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Authors: W. Michael Gear

Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Native American & Aboriginal

People of the Longhouse (22 page)

BOOK: People of the Longhouse
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O
dion
 
Tutelo snuggles against me and whispers, “Brother? Do you see him?”
My eyelids flutter, but I do not open them. We marched hard all day. At dark, Gannajero gave us each a single cornmeal biscuit filled with walnuts, the first freshly cooked food we’ve had, and I was so grateful I gobbled mine down. Right after I brushed the crumbs from my hands and left them in a pile for the birds and mice, I fell asleep. “See what, Tutelo?”
She is being very still, as though trying not to attract the attention of a predator that stands nearby. Her innocent young face with its large eyes and small nose are framed by straight black hair. “Out there, by the fire cherries.”
I turn my head to look. There is a big grove of fire cherries twenty paces away. The branches have lost all of their leaves, and in the starlight they look like nothing more than spiky undergrowth. Fog moves along the ground and twines in the canopies of the trees. I don’t see anything unusual. Our guards stand ten paces away. The man I call Ugly because of the enormous scar that slashes his face leans against a tree and yawns. His real name is Hanu. He is very tall, maybe eleven hands, and has shoulders like a bear’s, broad and meaty. The other guard, Galan, is
new. Wrass named him Worm because he is so skinny. Worm has his feet spread and is watching the camp. Gannajero and the rest of her warriors sleep soundly around the fire. While the flames have burned down, the coals blush red when the wind breathes over them. The scent of smoke hangs heavy on the frosty air.
“I don’t see anything, Tutelo,” I whisper. “Go back to sleep.” I roll over.
“No, look, Brother!” she insists, and tugs on my shoulder. “He’s right there.”
Grudgingly, I roll back over and stare out at the fog. The streamers move like snakes, twining around trunks and slithering over the ground. Beyond the fog, I can make out the dark looming shapes of sycamores. Their spreading branches reach so high they disappear into the mist. My gaze traces down one massive trunk that is wider across than Ugly is tall. Against the black bark, the elusive wink of starlight flashes on metal.
My breathing dies. I do not blink. Just stare.
It moves, a kind of weightless, leisurely drifting that is as noiseless as the passing of a cloud shadow. For a long while, the only sounds in the night are the soft hissing of the breeze in the trees and the wild hammering of my heart.
Starlight catches in the metal, and there is a prolonged glimmer, as though it has stopped and is watching us.
The hair at the nape of my neck prickles.
Suddenly, a flurry of wings batters the fire cherries, and birds shoot away through the fog. Our guards spin around with their war clubs up, ready to strike down whatever they find. They hiss to each other, study the fog, and Ugly stalks toward the cherries.
Gannajero sits up by the fire and stares out at the fire cherries.
Ugly circles the trees, uses his club to poke between branches. When he is satisfied, he walks back over to Worm and shoves him hard enough to make Worm stagger, then says, “You idiot.” They both chuckle, and continue talking softly.
My gaze returns to the fire cherries.
There is something almost hypnotic about the stillness. The wind has stopped. The fog seems to have frozen in place. The dark branches resemble hundreds of fingers reaching toward the Sky World.
A brief blue flicker shines near the big sycamore.
I prop myself up on one elbow. Is it a Forest Spirit?
Odion
.
I feel the whisper along my bones, a faint creeping sensation like spiderwebs trailed over the skin.
Terrified, I drag Tutelo against me, shielding her from the unknown. In her ear, I hiss, “Don’t move.”
She obeys.
Very faintly, I hear it again—the unmistakable sound of my name whispered by a man, and the soft scrape of leather against wood.
Then the trees rustle, and I think I see a dark cape billow as a man walks away through the glistening fog.
Tutelo whispers, “It’s Shago-niyoh.”
The milky stillness of her calm is unnerving.
“D-did he talk to you?” I stammer.
Tutelo tilts her pretty face and stares at me owlishly. “Did you see him?”
I feel like my lungs are starving. I gasp in cold air before I exhale the words, “I’m not sure. Maybe.”
Ugly turns our direction and scowls. “Stop talking. Go to sleep. We have to carry you tomorrow, and it’s a lot harder to carry someone who’s asleep.” He aims his war club at us.
We both stretch out on our sides, and I curl my body around Tutelo to keep her warm. She heaves a weary sigh and closes her eyes.
Blood pulses so powerfully in my veins that I feel slightly ill.
Gannajero rises and silently bird-walks across the ground. Her black eyes are huge and, if I didn’t know better, I’d say scared. She stops by her warriors and hisses, “What did you see?”
“Nothing.”
“What frightened the birds?”
Ugly shrugs. “I don’t know. We didn’t find anything.”
Gannajero’s gaze slowly moves over the fire cherries, as though expecting to see something or someone. No one makes a sound. In the darkness, her greasy twists of graying black hair hang about her wrinkled face like black fringes.
Gannajero takes ten silent, measured steps toward the cherries. She’s breathing hard. In a hideous gasp, she says, “It’s the
Child
.”
Ugly frowns. “The children are all accounted for. It can’t be—”
“
He’s found us.
” Gannajero quickly retreats to stand between her warriors. Her gaze darts over the forest, as though an ancient evil has risen and is about to swallow them all.
I twist my head to stare back out at the fire cherries.
Waiting.
But now there is only fog and forest.
Gannajero wildly glares down at me. “Did you call it?”
“Wh-what? I don’t under—”
I sit up and her fist is like a meteor plummeting out of the night. It strikes me squarely in the jaw and knocks me hard to the ground. Tutelo screams. I feel dazed. My head is spinning. I can’t seem to sit up. All the other children wake and start talking at once, asking each other questions.
“
Never
call to it!” Gannajero hisses. “Never
speak
to it! Not even if it speaks to you first. Do you understand me?”
I manage to jerk a nod before I roll to my side to spit mouthfuls of blood on the ground. Two teeth roll out. I can feel the gaps in my lower jaw, on the right side.
Gannajero bends over me with blazing eyes. “Tell me you heard me. Don’t just nod!”
Before I can speak, she draws back her hand again, and I cover my head, preparing for another blow. But from the corner of my eye, I see Wrass leap up and grab Gannajero’s fist as it plunges toward me.
I scream, “No, Wrass, don’t!”
Gannajero cries out hoarsely and tries to twist free of his grip. Wrass is hanging on, trying to wrench her arm out of its socket. Her men instantly leap into action. They beat Wrass off Gannajero with their war clubs.
He curls into a ball on the ground, huddling against the beating. The sound of his grunts and cries wither my soul.
None of us dares to go to his aid. We are all too afraid of getting beaten to death ourselves.
“Enough,” Gannajero finally orders, and her guards back away.
Wrass is lying with his arms over his head, whimpering, and rolling as though in great pain.
Gannajero meets each of our gazes, and her wrinkled lips pucker as if she wants to spit upon us. “If any of you dares to touch me ever again, you will all be beaten bloody. Do you understand?”
We nod.
Tutelo crawls over to me and puts a cool hand on my back. “Odion? Odion, are you all right?”
“I … I think so.”
Gannajero turns to her warriors. “This means we’re being followed. He’s leading them right to us. Tomorrow, at first light, I want both of you
to scout our back trail. And if you see anything,
anything
, return and tell me immediately.”
“Yes, Gannajero.”
The old woman marches back to the fire and drags Spirit charms from her pack—painted weasel skins, carved buffalo horn sheaths, and what appear to be wolf fangs. She places them in a circle around her and begins singing a song that sounds like a series of growls and yips.
Ugly whispers, “What’s she doing?”
Worm shakes his head. “I swear she’s madder than a foaming-mouth dog.”
I crawl over to Wrass. “Wrass? Wrass! Why did you do that? You should have just let her hit me!”
Wrass is panting, groaning, but he manages to look up at me. Blood coats his entire face like a wash of paint. “We have to protect each other, Odion. No one else is going to protect us.”
“But they almost killed you!”
Father was right. Wrass is the warrior. He cannot stand by and watch any of his People hurt.
All of the other children gather around Wrass. Baji is weeping silently, and Hehaka looks like he longs to run away and hide, probably because he knows exactly how Wrass feels. Tutelo has both hands over her mouth, smothering her cries. Only Zateri has the courage to do what’s necessary to help Wrass.
“Wrass,” Zateri says. “I n-need to touch your head. Is that all right?”
He nods and lowers his hands. The sight almost makes me wretch again. Large patches of Wrass’ scalp have been torn loose, revealing the bloody skull beneath. Zateri pulls the scalp back into place and carefully uses her fingers to explore his head, stopping here and there to probe more thoroughly.
“Don’t worry,” she says to Wrass. “You’re going to be all right. They didn’t crack your skull, at least not that I can see or feel. But you’ll have a bad headache for days.” She reaches into her leggings and pulls out a small hide bag. As she loosens the ties, she glances up at the guards. They’ve returned to talking softly among themselves, smiling. “I gathered these strips of birch bark this morning. Chew on them, Wrass. They will help with the pain.” She tucks them in Wrass’ hand, but he barely seems to notice. He just shivers and seems to sink into the grass as though he’s melting away.
Then Zateri moves closer to me. Her brown eyes are ablaze as she
whispers, “I gathered other things today. Special
things
. Skunk cabbage root, spoonwood leaves, thorn apple seeds, musquash roots.”
My heart pounds. “Keep them hidden. Tomorrow, we’ll figure out what to do with them.”
She nods and tucks the small bag back into her legging. “Odion?” she says, “Wrass needs to be warm. Let’s all sleep curled around him tonight.”
“Do as she says,” I order, as though I am now in charge. Me. The boy who is always afraid.
Zateri is the first to lie down and press her body against Wrass’ back. I lie down behind her and reach my arm over Wrass and Zateri, pulling them both close. One by one, the other children join in, pressing tightly together around Wrass, becoming one big warm animal with many legs and arms.
“Tutelo?” I call.
She is sitting a short distance away, staring out at the fire cherries. Her pretty face is taut with concentration. She must be looking for the Child.
“Tutelo? Are you coming?”
She turns and looks at me. She’s sucking on her lower lip, and it makes her face appear misshapen. “He’s coming back,” she whispers. “I know he is.”
I lower my head and rest it on my arm.
I don’t know who starts it, but a strange thrum begins. It’s like distant thunder, barely heard; then the whispers blend into one low growl as they flash through our group: “
Gannajero says someone is following us. Someone’s coming for us. It’s my parents! They wouldn’t just abandon me! No, our war chief must be searching for us. It’s an entire war party. A thousand men
!
BOOK: People of the Longhouse
9.26Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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