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way back home.
    Ishara categorized the things in the room, all of which were shrouded by a shadow from the only lit fire in the tent. Most of the objects were dusty and untouched, ignored for what could have been months or years. She noted a large, dead tree branch propped up in the corner of the tent, helping to elevate the canvas. The wood twisted, pressing upwards into what used to be beautiful limbs once lavish with green leaves. Now, the ends were dull and bare, but the piece possessed a certain mystic beauty, a certain secret story that she yearned to know. “Why do you have a stick?”
    Mechan lowered his knife and impaled deer meat. After finishing the chunk in his mouth, the chieftain looked over his shoulder. “It is an offering. Or was.”
    Ishara continued to watch the stick, waiting for it to move or do something impressive. At long last, she pushed herself up out of the furs, abandoning her bowl of whatever Mechan served her for dinner. She padded across the tent, bare toes nestling into the warmth of the pelts that covered the floor. “I don’t understand. What do you mean ‘an offering?’ It is a dead branch.”
    “Before the Manahotchi men get married, they offer a branch to the woman they wish to court. It is a symbol of peace and growth.” Mechan looked away from the branch, and Ishara caught the glint of sadness deep in his gaze when he went back to stabbing at the meat in his bowl. “After the marriage, you use it to build your new home.”
    She reached out to touch it. It came from one of the elder trees whose branches started many feet off the ground. Any man would find it challenging to climb the long trunk all on their own. “In my tribe, the boys often challenge each other to see how high they can climb the trunks of the elder trees. I’ve seen many of them break bones after losing their footing.”
    Mechan grunted, his lips smacking together as he chewed his dinner.
    “It must be a great honor to receive not only a branch from the chieftain, but an elder branch. Very impressive.” Ishara allowed him a small compliment, abandoning the branch in search for something else she could entertain herself with. Her respect for his personal space waned. If he insisted on keeping her as a slave, then he would have to insist on her sharing his space as well. She also grew bored of watching the chieftain brood.
    She spotted a wooden trunk with two large hands imprinted into the dust and hurried in its direction. The trunk rested on the edge of where the main confines of the tent lead back into the private sleeping area, where hardly any light reached. Ishara checked over her shoulder, noting that Mechan no longer paid her any mind. He scooped a handful of mashed yams into his mouth and lanced another piece of meat onto his knife.
    Ishara knelt down beside the chest and opened it carefully. Resting on top of a pile of suede dresses was a tooth threaded onto a leather thong. She reached inside and lifted the necklace up into the firelight, admiring the sharp edge of the ornament, and then slipped the piece around her neck, knotting it in the back. The tooth was cold against her chest, and at the same time, Ishara felt empowered by something, as if the Spirits themselves have filled all the empty spaces in her body.
    “You should come back and eat your food before it cools.” Mechan spoke to her, but did not bother to look at her.
    She watched him the whole time, knowing well that she should not be going through his things. She lifted one of the dresses out of the trunk, pressing it to her naked form, relishing the silky, soft feel of the hide. Small designs of burning suns embellished the hem, which would stop just above the knees if worn. With another peek back to Mechan, she noticed that his attention belonged to his food, and decided that she could get away with trying on the dress.
    “I’ll be fine. I’m not even hungry.” She tugged the dress over her head and down the ample curves of her