People of the Longhouse (9 page)

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Authors: W. Michael Gear

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

BOOK: People of the Longhouse
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S
onon perched on a high branch, hidden by the red maple’s thick trunk. Less than twenty paces from Atotarho Village, he had a good view.
They’d found the baby he’d covered with leaves.
Moving carefully lest the sentries on the catwalk see him, he folded his arms beneath his cape and hugged himself. Odd. He could not feel the child’s afterlife soul moving through the trees around the village. He’d been hoping to see her again. It hurt that he did not, but perhaps that was good. The girl’s soul might be staying very close to its body, which would make it easier for a Healer to find it and tie it to the child’s flesh again.
Only the faintest whisper of wings broke the silence as an owl sailed over the treetops and, somewhere in the distance, a wolf yipped. Both creatures were out on their nightly hunts, looking forward to finding and killing prey to fill their bellies with warm blood.
Sonon wiped his sweating hands on his cape. Men needed blood as much as wolves. At the edges of appearance and disappearance there was always blood.
He studied the warriors who walked the palisade catwalk. He could see their heads bobbing along as though disembodied. All around them, the endless eyes of night were opening, but the guards
saw only the shadows cast by the soft glow of the evening. The
communion
of the night was lost to them.
Sonon rubbed his eyes. The communion was all he had. The hunter became the hunted. Perceiver the perceived. The endless eyes stared into eternity, and it stared back.
Sonon patiently waited until the darkness grew too deep for the sentries to glimpse him; then he carefully descended the maple, silently dropping from branch to branch. The wet leaves squished when he dropped to the ground.
Grandmother Moon would awaken soon. He needed to get away before she flooded the forest with light. Slipping behind an elm tree, he faded back into the striped forest shadows and melted into the blackness.
“A
totarho looked frightened,” Gonda said. “And I don’t think he’s the type that frightens easily. What do you think scared him?”
The odor of mildew pervaded the dark prisoners’ house, and insects skittered across the floor, or perhaps they were mice. Gonda couldn’t be certain. If he was lucky, they were mice, and one would scurry close enough that he could catch it and twist its head off to ease his hunger.
“Whatever it was, he didn’t want his People to overhear him talking about it.”
Koracoo sat on the floor with her back against the wall. In the moonlight that penetrated around the door, he could make out the shape of her body. No one but Gonda would realize how desperately worried she was. He could see it in the tension in her shoulders and in the way her jaw was set slightly to the left.
“Was he worried about alarming his warriors?” Gonda asked skeptically.
“My gut tells me he didn’t feel he could trust them with the knowledge.”
“Perhaps it’s just his war chief he doesn’t trust. I didn’t like him, either.”
Wind gusted outside and breathed through the wall behind him,
chilling his back. He wrapped his cape more tightly around his shoulders.
Fatigue numbed him, and long ago he’d learned that sleep was essential to survival. Death walked at every warrior’s shoulder, waiting for him to drop his guard so that it could dull his wits and slow his reactions. Less than a blink was enough.
“You have to get some rest,” he said.
“I need to think for a time.”
Gonda stretched out on his side and closed his eyes. He tried to concentrate on the sensation of breathing, of air rushing in and out of his lungs. It distracted him from thinking about tomorrow. If all went well, they would return to the murder site, pick up the children’s trail, and track them down. If all did not go well …
We’re prisoners. Why did I agree to come here when our own children are in danger?
He clenched his teeth to hold back the tidal wave of emotion that overwhelmed him. He’d been trying to take each moment as it came, trying not to see ahead. It did no good to imagine what was happening to Odion and Tutelo. The images only sapped his strength, leaving him quivering and useless.
Koracoo must be enduring the same agony, and perhaps with even more intensity than he did.
Gonda opened his eyes. “Tomorrow. We’ll pick up the trail, and it will lead us right to them.”
Koracoo did not answer. She stared at the square of moonlight that outlined the door. Occasionally, shadows crossed in front of it, and the house momentarily went black.
Gonda added, “They can’t be that far ahead of us. The tracks were only one day old, and it looked like the warriors were herding eight or nine children. That many captives slow men down.”
Koracoo leaned her head back against the wall and looked at the roof. Tiny points of light sparkled. Holes. If it rained, by morning they would be drenched.
“Koracoo, what will we do if Atotarho does not release us in the morning? Have you considered that? It would be a great boon for him to capture War Chief Koracoo and her deputy.” He paused, watching her. “We
must
get back on the children’s trail as soon as possible.”
He waited.
Her silence was like an enormous black bubble swelling in Gonda’s chest, cutting off his air. It was an accusation:
This is all your
fault. The destruction of our village. The loss of our children. The deaths of hundreds.
He tried to calm himself by taking deep, even breaths.
“Please, Koracoo,” he begged. “Talk to me. I can’t bear your silence.”
She exhaled softly and turned to look at him. Her eyes reflected the moonlight like perfectly still ponds. “Gonda, I will talk strategy with you. You are my deputy. But I will not discuss our children. If I do, you will
not
feel better. Do you understand?”
He jerked a nod. “Then let’s talk strategy. If they do not release us tomorrow, I’ve been thinking we may be able to gather more warriors to help us. Atotarho said there are many people who have lost children. If we can recruit a large-enough force—”
“More warriors mean arguments, politics, and intrigue. You and I are enough.”
Koracoo shifted her back against the wall and laced her hands over one drawn-up knee. Her short moonlit hair shimmered with her movements. “Besides, Atotarho is going to release us. He must.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Something in his voice. He wants us out there on the trail. I do not know why, but it’s important to him.”
“His daughter?”
She took a breath and let it out. “He may think she is with the others.”
She had carefully avoided saying,
with our children.
Gonda proceeded cautiously. “What would make him think that? They were all taken at different times by different warriors.”
“Hope often draws connections where there are none. Perhaps he—”
The hissing of warriors’ voices silenced her. Her gaze riveted on the door.
Outside, a warrior said, “He’s coming this way.”
“No, he’s not. He’s just out for a walk. Probably worried about his daughter.”
“He is so coming here! Why would he—”
The warriors hushed. Feet shuffled, and shadows passed back and forth, blotting out the silver gleam that rimmed the door.
“Open the door,” Chief Atotarho ordered.
“Yes, my chief.”
Wood clattered as the locking plank was lifted and the door swung open.
Gonda studied the five men standing outside. Atotarho carried a small oil lamp. Behind him, moonlight streamed across the village, turning the longhouses into enormous black walls. A few dogs trotted through the night, their tails wagging. Ordinary village sounds echoed: people snoring, children crying, a few coughs.
Koracoo softly said, “Chief? How may we assist you?”
Atotarho moved painfully, rocking and swaying as he entered the house with his lamp. To the warriors, he said, “Close the door behind me.”
“But … my chief, you can’t go in alone. There are two of them. What if they attack you?”
“I will risk it. Close the door.”
The warriors hissed to each other, but obeyed.
As the door swung closed, the lamplight seemed to grow brighter, reflecting from the plank walls like gigantic amber wings. Atotarho wore a beautiful black ritual cape covered with circlets of bone cut from human skulls. When the lamplight touched them, they flashed. A halo of gray-streaked black hair braided with rattlesnake skins encircled his bony face. “War Chief Koracoo, Deputy Gonda, I must speak with you in confidence. Is that possible between us?”
Their people had been at war for decades. It was a fair question.
Koracoo rose to her feet. “You have my oath, Chief. Whatever we say here remains between us.”
Gonda got to his feet and stood beside her. “You have my oath, as well.”
Atotarho came forward with great difficulty. “Forgive me; I cannot stand for long. I need to sit down.” He lowered himself to sit upon the cold dirt floor and placed his oil lamp in front of him. “Please, join me.” He gestured to the floor, and Gonda noticed that his fingertips were tattooed with snake eyes, and he wore bracelets of human finger bones. “This will not be an easy conversation for any of us.”
Gonda and Koracoo sat down.
Koracoo asked, “What is it you wish to discuss?”
He didn’t seem to hear. His gaze was locked on the lamp. The fragrance of walnut oil perfumed the air. Finally, he whispered, “Stories have been traveling the trails for several moons, but only I believed them. She has been gone for many summers—perhaps as long as twenty, though no one can be sure. She’s very cunning.”
Koracoo seemed to stop breathing. “Who?”
Atotarho bowed his head. “Have you heard the name Gannajero?”
Gonda felt like the earth had been kicked out from under him. More legend than human, hideous stories swirled about Gannajero. She was a Trader who specialized in child slaves. Evil incarnate. A beast in the form of an old woman.
Koracoo softly answered, “Yes. I’ve heard of her.”
Atotarho continued. “Rumors say that she has returned to our country. Many villages are missing children. I have been … so afraid …” He rubbed a hand over his face.
“That your daughter was with her?”
He seemed to be trying to control his voice. “Yes. All day, every day, I pray to the gods to let my Zateri die if she is with Gannajero. I would prefer it. Anything would be b-better … .”
Koracoo gave him a few moments to continue. When it was clear he could not, she said, “I understand.”
Atotarho’s mouth trembled. “No, I do not think you do. You are too young. When she was last here, you were not even a woman yet, were you?”
“I had seen only seven summers, but I recall hearing my family whisper about Gannajero, and it was with great dread.”
Atotarho extended his hands to the lamp as if to warm them. His misshapen knuckles resembled knotted twigs. “When I had seen five summers, my older brother and sister were captured in a raid. My sister was killed, but my brother was sold to an old man among the Flint People. I heard many summers later that my brother was utterly mad. His nightmares used to wake the entire village. Sometimes he screamed all night long. He eventually killed the old man, slit his throat, and ran away into the forest. No one ever saw him again.”
“Our people, also, have lost many children in such raids.”
Gonda looked from Atotarho to Koracoo, watching their expressions. Neither trusted the other, and Gonda wondered what Atotarho might be telling them if they did.
Gonda asked, “What makes you think Gannajero is behind these recent kidnappings? They could be ordinary raids for women and children. In that case, the children are all well and being adopted into families as we speak.”
“I pray that is so, but if Gannajero
is
behind these kidnappings, our children are not well.” The chief’s eyes narrowed against some inner pain. “My daughter was studying to become a Healer. She knows Spirit plants and how to make poultices. I pray it is enough to allow her to survive Gannajero’s torments.”
In a deadly earnest voice, Koracoo said, “If Gannajero harms any of our children, I
will
find her. I promise you that.”
“Perhaps, but many have tried before you. No one has ever been able to track her. Her trail just seems to disappear. It is said that she has many
hanehwa
at her command, and they help her mislead her pursuers.”
Hanehwa
were human skins that had been flayed whole by a witch and served as guards. These skin beings never slept. They warned witches of a pursuer by giving three shouts.
Atotarho opened his mouth to continue, then hesitated.
“Go on.”
He looked at Koracoo with shining eyes. “The men she travels with are evil, mostly outcast warriors who enjoy getting rich off the suffering of children. If the children are lucky, they do not live long. Two or three moons, perhaps.”
It took all of Gonda’s strength to keep his thoughts from straying to Odion and Tutelo.
The lamp flickered when Gonda abruptly leaned forward. “Let’s talk about how she accomplishes all this. How do men know where to meet her? To bring her the children?”
Atotarho shook his head. “No one is sure. The last time she was in our country, we thought we understood how she worked. She usually arrived moons before she actually began buying children. The time allowed her to set up her contacts, prepare her trails and meeting places, assemble her men. She—”
“Then …” Gonda’s belly knotted. “She may not have just arrived here. She may have been here for moons?”
“It’s possible. Though I suspect not. We almost caught her last time. She knows she must use great care.”

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