People of the Mist (11 page)

 
          
“The
White Stake killed her, didn’t they?” Shell Comb called out stridently. “They
murdered my daughter to keep her from marrying the Great Tayac!” She stepped
forward, a fist raised. “For this, they shall pay dearly!”

 
          
Hunting
Hawk bit off a growl. Well, it was too much to expect her impetuous daughter to
change completely. She asked, “Before we get too carried away, and charge off
to war, would you finish your report, War Chief?”

 
          
Nine
Killer glanced uneasily at Shell Comb, and said, “After turning Winged
Blackbird away, I sent several scouts to follow him, insuring he didn’t double
back. After that, I resumed my search for Red Knot. It was then that young Flat
Willow called out. It was he who found the body.” “Flat
Willow
?” Hunting Hawk searched out the youth
hanging back among the others.

 
          
Flat
Willow
hesitantly stepped forward, and glanced
around uncomfortably. He shifted from foot to foot, then bowed his head,
looking cowed.

 
          
“You
found her, Flat Willow?”

 
          
“Yes,
Weroansqua. I was hunting. I’d have never gone up on the ridgetop, but for High
Fox. He made me miss my shot… lost my arrow … and the deer ran … and …”

 
          
“High
Fox!” Black Spike cried, stepping out from the crowd. “Are you talking about my
son!”

 
          
Flat
Willow flashed the Three Myrtle Weroance a sidelong look. “As you say … your
son.”

 
          
Black
Spike started forward, and was barely restrained by a kinsman’s hand.

 
          
“Easy,
Black Spike,” Hunting Hawk said. “We’ll get” to the bottom of this. No
accusations have been made.” She stepped forward, placing a hand on Flat
Willow’s shoulder. “Slow down, boy. Take your time. Relax now, and tell it
slowly.”

 
          
Hunting
Hawk watched the young man lick his lips and lock his legs; worried eyes met
her stare. With deliberate concentration, he told of his morning hunt, of the
spooked deer, and High Fox charging down the trail. He related High Fox’s odd
words. Then he told how he had finally given up finding his lost arrow, and
backtracked High Fox to the ridgetop.

 
          
“But
I don’t think High Fox killed her!” Flat Willow shot a measuring look at Black
Spike. “He wouldn’t! He loved her!”

 
          
A
gasp came from the crowd. Shell Comb had fire dancing in her eyes. Black Spike
broke free of the restraining hand and took a step forward, shoulders bunched,
veins standing out on his arms. “What are you saying, hunter?”

 
          
Copper
Thunder stood with his muscular arms crossed, a neutral expression on his face,
but those crafty black eyes betrayed the thoughts racing within his skull.

 
          
“It
was the White Stake raiders!” Shell Comb stepped to place herself between Flat
Willow and Black Spike. “The lying vermin stopped the marriage, all right. They
killed her—and then sought to appear here and misdirect us! We can’t let this
pass! The sooner we strike, the better. Before they prepare!”

 
          
Copper
Thunder’s eyebrow rose in the faintest surprise.

 
          
Hunting
Hawk hitched around on her walking stick. “And your thoughts on this, Great
Tayac?”

 
          
Copper
Thunder gave Shell Comb a flat stare and said, “For the moment, I’ll reserve my
judgment. We’ve seen at least two sides to this trouble. I wonder how many more
will turn up now that the anthill has been kicked.”

 
          
Black
Spike stepped forward, a fist clenched. “And what of my son?”

 
          
“We
don’t know yet.” Hunting Hawk studied his strained face. He looked terrified,
and angry.

 
          
Turning
back to Red Knot’s swaying body, Hunting Hawk asked, “How did she die?”

 
          
“A
blow to the head, Weroansqua.” Nine Killer bent down to pull the blood-clotted
hair back from the side of the girl’s head. “She was struck here, the blow
powerful enough to crush the skull. If you feel, the bone broke inward, into
her brain. She must have died instantly.” “Was anything found near her?”

 
          
Nine
Killer held up a necklace from which dangled a shark’s tooth, pearls, and shell
beads. “This, Weroansqua. Flat Willow says he found it in her right hand.”

 
          
Black
Spike made a strangled sound, and turned rapidly away, calling out, “I’ve had
enough of this! My people and I are leaving!” Eyes glittering, he pointed at
Hunting Hawk. “If you wish more of me, or my people, Weroansqua, you come with
your warriors to get it!”

 
          
Hunting
Hawk watched him stalk away, gesturing angrily at the rest of his people, and a
sick sensation deadened her heart. Three Myrtle had been her staunches! ally
over the years. Granted, High Fox was Black Spike’s son, but how could a simple
shark’s tooth drive such a wedge between them?

 
          
She
took a. step, ready to hobble after him, but Shell Comb’s hand caught her by
the shoulder. “Let him go, Mother. This is a shock, that’s all. Let him settle
down, and we’ll send him a message clearing his son.”

 
          
Hunting
Hawk shot an inquisitive look at her daughter. “Will we? If you ask me, young
High Fox is the most likely culprit here.”

 
          
Shell
Comb lifted her chin. “Is he? When the forest is crawling with White Stake
warriors? Come, Mother, let’s be realistic. Who has the most to gain here?
Water Snake, that’s who. Look at what he’s done! With one murder he’s stopped a
marriage and alliance between us and the’ Pipestone Clan. He’s strained a
friendship that goes back generations between us and Three Myrtle-our clan
brothers! If this isn’t a master stroke, what is?”

 
          
“And
you think we should go to war with White Stake over it?” “Yes!” Shell Comb
stepped up to Copper Thunder, searching his eyes. “And what of you, Great
Tayac? This is a slap to your face, as well as ours. Corn Hunter has killed
your wife! Done it with impunity! Are you willing to just stand there and take
it, or will you join us in bringing this beast to his knees?”

 
          
Copper
Thunder seemed nonplussed. “For the moment, I will bide my time, wait and see.
If it appears that this petty Weroance did indeed kill my Red Knot, then I
shall act. But in my own good time, and in a way he, and his Mamanatowick, will
regret in this life and the next.”

 
          
Hunting
Hawk fingered her chin. The Three Myrtle villagers who were leaving shoved
their canoes out into the water and piled in. In shocked silence they set their
paddles and stroked away, the Vs of their wakes spreading behind them.

 
          
Something
is not right here. She felt as if she were looking at a broken pot, and half
the pieces were missing.

 
          
“Nine
Killer,” she called, “do you think the White Stake warriors did this to us?”
“No, Weroansqua!” But just as soon as he said it, he cast a wary glance at
Shell Comb, looking for all the world as if he’d like nothing more than to
retract that statement. Lamely, he added, “At least, it doesn’t seem likely.
Winged Blackbird’s war party could have caught her, killed her, and left no
trace. Skilled as they are. But it doesn’t feel right.”

 
          
Hunting
Hawk motioned the two uneasy warriors holding Red Knot’s body. “Take my
granddaughter to the House of the Dead. Tell… tell Green Serpent to smoke her,
but to do nothing more until I tell him to.”

 
          
“Yes,
Weroansqua,” Flying Weir said reverently, and he and Squirrel trotted off with
their swaying burden.

 
          
“Mother!”
Shell Comb wheeled, fire in her eyes. “Are we going to—”

 
          
“Enough!”
She made a chopping with her hand. “We will do nothing until I have considered
all sides to this thing! Unlike you, girl, I must think before I act! A policy
I expect you to begin to emulate. That, or Okeus help us, you’ll be a slave
washing Water Snake’s pots within a week of my death!”

 
          
Turning
from her horrified people, she waddled painfully for her Great House. She had
to sit, to think, to try and see the correct path through this madness.
Otherwise, it would destroy them all.

 
          
High
above the winter forest, two black dots wheeled through the lavender rays of
dusk. Sun Conch tucked her bright feather cape around her drawn-up knees, and
tipped her chin to watch them. They must be eagles down from the north. They
spiraled, their lazy flights the only movement in the gleaming bowl of the sky.

 
          
As
Night Woman gathered the world in her arms, the cold deepened. Sun Conch
shivered. The woodpile sat to her right, on the north side of the fire, and
just beyond it stood the doorway to her mother’s house. As she reached for more
wood, her eyes strayed to the entry. The grass-thatched long house flickered
orange in the jumping light of the flames. Whispers seeped around the
curtain—her mother’s voice low and forlorn, her aunt’s angry.

 
          
“Panther
take her!” Aunt Threadleaf’s old voice hissed. “She’s shamed us! Her punishment
must be severe!”

 
          
Sun
Conch placed the branch in the fire and watched the sparks crackle and dance as
they climbed into the evening sky. The Panther, a powerful witch, lived by
himself on an island in the bay. Curses spoken in his name were said to fly
like arrows to his ears, and cause him to cast spells upon the person cursed.
That’s why people only uttered them in the most dire situations.

 
          
Sun
Conch stared sightlessly at the flames, and wondered what to do. High Fox had
promised to run off with Red Knot. What did it matter now that Sun Conch had
thrown herself at him, that she had pleaded for him to marry her?

 
          
“We
should outcast her for a time. Let her think on—”

 
          
“No,
no,” her mother said. “I don’t think we need to be so harsh.” “Then a good
beating is definitely in order. She can’t go on like this. I will not tolerate
this defiance of clan, family, and tradition!”

 
          
A
cold pain, like an icicle, pierced Sun Conch’s heart. She gazed out across the
plaza. The shaggy houses of
Three
Myrtle
Village
stood silent, blue curls of smoke rising
from the smoke holes in their roofs. A palisade, an oval wall of upright posts
twice the height of a man, surrounded the village. Within it, nothing moved.
Nothing breathed. Even the eagles had vanished from the night sky, leaving her
more alone than she had ever been in her four and ten Comings of the Leaves.

 
          
While
most of the village had gone to attend the Newly Made Woman ceremony at
Flat
Pearl
Village
, Sun Conch and her family had been ordered
to remain here. Black Spike had been disgusted by Sun Conch’s behavior. He’d
declared before the entire village that his son, High Fox, had done nothing to
encourage “such an embarrassing incident.” All the while, High Fox had stood at
his father’s side with his head bowed, and his whole anguished heart in his
dark eyes. She had hurt for him. And for herself. How could she have done that?
Just blurted out her feelings in the middle of a plaza filled with people? “You
know why.” She mouthed the words so no one would hear. He’d told her the night
before that. he would not allow his precious Red Knot to marry the old man her
Greenstone Clan had promised her to. He’d said he was going to run away with
her, run all the way to the Father Water if necessary, and never return.

 
          
Desperation
had wrenched Sun Conch. She’d had to tell him, no matter the cost.

 
          
Her
aunt’s hoarse whispers grew more insistent, and tears blurred Sun Conch’s eyes.
She pulled a stick from the woodpile and prodded the fire. Blue flames
flickered through the orange, like the fluttering of bluebird wings.
Stalwartly, she kept her tears at bay. She would not cry. Not ever again. The
only time tears did any good was when someone was there to comfort them.

 
          
“Did
you know of this?” Aunt Threadleaf asked.

 
          
“That
she had taken to the Weroance’s son? Such arrogance! How could she think that
she, a plain-faced potter’s daughter, could marry into that family?”

 
          
Sun
Conch shoved her stick into the fire and watched it burn.

 
          
Her
feelings for High Fox had’ started to change two Comings of the Leaves ago,
after his Blackening. High Fox had been reborn a man, and his steps had turned
lighter, his smile more teasing. He had looked at Sun Conch strangely, his eyes
suddenly luminous, and she had heard his unspoken words as if he’d shouted
them. He could not speak for her until she had become a woman—but his eyes had
promised that he would.

 
          
Then,
at last summer’s solstice celebration, his attention had shifted to the
beautiful Red Knot, granddaughter of the Weroansqua, Hunting Hawk, of
Flat
Pearl
Village
. Red Knot’s status had matched his own.
Though not yet a woman, Red Knot had taunted High Fox like one, running her
hands over High Fox’s muscular arms, smiling up at him as if he knew, more than
First Woman herself. Sun Conch had hated her for it, but she’d done nothing.
Perhaps if she had… maybe he … maybe … She clenched handfuls of her feather
cape. “You are a foftl,” she said, barely audible. “He loved her. Not you. He
never loved you.”

 
          
The
wind shifted, bathing her face with the fragrance of cedar smoke; it spun
before her soft brown eyes and, in the eddies, she saw High Fox’s face, as it
had been two days ago, the shining light gone, replaced by a soul deep ache.
She had seen that look before, the day his beloved dog had limped-into the
village after being attacked by a bear, and High Fox had had to brain him with
his war club.

 
          
Her
mother’s voice pleaded, “Do you not recall your first love, Threadleaf? The
terrible pain and longing? I do. I—”

 
          
“You
did not humiliate your clan! You waited until you stepped out of the menstrual
hut for the first time before making your love for Windsong known. And then,
you told me, and I told the clan. We went to speak for you! You knew your
place, your duties. Sun Conch knows nothing.”

 
          
Aunt
Threadleaf pushed back the door curtain and glared out at her. She had a fat,
deeply wrinkled face with white-filmed eyes that had always struck fear into
Sun Conch’s heart. Red images of birds painted her deer hide cape.

 
          
“Come
closer, girl,” Threadleaf demanded.

 
          
Sun
Conch obediently rose, and went to kneel less than two hands away. “I am here,
Aunt.” Her normally deep voice came out shrill.

 
          
“Did
you couple with him?”

 
          
Sun
Conch’s lips parted in shock. For a moment she could only stare at Threadleaf
in mute disbelief, then she sputtered, “Wh-what? I am not yet a woman! Do you
think I would—”

 
          
From
inside the house, her mother said, “Threadleaf, for the sake of the Spirits!
She is a child and High Fox knows it. Do you think he wishes to die? He would
never risk—”

 
          
Aunt
Threadleaf swung around to scowl through the entry. “Do not tell me what a
young man will risk when his loins are aching. I, of all people, know. I
birthed eight sons.” When Threadleaf turned back, she lifted a brow and slowly,
deliberately, examined Sun Conch, her filmy eyes moving from Sun Conch’s
fringed moccasins to her pale face. When she spoke, her voice cut like finely
flaked chert. “Well, you aren’t much to tempt a man, I will give you that. Now.
Tell me again, niece, what happened between you and High Fox? Did he toy with
your affections? Or did you chase him like a weasel in heat?”

 
          
“I-I
told you!” she answered frantically. “We are friends. We have always been. I
started to love him—”

 
          
The
force of the blow slammed Sun Conch to the ground. She landed hard, clawing and
spitting dirt. Blood filled her mouth. When she tried to sit up, her vision
swam in a sickening blur. “Threadleaf!” her mother cried. “Get out of my way!
What have you done?”

 
          
Sun
Conch forced herself to stand, and stumbled across the plaza toward the passage
that led out of the palisade. Her legs shook. She had not eaten since the
“incident,” and felt hollow, her soul floating like dandelion seeds aloft on an
icy breeze.

 
          
One
of the village dogs saw her, and starting barking. She ran.

 
          
“Sun
Conch!” Aunt Threadleaf shouted. “Get back here. I order you to return!”

 
          
She
glanced over her shoulder at her aunt and mother standing beside the fire. They
both wore knee-length deer hide capes over their frayed mantles. Her mother’s
expression was tortured, and that, more than anything else, tore Sun Conch’s
heart. She rushed ahead, her moccasins flying over the frozen soil of the
plaza. The darkness had strengthened, the birds gone silent. The forest beyond
the palisade stood quiet as death.

 
          
“Sun
Conch?” her mother called. “Please! Come back!”

 
          
Sun
Conch hurried out through the narrow passage between the overlapping courses of
posts and into the open.

 
          
The
towering winter-bare trees seemed to lean over her, limbs swaying back and
forth, rustling and murmuring with the night wind. She took the damp,
leaf-clotted trail to the inlet. The faint howls of wolves sounded in the
distance, calling to each other across the rolling hills.

 
          
She
forced herself to slow down. Roots and rocks thrust up in the trail. If she
fell and hurt herself, she would have to call for help, and she would rather
plunge a deer bone dagger into her own heart.

 
          
All
her life, she had wanted nothing more than to be a warrior and to marry High
Fox. She had dreamed of taking the war trail with him, of their protecting each
other during the day, and twining their bodies at night. Now none of that would
be. High Fox was gone, and her aunt would insure that her clan never allowed
her to take up weapons.

 
          
You
should go down to the inlet, steal a canoe, and leave. If it weren‘t for
Mother… A mournful sound worked its way up Sun Conch’s throat. She clapped a
hand to her mouth to stifle it. She had been born a weak child. Until two
Comings of the Leaves ago, her mother had spent half of every day tending to
Sun Conch’s illnesses and moods, making excuses for her ineptness at games, or
her inability to work hard, protecting her from the torments of the other
children-and now this.

 
          
And
you thought you could be a warrior? You can’t even leave your mother! the voice
inside her mocked.

 
          
The
moon’s pale gleam penetrated the branches, and silver triangles danced across
the trail at Sun Conch’s feet. She broke into a headlong run.

 
          
This
was her fault. All of it. If she had become a woman, perhaps High Fox wouldn’t
have been forced to look elsewhere for companionship, or if she’d been more
beautiful and exotic, like Red Knot, maybe he would have loved her instead.
But, no, the forever plodding and practical Sun Conch did not know how to flirt
or flaunt. For that matter, she didn’t know how to do anything without thinking
about it extensively first. At least not until two days ago.

 
          
And
that one act might have ruined her life.

 
          
She
sprinted onto the beach, stopped, and bent over to catch her breath. The cold
air smelled of frozen mud and fish. The water shone like rippled slate in the
moonlight, patterned by the breeze. To her left, seven canoes rested, drawn up
on shore, their painted hulls reflecting silver.

 
          
And
now you‘ve run away from Aunt Threadleaf. You know what’s waiting for you when
you go home, don’t you? The worst beating you’ve ever had in your whole life.
Everyone in
Three
Myrtle
Village
would hear it, and by the end of the moon,
everyone in the Independent villages from Duck Creek to Oyster Inlet would have
talked about it.