males of my clan are. I have a ton of questions to ask— like why is my
dress so different from theirs—but I don’t think Stug is in a mood to answer, especially not with how I’ve turned him down.
A shudder runs through my body. I’d rather die a thousand deaths than join his furs. Though right now, I’m beginning to feel
like death.
I smell like death and a sinking sensation hits my belly. I did think I was too good for them and obviously, I fit in. I smell
like them. I look like them, ragged and dirty.
But I won’t sleep with the bastard. I would never ask him to go prepare a meal for the clan with a knot on the back of his
head. Actually, I would never let him sleep in his own blood. Why didn’t someone bother to clean me?
The more I think about it, the more aggravated I become.
 But once I catch a couple good sized fish, I add some water to the pot and bring them back. I can’t imagine that not one
male will help me. I don’t know how long I’ve been sleeping, but my entire body aches from unuse.
After they’d told me I’d be fishing for our dinner, we had to prepare the fallen orc’s body.
Wruk—the king of our clan.
He was stripped of his clothing and if I thought the males of my clan were weakly muscled, it’s obvious they followed their
leader.
The bastard mate of mine pushed my face into the dead body, guffawing loudly, ordering me to lick the male’s tattoos as
penance for killing him while the others snickered.
For that, the bastard will pay.
All five males are lounging around the camp when I return. If they wish to live like pigs, I’ll give them filth. I gut and clean
the fish there, along with the dead king, and cook it over the open flame.
But it’s not enough. When the fish is done, they won’t come get up. The bastards make me fix their plates and serve them.
So I do what any strong, orc female would.
I spit in their fish.
 Chapter Two

BAKOG, GRANDSON TO King Brachard of the West Mountain Orcs:

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN she’s not in Creede?” My roar quakes the ground.
From all around, people come running. My blood feels like its boiling in my veins, thickening to sludge. There’s a red haze
covering my vision.
Not Shalia.
I’ve protected her since I was five and had my first vision. Shally was going to lose her way, lose her home, lose
everything that ever mattered to her. She was going to be alone and depressed and cry herself to sleep at night.
At the hands of orcs.
Determined to keep it from happening, I’ve kept an eye on her our entire lives. And just when I thought maybe the danger
was over—she’s gone. But that was only the first vision.
“Bakog,” my father says. “Explain to us what happened.”
“I dropped her off at Rosemary’s. The way I do every time.” I turn to look at Frakil.
“Rosemary said she was never in the house. She waited all evening and decided we must have changed our minds about
coming. Thought she must have mixed up her weeks. When she saw me at the market, she asked when Shally was coming.
Confused the hell out of me. I told her you’d brought her nearly a full moon ago,” Frakil says. He’s just come from Creede and
was supposed to bring a delivery back, but when he heard the news, he dropped everything and raced back here.
“Someone grabbed her before Rosemary got home.” I should have taken her to the market. I should have handed her to her
aunt.
She’s been gone a fucking moon. A little over an Earth month.
“Bakog. Son. She can protect herself.” My father tries to talk to me but I’m frozen inside. What must she be going through?
Those dreams of her sobbing, her braids unraveled and loose.
“I’m leaving. I’m going to the Southpeak territory first, letting them know one of ours is missing. And if anyone knows
anything, they’d best turn over that information immediately.”
“I’m going with you,” Latsil, Shalia’s father, says. A male who’s like an uncle to me.
“Afterward I’ll head north—”
“Nay. I’ll send another team up there to the Blackhearts,” Brachard says. “Then we’ll hit every town along the way home
and let everyone know that no stone shall remain unturned until she’s safe home again.”
Shalia. My first kiss. The mate I carefully set aside because I didn’t want to hurt her. The one I swore to protect.
The mate I refused to make mine because the vision showed my mate would be taken. So, I kept her at arm’s length.
And I still failed. Because I’m a foolish male, thinking Shally wasn’t my mate because I refused to touch her. Shally is in
my soul.

JOGUG:
“Lazy wench, wake up!”
My husband—and his friends—laugh as I spew water.
When I’m done choking, I glare at the biernaks. “Wake me like that again, and you’ll end up like your king.”
A false king he was, since the clan is more like an excess of rejects. Their clothing looks like it comes from different
places—three of the males wear black leather with gold threads—including the dead king—and two, my mate included, wear
warmer clothing. Long dusters that trail over a steed’s rear. And while their clothing may mimic that of the two other clans, it
doesn’t fit well. It’s old and... especially in the Blackheart case, the clan never goes with filthy uniforms. Because that’s what
their clothes resemble, formal wear.
Speaking of which, my clothes are completely different from all of theirs. My hair is intricately braided, while my mate and
the one who dresses similar have none whatsoever. They do, however, wear long unkempt beards. The two who wore leather
have tattoos and now I sport three bars across the bridge of my nose, which matches the marks on the nose of my ugly mate.
 The mate I’m trying to find love for. Surely it was there once? But when he offered to do my marks, I could only cringe. He
did his own, and I hurriedly did my own before he could insist.
“You think you can take on five males at once?” My mate guffaws. “Get your ass up. I told you there’s one day left in this
camp. Either make your tattoo at once, or suffer with the biting winds and dust stinging your wounds tomorrow as we ride. In
either case, you’ll have to pay homage to the fallen king.”
The others snicker and try as I might, I can’t figure out why. I told them I’d wear his tats for taking his life, why they keep
demanding is beyond me.
“You’ll need to wear grease in your hair to darken it for a period of three moons.” He tosses the pouch at me—it smells of
elderberries. Why would he add elderberries to the grease? Doesn’t he realize it won’t wash out easily?
I start to unravel my tresses. Once the braids come undone, my hair looks even lighter than before in its frizzed state,
highlights of flaxen wheat over deeper threads of green. If it wasn’t for the green, I’d wonder if I was even orc.
But, of course, I’m orc. What else would I be?
All five males let their mouth hang open as they stare. Then they look back and forth at each other uneasily. Surely, they’ve
seen my hair unbraided before? There’s only so many ways to wash it clean through the braids before they must be taken out
and redone.
“What?” I bark, and a couple look away, while two more smirk. But my mate? His eyes narrow on me.
“Get it done. I brought you a piece of mirror, a knife, and some ink.”
The piece of mirror is exactly that. A broken piece of glass that’s been scraped multiple times, losing its reflection.
Seven years bad luck.
The thought skitters across my mind and I wonder where the phrase comes from. It’s not something a crew of male orcs
would ever come up with.
How did I end up here? Why won’t my memory return? I wonder each morn when I wake for the day and find myself in the
same situation as the day before—craving the dreams I wake from instead of real life.
I ignore the others as they speak crassly about sharing Stug’s mate once we get further south.
They’ll share me in hell.
I grease my hair first. The strands suck up the color of the elderberries, making the lighter pieces dark. And from where my
hair lays on my shoulder, it makes the skin of my arm look more green than it actually is. Amazing what one shade difference
will do.
I wash my hands thoroughly before cutting into my forehead. I saw the dead king’s arm band tattoos before we burned his
body and I can replicate them well enough. With my own flair, of course.
All at once, I wonder where I learned to draw, to braid. How did I know it’s important to wash your hands before cutting?
When I try to recall, all I get is a throbbing headache.
But the others are watching me—even though they pretend they don’t—so I wipe the expression from my face and cut the
first scrolling line. A fine line of blood appears but not so much that I need to wipe.
I don’t want my tattoo to be as ugly and forced as theirs. I want mine to be a mark of delicate beauty. I want it elegant and
feminine.
I want these males to admire it and then remember that it stands for the life I took. I want them to have that uneasy little
wariness when it comes to me. Because somewhere deep inside me, there’s an innate knowledge that says I don’t want anyone
to fuck with me.
And my family—my clan—will fuck with me. I don’t have an ounce of trust for them, and I don’t think it’s because I can’t
remember them.
Carefully I place the ink in the cuts, making sure none have clotted, keeping the ink from penetrating the wound. Once the
ink is in, I allow the wounds to scab without wiping.
It will keep the ink from smearing.
Again, I wonder how I know this. Was I perhaps the one who did theirs? No, I decide. I wouldn’t do such stark, bland
marks. While I’m at it, I fix up the mating bars on the bridge of my nose because I did them by the reflection of the water on the
lake, making sure they were light. Now, I make them even. They look much better than Stug’s.
“She looks like a different person,” Shodun says.
Gnark grunts. “Look at your mate,” he says to Stug.
“Why didn’t you wipe the blood off? You’re a mess,” Stug says.
I raise an eyebrow, feeling the skin of my forehead pull. “Because the scabbing will keep the ink in place.”
“We’ll need your clothes too.”
“What for?” The hell if I’ll strip for them.
He shrugs. “Just a little more respect for our king. Wruk’s clothing can be worn for traveling. You can wear your things
once we get there.”
I’d like to frown but it’s uncomfortable on my drying forehead. “His clothes are way too big.”
 “We can amend them. Slice the belt in half. Shorten the vest. Whatever.”
I sigh. Either these fools are trying to disguise me, or they’re trying to get me to do the work of mending clothing so it
doesn’t go to waste. My guess is the latter.
At least my hair will get a deep conditioning with the elderberry grease.
 Chapter Three

BAKOG:
WE NEVER HESITATE AS we sail into Southpeak territory.
We have a group of two dozen males—a sight that’s barely short of an act of war. Despite that, we start our fire and send
smoke signals up in the air to catch the attention of their king.
If they don’t show, we’ll invade their encampment anyway. By the grim faces around the fire, we’re all in agreement over
this.
But a horse approaching in the distance, dust kicked up from his hooves. When the lone scout gets close, he dismounts—an
act of bravery I’d be impressed with if I didn’t have one thing on my mind.
“We’ve had someone go missing from our clan a moon ago. She was taken in the trading town of Creede. Have you heard
anything?”
“Nay. Did you expect special allowance to search our land?” The scout is mocking and I crack my knuckles. I’d love
nothing more than a fight.
My father—more of a negotiator—places a hand on my shoulder. “Do you know who I am?”
The scout gives one short nod. “Brun. Son of Brachard.”
Because my grandfather, Brachard, is legendary.
“This is my son, Bakog. ‘Tis his mate who was taken. You’re aware we wouldn’t overstep our bounds unless we have
probable cause.”
The male nods again, eyes narrowed as he waits for the hammer to drop.
“And once we have that, we’ll slaughter every male, female, and brat in this village if they’re being harbored here. We’ll
wipe out an entire clan unless you show us they’re on our side by finding her.”
“Your choice,” I add. “But if she should be found in your village...”
“She is not here. We haven’t had any newcomers.”
“Perhaps she’s being held captive, hidden in someone’s home. Bound. Gagged.”
Latsil, our largest male, steps forward with a death glare, his beefy fists clenched at the idea of his daughter helpless. He’s
a massively scarred and imposing figure, one that sends chills down a grown male’s spine.
It gets the scout to swallow and warily speak, even though he has no idea this is Shalia’s father. “We’ve had a couple of
defectors in the last year,” he spits out. “Last we heard, they met a few rogue Blackhearts and travel together.”
“Why did they defect?” I ask.
“They didn’t like the rules. They thought they should have the pick of females—despite the fact the ones they wanted were
already mated.”
“I thought your clan used to challenge for someone’s mate.”
He shrugs, because to him it’s not a big deal. “If certain criteria is met. Like she wants the new male. And if the new one
can beat the old mate.”
“So, they couldn’t win the challenge and left?”
“It never got that far. The female that they wanted to share never gave them a second glance. They left the clan, angry
because the rules wouldn’t get bent for them.”
“You’re positive they haven’t been back?”
“They wouldn’t be allowed back if they showed up tomorrow. No one defects and is welcomed back. Not here.” He
shrugs. “Not sure if the Blackhearts would take their own back.”
My father steps forward. “Pass around the word. If anyone is caught harboring them—I don’t care what clan it is—their
entire village will be wiped from the face of this goddess-forsaken planet we’ve been dumped on.”
With a short nod, the scout jumps on his steed and rides away.
Because we’re brave males, we spend the night in their territory before heading home at dawn. Just to make a point.
At first light, we ride back to Solaya where my grandfather waits.
“What’s the word?” he barks.
“Two Southpeaks went rogue. They met up with Blackhearts.”
Grandfather nods. “Blackhearts said they had four who left. That makes a group of six males.”
“And neither clan will claim them.”
“But the Southpeaks will turn them over if they try to hide there. We made it clear that anyone who harbors them will get the
entire clan wiped out.”
 “Phew,” Grandfather grins. “That’s steep. We only threatened to wipe out the Blackheart males. Not the whole clan.”
That’s the first smile I crack since I found out about Shally. It feels tight on my face.
“I’m leaving to search the woods further north. Near Blackheart territory.”
Grandfather nods. “Good. Because a couple humans near Serenity where your other grandfather lives saw a group of—”
“Six males?”
“Five, actually. And a female.”
“Half-blood? With light hair?”
“Nay. They claim she’s a female orc. One of the Blackheart clan, dresses in leathers with gold stitching.”
“I’ll kill them anyway. Torture them until they tell me where she is.” I clench my fists. “It can’t be a coincidence that there’s
two separate rogue groups.”
“M’boy. You’ll find her first and see if she knows where Shalia is being kept. Once our girl is safe, I don’t care what
happens to the rogues. Not even the female.”
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
pak jai d’r poote.… goan d’r op legge.… ik hep nou d’r kop.… stevig-
àn hoor!.…

Rood donkerden de zeerende wimpers van Dirk uit slaap-schrik,

gezwollen, tegen lichtschijn van ’t lampje, dat Guurt nu midden op
tafel had gezet. Snel weer z’n kop hevig draaiend staarde ie ontsteld
in hurkhouding op de bobbel onder ’m neèr, die hij indrukte. Zacht
gekerm en verdoofd gekrijsch kreunde uit de dekens. Dirk, in al z’n
krachtzwaarte telkens opgewipt door ’t ingesnoerde zenuwlijf onder
’m, kroop verder in bed, drukte zwaarder met z’n knieën op de plek
waar vrouw Hassel’s nek zat, plette, zelf radeloos, in angst, niet
beseffend, wàt anders te doen. Moeder was plots gek geworden. Dat
voelden de kinderen. En niemand viel ’t in, den Ouë te vragen, hoe
ie eigenlijk uit bed kwam. Op d’r beenen lag ie nou, Gerrit,
neergekrampt in ’t donkere bed-endje. Maar telkens even, rukte
vrouw Hassel in angstkrampen en stuiping van d’r voeten ouë Gerrit
òp, dat ie waggelde, in den hoek beukte met z’n kop; dan weer
trapte ze’m tusschen de liezen, dat ie wilden, jagenden pijnkreet
uitstootte en vloekte.

Onderhands bedacht ie, wat ie zeggen most als z’m vragen zouen,
waar ie geweest was, wat ie d’r uit te doen had? [197]

Niks.… niks heulegoar gain uitproatje had ie.… Dat moakte ’m stikke
van angst.

Zachter, al zachter kreunde en kermde vrouw Hassel. Toen, als in

schok, begrepen Piet en Guurt in één, dat ze stikken ging zóó.

—Houw op Dirk … houw op, gilde Guurt ontzet, je smoort d’r.… se

hep gain lucht.…

—F’rdomd, gromde Piet, se stikt t’met.… dá’ holp nie.… lá’ d’r nou
los.… Dirk, zelf geschrikt, plots voelend dat ie ’r vermoord kon
hebben, was angstig van d’r lijf opgesprongen, Gerrit uit z’n hoek
meesleurend, nu vrouw Hassel d’r beenen al wat minuten
beweegloos gehouen had. Met z’n zware schonken, dachten ze, dat
Dirk ’r doodgekneusd had, moeder gestikt onder de lakens zou
blauwen.

Guurt en Piet rukten de dekens in plooiwarrel van d’r hoofd. Stil lag
ze, roerloos verwrongen met grauw gezicht en vuil-grijze
flodderharen voor dichte oogluiken gekroest.… Zacht kwam er
hijging in ’r lijf.… openden de kijkers weer, na ’n poosje, glurend door
harenwar op Hassel, die in benauwde streken over z’n baard wreef,
ingekrompen naast de kinderen voor ’t bed stond.

Plots in gansch onvoorzienen ruk, sprong vrouw Hassel weer

overend, aap-lenig op Hassel af, spoog z’m witte klodders in z’n
gezicht, schudde z’n langen haarkop.… gil-roggelend:

—Moordenoàr, je hep main wille joape.… ik hep ’t sien.…

Nu was ’r geheugen sterk even, in krisis. Machteloos, met lendenen

achteruitgedrukt viel Gerrit op z’n knieën, in dollen angst, dat ze’m
gevolgd, gezien had in den kelder.… In z’n benauwing daarover,
voelde ie bijna de bonken niet, die z’n vrouw ’m op zijn grijzen kop
en nek hamerde, met krampige vuistwoede, in waanzin. Guurt,
angstiger nu, gilde mee, en schreeuwde huilend dat ze de buren
verderop roepen zou.

—Hou je bek, snauwde Dirk, zoo wait hain.… is nog nie.. sel d’r wel
mores leere.… Hier Piet.… graip jai d’r poote.… den Ouë leg tog
veur merakel.…

Dirk wilde eerst den Ouë losrukken uit de kramphanden [198]van z’n
moeder, die in woeste dierdrift doorstompte en mokerde. Gerrit
vloekte, al benauwder dat z’m sien had, dat se ’t doar soo inéén sou
uitskreeuwe,—mepte zwakkies terug in ’t donkere ruimtetje, tegen
de magere roggelborst van z’n wijf, soms ’n woester bof, dat ’t
kraakte op ’r karkas. Eindelijk had Dirk ’m losgeworsteld, en in
waggelende strompeling ’m opzij geduwd.

—Si jai hier Ouë.… op die deele is ’t waif sterker aa’s wai..

Toen in loer, greep ie weer de handen plots van z’n moeder, sloeg
haar er mee in ’t gezicht, boog ze achter de schouers half om,
beukte ze dan weer naar d’r mond, dien ie dichtdrukte, plat als
varkenssnuit. Wilde vechtlust driftte in ’m los, om ’t dolle wijf te
temmen. Te hijgen stond ie, en Guurt, bijlichtend, krijschte
gesmoord, doodsbleek d’r fijne hoofd in lichtschijn. Piet had ’r
beenen nù vastgemoerd in zìjn schroefhanden en gekneld onder z’n
zware schonken, die zacht, ademzacht bewogen. Langzaam begon
angstkrisis van vrouw Hassel te zakken. Haar gezicht, los omwoeld
van vuil-grijs haar, waaronder naakte schedel doorschemerde, lag
grauw-paars te kaaksidderen, angstbezweet. Om ’r breed-dunnen
mond schokten zenuwtrekjes, snel achteréén. En lossig zwabbervel
van rimpelwang vlamde nu doorspikkeld van doffe vlekken. Uit ’r
opengescheurden borstrok bruinde ’r smoezelig bloot lijf. Bij elken
òpschok, knakte Dirk ’r met zwel-kracht terug in de peluw, haar
magere armhanden geschroefd in z’n spitklauwen, kruislings over d’r
borst, die hijgde zwaarder van benauwing nog. Zacht likte ze ’t
schuim uit ’r mondhoeken weg. Plots begon ze uit te snikken, doofde
angst-staar in ’r oogen, gebroken van flauw licht, keek ze weer rond,
gewoon-suf als altijd, wist niet, wat ’r met ’r gebeurde.

De krisis was afgezakt. Angstmom van straks leek uit ’r gezicht

weggerimpeld. Zwak, in uitputting nog, vroeg ze naar Dirk òp, huil-
schokkend.

—Waâ is d’r.. wa’ hou je main vast.. is ’t al loat hee?..

—Hou je bek, snauwde Dirk, je bèn d’r daàs,—niet beseffend, dat
grienuitbarsting eindkrisis had gebracht. [199]

Stil weende ze door, handen kruislings-stil op d’r borst gedrukt, snik-

scheurend als altijd, niet wetend, waarom ze huilde, alleen bang
maar weer dat ze ’r zouen roepen, d’r naam, dat ze dit en dat weer
vergeten had. En ook dàt gevoel dofte weg, hield ze nog maar alleen
den angst, zonder te weten waarvoor. Ze zag ze nu allen met bleeke
gezichten zwak-belicht, maar ze begreep niet wat ze wouen, die
koppen. Ouë Gerrit zat nog op z’n stoel, onder de staartklok, in zich-
zelf zacht jubelend, dat se niks sien had, ’t waif.… daâ’ se anders
wel babbelt sou hewwe.… daa’ se niks niemendal sien had.… en
aas se’t wete had.… waa’s sai ’t tug doalik kwait.…

—Moar snof’rjenne voàder, riep Piet, ’t bedsteedje uitspringend, nou

ie zag dat z’n moeder zich niet meer verroerde, d’r beenen
machteloos leën,.… hoe kwam je d’r uit? Hep se je d’ruit trapt?

—Ho.. ho.. nee.. hu.. hu.. so wait hain waa’st nie.… moar.… ik mos
soo noòdig.… en toe’k t’rug kwaam, lai sai wakker.… begon se t’met
te roase en te sloan.

Even had de Ouë geduizeld, bij de onverwachte vraag van Piet. Niet
meer verwachtend dat ze’m vragen zouen, had ie er ook niet meer
over gemijmerd wàt te zeggen. Nou was ’t er sebiet uitgeschoten,
zonder bedenksel.… en heel gewoon klonk t’em alles.…
doodgewoon,.. hij was t’r zelf verbaasd van. Vrouw Hassel hoorde ’r
man spreken buiten ’t bed. Nou merkte ze eerst, dat ie niet naast ’r
lag. Dirk had ’r handen losgelaten, maar bleef toch voor bed staan.

’n Half uur, in nachtstilte, dommelde ’t groepje bijéén, slaperig

wakend weer, voor ’t donkere bedje. Ze bescholden ’t wijf, snauwden
’r toe wat ze uitgehaald had, maar ze sufte wezenloos ’n stamel-
woord terug, zonder begrijpen. Stil-suf bleef vrouw Hassel
rondstaren, niet vragend, in zachten snik soms. Piet bromde, dat ’t
nou puur daan was.

—Se moak g’n sloffies meer, gaapte ie in armrengeling.

—Daàs is se nie.… aa’s se.… aa’s se gèk was dàn.… Nou.… ik

goan d’r in.…

Alleen de Ouë durfde niet goed, bang dat ze’m zou wurgen, [200]als
ie eenmaal stil achter d’r lag. Toen Dirk kwaadaardiger bromde dat ie
d’r nou moar in zou stappen, deed ie raar, ouë Gerrit, net of ie weer
naar achter moest. Maar Dirk vloekte wou niet langer opblijven.

—Is ’t nou daàn.… murrege roep jai dokter.… ’k mo’ vroeg op

stap.… ik goan d’r in.… aas sai.… aas sai weer hep.… skreeuw je
moar.…

Bang-stil was ouë Gerrit achter z’n vrouw gekropen, in angst dat ze
zich dadelijk op ’m zou smakken als ze ’m zien zou. Maar heel
bedaard bleef ze, ’m loom vragend of ie d’r uit was geweest.

Guurt plette d’r hemdkantjes weer recht, met ’r hand op zware

borsten, klaar wakker. Ze begreep niks meer van ’t wijf. Ze had ’r
kunnen slaan, uit wrevel, dat moeder nòu klaar wakker keek, en zij-
zelf zoo geschrikt was. Maar toch voelde ze meelij ’n beetje met
suffe staargezicht uit ’t donker opgrauwend.

—Wa’ he’k daan.… wa’ doe jai, smeek-stemde ze tegen Guurt, die ’t
laatst voor ’t bed was gebleven.

—Niks.… niks.… jai was benouwt!.… goan nou moar sloape.…

Guurt stapte in bed, lekker onder de dekens kruipend, huiver-ha-tjes

van kou uitbevend. De Ouë lag te rillen. Angst had ’m weer beet. Z’n
vrouw wist ’t toch, dacht ie.… s’n spulle.. s’n spulle.…
En òver angstgevoel, dat ie z’n spullen zou verliezen, groeide
wroeging dat ie stal, dat God ’m wou straffen.… Groene figuren en
vlammetjes zag ie weer uit den donkeren hoek lekken. F’r wa’ ha’
Guurt de bedstee dicht daan.… Nou was t’r heule goar g’n licht.…
En als ie even stil lag, angst zakte, dat z’n oogleden dichtkapten
zwaar van uitputting, kwam er droom-benauwing, bleef z’n adem
plots weg in z’n long, dacht ie te stikken. Met geweld, wild zat ie
overeind, telkens en telkens, met z’n handen grabbelend tegen z’n
strot, waar de benauwing rondkroop.

Z’n vrouw naast ’m, hoorde ie zacht weer lippufferen, in [201]doffen

slaap, kreunig kermen. Nou kòn hij niet meer snurken,.… de rust in ’t
bedhol drukte ’m in elkaar, hing om z’n oogen, z’n handen, z’n
keel.…

Heel lang bleef nog nachtdonkerte in ’t holletje voor z’n oogen

gonzen. En heel langzaam jubelde ’r weer iets in ’m, zoete
mijmering, dat geen sterveling ’m toch snapt had.… da d’r nie een,
puur nie één wist, dat ie spulle had, en waar ie ze had.. puur nie
één.… [202]
[Inhoud]
 ACHTSTE HOOFDSTUK.

Warrelende schemersneeuw, traagvlokkend, wemelde over de breeë

Baanwijk. De boomen kromden stamdonker tegen de dampende,
gelig-wit stuivende straat. Van boulevardboomrij uit, donkerden heel
van ver, hooge karren en paarden omnibus-schimmig ààn, tegen
den tragen kringenden vlokwemel in. Even ’n vrouw, met triest-rood
omslagdoekje en donkere kleeren, fantoomde òp uit ’n laag huisje,
de leege straat òver. Alles witte, ingesneeuwd in stilteval. Bij ’n laag
karretje, waarop blauw melkvat, dat met besneeuwde hoepels-
omranding stond te eenzamen in ’n nauw wit zijwijkje, drentelde
Kees Hassel heen en weer, wachtend op ’n kerel, die misschien iets
voor ’m had.

Demping en dampige stilte witte van straatjes en daakjes. Hoog bij

den Lemperweg naar ’t stationsplein, lag ’n groot brok weiruimte vol
te wemelen met glanzige vlokken. Tusschen de boomen overal, als
in traag spel van stoeiende hemellingen, schemerde prachtige stille
warreling, over en op elkaar, ingangen bouwend en hooge
boogpoorten van schemer-witte hallen. En àlom schuiner geweef
van vlokken rond en om roerloos takgedonker, doodstille stammen,
pastelgroen in broze kleurteerheid. Daartusschen nu en dan,
beweeg van menschen met sneeuw-zware petten en jassen, wit, wit,
onkenbaar bevlokt op gezicht, wenkbrauw en haar, doorsjokkend
met donkerend lijf tegen den stoeidans van vlokken in. En voort weer
wemelden glans-zacht en kleur-schitterig in zachten spat, de groote
verstillende vlokken, op de al witter aarde, al dons-zachter, op de
roerlooze wachtende takken, op de doodstille stammen. [203]

Aan allen kant lag Wiereland ingesneeuwd. ’t Ouë jaar was als ’n
woest stuk leven voorbijgestoven, met nachtlijk rumoer, gebras, en
zuiplappen-gekrijsch van kerels en meiden, verdierlijkt in jammer.
Kouer bleef ’t in stedeke en Duinkijk, rondom de groote
heerlijkheden van Van Ouwenaar en Duindaal, met z’n witte akkers
en noordpolige blanke weibrokken, zelfs als de zon plots
doorschitteren kwam en blauwe dampen goot over ’t landwit, dat
violet-zwaar verschaduwde in ’t bleek-gouïge licht.

De vorst steeg en mopperend vloekten de kweekers, dat hun gewas

uit den grond was komen kijken en nou t’met doodvroor. Avond
daarop daalde de vorst, modderden de wijkjes weer in drassige brij,
grauwden jammerdagen in laag grijze luchten, verdruild door ’t vale
stedeke, tot wéér inviel sneeuw, almaar sneeuw, aanwittend en
bedonzend de wijkjes en huisjes zonder dat er ijs kwam in de sloten.

Kees stond te trampelen van voetenkou. Nou zou ie met den vent ’n
hoekkroeg ingeloopen zijn, als ie even bleef passen op z’n karretje,
maar die kwam niet terug. Verrek, dan zou ie ’m smeren.

Op z’n erfhuis bleef ie rommelen, uit ’t pleehok wat gier

opscharrelend. ’n Paar dagen had ie helpen opladen en wat kwartjes
verdiend, met nieuwe mandbodempjes maken. Nou was ’t weer
daàn. Morgen zou ie reis, puur uit verveling z’n rot brok skuur slope
en ’r blokken van zagen. Kon ie maar mee met de tuindersboot op
Amsterdam, wa’ wild en k’nijne smokkele.… da’ satte nou al die
f’rdommelinge bai mekoar.… en nooit kon ie mee. Maar van avond
zou ’t er nou erais van komme.… stroope.… Hij had afgesproken
met drie lui, beruchtste wildstroopers van Wiereland, omdat ie zelf
geen kogel en geen achterlaaier, geen sprenkels, niks, niks meer
had. Z’n laatste laaier hadden z’m afgekaapt op bijpad, de
koddebeiers. Piet Hassel, z’n broer wou ook mee, voor ’t eerst. Kon
hem niks schelen, als ie maar geen grooten bek sloeg.

Tot donker bleef ie nog rommelen op z’n erfje, grom-nijdig en stil-

wrokkend, dat er weer niks te vreten was. Donderement, [204]nou
wier t’m te guur. Huiver-rillig schokkerde ie de kamer in, smakte zich
neer, plat op den grond, voor laag vuurtje, waarin takken
vlamknetterden, als in winterpret-verhaal met doorbrande schouw en
den donkeren konkelpot. Ouë Rams zat ’r weer met z’n beenen, in ’t
verkort, in hoekje opgedrongen, pruimstraaltjes sissend in ’t
geknapper. Even verwarmd stond Kees weer op, grommend. ’t Stonk
’r aa’s de pest.… en de zoete valeriaan, kon ie niet luchte, maakte
’m misselijk. Dan nog maar effe noar Grint.… tjonge die maid.… die
Geert.… die draait sain puur veur s’n test.… wat ’n lief ding.…

—Waif aa’s t’met de kerels komme, lá’ hullie wachte.… aa’s hullie d’r
om àcht uur nie benne, goan wai f’nàcht.…

Ant bromde iets terug uit ’t achterend, door wat schreeuw-kinderen

heen. Tegen half acht dook Ant uit ’t donker, om ’t lampje op te
steken in de kamer. Wimpie’s stemmetje zangde neuriënd uit z’n
stikduister hoekje en ouë Rams zat even flauw-rossig bewalmd in
zachte knettervlammetjes van schouw. Huilerig en drenzend
sjokkerden de kinderen, in armoedigen lampschijn groezelig
bewegend, zich hun vodjes van ’t lijf. Vier meisjes lagen al, nauw
gekrompt bijeen in bedsteedje, elkaars adem opzuigend. Twee, met
slaperige morsige kopjes ronkten naast drie woelenden, later
ingestapt. Daàr, vlak boven hun hoofdjes, als in ’n doodkistje,
plankte eng kribje dwars tegen bedstee-schot, klauterde Neeltje van
vier in, met gatduwetjes van onderen opstommelend. De gonjen
bevlooide zakken met haverdoppen, waarop ze lagen, stonken en
wasemden vocht uit, als adem van ziek beest, door de krottige
slaapholletjes. Smal hanglampje, pitjes-droef, groezelde wat vuil-
geel lichtschijnsel op de magere slaapsnoetjes. Twee roodharige
kooters liepen nog wat rond, met bloote modderige voetjes,
drentelend in speelsche vadsigheid op den steenvloer, wachtend op
nieuwe schreeuwen en porren van moeder, om in te stappen.
Zuigeling lag in ’t bed van vader en moeder, naast Ant, voor ’t gemak
’s nachts, als kindeke de borst moest lebberen. Dientje, ’t moedertje,
met ’r zenuwzwak kopje, [205]holle wal-oogen en uitgebleekte
wangetjes moest rondgaan.

—Bidde.… helhoake, schreeuwde vrouw Hassel,.… nog twai Akte

van Hoop enne.… Akte van Berouw.… kaik rond Dien.… gaif hullie
d’r ’n mep.… dá’ kenalje.… la’ hullie nie klesseneere.… aa’s se nie
wille.… d’r òp moar!.…

Bij knielend zusje Aafje ging ze staan om te hooren, in te vallen, te

verbeteren. Toen Aafje klaar was hielp ze’r in de bedstee, voorzichtig
tusschen de andere kinderkluit.—Van ’t schoorsteenrandje, uit ’n
hoekje, peuterde ze ’n fleschje open, nam ze zelf met rillingen ’n
lepel valeriaan. Voor d’r zenuwen, had moeder gezegd, omdat ze ’s
nachts zoo schrikkelijk droomde, zoo wild dee.… zeien ze,.… op
ging zitte, en bange gekkigheid zei. De kleine naast ’r most ook ’n
slok, krijschte Ant weer even uit achterend naar Dien.

—En sai.… sai mo’ nog bidde.… Dien.… kaik.… f’rdomd se lait al.…
Stommeling! kwam dreigend aanstuiven Ant.… Sien je nou nie daa’
’k brood an ’t moake bin?.…

—Nou.… en.… ik bin soo moe.… zuchtte bleek-angstig Dien, ’r bruin

stinkend rokje van d’r beentjes schuddend.

Met ’n smak had Ant ’n lang-ijzeren brood-vorm en ’n grooten

steenen pan op tafeltje neergekwakt, dat de kinders verschrikten in
de bedjes. Wimpie, die neuriënd naar ’n Moeder Mariaplaatje te
droom-turen lag, schrok òp, hevig. Nooit kon ie slapen of moeder
moest ook liggen, al werd ’t elf uur. Plots kwam grootmoeder Rams
aansjokken uit achterend, vaagtastend in schuifel-pasjes overal
heen, met ’r handen en armen krommig vooruit, alles werend
waartegen ze op kon loopen. Haar zwaar korpulent oud-vrouwe-lijf,
heupig-uitgezwollen, schommelde als van tiendubbel berokte
vischvrouw. Op vetten romp stond ingekwabd nekloos, ’n klein
hoofd, vossig-spits, met erin, leelijk-groene schichtige flikker-oogjes,
weggediept in slappe, bruin-gele wangen. ’n Versleten paars jak met
zwarte streepjes over loggen borstenhang, was kort afgefranjed in
smerige rafeling bij tonnigen dijenschommel, en overal kromden ’r
groote handen met worsterige week-dikke vingers en stompe vette
armpjes,—gespannen in ’t nauw lijfje, [206]als kinderdijen,—vooruit,
waar ze liep. Bij ’t bedje van Wimpie stond ze stil. Alleen nog maar
schaduwen kon ze zien. Op den dag liep ze wel alléén, omdat ze
wòu, maar telkens werd ze door goedhartige lui thuis gebracht, die ’r
zagen zwerven en tasten. Als ze met ’r befloerste oogen, waar ’t licht
al bijna uitgekringd was, in doffen appelstaar, strak tegen iemand of
iets aanliep, stotterde ze van kwaadheid, gaf ze dadelijk de schuld
aan ding of mensch, waartegen zij opbonsde. Nooit goed wist vrouw
Rams wie wèl, wie niet in de kamer was. Maar sluw vroeg ze ’t
ongemerkt den kleintjes, of Wimpie, denkend dat ze dan niet wisten,
hòe weinig ze nog maar zien kon.

—Mo’ je, mo’ je nie wa’ drinke.… jonge.… vroeg ze Wimpie al

tweemaal, die driftig nee had geschud, zonder dat ze ’t zag.

In ’r stem, schril en scherp lag bijtende klank van nijdigheid.

—Seg jonge.… hoor je nie?.…

—Nee.… nee.… neenet!.… ’k mô nie.… driftte Wimpie, met z’n

hoofd draaiend, moeilijk in de peluw.

Over ’t bedje heen van Wimpie, boog ze ’r vossenkop, om ’m beter

te zien, moar ’t mannetje begon te huilen.

—Wa wi-je tog.… wi je tog, angstigde z’n stemmetje.… ’k mo’ niks.…

’k hê niks vroagt.
Ant, met ’r handen vol meelklonten, staand voor ’t tafeltje, keek naar
den hoek, barstte nijdig uit tegen vrouw Rams.

—Wa’ mo’ je tog moeder.… là sain s’n gangetje.… wa seur je.… je

moak sain in de loorem.…

Stil-nijdig schoffel-paste ze weer weg van Wimpie’s ledekantje, langs

bedsteeën van de meisjes, die nu met groezel-gelig schijnsel op
stille slaapmaskertjes te snurken lagen, eng d’r lijfjes in elkaar
gewurmd. Even keek ze in, vrouw Rams, zag niets dan donker,
sjokte verder, met armen krommig-stomp vooruit, tot ze pal den hoek
inliep, tegen lichtbak van Kees op.

—Daa’s jouw.… jouw.… skuld.… jouw skuld.… beet ze af, stem-

nijdig zacht achteruit schuifelend. Maar niets hoorde vrouw Rams
terugzeggen, begreep ze dat ze ergens tegen aangeloopen [207]was.
Bij den haard bleef ze weer staan, in lichtelijke uithijging van d’r
zwaren borsthang. Daar zag ze, in ’t schuwe licht, den schaduw-
romp van ouë Rams, silhouet van z’n bloote morsige voeten in ’t
verkort saamgekrompen; haar man, dien ze haatte, met wien ze al
dertien jaar niet sprak, die haar ook nooit wat zei. Ze haatte ’m
omdat ie Ant met Kees had laten trouwen, omdat ie Kees niet de
ribben stuk sloeg en omdat hij nooit op ’m meeschold. En hij, in z’n
grimmigen, eenzelvigen leefangst, oud, afgeleefd en verzwakt, wist
niets meer van dien trouw-rommel af, wou alleen geen gezeur,
haatte heftig z’n vrouw terug, zoo maar, uit afschuw voor ’r
glunderige, ’r schimperige valschheid, al bleef z’n haat niet meer zoo
fel in z’n kop nagloeien als vroeger. Maar bespuwen kon ie ’r,
verafschuwen deed ie ’r, zonder ’t ooit iemand te zeggen. Ingedrukt,
in een bedsteetje op duf achtergangetje, sliepen ze al dertien jaar
naast elkaar, zonder ’n letter gesprek. En niks geen gezeur, van
niemand, wou ouë Rams. Alleen maar stilte, nou ie geen werk meer
kon doen, en vreete. Als ’r dat niet was, pruimpies en hitte. Zoo bleef
ie zitten op z’n stoel, bij de schouw, zomer en winter, verlangend
geen lucht, geen zon, geen straat te zien. Alleen mompelde ie:
swaineboel.… swaineboel.… als Ant geen tabak voor ’m gebedeld
had, of als ie z’n vrouw zag sluipen, rond ’m heen, zonder woord, al
maar sloffend en tastend in grabbel.—

Ant stond nog aan ’t schuddende tafeltje, onder schijnsel van armoe-
lampje, te grijpen in den vuilen, geel-glazuren pot, kledderde telkens
nat deeg van ’r smoezelige vingers in plaat-ijzeren vorm, met ’r
bemeelde handen, grof-bekluit, persend en plettend. In ’t lage
kamerdeurke bleekte plots hoofd òp van vrouw Reeker van ’t pad.
Guurte bracht ze mee van de straat. Achter ’r lang, rood omdoekt lijf,
kwakte ze donkere hokdeur dicht, sjokte in zucht van uitputting op ’n
krukje neer, bij de schouw.—

—Main kristus, is dà skrikke.…

—Gommenikki.… jai buurvrouw? keek verbaasd om, Ant.

Nooit kreeg ze bezoek van vrouw Reeker, omdat die zich [208]altijd,
als vrouw van zuinigen braven kleinpachter, wàt te voornaam voelde
om met Hassels-schorem om te gaan. Want Kees, nie waar, wà was
Kees nou veur ’n snaiboon.… nog g’neens ’n los werkman.… Maar
nou was ze zoo geskrikt op den weg, dat ze buiten ’r fatsoen ging.

—Buurvrouw.… hijgde ze nog met ademlooze stem, je mô.… je mô

main effe.… effe an ’t bedoàre late komme.… gaif main.… ’n.. ’n..
bakkie woater.… is da skrikke.… dá’ ’n mins doen ken.… is dá’
skrikke.… liefe-deugd!.…

Ant wreef bedaard handen-plat over het deeg, gladduwend en

indrukkend buitjes en geultjes. Zacht was ze naar Wimpie geloopen
die nog wakker lag, om hem d’r vingers, rauw-bedeegd van witte
kluitjes, te laten aflikken. Dat vond ie zoo lekker altijd. Met één hand
in Wimpies breeën mond, de andere nattig, ruig afstrijkend aan ’r
schort, vroeg ze half naar vrouw Reeker toe, met iets bits in ’r stem:

—Moar main goeie mins.… wa’ hep je.… je laikt puur f’stuur.… hier
hai je ’n bàkkie.… doar in d’emmer.…

Grootmoeder Rams was om vrouw Reeker heen geschoffel-past,

had vlak op ’r donkeren rug geloerd en eindelijk aan de stem
gehoord wie ’t was.

—Wa’ hai je?.… vroeg ze schel tusschen Ant en vrouw Reeker

inschuifelend.… hai je weer belet in je hoofd.… mi je spooke?.…

Ze lachte scherpe schraapgeluidjes uit en in tastrichting nijdigde ze

haar woorden naar vrouw Reeker, die vóór ouë Rams zat.—

—Nou.… nou ik swair d’r op daa’k se puur sien hep.… twai.…

twai.… eine van langest.… ’t pad.…

—Nou mins, de boose gaist sit in je.… scherpte nijdiger vrouw

Rams, met sarrende mondtrekjes in ’r spitsig gezicht.… De duufel
hep je bait.… dá’s nou main weut.… die hep je puur bait.…

Ant moest nog eruit, ’t brooddeeg naar den bakker brengen in

Wiereland. Al ’n kwartier wachtte ze op vrouw Zeilmaker en Zeune
die altijd meegingen, tegen dien tijd. [209]

—Je ken hier blaive, soo lank je wil buurvrouw, moar ikke mo’ effe
main booskap.…

—Nainet.… nainet.… dan goàn ik mai.… dan goan ik mit vrouw

Zeilmaker t’rug, zei drift-angstig vrouw Reeker, luchtig opstaand. Ik
durf.… durf nie moedersiel allainig ’t pad af.… twai.… twai.… hep ’k
d’r nou sien.… ik sit d’r puur van te trille.…
—Twai.… twai.… bitste vrouw Rams hoonend-streng.. mins ik seg
moàr.… paa’s op je sieldrement!.… je ben an de duufel f’rkocht.…
paa’s d’r op!.…

Plots met deurgebonk en gestoot rumoerden vrouw Zeune en

Zeilmaker de lage groezelig duisterende kamer in.

—Kloàr buurtje? schorde met heeschige, mannige ventersstem

vrouw Zeune.…

—T’met buurvrouw, nou he’k de eer van vrouw Reeker d’r besoek.…
s’ is d’r puur tureluurs van, se hep weer spoke sien op ’t pad.

—Spoke, spoke? gier-lachte grof-hevig vrouw Zeune met ’r

bassende mannestem.… ’t regent t’met aa’s de see.… stikke
donker.… en ’n wind van foàldera!!.. neenet vrouwe! die komme d’r
nou nie uit.… die blaive bai hullie perremetoàsie.… die.…

Bleek-bevend was vrouw Reeker weer voor ouë Rams op ’t krukje

neergezakt. Achter haar schonkig lijf sisten in ’t groen-duister
grootvaders pruimstraaltjes, sneller, sisscherp tegen konkelpotbuik
aan. Vrouw Rams was weer tusschen de visite ingeschoven, armen
krommig vooruit, in radden tast-schuif.—Ze wist precies nou aan den
stemmenklank wie er waren; Kees hoorde ze niet. Die was weg,
wèg.… want met al haar haat, was ze bang voor dien kerel, voor z’n
razende drift.

—Ik seg moar, scherpte ze stil uit, da’ se d’r van bekold is.…
behekst.… se mos puur belese worde.… daa’s nou main weut.… ik
belees hullie allegoar.… Wimpie hep puur behekst weest.… deur
hoar sloerie!.… die suiplap.… die maidejoàger.… [210]

—Moeder, là Kees se gangetje kregelde Ant, bang voor Wimpie’s

drift, en ook omdat ze ’t niet zetten kon nou, waar die branie van
vrouw Reeker bij was, dat ’r man zoo uitgemaakt werd.

—Wá! se gangetje?.… jai weut niks!.… niks, jai onskuld!.… jai weut
nie wa se segge.… op de ploats.… enne op de polder!.… Moar
nou.… hep ie.… hep ie de burgemeester weer wille dèursteke.…
puur woàr.… en nou hep ie weer àlderlei meissies ongelukkig
moakt.… puur.… en nou hep ie drie doàge se aige dood-soope in de
kroeg.… bai ’t Veertje.…

—Daa’s jokkes, hai hep hier weest.… de heule week.… brak Ant
nijdig af.

—Da lieg jai!.… hou je bek jai onskuld!.… hai beliegt je.… beliegt
je!.… soo’n skaamteloose vuilik!.… hai legt ’t àn mi iedere maid van
fleesch en beene!.… en.… enne iedere nacht hep ie stroopt die
dief.… die ongeluk in je huis!.. allegoar bloedsinte.… aà’s tie d’rais
wà afgaift.… je most sain!.… suilie moste sain fille!.… an rieme
snaie.… soo’n gedrocht!.… soo’n ketter!.…

Ze stond te gebaren in ’t vrouwekringetje, woest-blij van binnen, dat

ze op Kees schelden kon, dat ze d’r hitte-kregel kon luchten, nou bij
vreemden, en hij toch weg was. Armen hoog boven ’r vossekop,
gebaarde ze met ’r twee handen bij elk scheldwoord, en in
vingerkrampige trekkingen, liep ze, in opwinding voortschimpend,
tegen ’t lijf van vrouw Zeune, die ’r met ’n stoot, kwaadaardig
achteruit bofte. Ant gaf ’r moeder gelijk, altijd als ze alleèn waren.
Maar nou, nou vond ze ’t toch te bar.

—Moar moeder, wa’ hai je nou soo ineens op je heupe.… la sain se

gangetje seg ik.… là’ sàin.… je kletst puur de honderd uit.…

Wimpie was begonnen, te snikken en te schreeuwen.

—Dà’ lieg ie Omoe.… da lieg ie.… Foader hep nies daan.… foader
hep nies daan!.…

Met rood woedehoofd, doordrift van nijdtrekken, draaide [211]vrouw

Rams zich naar Wimpie’s hoek, in schamperende spotlach.

—Hehie.… hehie.… nou.… dá’ manneke sel t’met beterder weute.…

Aa’s ’k je moeder waas, had je al ’n veeg beet.… jou snurkert.… jou
hufter.…

—Kom, kom waa’n geklieter.… bas-lachte vrouw Zeune.. je klets

puur de honderd uit vrouw!.… kaik ’rais.… die skoape doar.… droaie
d’r aige d’r van om.… je kraist se puur wakker vrouw Rams.… en
kaik d’ris mins Reeker beefe.. nog ’n kommetje woater.… hee?.…

Ant was naar Wimpie toegeloopen, om ’m te sussen, zoende z’n

handjes die krampig de lucht ingrepen boven z’n hoofdje in
machtelooze drift-woeste gebaartjes, probeerend z’n grootmoeder
wat plaatjes, en blokjes, van z’n plankje, naar ’t lijf te gooien.

—Toe moar.… toe moar, scherpte die valsch, gooi je groomoe

moar.… oartje noar s’n voartje.… dat ’n driftbulletje.. je sou sain
t’met molle-mi-de klomp.… toe moar.…

—Groote gerechte! daa’s sarre an ’t skoap, dà stoan je nie net vrouw

Rams, barstte vrouw Zeune uit, met ’r zwaar manne-geluid.… f’r’wâ
moak je proatjes, woar de duufel mi se’n moer nie an g’looft.… daa’s
puur houe en bouwe.…

Rouw snikte Wimpie door, beentjesbevend, dat ’t ledekantje

sidderschokte. Z’n stemmetje scheurde driftklankjes uit z’n keel,
overstaanbaar verrochelend in z’n huil. Suffer door de herrie zat
vrouw Reeker op ’r bankje, met ’r kommetje water in de hand,
waaruit telkens beef-plasjes op ’r schoot plonsten.… Vrouw Zeune
had walg voor ’t mensch Rams.

—Moar wà’ is d’r.… hebbe ze je dan hailig daàs moakt, baste ’r

goeiige mannestem weer.

—Dá’ rooit ná’ niks—teemde vrouw Reeker,.. ik hep ’t self sien!

en.… enne vrouw Grint.… van ’t pad, t’met ook.. mit d’r aige ooge.…
d’r benne puur gaiste.… nou!.… nou!.… groote genoade! aa’s k’ran
denk!.… kraig ’k koors van angst!.… Nou was ’k lest bai m’n zuster
op de ploats.… [212]en die.… die.… sien jullie.… die hep d’r puur
kenne woarsegge.

—Soo veul aa’s ’n tooferkol, schel-stemde vrouw Rams, sarnijdig

weer in.…

—Nainet!.… puur nie.… puur woarsegge.… echt werk.… sien

jullie.… en d’r man.… d’r man ken van alderlei genaise.… soo sebiet
genaise, saa’k moar segge.… nou.. die is d’r ook.… ook.… van et
spirre-ïsme.… sien jullie.. en nou he’k self sien.… aas da main aige
toàfel danst hep..

—Och buurvrouw, daa’s gekkighait, lachte vrouw Zeune goeiïg-grof,

vroolijk-ongeloovig, met meelij in ’r stem voor de strakangstig
kijkende stakker, die zoo bijgeloovig was,.… aa’s d’r g’n mins
ankomt.. ken de toàfel ommirs nie daa’nse.. àldegoar googelderai.…
vast hoor buurvrouw.… vàst.…

—Nainet! nainet.… hield zwaar-wichtig vol vrouw Reeker.… ’k hep

self sien.… wá’ main ooge tog sien mo’k g’loove.… Groote
genoade!!.… ’k ben soo doos-bang in huis, hee?.… aas de dood.…
Woa’k sit t’met, denk ’k da’ ’k gaiste sien.… enn.… enne ’s nachts
durref ik niet ronden kaike.… Enn.… aa’s.… aa’s ’n mins op de plai
mo mi pirmissie.… naim ’k ’t lampie mai.… in donker.… en.. en.…
joa.… lache jullie moar.… je weu nie woar ’n mins toe komme ken.…
nou.… dan.… ainmoal andermoal.… se’k lampie puur op ’t
grondje.… veur main.… pàl veur main.… ikke bin aa’s de dood.… de
dood.… en aa’s ’k ies hoor.… ’s oafes.… spring’k op.… gil ’k op.…
want.. vroag moar an vrouw Grint.… of’ral sitte hullie.… of’ral..
of’ral.…

—Buurvrouw, sullie hebbe je daàs moakt.… en je maa’n?.. je

maa’n.… wa sait tie?… hai mos je ’n rammeling gaive! Jai hep sain
vroeger t’met ieder dag op s’n siel en soalighait mept.… nou most ie
jou veur ’t bekkie sloan.… sain jullie glaik.…

—Main man?.… nou, die lacht moar.… net aa’s Kloas Grint.…
moar.… moar ’s nachts leg-gie te bibbere van de nood.… [213]

—Gommenikkie buurvrouw, niks dan googelderai.… dá’ seg ik.…

daa’s rommelpottrai.… Enne Driekoningge is pas daàn! drink
moar!.… en stap op.… de wind stoan op ’t pad.…

—Jesis.… da nooit.… moedersiel op ’t pad.… doar hoor je nou niks

aa’s.… klos-klos.… klos-klos van klompe.… enn.… aa’s je mi’n lichie
komp.. is t’r g’n noàkende siel.. sien je niès en puur bai je oor is d’r
nies aa’s.. klos-klos.. klos-klos.… komp soo puur op je af.… da’ je
stik van angst..

—Nou seg,.… aa’s je main nôu!.… lachte vrouw Zeune.

—Nainet! Nainet! angstigde vrouw Reeker ontzet, met bleeker

gezicht en verschrikte staaroogen, ik goan vast nie terug allain.…
vast nie.

—Moeder! kermde Wimpie, zenuwachtig-opgewonden door ’t

verhaal van vrouw Reeker.… Dientje en Jaa’nsie.… enne.… hebbe
sait.… da’.… da’ snags.… ’s nags ’n woagetje mi sonder poardjes.…