People of the Mist (41 page)

 
          
“Perhaps
later.” Panther ignored the threat and gestured. Sun Conch stepped over to the
canoe, looking inside. She boldly bent down and lifted a thick war club from
the bottom of the boat. Like most of the war clubs in
Flat
Pearl
Village
, it bore a single knob on the end, this one
carved from the wood itself.

 
          
Panther
shrugged as Sun Conch replaced the club. “Well, good fishing to you today, Flat
Willow. I guess that whenever Red Knot becomes the center of attention, your
hunting is disrupted.”

 
          
“It
would seem so,” Flat Willow replied crossly.

 
          
Panther
nodded and started up the canoe landing toward the village, Sun Conch
following. Then, on a hunch, he turned on his heel, head cocked. Flat
Willow
hadn’t moved. He stood glaring after them.
“Tell me, Flat Willow, that morning, you shot at a deer?”

 
          
“That’s
right.”

 
          
“Did
you ever find the arrow?” >

 
          
The
hunter shook his head. “No. And if you think that’s what killed Red Knot, you
can go find it yourself.”

 
          
“Pleasant
sort,” Panther muttered out the side of his mouth as he resumed his walk toward
the palisade opening. “But one never knows what he will find when he goes looking,
does he?” “No, Elder, but make no doubt of it, there was murder in his eyes.”

 
          
“Oh,
yes. And he’s hiding something. Like a snake in a bag, it’s wiggling around
down next to his heart.”

 
          
“Let’s
just hope it doesn’t come out and bite us, Elder.” Sun Conch gave Panther a
worried look. “Don’t underestimate Flat Willow. I thought I knew him, but he’s
so different now. I think he’d kill you without a breath’s hesitation.”

 
          
In
the center of the plaza, the bonfire greedily devoured the stack of piled wood.
Around it,
Flat
Pearl
Village
’s warriors danced in time to Green
Serpent’s high-pitched and wavering song. To each side, Lightning Cat and
Streaked Bear shook their large gourd rattles in time, adding their deeper
voices to the Song of Thanksgiving. They sang facing the fading glow of sunset,
the direction of war and death.

 
          
Led
by Nine Killer, they danced, leapt, and stomped, ducking their heads, and
raising their voices to mingle with the priests’ song. They looked up toward
the night sky, where the sparks twinkled out and the thin smoke carried their
words of praise up into the air, bearing it toward Okeus’ ears, that he might
know their gratitude for allowing them to return safely from the raid.

 
          
In
the fading light, the carved faces of the Guardians seemed to blink as the
shadows of cavorting warriors masked the yellow firelight. Behind them, the
people watched, clapping and stamping in time to the shishing rattles. For most
of the observers, this was an expression of relief rather than the out-and-out
joyous abandon that followed a successful raid with captives and trophies.
Then, the celebration would have lasted for several days instead of this single
evening.

 
          
Shell
Comb closed in on her quarry, moving stealthily as she circled the-celebration.
She stepped up beside him where he stood in the shadows, leaned against the
bark of the House of the Dead. “Good evening, Elder. I hope you are enjoying
the dance?”

 
          
Oddly,
he showed no reaction to her approach, responding in a conversational voice:
“That Flying Weir, he seems particularly light on his feet for such a large
man. When he and Nine Killer are side by side, I sometimes think they are twins
to Lightning Cat and Streaked Bear.”

 
          
Shell
Comb watched the warriors whoop and jump. “You seem to have made quite a stir
with your arrival here. My mother is unsure whether to have the Great Tayac’s
warriors drive you from the village, or to simply surrender her position to
you.”

 
          
The
Panther was moving his fingers in time to the music, his head bobbing in time
to the beat. “You must be Shell Comb.”

 
          
“Indeed,
I am.” She studied him in the glowing firelight. “But, who, I wonder, are you?
I’ve heard no mention of your clan, your family, or where you might have come
from. You are simply referred to as ‘the witch.” Unless, of course, it is
Copper Thunder speaking. He calls you Raven.”

 
          
“That
is how he knew me; but it was a long time ago, Shell Comb. And far, far from
here.” He gestured off to the west and the last darkening of the sky. “Clear
across the mountains, on the great rivers. I suppose you’ve heard of the
Serpent Chiefs and the temples they raise to the sun.”

 
          
“You
are one of them? They are your people?”

 
          
“I
lived among them for a time.”

 
          
“Your
accent,” she told him, “would lead me to believe that you were raised here. You
don’t speak like a foreigner.”

 
          
“I
said I lived among them. I’ve been a great number of places.”

 
          
“A
perpetual mystery, aren’t you?” Who was this man who talked so easily of
himself, yet said nothing? “I heard tell that you called your clan … let’s see,
yes, the High Steppers?”

 
          
“That
was a bit of a joke, I’m afraid.” He smiled wistfully. “Oh, I had a clan a long
time ago. To them, I have been dead for over five tens of Comings of the
Leaves. That’s quite an odd notion to your ears, isn’t it? That a man could
live without a clan? After all, that’s how we place ourselves, define ourselves
to the rest of the world. Our kinship gives us everything, our rules, our
obligations and responsibilities, our mates, our friends, even our afterlife.
It defines who we are,”

 
          
“Without
family, we are nothing.” “Then I am nothing, Shell Comb. My clan is dead to me,
and I to them. So here I stand before you, a bit of human flotsam, a blob of
living flesh without obligation to any clan, family, or village. I am
completely free.”

 
          
She
took a deep breath, twisting a curl of hair around her finger. “Actually,
Elder, I may be the only person in this village who can admire you.” What would
it be like, this total freedom? She caught his slight smile as he read her
thoughts.

 
          
“Frightening,”
he answered simply. “To be completely free is terrifying. Especially after
having been raised in the careful nurturing arms of a respected and influential
clan. I never wanted for anything, Shell Comb. Just like you. Someone was
always there to help me, to make a place for me at their fire. If I was sick,
they cared for me. The same with you. If you are hurt, they will nurse you. If
you are threatened, they will come running with their war clubs raised on high,
for you are of the clan. They have given you everything, and you are obligated
to give them everything back.”

 
          
She
felt herself drifting under the soothing spell of his words. The great hollow
emptied under her heart, a yawning abyss into which she could fall very easily.
Her voice dropped to a wounded whisper. “Oh, yes, Elder. I’ve even given them
my heart, ragged and bleeding. But I fought with them, the whole way. I’ve
struggled to make my own rules.” She caught herself, angered at her
vulnerability. “But why do I tell you this?”

 
          
He
chuckled, amused by her reaction. “Because no one else will listen to you. No
one else understands that longing in your voice.” He pointed off to the west.
“You could go, you know. Pack up and leave. The whole world is out there.”

 
          
She
rubbed her arms, thinking of Copper Thunder, of the upriver villages, and then
her thoughts took her back, into the past. “I went north once, a trading
expedition to the Susquehannocks.” She glanced at him, measuring his reaction.
“I was … No, they were, well, different. As if they weren’t really human at
all. The things they did, the way they lived, the same, but so …”

 
          
“Frightening,”
he answered, eyes veiled. “That’s the reason you will never go, Shell Comb. For
all of your chafing at the restrictions of your clan, the most important thing
they do for you is make you safe and secure.”

 
          
The
abyss yawned, and she had to fight to push it back, to block the past before it
overwhelmed her control and left her broken and sobbing on the ground. She stiffened,
reminding herself that she had been renewed, accepted a fresh start. To look
back caused pain. She’d sworn she’d never look back again. “It comes at a
price, Elder. A terrible price.”

 
          
“Most
things in life do.”

 
          
She
hardened her heart, looking down at her right hand, flexing her fingers. The
muscles tightened under her smooth brown skin. Power lurked there, hidden in
the memory of flesh and bone. The rules were clear-and some were absolute. Some
she would not break, no matter what price her soul paid. “Tell me, Elder. Are
people different from the animals? Are we better off with our clans, kinship,
and obligations?”

 
          
“I
don’t know.” He mused for a moment. “The deer, raccoons, bobcats, and chipmunks
have no one to rely on but themselves. Humans, with their clans, villages, and
tribes, can accommodate an individual’s disaster. That is a strength we have
that they don’t.”

 
          
“But
they are free,” she countered, “to follow the longings of their hearts. Why did
First Man create us with longings and desires? Why did he give us such hungers
of the soul, and then establish the clans?”

 
          
“Is
that how you see life? A conflict of desire against responsibility?”

 
          
They
passed through the palisade gate. She nodded to Crab Spine, who stood guard,
and noted the reserve in his eyes as he stepped back to let The Panther pass.
Once they had entered the plaza, she said, “The way I see it is meaningless.
That’s how it is. Follow the urgings of your soul, Elder, and sooner or later
you will run afoul of the clan and its rules.” Unnerved, she quickly added,
“That’s why you are dead to your people, isn’t it?”

 
          
His
thin lips quirked. “I was young and foolish once.” He hesitated, studying her
from the corner of his eye. “Have you ever been foolish, Shell Comb?”

 
          
“Everyone
has been foolish at one time or another.”

 
          
He
stopped short, apparently lost in thought as he studied the trampled dirt under
his feet. The soil had been discolored by charcoal from the fires. Bits of
broken pottery, bleached clam and oyster shells, and cracked nut shells dotted
the surface. “I am sorry about your daughter, Shell Comb.”

 
          
“So
am I,” she told him. When she met his gaze, her chest seemed suddenly starved
of air. Her heart began to race. How could just looking into his eyes turn her
stalwart control into such confusion? Against the rising grief, she smiled.
“Enjoy your stay here, Elder.”

 
          
Get
away, Shell Comb. Now, as quickly as possible. As she turned, he called, “I
look forward to speaking with you again.”

 
          
Nine
Killer sat cross-legged on the cattail matting before the fire in Rosebud’s
long house and puffed on his clay pipe. His legs ached from the dancing, but a
gentle satisfaction filled him. The dance had brought an ending to the Three
Myrtle raid, a sort of healing for his wounded pride. He studied the blue smoke
rising from his pipe. The tobacco crop this year had only been fair; before
they could be picked off, worms had chewed holes in many of the leaves.
Nevertheless, the weed had produced enough to satisfy his clan’s tribute requirements
to the Weroansqua, and still leave them a year’s supply. The hominy had been
devoured, and the main course of squash and pumpkin had been eaten. The last of
the walnut milk had been drunk. Rosebud had finished stacking the wooden dishes
after the dogs licked them clean. Now she rustled about the sleeping benches,
rolling out soft deerskin robes.