People of the Owl: A Novel of Prehistoric North America (North America's Forgotten Past) (32 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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The fire popped, and he slapped at the mosquitoes that came with the fall of night. Despite his greased skin, they seemed unusually bloodthirsty. They kept flying into his ears, somehow aware that the insides were vulnerable. The soft whining of their wings was about to drive him mad.
He had a length of cane before him—the shaft for a new atlatl dart. To compensate for his bad arm, he had the shaft pinched in the crook of his right leg and clamped in his worn teeth. Staring from the corner of his eye, he reached out with his left hand and carefully placed a stone point into the grooved end of the cane. This next was the delicate part. Careful not to jiggle the point loose, he retrieved a length of damp sinew from the bowl before him and carefully maneuvered a pretied loop around the point. When it was in the right place he pulled it snug. In the process, he barely noticed someone coming to take a seat opposite him. Whatever they wanted could wait.
Having immobilized the point, he wound the sinew round and round the shaft, pulling it tight enough to keep the point in place. As he came to the end of the sinew, he formed a complicated knot, bending and rolling the fine thread between his fingers. Switching his grip, he took the shaft in his left hand and used his teeth to yank the knot tight.
Satisfied, he studied his work in the light of the fire. The point lay straight, perfectly aligned. The thick wrap of sinew would dry and shrink, tightening into a hard, immovable hafting.
“It always amazes me to watch you do that,” Pine Drop said by way of greeting. He lifted his new dart and balanced it in his good hand. She had seated herself across the fire from him. He tried to read her expression but couldn’t decipher the complex frown that marred her young forehead.
“Where have you been all day? Night Rain was here, and there, and the other place looking for you. She wasn’t entirely sure what you wanted done with that bladderwort. In the end, I think she boiled the whole sackful. It took every pot in the house.” He cocked his head. “Is she feeling all right? Her stomach seemed to be bothering her.”
“It’s nothing,” Pine Drop answered. She had her legs bent before her and was rubbing her hands along her smooth muscular shins. “I was out with Salamander all day.”
“Ah. And?”
The preoccupied look deepened. “Nothing.” Her expression betrayed puzzlement. “Such an odd man. We watched the dawn from the Bird’s Head. Why have I never done that before?”
“I have no idea.”
“After that we went fishing.”
“That’s good.” He suddenly understood her thinking. Smart girl. Men liked to talk when they were fishing. For some reason, it directed their thoughts to important matters, unlike hunting, which might deepen a man’s thoughts but had to be conducted in quiet and discipline.
“Is it?” she wondered. “We spent more than two hands’ time watching a blue heron stalking the shallows. Another two hands’ time was spent studying how a yellow spider spins its web.”
“I assume that you talked during these things?”
She nodded absently. “About everything but his clan. We talked about patience and organization, and what humans refused to hear or learn. Thinking back, none of it made sense.” Her lips bent with irritation. “Do you know that I’ve never watched a spider build a
web from nothingness before? Or seen that a heron flips a minnow in the air to swallow it?”
“Fascinating, I’m sure. I don’t suppose that Jaguar Hide came up in any of these conversations?”
“No.” She gave him a flat look. “When I grew desperate, I even asked him straight out.” She paused. “I think he was expecting that question. I’d swear that he gave me a faint smile after that, a sadness in his eyes. The only thing he would tell me was that Wing Heart was going to promise Jaguar Hide safe passage, and that beyond that it was clan business.”
“That was it?”
She nodded, her fingers still moving up and down her thighs.
“You didn’t press him?”
“Of course I did, Uncle. But his entire manner had changed. I might just as well have slapped him.”
He ran his fingers along his new dart. “I don’t suppose you took the opportunity to lie with your husband? That usually loosens a man’s tongue.”
Her eyes fixed on his, dark, penetrating; the effect left him unsettled. “It wouldn’t have been right, Uncle.”
“What’s not
right
about it? You’re his wife! Wives couple with husbands. It’s what they do.”
“After having been with Three Stomachs the day before?”
“You know why we’re doing that.”
The corners of her mouth tightened. “It wasn’t that kind of day,” she muttered. “Excuse me, Uncle. I was up with the dawn. I’m tired.”
“Don’t forget, with Back Scratch’s death your mother is confirmed in the Council in three days. We need to prepare a feast for her, and we want you and your sister there for her confirmation. Dress in your finest.” He paused, failing to understand her irritation. “And don’t stop working on your husband. I’m sure you’re smart enough to pry this information out of him.”
“I doubt I’ll see him anytime soon, Uncle. Not after today.”
“What? Why not? He sleeps in your house, doesn’t he?”
“That’s about all he does.” She rose gracefully, her parting glance upsetting his protest before she strode off toward her house on the third ridge.
He frowned as he fingered his new dart. Firelight danced in yellow waves along the cane shaft.
What just happened here? What did I miss?
T
he Council House was filled; the six clans occupied their respective sections along the edge of the ring. While a great fire was built in the center at night, on daytime occasions such as this, a smoldering log in the middle of the fire pit sufficed. The afternoon sun was slanting at an angle from the northwest. The shaft of light illuminated Mud Stalker and his sister Sweet Root, the newly appointed Clan Elder.
Wing Heart studied her new opponent and tried to concentrate. Sweet Root. This was Sweet Root. Elder Back Scratch was dead. Dead. Just like Graywood Snake. Just like White Bird. Cloud Heron … dead.
When? She blinked, confused.
The terrible ache in her souls continued to muddle her thoughts. As the meeting continued, she kept hearing Cloud Heron, his deep voice booming as he stepped out and addressed the Council. She could see him there in the slanting sunlight. Watched as he raised his hand and spoke so eloquently to the crowd. His voice, so clear and resonant, echoing in her souls.
Look at him! Isn’t he magnificent? Has there ever been a Speaker as grand as Cloud Heron?
She tried desperately to focus her attention on Sweet Root, but tears tugged at the corners of her vision.
Sweet Root was speaking, her voice sounding far away. She remained a handsome woman, her hair still midnight black despite
her age. She might have delivered eight children, two of whom had lived, but her body remained slim, only a thickening of her waist evidence of the seasons she had spent carrying children in her womb. She had been tattooed around her flattened breasts, down the midline of her belly, along the arch of her shoulders, and across her chin. Another pattern of concentric circles had been tattooed on her abdomen between the navel and pubis in an effort to increase her fertility; that pattern was now obscured by the dust gray kirtle she wore.
Wing Heart glanced about, looking for Cloud Heron. She had just seen him, addressing the Council. Not a moment before. He had to be here somewhere.
Where is he?
Snapping Turtle Clan was well represented on this day, as was their right. Not only did Speaker Mud Stalker sit proudly as his sister was confirmed as Elder, but so did both of the woman’s daughters, Pine Drop and Night Rain. The girls had dressed resplendently: Brightly colored headdresses made from painted bunting feathers perched atop their gleaming black hair, and yellow shawls of tanned young alligator hide hung from their shoulders. Each of their kirtles was tied immaculately at the waist.
Such beautiful girls. Very worthy of White Bird
. She looked around, losing her thoughts.
Where is White Bird? He should be here for this.
“
Dead
,” a voice echoed in her head.
“No, not dead,” she snapped in irritation as she glanced around, seeking to identify the speaker. It was impossible. Absolutely impossible. He lived, yes, that’s right. Something held him up. Something important.
“As my first act as Clan Elder,” Sweet Root’s raspy voice called, “I must ask this Council to consider the matter of Owl Clan’s invitation to the Swamp Panther leader, Jaguar Hide.”
Attention turned in Wing Heart’s direction. In the eye of her soul, Cloud Heron was sitting behind her, his age-lined face somber as he steepled his fingers. She waited for him to speak.
Another memory drifted into focus, and she watched her son, White Bird, as he stood, alive, strong, straight, raising his hands to accept the cries of approbation that had risen from the gathered Elders, Speakers, and the crowd outside the confines of the Council.
Look at him, Cloud Heron! How proud he stands, his back straight, the sunlight beaming down on his head. Look at the smile, the ease with which he accepts leadership!
“Elder?” Water Petal said from behind.
“What?” Wing Heart blinked, her son vanished. She turned, but Cloud Heron was nowhere to be seen. Her souls staggered, only to
remember her brother sinking into fever, his body wasting over the long moons. A nightmare image—a yellow tongue of fire—leaped from a torch to ignite the roof of the house that held his cleaned bones.
You are alone!
Her souls shriveled at the knowledge.
“I was …” She blinked as she tried to find herself, to recall what was happening. Glancing around, she realized that everyone was waiting, waiting for her. “Cloud Heron, tell them,” she muttered.
At the stunned expressions on Water Petal’s and Moccasin Leaf’s faces, she whirled around, searching. Where was Cloud Heron? She had just seen him, his hand up, voice ringing as he addressed the Council.
“Where did he go?” she wondered.
“Who, Elder?” Moccasin Leaf had a horrified look on her face.
“Tell them.” Wing Heart looked into Water Petal’s eyes, and waved at the Council. “Just … tell them.” She tilted her head as she tried to understand what was happening. If Cloud Heron hadn’t brought this up, who had? Surely this was something that Water Petal had mentioned. She must know. “Speak for me.”
Water Petal swallowed hard and stepped forward. Moccasin Leaf’s eyes might have been deer-bone stilettos, piercing her souls with hate and embarrassment. Seated on a palmetto mat, young Mud Puppy watched her with wide, frightened eyes. Mud Puppy? What was he doing here?
“Does this Council not deserve the Elder’s respect?” Sweet Root demanded. “Does Wing Heart not speak for her clan when it comes to allowing an avowed enemy to step into our midst? I may be new here, but even as a freshly made Elder, it would appear that I have more respect for these proceedings than the revered Elder from Owl Clan.”
“If the Council will hear my words,” Water Petal stepped forward, a curious tremor in her voice.
“I, for one,” Sweet Root immediately answered, “wish to hear from the Clan Elder.”
“She’s not well!” It was Mud Puppy’s voice. He was on his feet, stepping out in front of Water Petal, his fists clenched at his sides. He wore a beautiful white mantle, one that shone in the afternoon sunlight.
Wing Heart turned, blinking hard.
Why is he here?
This was a place for Speakers recognized by the Council, not uninitiated boys. “Where is my brother? Where is Cloud Heron? Why isn’t he here?” Fear bloomed within her like a lotus.
It was Water Petal who swung around on one heel, deftly catching
Wing Heart’s elbow. “Come, Elder. Let’s get you home. The Speaker can handle this.” But fear lay in Water Petal’s eyes.
“Yes,” Wing Heart agreed, quick with relief. “The Speaker can handle this. Cloud Heron always knows what to do.”
She was being led away as she heard Mud Puppy say, “The Elder meant no disrespect. If the Council will just be patient …” A roar of voices erupted in answer.
C
old shivers ran down Salamander’s body as he shot a quick look over his shoulder. Water Petal was leading his mother away, one hand on her elbow. Even from this distance, he could see his mother’s face—a stricken look etching her once-indomitable features.
He swallowed hard, turning his attention back to the jeering calls of the Council. His heart hammered at his ribs, fear bright in his veins. Behind him, Moccasin Leaf was hissing something in poisonous tones.
I can’t speak to the Council! I’m
not
a Speaker!
He nerved himself to step out into the open where a Speaker should stand. His skin had the hot nervous prickle of embarrassment. For a moment, he couldn’t find words.
He glanced at Clay Fat, only to read disappointment in the appalled expression on his face. Turtle Mist, beside him, looked horrified. People shifted on their feet, clearly uncomfortable. Deep Hunter sat with his jaw cradled in his right hand, head tilted forward as he glared out with hard eyes. Stone Talon was shaking her head, tsking sounds coming from her toothless mouth. Three Moss, her hand on her mother’s shoulder, gaped incredulously.
Cane Frog demanded, “What is happening? What do you see? Tell me, Daughter! Who is doing what?”
Salamander turned his pleading eyes to Mud Stalker, only to encounter a burning intensity, a hard smile on the man’s thin lips. He stood behind Sweet Root, cradling his ruined right arm. Long white heron feathers had been inserted into bands on his upper arms so that they stuck out like snowy wings. Where she stood, a pace in front of him, Sweet Root might have been tasting something delicious, her eyes half-lidded and blissful.
“The Elder is sick!” Salamander cried. “Just leave her alone. Let her rest. She’ll get better. She will.”
He hated himself, embarrassment growing hotter with each beat
of his heart. They could see the sweat breaking out on his face now. See his losing battle as his muscles began to tremble.
Sweet Root asked loudly, “Do I speak for the Council when I say that no ‘sick’ Clan Elder should be dealing with Jaguar Hide within the limits of Sun Town? What has Wing Heart done? Asked the leader of the dreaded Swamp Panthers to come here? A foreigner, allowed to walk unpurified into our midst? And bringing what with him? A black cloud of curses? Witchcraft? Will he unleash disease and misery among us?”
A roar of agreement went up, members of the Council nodding and bobbing their heads.
“Then we will meet him on the Turtle’s Back!” Salamander shouted, hoping at least to mollify some of the sentiment against his mother. Snakes and lightning, what had happened to her?
“Why meet him at all?” Deep Hunter asked from where he sat.
“To find out what he wants,” Salamander answered, his stomach curling and twisting inside him. He had fastened his eyes on Pine Drop and Night Rain. Their expressions jolted him: a mixture of pity, embarrassment, and loathing.
“Why did he send a runner to Wing Heart?” Mud Stalker demanded as he stepped forward to stand beside his sister. “What is his business with Owl Clan? Why didn’t he ask to speak with the Council?”
“I don’t know.” Salamander tried to swallow the knot in his throat. Their eyes were boring through him, seeing his quaking souls. Why had Mud Stalker insisted he take his brother’s place? Surely anyone could have known he wasn’t supposed to be a Speaker.
“Perhaps,” Mud Stalker said evenly, “there should be some representation from the Council at this meeting? What do you say?” He took another step forward, where he could meet the eyes of the others. “An old enemy comes, and we should allow him to meet only with Owl Clan? To broker what sort of deal? Something that leaves the rest of us out? Or something which, for our own safety, we should know about?”
“Alligator Clan agrees,” Deep Hunter remarked. “We will send our delegates to this meeting to see for ourselves.”
“As will Frog Clan,” Elder Cane Frog called, her sightless eyes alone blind to Owl Clan’s humiliation.
“Eagle Clan will be there, too,” Stone Talon called. “Speaker Thunder Tail will represent our interests.”
“So will Rattlesnake Clan,” Clay Fat agreed, his voice less strident than the others.
“Owl Clan votes no,” Salamander said in a futile and small voice. Atop everything else came the sting of defeat. He had just spoken for his clan for the first time, and been party to its worst defeat. “It is our business.”
“Not anymore,” Mud Stalker replied coolly.
When Salamander turned and walked back to his seat, Moccasin Leaf’s face was livid, her jaw grinding as white rage mottled her features. Had she a club at hand, he didn’t doubt that she would have crushed his skull on the spot.
T
he canoe slipped silently along the channel, its wake spreading in a long V over the brown water. A muggy heat hung in the still air, heavy and deadening on the lungs. Overhead branches of sweetgum, bald cypress, tupelo, and water oak wove into an impenetrable mat of green draped with vines, flowers, and hanging moss. On either side, ferns, brambles, and tangled vegetation carpeted the banks.
Turtles plopped off logs and dived for the depths as the canoe passed. Birdsong accompanied them, as did the whining of the insects. The smell of vegetation, mud, and stagnant water cloyed in the nostrils.
Anhinga dipped her paddle resolutely as she propelled them forward. She could feel her uncle’s piercing stare as it ate into her back. The knowledge that he doubted her sent a flame of anger through her.

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