People of the Mist (5 page)

 
          
“Last
night. Who was that young man?”

 
          
She
struggled to maintain her composure. “Who? I don’t understand.”

 
          
“That
young man, the one you showed such distaste for. High Fox. Yes, that was his
name.”

 
          
Shell
Comb busied herself with the stewpot. “Red Knot is leaving with you today,
Great Tayac … a woman on the way to becoming your wife. She … she didn’t just
pop out of the earth as a grown woman. Until eight days ago, she was a girl.
You were a boy once. Didn’t you look at many girls that you knew you’d never
marry?”

 
          
He
nodded, watching the smoke rise toward the soot stained bark roof. It hung in a
thick haze before drifting out the rectangular smoke hole. “You didn’t approve
of High Fox.”

 
          
“I
didn’t? What would make you think so?”

 
          
“Your
face. The fear that I saw there. Whenever you looked at him, you appeared
desperate.”

 
          
“Perhaps
you read me wrong. The boy was her childhood friend, nothing more.” With
feigned indifference, she grasped the stack of wooden plates that lay under the
sleeping bench. They clattered as she pulled them toward her. As she’d hoped,
his gaze had lingered on the sleek curve of her waist, and the way her full
breasts hung under the fabric of her dress. Perhaps a man was just a man—even
if he was a Great Tayac. The serpent stirred within her.

 
          
“The
girl aside,” Copper Thunder said, “what do you think of this arrangement between
your clan and mine?”

 
          
Shell
Comb considered her words carefully. Traps lay on all sides and she dared not
make the smallest of missteps. “We welcome this match, of course. Greenstone
Clan gains as much as you do, Great Tayac. Your country lies upriver,
controlling the trade route to the interior. You are closer to the resources we
need for tools. The hunting is better in your forested hills. Your corn crops
are more reliable than ours. In return, you gain access to our shell beds, our
fishing grounds, and all the wealth of our rich lands.” She forced an artful
smile. “I doubt that my daughter, with her sense of responsibility, would allow
her husband to starve to death.”

 
          
“Perhaps
not, but the Mamanatowick, the High Chief, Water Snake, will be uneasy about
Copper Thunder’s foothold so close to his country. You may be visited by his
warriors.”

 
          
“Greenstone
Clan cares little about Water Snake’s concerns. He, and the Weroances, the Low
Chiefs who serve him, have attempted to meddle in our affairs before much to
their regret.” She paused. “Great Tayac, we considered all of these things
before we agreed to the marriage. We’re not the simple waders in shallow waters
that you seem to think us.” Shell Comb used a helmet crab shell to ladle his
plate full of steaming stew, then called over her shoulder to several of the
slave women, who came to scoop the thick stew into the wooden bowls. One by
one, Copper Thunder’s warriors accepted their food. Only when all the men were
served did the slaves take their own fill and retreat to their side of the long
house to eat.

 
          
Copper
Thunder sipped at his stew and said, “I don’t think you—of all people—wade in
shallow waters, Shell Comb. No, you go very deep ..”. down where the water is
dark and murky.”

 
          
Shell
Comb smiled, as if hearing a compliment, and said, “It is only when we’re down
there in the darkness that we know just how fleeting life is.”

 
          
Hunting
Hawk ran her tongue over her toothless gums as she hobbled painfully around the
bark-covered wall of the House of the Dead, heading for the entry. The dampness
in the chill air masked the odor of decay, but its pungency still hung sweetly
in her nostrils.

 
          
The
morning remained gray, cold, and threatening. Patches of fog rolling in from
the bay crept up the river, and feathered through the trees beyond
Flat
Pearl
Village
.

 
          
Hunting
Hawk leaned against the weathered bark wall, and breathed deeply, trying to
remember when she’d ever felt this tired—not even after the birth of her
children. But childbirth, like so much of life, was a compromise. The Creator,
Ohona, had made women to create life in a joyous process. The capricious Okeus
had meddled, as he did in all things, assuring the pain and agony that process
took. But a woman usually forgot the pain within days of delivery.

 
          
“You
always liked a good joke, didn’t you, Okeus?” she asked, raising her eyes to
the blustery sky. Dark clouds scudded across the blue.

 
          
Well,
no matter. Having passed fifty-three Comings of the Leaves, and placed three
husbands in the House of the Dead, her time for sex—fun or purposeful—was long
gone. Her breasts now lay flat on her chest and sagged down even with her
navel. Her skin, after years of painting with puccoon root, had darkened into a
red-black color and wrinkled into the texture of cedar bark. Once sharp, her
eyes had lost the ability to see anything at a distance. Some said her nose
looked more like a shriveled mushroom than a shriveled mushroom did.

 
          
She
shook her head and rubbed a hand over her sore hip. Walking, even for a short
distance, shot pains up from her ankles, knees, and hips to blur with the
burning ache in the small of her back. She used a walking stick, one made of
sassafras that she could lift and sniff—at least her nose still worked, well
enough—for the pleasant aroma.

 
          
She
reached up and tugged at the gray-shot braid that hung down to her shoulder.
Once upon a time her hair had been long and glossy like Red Knot’s.

 
          
Red
Knot. She winced sorrowfully, a dull pain in her heart. She’d always liked the
girl, so young, bright-eyed, and mischievous. Being Weroansqua meant doing a
great many unpleasant and distasteful things. Her first responsibility was to
Greenstone Clan. She had gambled everything on the alliance with Copper
Thunder—including Red Knot. Besides, she’d seen plenty of pretty children
during her long years. Seen a lot of them grow into dull eyed adults, worn down
by the cares and trials of life.

 
          
Life
meant pain: it hid behind every smile, every sigh at the beauty of new day, or
the chortle of a baby’s laughter. Okeus had seen to that just after the
Creation, too.

 
          
She
ducked into the House of the Dead. The perpetual fire had burned down to a bed
of glowing coals. The only additional light came from the gray shafts entering
through the doorway and smoke hole overhead. It took a moment for her eyes to
adjust to the anteroom’s darkness. This was the central building in her town,
ten paces across, and forty-five long. High walls rose four times the height of
a man to the rounded roof. Mat walls divided the building into three large
rooms.

 
          
Hunting
Hawk hobbled across the anteroom, mumbling the ritual greeting to the fire as
she went, and stopped long enough to bathe her body in its cleansing heat.
Along the south wall Green Serpent— Kwiokos, or High Priest—lay curled in his
nest of deer hides A large gourd rattle and several deer hide bags lay close at
hand. His face was tipped up to the light, eyes closed, and his slack mouth was
open. That hooked nose jutted arrogantly from patterns of wrinkles. His
eyebrows might have been rabbit tails stuck to his brow, so white and fluffy
were they.

 
          
Along
the north wall, two other bundles of bedding were occupied by Lightning Cat and
Streaked Bear. Lightning Cat was the long and lanky apprentice, always keen to
please, and ready to undertake any task. Streaked

 
          
Bear,
in turn, had a short stocky frame more suited to hard physical work than to the
pursuit of the sacred.

 
          
Hunting
Hawk considered kicking them awake, but relented. The celebration had lasted
most of the night, and the priests had led the singing and dancing. Even a
priest deserved rest now and then.

 
          
Her
hips sent twinges up her back as she entered the long hallway with its carved
images of the Guardians, wind spirits, and the spirit animals. Skilled hands
using stone and shell tools had laboriously carved each bust from thick pieces
of wood. Finally the images were painted with bright colors, and eyes of
polished shell, or copper, had been added to allow the spirits to see.

 
          
Behind
the Guardians rested stacks of tribute, offered to Hunting Hawk as was a
Weroansqua’s due: baskets of corn, nuts, squash, and seeds; smoked meat, fish,
shellfish, and fowl; net bags filled with puccoon root, tobacco, shell beads,
copper, and small sacks of antimony; piles of tanned deer hides colorful
feathers, exquisitely woven fabrics, and pots of dyes. Not all of the items
were tribute. Greenstone Clan also kept their war trophies in the House of the
Dead. Scalps, dried human hands, severed fingers, necklaces of human teeth, and
trophy skulls-each carefully polished and painted—lined the walls. Beneath
them, bows and bundles of arrows were neatly stacked next to a pile of wooden
shields: materials for her warriors during times of conflict.

 
          
Hunting
Hawk touched each of the Guardians with a finger as she passed. Normally the
touch reassured her, but this time, her unease grew, as if the Guardians had
seen into the dark labyrinth of her soul.

 
          
She
stopped at the entrance to the. sanctum. Another fire—also burned to
coals—glowed in the central fire pit. A head-high scaffold stood out from the
back wall, and upon it, in careful rows, lay the bodies of her ancestors.

 
          
Each
corpse was wrapped in matting to protect the desiccated bones and skin.

 
          
In
the shadows beneath sat the statue of Okeus, his shrine surrounded on three
sides by corn husk matting. His long black hair had been pulled into a tight
knot on his head. The expression on his carved face always perplexed Hunting
Hawk. Did that curved mouth mock her, or leer at her? Okeus’ chest was painted
white, and heavy necklaces of copper and shell beads hung from his neck. Around
his waist he wore a finely tanned deer hide girdle decorated by paintings and
shell beads. The god’s outstretched arms were painted in lightning bolts. The
right hand propped up a beautiful war club; two stone celts had been set into
the intricately carved wood. A shock of corn hung from the left hand. His
thighs were stained black with white spots running down their length. Now he
watched her from the gloom, white-shell eyes gleaming. Hunting Hawk slipped her
age-gnarled fingers into the pouch at her side and withdrew a handful of corn
flour and mashed walnuts. This she sprinkled onto the red eyes of the coals.
The meal blackened and burst to flame. As quickly as the fire flared, the
offering was consumed. Hunting Hawk could sense Okeus’ satisfaction.

 
          
“I
have unleashed the storm. Terrible things are coming, aren’t they?” she asked
the squatting god. “Whose fault was this, Okeus? Was the mistake mine?”

 
          
A
shiver played down her back as she stared into those shining eyes. For the
briefest instant, she thought she heard laughter, and then silence.

 
          
“Don’t
scorn me, wicked god. I’ve served you well enough over the years.”

 
          
She
raised her eyes to the scaffold, and the mat wrapped bundles that lay there.
“Greetings, old friends,” she whispered, and stared thoughtfully at the dried
corpses.

 
          
“Well,”
she told them bluntly, “I’ve done it. Time will tell if it was for the clan’s
best, or not.” She propped herself against one of the posts, the wood
honey-colored with age and soot. “I’ve done something terrible. But necessary.
I had no choice. I want you to know that. No choice at all.”

 
          
She
could sense the ghosts stirring, and cocked her head. Someone had once told her
that in the final moments of life, a person could finally hear the ghosts
talking. But nothing came to her ears.