People of the Owl: A Novel of Prehistoric North America (North America's Forgotten Past) (21 page)

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Authors: Kathleen O'Neal Gear,W. Michael Gear

BOOK: People of the Owl: A Novel of Prehistoric North America (North America's Forgotten Past)
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“Back to the seeds again.” White Bird slapped his hands angrily against his legs. “Just why are you so insistent? Do you think they’re poisoned, is that what this is about? They’re just
seeds
!”
Mud Puppy stared miserably at the few fingers of blue smoke still rising from Uncle Cloud Heron’s. “They are the future,” he whispered.
“Which is why I’m planting them.” A thought crossed White Bird’s souls. “Wait a minute. Who put you up to this? Yellow Spider? One of the Wolf Traders? They are the only ones who know the importance of the seeds.” He fit the pieces together. “No, they wouldn’t have an objection, but if they had told someone else, someone in the other clans who would do anything to keep us from gaining even more influence and position.” That could be anyone. He grasped Mud Puppy by the shoulder, spinning him so that he could stare into those large, haunted eyes. “Who, Mud Puppy? Tell me, or I’ll whip you to within an inch of your life.”
Mud Puppy swallowed hard, his eyes like glistening pools. “
He
did.”
“He? He who?”
“Masked Owl. In a Dream.”
White Bird shook the boy again, feeling his thin bones slipping
under his skin. “Masked Owl … in a Dream. You’re telling me that because you had a nightmare, I am supposed to give up my seeds? Surrender the future of my people and clan?”
Mud Puppy nodded miserably, flinching at the pain caused by White Bird’s strong grip.
Snakes! The fool believes it!
“It was a dream, Mud Puppy.” He shoved him away. “Go on. Get away from here. I have important things to see to. I’m getting married today. I have new obligations. I’m Speaker now. I can’t take up my time with your foolishness.” With those words he strode off, needing to relieve himself before he put the rest of his day in order.
The glance he cast back over his shoulder revealed Mud Puppy, fingers absently prodding his shoulder where White Bird had shaken him. His haunted eyes were fixed on the smoking house remains again, and he had his head cocked, as if listening to someone he could barely hear.
Nonsense, all of it.
So, what am I going to do with you?
“Mud Puppy you are going to be a burden in my life until the day they burn my bones!”
A
gentle shower fell as Mud Puppy and Little Needle stood in the crowd and watched White Bird move his possessions into the snug mud-walled house he would share with his new wives. The dwelling lay three houses down on the third ridge in Snapping Turtle’s Clan grounds. Unlike the others, it was new: the thatch still tawny, the walls freshly daubed with mud. A darker ring of charcoal-stained soil could be seen where Pine Drop’s old house had been burned after her husband, Blue Feather’s, death.
The two sisters, Pine Drop and Night Rain, looked like each other. Both were attractive, round-faced, with delicate noses, long glistening black hair, and uneasy white-toothed smiles. As a widow, Pine Drop had dressed in a matron’s kirtle. She wore all of her finery, layers of beaded necklaces and colored feathers. In contrast, Night Rain wore a virgin’s skirt with knotted fringes. She didn’t have as many necklaces, but as Elder Back Scratch’s granddaughter, she was still opulently turned out for the occasion. Their skin had been lightly slathered with a rose-scented bear grease. White magnolia flowers were pinned in their hair, and garlands of redbud had been placed around their necks.
Something about the Snapping Turtle Clan Speaker reminded Mud Puppy of a raccoon fishing in a shallow puddle full of crawfish. That smug assurance cast an uneasy shadow on his thoughts. Elder Back Scratch, looking incredibly ancient and frail, stood to one side, eyes gleaming with anticipation. But for what? Mud Puppy could
swear that a glint of triumph lay behind Sweet Root’s eyes as she watched White Bird take his place before her daughters.
In front of them, Wing Heart held herself erect, her absent eyes on her son as he strode confidently forward. Mud Puppy kept shooting glances at her. Something about his mother worried him. Her posture, the tone of her muscles, that downcast expression, sent unease creeping along his bones.
The women ceremonially greeted White Bird at the doorway of their house. The traditional offerings of baked fish, sweet honeysuckle, and dried wild squash were borne before them on wooden platters. Neither of them looked happy as White Bird lowered his fabric bag of possessions and took the wooden platter in his muscular brown hands. Unlike the women he was calm, in possession of the moment, aware of the gathered crowd and the importance of the event.
“Two wives?” Little Needle asked. “Who has ever heard of such a thing for someone as young as White Bird? You must be very proud.”
“He has taken the path,” Mud Puppy said sadly. “I cannot call him back.”
“You sound as if he’s dying instead of becoming the most glorious Speaker in memory,” Little Needle muttered. “What’s wrong with you? Ever since you went up on the Bird’s Head, you’ve been flighty—like a duck hit too many times in the head. All you do is flap and quack.”
“Am I your friend?” Mud Puppy asked suddenly.
“Of course, you silly fool.” Little Needle crossed his arms. “But I don’t know why. Even though you’re older than I am, people still make fun of me for spending time with you.”
“I am going to need friends.”
“Stop being morose. You’d think you were swimming with rocks around your neck rather than becoming the second most powerful man in your clan. If anything happens to him, those are going to be your wives! I’ve heard that you will be voted into the Council. It’s unheard of. You should be Dreaming about the future, about what to do if anything ever happens to White Bird.”
Mud Puppy bit his lip as his brother received the offerings of food and turned, facing the watching people. He raised the wooden plate that bore his first meal as a married man. “By accepting this meal I tie my life with that of Pine Drop and Night Rain, daughters of Sweet Root, who is the daughter of the great Clan Elder, Back Scratch. My clan is now their clan, their clan is now mine. I accept
these women as my wives, to share with equally, to comfort and care for.”
Pine Drop and Night Rain, hands held demurely before them, cried out in unison, “We accept this man, White Bird, of the Owl Clan, as our husband. In doing this, we bind ourselves to him and to his clan. Let it be known among all people that we are married.”
“Let it be known!” Mud Stalker called from where he stood to one side.
“Let it be known!” Wing Heart absently shouted from the other.
“Let it be known!” the gathered people shouted, smiling and slapping each other on the back.
Escape!
The sudden desperate urge seized Mud Puppy. He turned and slipped away through the gathered ranks. Ducking behind a house, he made his way down the long curving ridge until the line of houses hid him from view. Cutting across to the steep bank, he let himself down to the water and looked north. From the canoe landing, he could see a slim boat putting out onto the lake. Despite the distance, he recognized that lonely occupant: Spring Cypress. She didn’t look happy.
But then, perhaps she, too, could guess what was about to happen.
J
aguar Hide squinted as the morning sunlight burned white atop the mist rising from the still water. He paddled slowly through the boles of trees and out into open water. Across the rippling brown surface he could see a patch of greenery—an ancient and abandoned levee that protruded from the brackish waters. This was the place that old Long Mad, while fishing, had caught a glimpse of the girl. Here amidst the vines and water oaks his people had periodically camped or stopped just long enough to attend to any activities that required dry land.
With relief he passed into the shadow of the trees again and aimed the bow of his dugout canoe toward the shallow bank. As it slid onto the sandy ground, he stepped out and looked around before replacing his paddle with his atlatl and darts. A thousand birds called in the trees, and the faint hum of insects laced the air. The gleaming scales of a small snake shone as the reptile whisked itself into the safety of thicker vegetation. A dragonfly darted past his ear. Muscadine grape hung like thick brown strands of web.
He stepped through the lush matting of spring growth and
sniffed. Ever so faint, he caught the whiff of smoke. On silent feet he wound his way through the moss-patterned boles of trees, ducking vines, spiderwebs, and hanging moss until he found her. She lay in a clearing that consisted of little more than crushed grass, strawberry and chickweed. Her fire pit—a rude hole in the ground—still smoldered. Wood too wet to burn traced lazy spirals of blue smoke into the air.
Though she was asleep, faint whimpering broke her cracked lips. His gaze traveled down her naked body, reading the welts and bruises through the stippling of insect bites. Scabs crisscrossed her skin and her hair was matted with filth.
Are you there, Niece? Or have your souls left this poor body in search of a more pleasant place to live?
His heart went hollow, and an empty heaviness sucked at his souls. Blessed Panther, what had she gotten herself into?
He sighed, hunkering down on his knees to probe at the fire. Little help lay there. The wood she’d managed to find had no doubt been soaked through and through. He found chewed frog bones, probably the only food she’d managed to scrounge. A paddle lay beside her, the workmanship unfamiliar to him, though he suspected it was something she’d stumbled across on her errant adventure.
He seated himself and waited, arms across his knees. Perhaps a hand of time passed before she stirred, shifted, and cried out. Whatever nightmare had been winding through her dreams startled her awake. Her eyes flickered and batted, unfocused, before she moaned and twisted on the flattened leaves of her bed.
When she did open her eyes for good they locked on his. He saw her incomprehension, and then fear, shame, and self-loathing reflected as they came tumbling out of her souls. A strangled sob choked in her throat, and she scrambled into a sitting position.
“Old Long Mad thought he saw you out here,” Jaguar Hide said amiably. “People have been worried. I have been worried. Your idiot brother, Striped Dart, of course, can’t seem to fathom what the trouble might be, for obviously you’ve just run off to explore the delights that a canoe load of strong young men could introduce you to. Or so he seems to think.”
She just stared at him as if he was a corpse freshly risen from the dead.
“Myself,” he continued unhurriedly, “I’ve come to the conclusion that you and your companions fared poorly on your raid against the Sun People. The gods and spirits that oversee war are capricious beasts at best. Snakes, don’t I of all people know that?” He cocked his head, pausing. “War is such a chancy thing. When I was young
I had a great deal of good fortune at war. Some would like us to believe that the gods, Sky Beings, and Earth Beings grant us success or ‘blind the enemy’s eyes’ or some such rot.”
He chuckled at the notion, hand tracing an easy gesture in the air. “Me, I can tell you that it is just happenstance. Like casting gaming pieces. Sometimes one pattern comes up, sometimes another. I no longer believe in the intervention of spirits, Dreams, or sacrifice.” He paused. “In all my years I have come to the conclusion that other ways of harming the enemy must be embraced. Something that doesn’t entail chance events.”
Her jaw trembled as she hugged her naked flesh and curled in on herself.
“Whatever happened,” he continued, “I assume that you blame yourself. I can tell you not to, but you will do as your souls demand. Like your body, they, too, are wounded and need time to heal.”
Her glazed eyes were fixed on some terrible vision hidden deep inside her.
“From the bruises on your wrists and ankles I see they captured you. You’ve taken a bad beating.” He couldn’t see blood or other evidence that she’d been raped. “How in the name of the Sky Beings did you manage to escape?”
Her frightened eyes widened; her voice seemed locked in her throat. He could see her lungs working, as though her breath couldn’t catch up with her heart.
“It is all right,” he told her softly and opened his arms. “Come over here. Let me hold you. Together, you and I, we will make this right.”
Everything depended on how strong she was, whether she was a survivor or a broken captive. For long moments he waited, his eyes willing strength into her. His arms had grown heavy before she made the slightest movement.
She might have been an old woman, so slowly did she begin. When the tangled flotsam of her emotions finally let loose, she rushed him. He folded her into his arms, and she burst into tears. While sobs knotted her body, he held her, humming gently as he rocked her back and forth.
M
ud Puppy was acutely aware of the giant barred owl that watched him with moist brown eyes. The huge bird perched on a branch three arm’s lengths above where Mud Puppy’s canoe floated
on limpid brown water. The flooded backswamp steamed in the hot afternoon, columns of insects wavering as they drifted aimlessly in the still air. The faint hum of their wings echoed over the smooth surface.
Despite the owl, Mud Puppy lay stretched the length of his canoe, chin resting on the bow. He kept his attention focused on the alligator who floated no more than an arm’s length away. The big bull had caught Mud Puppy’s attention by roaring earlier. After paddling as close as he dared, Mud Puppy had let the canoe drift toward the bull.
Two eyes, like glistening golden brown stones, stared across the glassy surface with pupils in vertical black slits. The nostrils protruded in a rounded hump. Regular lines of scutes made dimples in the water where the big beast’s back lay submerged. The bull was old, his muzzle scarred. Mud Puppy guessed that he had to measure twice the length of a tall man. Some would say he was being foolish to drift his canoe so close to a swamp giant like this. Perhaps, but so long as he didn’t move, didn’t allow his scent to taint the water, he would be all right.
Hello, big fellow.
He projected the words with his mind, unwilling to break the spell by speaking. He stared into the single slitted eye facing him. The soul behind that alien eye spoke of eternal patience and age. That same eye might have watched the Creation and absorbed all of the changes that had befallen the Earth since. It was said that Alligator knew of secret things: of poisons and medicines, of ways to breathe underwater, and the workings of debilitating illness and miraculous cures. The greatest secret that Alligator possessed was the knowledge of passages and tunnels that led into the Underworld. Alligator was the messenger. People had seen him slip up to grab people, thrashing them in the water before diving, carrying them down into the murky black depths. All that remained was a trail of bubbles that finally ceased to pop on the opaque surface. They left silence behind.

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