Authors: W. Michael Gear

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

People of the Longhouse (27 page)

BOOK: People of the Longhouse

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When Yanesh saw him, she rushed to meet him. Tall and thin, with long graying black hair, she had a dignity about her.

“Yanesh, have they heard my reports? Have they met in council? What are they saying?”

She took him by the arm and led him away. “They met with the council less than a half-hand of time ago. They say we must keep fighting. They say Koracoo is coming.”

Gonda rubbed a hand over his numb face. It felt like an act of betrayal to say it, but he whispered, “I’m not sure she is, Yanesh. Something’s wrong, or she would have been here by now. The time is coming, soon, when they will have to decide what to do if the enemy breaches the palisade.”

“They have already decided, Gonda. We will keep fighting.”

A weary fury seared Gonda’s veins. “No. No, they don’t understand. We should plan some kind of diversion that will allow the women and children to escape. Maybe if we can lure the enemy out into the forest—”

“We will keep fighting, Gonda. We will fight until Koracoo arrives. Elder Wida had a vision that Koracoo will arrive at the last instant and save us.”

Gonda stared at her. Though he believed that unseen Spirits walked the land, and that souls traveled the Road of Light in the sky to reach the afterlife, he’d never put much faith in visions. “Yanesh, please. Tell them what I said.
Make them understand!
”

Yanesh put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I will Gonda. Now, you’d better return—”

Screams rose outside, and a series of thuds sounded on the longhouse roof. Within moments, flames burst to life.

“Bring the ladders and water pots!” Yanesh shouted.

As people scurried to obey, Gonda sprinted outside. Hundreds of flaming arrows arched through the night sky overhead, leaving smoky trails. He ran hard for the ladders that led up to the catwalk and climbed swiftly to look out over the palisade. As he unslung his bow and pulled an arrow from his quiver, a strange hush settled over the enemy.

Gonda frowned. He was standing next to Kiya. “What are they doing?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “After they fired the flaming arrows, they all retreated into the trees and went silent.”

“Silent? Why?”

“Maybe”—she wet her lips—“maybe they’re leaving. Maybe they’ve decided the cost is too high. We’ve killed hundreds of their warriors.”

Gonda surveyed the dead bodies that scattered the area between the gates and trees. He guessed the number at around two hundred—not nearly enough to make them quit, though many had also been wounded and dragged off.

His gaze lifted to the trees. As though a monster had awakened, thousands of eyes suddenly sparkled in the light of the fires. They were on the move. Winding through the trees. Their grotesque shadows wavered against the stark fire-dyed forest.

“They … they’re moving their forces up.” He spun around and shouted, “They’re coming! Get ready!”

Though he heard a few whimpers eddy down the line, his warriors stood tall, their nocked bows aimed at the tree line.

When the enemy finally emerged from the trees, Gonda stood stunned.

They’d been reinforced. They’d kept him busy while they’d assembled the necessary forces for one massive final assault against the palisade.

The enemy war chief, a tall man wearing a wolfhide headdress with the ears pricked and the long bushy tail hanging down his back, strode out front and raised both hands high into the air, as though daring anyone to shoot him.

“Blessed Spirits, that’s Yenda.” Gonda’s belly muscles clenched tight. The last time they’d fought, it had been a chance meeting of two war parties in the forest. Gonda and Koracoo had barely escaped with their lives. The man was the most powerful and revered Mountain People war chief in the land. He was also a filthy murderer. Gonda pulled his bowstring back and held it taut.

“Yenda? Are you sure?” Kiya asked.

“I’m sure.”

“Gonda!” Yenda roared like an enraged bear and spread his muscular arms wider. “You see I brought friends this time. Prepare to die!”

Gonda shouted back, “After you, Yenda!” and loosed his arrow. The white chert point glittered as it sailed down. Yenda spun just in time. Gonda’s arrow lanced through his cape.

“Attack!” Yenda shouted, and waved his warriors forward.

They burst from the trees like ants swarming from a kicked anthill, and hundreds of arrows streaked through the starlight.

“Fire!” Gonda shouted, and spun to …

H
e jerked awake, panting, his heart hammering his ribs.

Koracoo turned from where she stood beneath the oak watching the trails. His eyes locked on her, and he thanked the Spirits that she was alive.
She’s alive. Everything is all right.

But as the memories of the final outcome flooded back, he weakly rolled to his side and gazed out across the rolling starlit hills.

The entire world seemed to be dying around him, and he didn’t know how to stop it.

Thirty-three

O
dion

To the east, a turquoise band stretches across the horizon, but the arching dome of Brother Sky still glitters with the largest campfires of the dead. The leafless hickory trees to the north resemble a gray haze, spotted here and there with evergreens. Soft voices carry. Gannajero and her men stand around talking. They have already packed up. We’ll be going soon.

We children sit in a circle, waiting for orders. Zateri has her arm over Wrass, who lies curled on his side. He’s been throwing up all morning. His face is a mass of swollen purple bruises. If I didn’t know it was Wrass, I’m not sure I’d recognize him.

Tutelo and Baji kneel to my left. Baji’s gaze keeps searching the clearing, as though she expects to see her relatives appear at any moment. Or perhaps, like me, there’s a war party woven into the fabric of her souls. Right behind her eyes. A war party erupting from the trees with bows aimed, killing Gannajero and her men.

Soon …
please, Spirits
…

This morning hope is like a wild starving beast in my heart, eating me alive.

The short burly warrior, Waswan, tramps away from Gannajero and calls, “Here, you brats. Biscuits!”

When he gets closer, he tosses us each an acorn-meal biscuit. With a sense of panic, I watch mine arc through the air. It takes forever to fall into my hand. By the time I catch it, my stomach is twisting and squealing. I immediately bite into it. It tastes stale, but wonderful. In no time, it’s gone. I lick the crumbs from my hands and stare down painfully at the tiny bits that remain. Leaving anything for the hungry birds and mice is becoming almost impossible.

I hesitate. I can’t seem to force myself to brush the bits onto the ground. Grandmother always said if you took care of the animals, they would take care of you. Our People believe that animals allow themselves to be killed. They see a human’s hunger and willingly sacrifice themselves so that the One Great Life of all might continue. Every time I brush the crumbs from my hands, I am, in a small way, sacrificing for them.

The other children are breathlessly watching me. They seem to be waiting to see what I do.

I clamp my jaws. My hands are shaking when I brush the last bits of biscuit onto the ground.

They do the same.

Zateri has the harder problem. She is holding Wrass’ uneaten biscuit.

“Wrass?” she says softly. “You should try to eat.”

“No, I—I can’t. Please save the biscuit for me.” He keeps his eyes closed, as though the pale beams of dawn light slanting through the trees are stilettos puncturing his brain.

I’m not sure, if I’d been holding the biscuit, that I could have saved it for him. But Zateri is braver than I. She tucks it into the top of Wrass’ legging and says, “It’s there when you want it, Wrass.”

“Thank you,” he answers weakly. “I know th-that wasn’t easy.” He slits open one eye and smiles gratefully at her.

Zateri’s face brightens. She strokes his hair gently. “Try to sleep for as long as you can.”

Tenshu and Waswan stand talking five paces away. Tenshu is thin, with a deeply lined face and sunken cheeks. Waswan’s is glaring at him. His square jaw moves with grinding yellow teeth. He’s knotted his greasy black hair at the base of his skull and secured it with a shell comb. He wears a new cape today, made of finely smoked elk hide. Across the bottom, there are white images of wolves chasing each other. He must have won it in the last game.

They both turn to watch Gannajero and Kotin. The old woman’s gravelly voice is too low to hear, but she’s waving her arms, and I wonder what has upset her.

Tenshu says, “Gods, what’s wrong with her? We’re headed to our biggest game ever. She should be leaping with joy.”

Waswan’s moonish face twitches. “All morning long she’s been ranting about the Child.”

Tenshu shakes his head. “There was no child. Hanu and Galan both searched the fire cherries. She’s lost her soul, Waswan. Maybe we should get out of here before she kills us.”

“One more game; then we’ll go.”

Tenshu massages the back of his neck. “All right. I just wish she’d let us travel the rivers. It would be so much faster. I hate these steep mountain trails.”

“And she hates the waterways. There are too many people. Rivers are crowded with towns, people fishing, and other canoes. She’s afraid someone might recognize her.”

“Well, it slows us down.”

Zateri glances at the guards, then leans forward to whisper to me. “Tonight. We have to do it tonight.”

I jerk a nod and mouth the words:
All right. Tonight
.

Kotin steps away from Gannajero and calls, “Waswan? We’ll meet at the Quill River camp north of Bog Willow Village. Don’t be late! We’re expecting hundreds. Get going.”

The short burly warrior says, “Yes, Kotin,” and turns to me. “You, boy. You’re coming with me today.”

I stand up. “But, please, what about my friend, Wrass? He’s too sick to walk all day.”

Waswan says, “He’ll either walk, or he’ll die on the trail with his head split open. Now, move. This morning, we’re starting off in the trees. Go to the hickories.”

I turn to wave good-bye to Tutelo, who watches me walk away with wide frightened eyes.

Tenshu walks up to the rest of the group and says, “You two girls are coming with me.” He points his war club at Tutelo and Baji.

They both stand.

I lose sight of them as I march out into the forest with Ugly. Wrass and Zateri must both be going with Kotin, because Gannajero always travels alone. Once we part at dawn, none of us see her again until dusk.

“That one.” Waswan aims his war club at the high spreading branches of the largest hickory. In the sky above, Cloud People drift, their bellies glowing pale gold. “Climb up.”

I grab hold of a low limb, brace my moccasin on the hickory trunk, and pull myself up.

Waswan climbs behind me. When I reach the first large limb, I take a moment to grind my heel into the bark, then lift my nose to smell the air. A frightening scent rides the wind. I twist around on the limb to scan the brightening horizon. There is a black splotch … .

“Hurry up, boy! You’re slow today.”

“Do you smell that?” I sniff the east wind.

“I told you to climb. Do it!” He pulls a stiletto from his belt and stabs the bottom of my moccasin. The sharp tip goes straight through the hide and punctures my heel.

“I’m going!” I say. Tears burn my eyes as I climb higher. I finally step out onto the thick limb that leads to the next tree and begin working my way across it. I pretend I’m balancing on a log bridge across a creek.

Father’s voice echoes in my ears:
Just watch your feet. Don’t look down.

Halfway across, I grab hold of a branch that sticks up, and turn back to look at Waswan. He has stopped.

He’s standing on the limb with his hands propped on his hips, staring out at the narrow valley that cuts through the mountains. A black cloud of smoke trails across the sky. The acrid scent of burning longhouses grows stronger as we climb.

“What village is that?” I ask in a trembling voice. The burning village lies where the valley runs down to a wide river, perhaps a half-day’s walk away.

Waswan’s head doesn’t move, but his gaze lowers to me, and hatred gleams in his eyes. I do not know why he hates me, but he does. Perhaps because I am a Standing Stone boy.

“That’s Bog Willow Village. It’s one of the filthy villages of the Dawnland People. By now, they’re all dead or run off.”

“Who attacked them?”

“Men you will meet tonight.”

“How do you know? D-did your people attack the village?”

He stares straight through me as though I’m not really here. “Keep moving, boy. We have a long way to go.” A cruel smile twists his mouth. “And tonight is your night. Many victorious warriors will be there.”

I’m shaking as I edge out onto the limb and hurry across it.
Don’t think about it. Don’t imagine
… don’t.

Runners often come to speak with Gannajero in the middle of the
night. They wake me, but they never stay for long, and they always leave with a bag of riches. I have wondered what they tell her. Perhaps they are warriors about to attack a village? Does that mean there will be new children tonight?

I climb onto the giant limb of the next tree and head for the trunk. When I get there, I wrap my arms around it and rest my cheek against the cold bark while I grind my heel again. My whole body suddenly feels like it’s roasting. I can’t think straight.

Waswan crosses behind me and orders, “Climb down. We’ll walk through the rocks for a time; then we’ll climb up again.”

I place my feet on the branches like a ladder’s rungs. Just before I jump to the ground, a squirrel chitters and leaps away through the tree. While I’m watching, Waswan nocks an arrow and shoots it through the heart. The squirrel falls as lightly as a feather. It makes a soft thud when it strikes the earth.

I jump to the ground, and Waswan climbs down beside me. Without a word, he walks over, pulls his arrow from the squirrel, and tucks the small animal into his belt. Its bushy tail glints reddish in the fading light.

“Walk,” Waswan orders. “Straight toward Bog Willow Village.”

“But it’s burning. Why would we go there?”

He gestures toward the rock outcrop ahead. “Stop talking, boy. Walk.”

BOOK: People of the Longhouse

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