The Broken Land (35 page)

Thirty-four

C
ord held the door curtain aside for Jigonsaseh to enter the Turtle Clan longhouse. When she ducked past him, he caught the scent of pine needles, and found it strangely powerful. On the war trail, he had spent many summers sleeping on soft beds of pine, spruce, or juniper needles. The fragrance brought back those days, and with them the odd comingled thrill of victory and the despair of friends lost on long-ago battlefields.

“My chamber is on the right,” he said as he let the curtain fall closed behind him.

She politely waited for him to remove his black cape and hang it on a peg on the wall, then followed him into his chamber. The space was small, fifteen hands across. He hosted so many visitors that benches lined all three walls. His belongings were neatly stowed in baskets and pots beneath the benches. His niece had arranged the wooden trays of food and cups of tea in the center of the floor mats, then spread soft hides around them.

He extended a hand. “Please, sit.”

Jigonsaseh gracefully removed her white cape and knelt on the deer hides. He couldn’t help but stare at her. She wore no jewelry, just a simple tan doehide dress that conformed to her slender muscular body, and red knee-high moccasins. She had seen thirty-nine summers pass, and though a few silver threads glistened in her short black hair, she was as beautiful as he remembered. Her small narrow nose and full lips were perfectly balanced in her oval face, and her jet black eyes … a man could get lost in those eyes. A long time ago, he had considered it, but it hadn’t been the right time for either of them. And now? Their peoples were at war.

Cord sat down across from her, removed the lid on the tea pot, and dipped a cup into the warm liquid. When he handed it to her, their fingers touched for a lot longer than he suspected either of them intended. She gave him a tight smile and drew the cup away.

As he divided the walnut bread between the two bowls, he said, “How were your harvests this year?”

“Poor. And with all of the attacks on our people, our remaining villages are flooded with refugees. I doubt our supplies will last the winter. Which, as you well know, means we will be forced to take what we need from our enemies.”

He blinked. Revealing such vulnerabilities was not a wise military strategy. She knew better, so he wondered why she’d said it. “I had forgotten how frank you are.”

She sipped her tea, and a shiver went through her. After many nights of camping in the open, the cold must have settled in her bones. He knew from experience that it would take a long time for her to get truly warm. Slowly, she replied, “I’m sorry, I did not intend—”

“Don’t be. I’m sick to death of all the deception and political maneuvering. It’s good to hear honest words.”

She shifted positions, turning slightly away so that she could bring up her knees and prop her cup atop them. From this side view she looked even more slender, almost frail. It touched something inside him, some illogical masculine need to protect—as if legendary War Chief Koracoo needed anyone to protect her. He suspected many men before him had felt this same protective urge and were now dead because they had hesitated when they’d had the chance to kill her.

“I appreciate your willingness to hear honest words. May I ask you some questions?” The glimmering light from the longhouse fires reflected in her dark eyes.

“Certainly.” He handed her the tray of walnut bread and dipped himself a cup of tea.

“How were your harvests? Will you need to attack us this spring?”

His brow furrowed. Thoughtfully, he set his tea cup down. “Matron, the fever took a great toll on our villages. We do not have the number of mouths to feed that you do. We have enough food, I think.” In a low earnest voice, he added, “But understand that if we are attacked and our food stores taken, we will have no choice.”

“Yes, that’s how it works, isn’t it? You strike us. We strike you. The Mountain People strike us both, and it goes on and on. Sky Messenger is right. This has to end before there’s no one left to fight.”

He studied her. She looked tired. He picked up his tea cup and let it warm his cold fingers before he said, “The question is, how? Every time my people move their villages to a new location and get settled, someone attacks us. We end up running for our lives. Our war strategy is based upon that fact. We don’t want to run any longer. In fact, we won’t. This is good bottom country. Our crops grow well here. We plan to keep it. That means we have to kill anyone who tries to take it away.” The subtle question in his comment did not escape her notice.

“Chief, I assure you I will vote no if anyone in the Standing Stone nation suggests attacking a Flint village. I give you my oath.”

That intrigued him. He pulled his head back in mock amazement. “It eases my souls to hear you say that, but we both know that food is the greatest of all tools for manipulation.” He paused. “And High Matron Kittle is not a friend to the Flint People.”

Jigonsaseh took a bite of her walnut bread and ate it slowly, apparently relishing the flavor. “This is excellent, Cord. Please give your niece my thanks.”

“She will be delighted that she pleased you.”

Cord bit into his chunk of walnut bread and took a moment to enjoy the sweet flavor. Made from a mixture of acorn meal, walnuts, and bear fat, with a pinch of wood ash for leavening, it tasted wonderful.

They ate in silence for a time. When she’d finished her second piece of bread, she dusted the crumbs from her hands and softly said, “These are not easy times. I pray people hear Sky Messenger’s vision and heed it, for I fear we are on the verge of destroying our own world.”

He lightly stroked the fine wood grain of his bread bowl. “The Flint People will lay down weapons two instants after the Standing Stone People do—which will be three instants after the Hills people do, five instants after the Landing People do, and one full day after the Mountain People do, since they are the least trustworthy.”

She smiled at that and lifted her hand to cover a yawn.

“Shall we cut this short? You look very tired. We’ve prepared a chamber …” When he started to rise, she reached across to touch his sleeve. He could feel the chill of her tanned fingers through his shirt.

“I’d much rather talk with you, if you don’t mind.”

A tingle went through him. He lowered himself back to the hides. “I don’t … but I’d appreciate it if we could abandon the war talk. I haven’t seen you in so long there are many things I’d prefer to discuss.”

“I am agreeable to that.”

“May I ask about your family?”

“What do you wish to know?”

He paused for only an instant, but it was uncomfortable. “Have you remarried?”

She smiled. “No. After Gonda and I parted, I had two children to raise, and my duties as war chief, which entailed many nights on the trail. When I returned home I wanted to spend what few moments I had with Odion and Tutelo. And, truly, there was no man who interested me. Which perhaps says more about me than it does them. And you? Did you remarry?”

She sounded like she was genuinely interested. “I remarried ten summers ago. She gave me a strong son. But we divorced two summers ago. I have not had the strength to consider another marriage, though my clan keeps insisting. As I’m sure yours does.”

“With regularity.”

He laughed softly and saw the lines around her eyes crinkle in return. “And Gonda? A Trader once told me he remarried and moved to White Dog Village. Is that correct?”

Her smile faded. She looked away. “It was. White Dog Village was destroyed by the Hills People—”

Cord sat forward. “Blessed gods, when?”

“Five days ago.”

Cord stared down the length of the longhouse, absently noting the movements of the people as they cooked supper or washed their children’s faces. Two dogs wrestled three compartments down. “Is Yellowtail Village overrun with refugees?”

“Yes, and Bur Oak Village, too.”

He turned his cup in his hands. Somehow, they had circled around each other and returned to talking about the war. They fell silent, gazing at each other, both of their faces lined with concern. A small connection of warmth grew between them, like hands reaching across time and clasping tentatively, then strengthening. When he started to feel it in all the wrong places, he dropped his gaze and frowned into his tea cup. In the pale green liquid, his black roach of hair appeared faintly purple.

“How is Baji?” Jigonsaseh asked, changing the subject. “I think of her often.”

“She’s still strong-willed and too confident for her own good, but my adopted daughter is well. Her warriors elected her war chief three moons ago.”

“Well, that does not surprise me. Even as a child she had a powerful presence. She was a born leader.” A tender smile came to her lips.

Cord tried to hide his pride, but his voice showed it: “Yes, she is. It will sadden her that she missed seeing you.”

“She is away?”

“Yes, and won’t be back for days.”

She politely did not ask why, and it relieved him that he didn’t have to hide the fact that Baji was out on the war trail.

Jigonsaseh sipped more tea. “I pray that Sodowego does not see her face. Has she married?”

Cord shook his head. “No. You know why, I suppose.”

Her delicate black brows pulled down. “No, why?”

“I’m surprised Dekanawida didn’t tell you. It’s a lengthy story.” Cord stretched out on his side on the mats, propping himself up on one elbow. As his sleeve slipped down, the tattoos covering his arms were revealed. She seemed to be studying them, perhaps remembering. “My grandmother has tried to marry Baji several times to good men. She has refused.”

“Does she give you any reason?”

“Of course not. But the reason is clear. No man equals your son.”

Something about the softness in her expression touched him, building a warmth below his heart. He longed to speak of more personal things, things between the two of them, but he couldn’t let himself. He feared where it might lead.

“Why did they part, Cord? He’s never told me.” She drained her tea, set the cup on the floor, and laced her fingers over her knees. Her beautiful face had a pale yellow gleam.

“Oh,” he said through a taut exhale. “I only know part of it. Baji is not one to openly speak of such matters. I heard they had a violent battlefield squabble over captives. There was an infant, a little boy, that Baji wished to bring home and adopt. Dekanawida objected. Apparently they had a pact that neither would ever take a child captive.”

“Had she changed her mind?”

He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “I think, perhaps, she wished to make an exception in the baby’s case. I wonder if her lack of a child is not beginning to bother her. Every other woman in the village who has seen twenty-four summers has five or six children. Baji has none.”

Jigonsaseh blinked thoughtfully at the floor. “I felt that way once after a raid. There was a baby boy crying in the midst of a collapsed house. I couldn’t leave him there. Gonda and I brought him home and raised him as our own.”

“Odion?”

“Yes.”

“Does he know that?”

“Oh, yes, we told him the story as soon as he could understand, at four or five summers.”

Cord watched the silver glints in her hair reflect the firelight that filled the longhouse. “Then I am especially surprised he didn’t help Baji raise the child. They would have made good parents, I think.”

“What happened to the infant boy?”

“I have no idea. I only know that no one brought him home.”

Few warriors dared to adopt infants. Almost no one could afford the luxury of carrying and feeding a baby for days on the war trail. His lips pressed tightly together. “I regret that they parted. I looked forward to having Dekanawida here. Not only because I liked and respected him; but he was a very fine warrior. We could have used him.”

Through a long exhalation, she said, “Well, he’s decided that he will never touch a weapon again. So …” She tilted her head as though to say
who knows what the future will bring.
Then she exhaled, and her face suddenly appeared haggard.

“Will you spend the night, Matron?”

“No, but I thank you for the offer. We must get home. Our village councils are deliberating the issue of attacking Atotarho Village at this instant. When the vote comes—if it hasn’t already—our war chiefs will begin planning the assault. I must be there.”

“How many days until the battle?”

“Hard to say. At least six or seven. I pray we have more time.”

As she started to rise, he said, “Perhaps …” She looked up, saw his expression, and sat back down. “Perhaps I should send a war party with you. If my people decide to join yours in the fight, there will be no time for us to ready ourselves and get there before the arrows start flying. At least you would have a few more warriors—”

“That is a kind offer, and I appreciate it. But that would be dangerous for you. If your people vote no, they will ask why Flint warriors were engaged in a fight they did not authorize. No, Cord. Wait. I will send a fast runner when the time comes.”

“Very well.”

She started to rise again, and he got to his feet and instinctively offered her a hand. She put her fingers into his and he helped her to her feet. When she looked up at him, time seemed to stop. Conflicting emotions danced across her beautiful face: a magnetic attraction to him, fear, desperation. They stood less than two hands apart, holding hands for so long that blood began to rush in his ears.

“I wish you would stay the night.”

“I can’t.” She gently pulled her hand away. “I wish I could. Truly. But I must get home.”

“At least allow me to walk you back to your canoe,” he said. “That will give us a few more moments.”

“I would welcome that.”

She shrugged her white cape over her shoulders and ducked beneath the door curtain into the darkness. Cord, two steps behind her, thought,
Blessed gods, we haven’t seen each other in twelve summers, and I’m still in love with her.