People of the Longhouse (20 page)

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Authors: W. Michael Gear

Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Native American & Aboriginal

BOOK: People of the Longhouse
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Sindak murmured, “I see it.”
Koracoo put a hand on his wrist, stilling him. “Let’s go carefully now. It could just be a vein of quartz crystals unearthed by the falling trees, but it could be a decoration on a warrior’s cape.”
As they edged toward the twinkle, Koracoo saw a moose. It skirted
the edge of the meadow in the distance, its eyes flashing as it trotted off.
“Stop!” Sindak hissed suddenly and thrust out an arm to block her way. His gaze had fixed on the snow two paces in front of them. “Do you see it?”
“What?” She searched the snow … and saw an unnatural shadow, running straight as an arrow’s flight to connect with the pale blue line that sparkled at the base of the downed trees.
“It’s a trail,” Sindak said. “A deep trail. Despite the snow, you can still see the swale left by the passage of many feet.”
Koracoo tried to fight down the hope that rose sweet and hot in her breast. “Let’s make certain.”
She went to stand over the swale. It was wider than it looked—ten hands across. Starlight glimmered from the frozen edges of the trail like white paint. “Whoever made this path is walking out in the open, going through meadows and probably across bare rock, loosely paralleling the trails.”
“That’s why we’re having such a hard time staying with them. Should I wake the others?”
“No. Let them sleep.” She propped her left fist on her hip. “We don’t know that this is the children’s trail. It could have been made by any stealthy war party.”
“But you think it’s their trail,” he said.
“Yes,” Koracoo said. “But we won’t know until we can really examine the tracks. Come on. Let’s go back. I’ll start my watch, and you can rest. At first light, we’ll pick up right here.”
They walked back to camp, listening to their feet crunching the snow.
When they reached the pine, Sindak stopped and extended his hand to touch CorpseEye, but his fingers halted a hairbreadth away. “Is this all right?”
“You may touch him.” Koracoo extended the club.
Sindak touched the cobble head, then gently ran his fingers over the carvings in the wooden shaft. An expression of wonder came over his young face. Could he feel the warm heart that inhabited the club?
Sindak said, “We’d have never found the trail without CorpseEye. At dawn, we’d have headed back to the fork in the trail, and gone the wrong direction.”
She smiled faintly. “
If
this is the trail.”
Sindak removed his hand and clenched it, as though to hold onto the sensation; then he looked at her.
Something about the softness of his expression touched her … and worried her. She’d seen that look before in the eyes of young warriors. Usually it was youths who had seen fifteen or sixteen summers. Sindak was a little old for this, but he knew her less well. At this point, it was just attraction, but if his gaze began to get that worshipful glow, she would have to do something about it. And afterward, he would never look kindly at her again.
“Get some sleep, warrior,” she ordered.
“Yes, War Chief.”
Sindak ducked low and crawled beneath the pine into the firelight. He pulled his rabbit-fur blanket from his pack and stretched out beside Towa. Towa said something too low to hear. When Sindak answered, Towa smiled.
Their conversation woke Gonda. He grumbled, threw them hateful looks, then flopped to his opposite side and went back to sleep.
Koracoo spread her feet, heaved a sigh, and watched the trail.
O
dion
 
Gannajero’s shrill voice makes me sit bolt upright. Crystalline snowflakes fall from a lavender sky.
Last night was freezing. I barely slept. All night long I lay with my body curled around Tutelo’s trying to keep her warm while I listened to the terrifying sounds of the camp. Sobs and cries filled the darkness.
I lift my head. I don’t see any of Gannajero’s warriors. By now, I have memorized some of their names: Kotin, Hanu, Galan, Tenshu, Waswan, Ojib, Chimon … . But several of the gamblers remain rolled in their blankets, snoring. A few wander about unsteadily. Weapons clatter as belts are strapped on and quivers slung over shoulders. I watch two men walk into the forest. A short time later, the scent of urine carries on the wind. Where is she?
“Are you awake?” Wrass says softly.
I roll over. Snow coats the hood of his cape, encircling his narrow beaked face with a white frame. A bandage wraps his little finger. “Yes, I’m awake.”
He doesn’t look at me. I follow his gaze and see Gannajero. She’s hissing at Hehaka and one of the Flint girls. Shaking her fist in their faces. The girl weeps.
“What’s happening?”
“They’re being punished.”
“Why?”
“Hehaka was up all night. He was so tired he stumbled and sloshed corn brew on one of the warriors. I don’t know what the girl did.”
I sit up and see Gannajero’s warriors. They have gathered out in the trees. They already have their packs on, as though ready to march. “Are we leaving?”
“Yes, soon, I think.”
“Where are we going? Did you hear them say?”
Wrass shakes his head. “No.”
Several of Gannajero’s men disperse into the trees. Each walks away alone, heading in a different direction. This makes me frown. While several gamblers are still sleeping, only four warriors remain. Two guard us, and two—Kotin and another man whose name I don’t know—stand talking in the trees. “Where are they going?”
“They may be scouting the trail ahead.”
“But they walked away in different directions.”
“Maybe they’re scouting the trails in every direction.”
My heart pounds.
Gannajero grabs Hehaka and the Flint girl by the hands and drags them back toward us. She keeps growling at the girl. When she arrives she shoves Hehaka to the ground and grips the girl’s shoulders so hard the girl yips.
Tutelo jerks awake in terror and flings her arms around my waist. “Odion, what—”
“You little fool!” Gannajero shouts at the Flint girl. “If you ever try that again, I’ll let the man kill you. Do you understand? If it weren’t for me, you’d be dead right now.”
The girl sinks to her knees and weeps. “Let me die. Please let me die?”
Gannajero kicks her in the chest, and the girl falls backward, making hideous choking sounds. She can’t breathe.
For a few terrible instants Gannajero’s wild eyes fix on me. She leans forward and says, “After last night, you must be worried about your sister. Hmm?”
I can’t find my voice. Terror has killed it.
Wrass says, “Where did the men take the other two Flint girls? Why aren’t they back yet?”
Gannajero laughs and walks away.
The girl on the ground writhes, fighting for air.
Wrass crawls over to her. “Sit up. You’ll be all right. She just knocked the wind out of you.”
Tutelo looks up at me, and tangled black hair falls down her back. “What did that girl do, Odion?”
“I don’t know.”
Wrass helps the girl to sit up, and she finally manages to suck in air. As she breathes, her tears begin to subside. Except for the puffy red welt on her oval face, she’s very pretty, with long eyelashes and a small nose. Long black hair sways around her.
“Are you all right?” Wrass asks.
“Sh-she sold my sisters. To the men who claimed them last night. They’re gone!”
“She sold them forever? I thought she was just selling them for the night?”
“No. They’re gone. I’ll never see them again!”
“You don’t know that. The men may take your sisters home and adopt them into their families,” Wrass says gently. “And you are all right. That’s all that matters right now. You—”
Tutelo says, “Why didn’t she sell you?”
The Flint girl glances at Tutelo and chokes back a sob. “I—I found a rock on the ground and hit the man in the face. It left a gash. He tried to kill me.”
Wrass says, “And Gannajero stopped him?”
“Yes. She said I was too v-valuable to die just yet.”
From the far side of the group of children, Chipmunk rises on trembling legs. She walks over and squats in front of the Flint girl, then lifts a shaking hand to touch the swollen knot on the side of her face. “What’s your name?”
“Baji.”
“Where are you from?”
“S-Singleleaf Village.”
Chipmunk gently strokes her hair. “I’ve studied Healing. I’ll make a poultice from snapping alder bark. You won’t even have a bruise. I promise.”
I turn to watch Gannajero. She is packing up camp, collecting huge bags of trade goods—her payment from last night. When she finishes and piles all of her packs in one place, she stalks around camp, shouting curses and kicking sleeping men, forcing them to get up.
Hehaka draws my attention when he rolls to his side and seems to melt into the bed of leaves.
“Tutelo, I need to go speak to Hehaka. Will you be all right?”
She nods and releases me so that I can crawl over to Hehaka. “Are you all right, Hehaka? Are you hurt?”
He looks up at me with agonized eyes. His lean, starved face has gone pale. “She sucked out my soul,” he whispers, and glances around, hoping none of the other children hear. But Wrass does. He turns to gaze at Hehaka. “She sucked it out with that eagle-bone sucking tube and blew it into the little pot that she carries in her pack.”
“Why?” Wrass asks.
He squeezes his eyes closed. “She told me that when she kills me, my afterlife soul will never be able to find its way home. I’ll be chased through the forests forever by enemy ghosts.” Tears leak from the corners of his eyes.
“She’s an old fool,” I say in anger. “She’s not powerful enough to do that. It would take a great shaman, and she’s—”
“Shh!” He grabs my arm and shakes me hard. “You mustn’t say that. She’ll hear!”
“She can’t hear me, Hehaka. She’s way over on the other side of cam—” As I speak the words, Gannajero turns and stares right at me. Her eyes are like black suns burning me to cinders. My mouth goes dust dry.
“She’s a witch!” Hehaka whispers. “She can hear voices from half a day’s walk away. I swear she can. I’ve seen it.”
Wrass moves over and crouches beside me, staring down at Hehaka. He holds his wounded hand protectively against his chest. “You’ve seen it? How long have you been her slave?”
“S-seven summers,” Hehaka whispers.
Stunned, I hiss, “
Seven?
”
Wrass asks, “Why hasn’t she sold you? Where do you come from?”
“I don’t know.” Hehaka shivers and covers his eyes with his arm so that he can cry unseen. “She won’t let me go. I don’t know why. She says she’ll never sell me.”
Wrass clenches his fists and whispers to me, “That doesn’t make any sense. She’s a Trader. That’s what she does: sell children. Why would she keep Hehaka?”
I grip his arm and tilt my head, telling him I want to talk with him alone. Wrass rises. We walk a few paces away. The warriors guarding us straighten. One nocks an arrow in his bow. Another swings his war club suggestively.
I pull Wrass close to hiss, “Do you think she’s a witch?”
Wrass swivels around to gaze at Gannajero. “She’s evil, that’s for sure. Do you think she really sucked out Hehaka’s soul?”
I lick my chapped lips, taste blood, and glance again at our guards. They are watching us with half-lidded eyes. One wrong move and they’ll kill us, just like they did Agres and her sister. “I don’t know. Do you remember when old Pontoc lost his soul? Mother told me that his afterlife soul walked out into the forest and left his body like a moth flying away from a cocoon.”
“But Pontoc couldn’t talk after his soul left, and Hehaka is still talking.”
We both turn to study Hehaka where he lies on the ground, shivering.
I say, “And Pontoc went insane. He started sneaking up on people in the night and trying to strangle them.”
We stare at each other. Wrass is probably remembering—as I am—the morning when Pontoc’s own relatives dragged him screaming from the longhouse and clubbed him to death. They had to do it to protect their clan. The Standing Stone People followed the Law of Retribution. Murder placed an absolute obligation upon the kinsmen of the dead man to seek revenge by claiming the life of either the murderer or someone closely related to him. Since they traced descent through the female, the obligation fell particularly upon the murdered person’s sisters, mother’s brothers, and sisters’ sons. If Pontoc had actually managed to kill someone, the victim’s family would have had the right to claim the life of anyone else in Pontoc’s clan that it wished to be rid of, including the chief or clan matron. No clan could risk that.
“We should keep watch on Hehaka,” Wrass said. “If she really does have his soul captured in that pot he’ll go insane, and we’ll need to protect ourselves.”
“Yes, I think—”
My gaze lands on Chipmunk as she moves to kneel beside Hehaka. She speaks softly to him. Hehaka nods, as though whatever she said soothed him. As Chipmunk rises, she takes a deep breath, fixes her gaze on me, and walks forward. Her mourning hair clings to her round face in irregular locks.
Wrass sees her and frowns. “What’s she doing?”
“Coming over here.”
When she gets close, she bows her head so it’s impossible to see her lips move, and whispers, “I can h-help. I know Healing plants.”
“What do you mean you can help?” Wrass asks. “You mean you can help heal Hehaka and Baji?”
The girl nervously licks her lips. She’s so scared she looks like she might faint. “No, I—I mean if you can get me close, I c-can …” She swallows hard, waiting for us to fill in the rest of the sentence.
In a stunning moment of understanding, I say, “Blessed gods, yes.”
“What?” Wrass sounds annoyed.
I grab his arm and pull him very close to hiss, “We can fight them. With her help, we can escape!”
He glares at me like I’ve lost my senses and opens his mouth to say something unpleasant, but before he does, understanding widens his eyes. He stands perfectly still for a moment, staring at me. Then he glances between us, and in a dire voice says, “If we do this, we’ll only have one chance. We have to do it right.”
I turn to the girl. “What’s your name?”
She swallows hard before she stutters, “Z-Zateri.”

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