Authors: Kathleen O'Neal Gear
It Wakes in Me (16 page)
IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, SORA WOKE AND ROLLED TO her back to stare up at the domed ceiling, where gray tendrils of smoke eddied. Rain pattered on the roof.
Flint was gone.
Strongheart lay curled on his sleeping bench on the opposite side of the house, his back to her. The blue color of his sleep shirt looked faintly green in the yellow firelight.
“Priest?” she said softly.
He didn’t respond. She could hear the deep rhythm of his breathing.
Louder, she said, “Priest?”
Strongheart woke, lifted his head, and rolled to his side to look at her. “Did you call me?”
“Yes.”
He swung his legs over the bench and sat up to rub the sleep from his eyes. “Are you all right?”
“No.”
Strongheart exhaled a deep breath and walked across the
house to kneel by her side. As though fearing she was ill, he drew the hides up to her chin to keep her warm and put a hand to her forehead.
house to kneel by her side. As though fearing she was ill, he drew the hides up to her chin to keep her warm and put a hand to her forehead.
“Are you fevered?”
When Sora sat up to face him, the hide fell away, revealing her naked torso. “He was wearing white.”
Strongheart frowned for several moments; then, as understanding dawned, he sank to the floor and nodded. “What else do you recall from the night your father died?”
On the fabric of her souls, her father’s eyes smiled at her, filled with enough love and pride to last her a lifetime. If only she hadn’t … if he hadn’t died.
“I—I made the stew and sat down to eat it with him. But he told me he wanted to eat alone. He said I should go play with the new cornhusk dolls he’d made for me.”
“Did you leave?”
“Yes.” Even now, the disappointment hurt. She had been looking forward to tasting the sage-flavored jerky. When she’d crumbled it into the pot, it had smelled delicious. “I went down the hallway to my room. The slaves had built a fire. I pulled down my two new dolls, sat by the fire, and played with them. A short while later, I thought I heard my father crying as he came down the hall, but the crying stopped just before he neared my bedchamber.”
“Was he standing outside your door? Listening? Perhaps to see if you were asleep?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. The sound frightened me. I had never heard him cry before. I sat as though frozen. I don’t even think I breathed. Eventually I heard him walk past my doorway and duck into the chamber he shared with my mother. He came out a little later and walked back down the hall to the temple.”
“He didn’t speak to you?”
“No. He just walked away.”
“And then?”
She bent forward, and long black hair fell over her shoulders, covering her breasts. “I must have fallen asleep. The next thing I remember is hearing my mother’s hoarse scream. It sliced my dreams like a blade. I scrambled to my feet and ran all the way with my heart in my throat.”
“What did you find?”
“My mother … and my sister. They were kneeling beside Father’s body.”
“Where was he?”
“Curled on the floor of the temple. He must have dropped the stew bowl, because it was cracked, resting by his hand. The stew had leaked out onto the floor mats.”
“He was dead?”
She nodded and longed to weep all over again. Father’s wide dead eyes had seemed to be staring right at her, but the love had drained away. Only fear shone. “Yes. Mother sniffed the stew and shrieked like a homeless ghost: ‘
Poison! There’s poison in this stew! Someone poisoned my husband!
’”
Poison! There’s poison in this stew! Someone poisoned my husband!
’”
Sora dropped her face into her hands and massaged her forehead.
“What did your sister do?”
“Hmm?”
Strongheart cocked his head, examining her. “Your sister. What did she do when your mother shrieked?”
Sora struggled to recall. Her mother’s face, her father’s clawlike hands, every detail of the chamber, were engraved in her souls. Why was her sister missing from the painting? “I don’t even remember seeing her after that.”
“Did she say anything to you?”
A deep ache welled inside her, and she began to sob without tears. The reaction shocked her. “This is so strange. I don’t know why I’m crying.”
Strongheart reached out to gently touch her cheek. “What did she say to you?”
“I—I don’t recall her speaking to me at all. Maybe she ran for help when Mother screamed.”
He leaned forward, and peered directly into her eyes. “I don’t think so, Sora. I think your sister spoke to you. What did she say?”
“No, no. I’m sure she was gone. She must have run for help. I didn’t. Mother didn’t. Someone must have. Walks-among-the-Stars is the logical person.”
“All right,” he said with a tired nod. “Then what happened?”
Sora’s shoulders heaved. The dry tears seemed to come not from her eyes, but from deep inside her chest. “Mother shouted at me, demanding to know which slave had made the stew.”
From a barricaded chamber in her souls, a frightened little girl’s voice mewed,
I did, Mother. I made it. Father asked me to.
I did, Mother. I made it. Father asked me to.
“When you told her that you had made it, what did she say?”
“I don’t r-recall,” Sora stammered. “A dozen people rushed into the temple, all talking at once.”
“Did they question you about what happened?”
“Yes. Then I ran back to my bedchamber to go to sleep. I had the overwhelming urge to sleep.”
Strongheart sat back, and the lines at the corners of his mouth tightened. For a long while, he just studied her with kindness in his eyes.
The raindrops pattering on the roof became a soft hiss, and somewhere in the distance thunder rumbled across the forests like a huge herd of buffalo.
Strongheart reached out and took her hands. As he squeezed them, he said, “Do you always remember more after the Midnight Fox attacks you?”
She looked down at his fingers, large and calloused, and a curious sensation of panic stung her veins. She drew her hands away and placed them in her lap. He didn’t seem to mind.
“No, not usually.”
“Why do you think the memories came to you tonight?”
Sora ran her fingers over the soft hair of the deerhide. Why had they?
“It’s probably Flint’s presence,” she said, and beautiful memories of lying in treetops, touching each other all day long, filled her. She could hear his joyous laughter as clearly today as she had seventeen winters ago. “I don’t know why. The gods know it doesn’t make any sense, but I feel safe when he is close.”
“Close,” he said, as though not sure he understood what that meant. “You mean that intimacy makes you feel safe?”
“Yes, I think so.”
Strongheart’s gaze darted over her face. “Flint told me that while the two of you were married, he’d been able to keep your reflection-soul in your body for moons at a time. Is that how he did it? By loving you?”
She noticed that she was wringing her hands in her lap, and stopped. “I’m not sure my reflection-soul is loose, Priest, but Flint did make me love my body. I suppose, if my reflection-soul was wandering, he made it long to come home.”
Out in the forest a night bird called, and it seemed to be a signal to the rain gods. The skies opened and released a downpour. For a time, the pounding on the thatched roof was so loud they couldn’t hear each other speak. Strongheart made a helpless gesture with his hand, and sat back to watch the trickle coming through his smokehole turn into a tiny stream. When it splashed into the fire hearth, the last remaining coals sizzled and ash puffed into the air.
They both sat in amicable silence.
But Sora could tell he was thinking hard about something. His brows had drawn together above his hooked nose.
The rain eased a little, and Strongheart shifted to sit cross-legged in front of her. For an instant she didn’t breathe, and it seemed virtually impossible that the only point of contact between their two bodies was where her long hair brushed the hem of his sleep shirt.
“Do the dangerous things slip from their hidden chambers and walk around your souls while Flint is loving you, or afterward, when you’re lying in each other’s arms?”
She had to think about that for a time. She’d never noticed. “They first appear while he is loving me.”
“Do you look at them when they’re walking around freely?”
As the rain decreased, cold wind blew around the door curtain and swept the house. The fragrances of wet forest and marsh filled the air. She shivered and pulled the deerhide up around her again.
“I don’t think I look at them directly. I see them moving at the edge of my vision. Sometimes I know what they are. Sometimes, later in the day, I realize that I glimpsed them earlier.”
“Sora,” he said in a tender voice, “the next time you see your father moving at the edge of your vision, ask him why he needed to go back to his chamber. Did he go back to get something?”
A strange bitter smell taunted her nostrils. She blinked when she realized it wasn’t coming from the house, or riding the wind … it was something seeping up from one of the dark rooms in her souls.
“I’ll ask,” she said.
“Good.”
Strongheart put a hand to her hair to force her to meet his eyes. “Now, try to sleep. Tomorrow will be a busy day.”
He rose and walked across the floor, where he sank down
on his sleeping bench and pulled his blankets over him. His short black hair shone as he stretched out on his side.
on his sleeping bench and pulled his blankets over him. His short black hair shone as he stretched out on his side.
“What happens tomorrow?”
As he adjusted his head on his arm, he answered, “We will begin the Soul-Curing ceremonies.”
FEATHER DANCER FELT THE YOUNG WARRIOR, ADDER, RISE from beneath the cape they shared, then he silently made his way across the house.
Adder touched Cold Spring’s shoulder and whispered, “We … talk.”
Cold Spring nodded and followed Adder to the middle of the house, where they crouched near the fire pit, their faces gleaming in the crimson light of the dying coals.
The rest of the captives seemed to be asleep. Old Jawbone snored loudly enough to rouse her ancestors in the Land of the Dead. One of the children, probably Pipit, moaned as though her shadow-soul were being chased by monsters.
Adder cradled his wounded arm and leaned very close to Cold Spring to whisper, “Grown Bear … messenger … Sea Grass says just … few … days.”
Cold Spring shook his head, and dirty gray-streaked black hair fell over his wrinkled face. “I’m not sure the children will survive.”
“Everyone knew the risks when … volunteered …” His voice became a barely audible drone.
“The children didn’t volunteer,” Cold Spring said. “Their parents did.”
Feather Dancer fought to still his breathing so he could hear more clearly.
Adder finished, “As soon as the jade party leaves Blackbird Town, Matron … will dispatch warriors …”
“Blessed gods,” Cold Spring murmured, and in the red gleam, Feather Dancer saw him squeeze his eyes closed. “I pray this works.”
Adder put a hand on Cold Spring’s shoulder and hissed, “It’s a brilliant stroke … elevate our status …”
Cold Spring nodded weakly and stood. Before they parted, Cold Spring said something that Feather Dancer didn’t catch; then the two men quietly returned to their beds.
Adder stretched out beside Feather Dancer again, and covered himself with the edge of the cape.
Feather Dancer kept his breathing deep and even, but as he worked to piece together the bits of information, his jaw clenched.
Sea Grass had obviously sent a message to Grown Bear, who communicated it to Adder, telling the captives to wait a few more days, until the party going after the jade could leave Blackbird Town and she could dispatch warriors … in a brilliant stroke that would elevate ‘our’ status … .
What was a Black Falcon village matron doing working with an enemy war chief?
Did she mean the ‘brilliant stroke’ would elevate the status of Oak Leaf Village? Or the status of Water Hickory Clan?
And what had the captives volunteered for?
The only thing he could think of was that they had volunteered to be captured.
Feather Dancer closed his eyes and watched the spidery patterns that pulsed on the backs of his eyelids. The implications were staggering. If Sea Grass had hatched a plan with Grown Bear that would elevate the status of her village or clan, and part of the plan required the capture of her villagers, she’d been plotting this for over a moon. Probably longer.
Matron Wink’s words came back to him:
Just do as Flint says. He knows far more about this than I do.
Just do as Flint says. He knows far more about this than I do.
Flint was from Oak Leaf Village. He was Water Hickory Clan.
Feather Dancer had the hollow feeling that he may have been wrong. Perhaps Flint was not working with Matron Wink, after all. If Sea Grass was willing to sacrifice a dozen of her relatives, and to ally her village with an enemy war chief, the stakes were much higher. She was after more than just the downfall of one chieftess.
Slowly, dimly, he began to understand.
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