The People of the Black Sun (56 page)

Gitchi cocked his head, as though trying to understand why she didn't want him.

“You have to guard him for me, Gitchi. He needs you.”

Gitchi whimpered and backed up, but refused to leave her.

“Go on now,” she said gently. “You have to go home. Please, go home.”

Finally, he loped down the hillside, but he kept glancing back at her. Several times he looked like he might disobey her and charge back to her side.

She waited until he disappeared over the crest of the hill, then she slowly turned back to the deer.

They'd started frolicking, kicking up their heels, playfully tossing their antlers.

She clenched her fists and walked toward them.

From somewhere behind her, Gitchi let out a soul-rending howl that echoed through the stillness … but his agonized voice grew fainter and fainter, until it blended with the many-voiced cry that serenaded the brilliant darkness.

 

Sixty

So many people had crowded in front of Hiyawento that he'd fallen far behind Sindak and Towa. But he was in no hurry. It seemed that everyone wished to hear Chief Cord. The gathering in the plaza had spilled outside the gates and flowed around the palisade. Cord was being bombarded with questions. In another one or two hands of time, things would settle down, and Hiyawento would get his chance to speak with Cord personally.

Hiyawento turned and walked out away from the camps into the moonlight that streamed across the forest. He could faintly hear Cord's voice rising over the Bur Oak palisade, and warmth spread through him. Every man had heroes in his life, and so many of his were here tonight, Cord among them.

He tilted his head back to look up at the night sky. The Path of Souls had dimmed with Grandmother Moon's rising, but he could make out its outline. His gaze unconsciously fixed on the fork in the Path where it was said that all the animals a man had ever known in his life waited at the bridge that led from this life to the next. He wondered …

A hushed roar went up in the village. What had Cord said? He was probably telling the story of how he and Baji were ambushed after they left Bur Oak Village. It must have been exciting. The roar grew louder before it faded, and Cord's voice rang out again.

Hiyawento bowed his head, just standing in the darkness, trying not to think or feel. The day had drained him of both abilities.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Gitchi come out of the trees to the west. The old wolf walked through the moonlight with his head down, his muzzle hanging so low it almost touched the snow-covered ground. His shoulders rolled as though every step hurt.

Hiyawento walked out across the field to meet the wolf. When Gitchi spied Hiyawento, he looked up at him with sad eyes.

“Gitchi? Are you all right? Where's Baji?”

Gitchi's ears pricked at her name, then he walked forward and slumped down at Hiyawento's feet with a deep sigh.

Hiyawento frowned. “What's wrong?” He sat down beside Gitchi and ruffled the thick fur on the wolf's neck. “Everything's all right.”

Gitchi lifted his gray muzzle, whimpered, and stretched his neck across Hiyawento's lap. The wolf's luminous eyes seemed to be staring mournfully up at the night sky where the Path of Souls shimmered.

As he petted Gitchi's side, Hiyawento thought about Zateri and Kahn-Tineta. He missed them desperately. In a few days, once they'd collected their dead and helped the Standing Stone nation Sing their relatives to the Land of the Dead, he would accompany the war party that carried Atotarho home to face the Ruling Council. Before they entered the village, Hiyawento would comb the snakes from the old chief's hair. Symbols of war were no longer …

“I don't believe it,”
Taya shouted as she exited the village with Sindak. “Everyone saw her. People touched her!”

Hiyawento frowned. She sounded distraught.

Sindak touched Taya's arm, then swiftly strode out across the meadow, vaguely heading toward Hiyawento.

When he got closer, he called, “Hiyawento? Is that you?”

“Yes, I'm over here.”

Sindak stopped two paces away, and shifted uncomfortably. “I don't know how to … how to tell you … I … please, you have to come. Cord needs to speak with you.”

“I thought he was busy telling stories. I was going to wait—”

“He wants to speak with you
now
. We've all told him our stories, but he wishes to hear it from you.”

Gitchi heaved a sigh, and shoved to his feet with a groan. He knew the word “come.”

Hiyawento rose and dusted the snow from his pants. “Wishes to hear what from me?” Gitchi took a few moments to lovingly lick his hand and lean against his leg. Hiyawento petted his head.

Sindak said, “Just … come with me.”

“Lead the way. We'll need to go slow, though. Gitchi's bones really hurt tonight.”

 

Sixty-one

Sky Messenger

MOON OF NEW FAWNS

Dogwood blossoms tumble through the fragrant late afternoon air, whirling around Wrass where he stands beside me on the hilltop to the south of Bur Oak Village. Brilliant green maples surround us, filtering the sunlight that falls through the canopy. Wavering yellow diamonds flutter across the forest floor at our feet. I wonder if he has the same aching hollow inside him that I do. It's been a long day, one that has been long in coming.

Thousands fill the meadow below, commemorating the last great battle in a war that almost destroyed our Peoples. Far to my right, just at the crest of the hills, Shago-niyoh stands with one hand braced upon a boulder. He hasn't spoken to me, and I fear that he thinks, as of today, I no longer need him.

A shout goes up from below.

As the clans parade across the lush wildflower-strewn meadow toward the deep hole we've dug beneath the old pine tree, Hiyawento says, “I can't believe that all five nations joined the Peace Alliance. I swear it's the greatest miracle in the history of our Peoples.”

My eyes tighten. I do not answer, because I can't find any words that have meaning. For thirteen summers, he has stood behind me like a stone wall in the bitter campaign for survival—always there, always fighting for me with blind loyalty. But … after today, there will be no more fighting. I suspect part of my emptiness comes from the fact that I don't know how to face a world without war. I have never seen one. Nor has anyone in the meadow below.

I squint at the gathering.

The last representatives come forward. They wear their best clothing, heavily painted with bright clan symbols. When it is his or her turn, the chosen one reverently places weapons in the hole, submerging them in the river of Great Grandmother Earth's blood that rushes beneath the ground, cleansing them of the taint of death.

I heave a sigh, and unconsciously reach down to pat Gitchi's head. The old wolf stands beside me with his ears pricked, listening attentively.

Mother is the final representative. She stands at the head of the Bear Clan, beside her new husband, Cord, wearing a white ritual cape painted with black bear tracks. When she walks forward and places CorpseEye on top of the cache of weapons, I wonder what she must be thinking. CorpseEye has saved her life many times … he is an old and dear friend. The war club has been a part of her family, handed down from warrior to warrior, for generations. But she understands the symbolism.

No more war …

As he straightens, Shago-niyoh's black cape catches my attention. I turn in time to see him stride away into the trees where he melts with the shadows.

Have I done something? Has he forsaken me? Perhaps it's just that others need him more now. I pray that someday he will show me where his bones lie so that I can collect them and Sing his soul to the next world. He deserves to be released from this earth. His loved ones in the Land of the Dead have been waiting for him too long.

When the ceremony below is over, Gitchi rises to his feet and silently trots away up the trail that leads westward, and I realize it's time. Elder Brother Sun sits just above the western horizon.

“Where's Gitchi going?” Hiyawento asks.

“To his special place. I usually run with him. Do you want to come along?”

“I do.”

We trot side by side, following Gitchi, who lopes in front with his tongue hanging out. The forest scents strike me like blows today, moss and deadfall warmed in the dappled sunlight, dogwood and wildflower blossoms. Ferns sway as Gaha silently creeps beneath the trees.

“Today is a day of great joy, yet you look sad, my friend.”

I smile faintly and study the ground passing beneath my feet. When I turn to look at him, he's frowning at me in concern. His shoulder-length black hair jerks with the beat of his feet, and sweat shines on his eagle face. I have not seen Hiyawento without a weapons belt, bow or quiver, since we were eleven summers. It must feel odd not to have the weight around his waist. My gaze drops to his hands, and lingers on the missing tip of his finger—sawn off by Gannajero long ago.

“Not sad, Wrass. I think it's just … loneliness.”

We wind through the growing shadows, our moccasins quiet on the trail. Ahead, Gitchi enters a grove of ancient oaks that cast gigantic wavering shadows. The old wolf slows to a walk, as though the cool air feels good on his gray coat, and he wants to absorb it before he enters the small clearing where sunlight sheathes every blade of grass and nodding wildflower.

“He comes here every day,” I explain.

Hiyawento frowns. “Why?”

We follow Gitchi out into the center of the meadow where he lies down and braces his white muzzle on his forepaws, watching. Just watching the meadow.

“I first noticed he was doing this right after my head wound began to heal. Every afternoon, he was gone. Finally, I followed him. He came here, stretched out, and watched the meadow until darkness fell. Then he came home.”

“What's he doing?”

“I'm not sure. I think … I think this is the last place he saw her. I think he's waiting for her to come back to him.”

As I am.

Hiyawento puts a companionable hand on my shoulder. Only Hiyawento, who knew her and loved her, can understand that this one single act of an old grieving wolf rends my heart like nothing else.

“I believe there is a bridge, Odion. I believe Gitchi will be waiting for you on this side, to help you across, and she will run to meet you on the other side.”

As evening slowly descends around us, the trees drip dampness. A soft pattering fills the forest.

I listen to it and watch Gitchi. He hasn't moved. His shining yellow eyes monitor the meadow.

“I'm going to sit with him until he's ready to go,” I say. “You don't have to stay. I know Zateri and Kahn-Tineta are waiting for you back in the village. Everyone will be feasting. The Songs and storytelling have probably already begun.”

Hiyawento grips my shoulder hard. “I want to sit with him, too.”

Together, we walk out across the meadow, and sit down on either side of the old wolf who waits so patiently, his eyes filled with unbearable longing.

 

Authors' Note

Some of the Peacemaker stories say that in the end Atotarho submitted to Hiyawento and let him comb the snakes from his hair. When Hiyawento had finished, the evil cannibal-sorcerer transformed before his eyes. The Chief's lost soul returned, his crooked body straightened out, and his heart turned toward reason and compassion. For the rest of his life, Atotarho was a good and just leader who dedicated himself to implementing Dekanawida's message of peace. The Great Council Fire of the League of the Haudenosaunce is still safely kept in the land of the Onondaga.

 

Glossary

Flying Heads
—Just heads with no bodies that thrash wildly through the forests. These fearsome creatures have long trailing hair and great paws like a bear's.