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Authors: Kathleen O'Neal Gear,W. Michael Gear

People of the Owl: A Novel of Prehistoric North America (North America's Forgotten Past) (63 page)

BOOK: People of the Owl: A Novel of Prehistoric North America (North America's Forgotten Past)
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She took a breath, trying to think of what to say, but her response was cut off when Yellow Spider appeared out of the night, saying, “Salamander? There is news. Mud Stalker and Deep Hunter are calling the Council to session tomorrow morning.”
“I see.”
Anhinga saw the slow spread of misery in his expression.
“It’s serious,” Yellow Spider added, his muscles bunching under his smooth brown skin. “I have contacts, people who are obliged from the Trade White Bird and I brought down river. They are going to accuse you of witchcraft tomorrow.”
“I have been anticipating that.” Salamander’s fists opened and closed. “Cousin, no matter what, I want you to remember your promise to me that day at the canoe landing. Will you do as I ask, not as your heart demands?”
What was this? Anhinga turned her eyes on Yellow Spider. He was fidgeting, rocking his weight from foot to foot. A faint nod was his only answer.
“Good,” Salamander said with a sigh.
“What are you going to do?” Anhinga asked.
Salamander’s lips twitched. “I am going to try to save myself and
the clans,” he answered. “As we were just discussing, sometimes in order to save yourself, you must give up everything. Timing will be the most important thing.” With that, he pushed himself to his feet, looking completely haggard.
“What are you going to do?” Yellow Spider demanded.
“For the moment”—silver fish scales glittered on Salamander’s hand as he rubbed his face—“I am going to see Speaker Thunder Tail. After that I have a stop to make at the Serpent’s. Then, if I can, I am going to try and get a full night’s sleep.”
Wing Heart’s voice caught them by surprise. “If there is any trouble, you be sure to alert Speaker Cloud Heron. He’ll handle it.”
“Yes, Mother.” Salamander sounded like his souls were bleeding. “I will do that first thing.”
“I’m coming with you,” Yellow Spider said, and for the first time, Anhinga noticed the ax hanging from his hand.
“Me too!” Anhinga cried. She hadn’t made two steps before Salamander’s hand caught her elbow.
“No, please,” he said gently. “If you would help me, be here when I return. I won’t be able to sleep tonight unless you are here to hold me.”
The fear in his voice paralyzed her. She stood rooted as her husband and his kinsman walked off into the night.
D
ew gave the world a grayish tint in the pale light of dawn. Salamander prodded the smoking fire with a stick as he looked out past the pestle and mortar to the plaza. The grass had been beaten flat by the Northern Moiety players as they prepared for the game, now only three days away. Fingers of silky mist wound around the Women’s House where it perched atop the Mother Mound. They drifted over the plaza and slipped between the houses like ghostly serpents on the prowl. The Bird’s Head was sheathed in gray, a Spirit figure dominating the west.
He could feel the last tendrils of the Dream, like the dawn mist, slowly fading away. The vision had been so clear. He could still see the images old Heron had shown him of the coming day.
He had used the smallest sliver of mushroom. It had been enough to open the doors of his Dreams. He had reached Heron, Danced with her, and she had let him see.
Salamander poked at a coal and sniffed at the mint tea that steamed in a stone bowl at the fire’s edge. In the growing light he could make out the latest of his mother’s fabrics, a white, red, and purple design that sported a red potbellied owl with huge eye disks in the center.
Salamander stared into the round black eyes she had woven into the fabric. Was he still seeing through the fast-shrinking tunnel brother mushroom had opened, or was the creature really alive?
“So, we have come to it, haven’t we?”
The weaving remained mute.
“Today I shall make my decision. You and Many Colored Crow must wait to see which of you I choose. Or will you take that chance? What if you just killed me? Would another be more compliant to your wishes than I am?”
The owl’s large eyes pried at him, trying to see into his souls.
Salamander stepped over and inspected the fabric. He ran his fingertips over it, feeling the softness. Mother had used carefully separated flax fibers. As far as Salamander could tell, she had finished last night before retreating to her bed. Using a sharp stone flake, he cut the threads and lifted the fabric from the loom. After one last admiration, he draped it over his shoulders, then resettled himself at the fire to keep track of his tea.
His eyesight blurred with bits of the vision old Heron had granted him. The day’s events unfolded like a lotus flower. He saw Pine Drop, her eyes blazing righteously as she faced the Council. Saw Back stood guard in the darkness, his souls wreathed in hate and anger. Anhinga pointed at two ceramic pots decorated with interlocking owls. Mud Stalker smiled at him in triumph. He saw the craftiness in Deep Hunter’s eyes. Half Thorn gleefully clapped his hands, crying, “I win! I am to be Speaker!”
Salamander blinked hard to fracture the vision. He glanced back at his house, satisfied that Anhinga still slept soundly. After completing his errands the night before and tucking his daughter in, he had taken her to his bed. For a hand of time they had alternately held each other and coupled until she had fallen into a deep and exhausted sleep.
It was afterward that he had lifted the thin bit of mushroom to his lips and begun calling for old Heron.
The mint leaves swirled slowly in the hot water, the fresh tang flavoring the very air. In the growing light Salamander could see that the water had turned amber. Satisfied, he used an old rag to wrap his hand and moved the stone bowl to one side. Then he opened the little pouch and sprinkled a powder into the steaming liquid, making sure to keep his nose upwind of the rising steam.
He had realized that the tea was necessary to his plans when he noticed the missing ax and fitted it to the vision. Its spot in the collection of tools was ominously vacant. Coupled with the silence, he could guess at the reasons for Pine Drop’s absence.
“It will be better this way,” he told the morning, and glanced
eastward. A glowing iridescent rose light surrounded by a softening lavender filled the northeast beyond the mist-shrouded trees across Morning Lake. Brother mushroom tugged playfully at his souls, smearing the colors in the sky.
Salamander smiled, imagining the view from the Bird’s Head. It was going to be a glorious morning. He wondered how many of the people in Sun Town would take the time to enjoy it.
M
ud Stalker smiled and stretched as he sat up on his bed. He could hear the murmur of voices outside, and the angle of light through the door told him that Mother Sun was nearly two hands high above the horizon.
“Is it morning?” Three Moss asked as she rolled onto her side and slitted her sleep-heavy eyes.
“It is.” Mud Stalker bent his head back, feeling the bones in his neck crackle and the muscles pull.
Three Moss stretched before she threw back the elkhide, wiggled past him, and stood. The nipples on her full breasts looked like burnished copper. The width of her hips compensated for her thick waist, and the gleaming black wealth of pubic hair reminded him of bear fur.
“Would you like to eat with Mother and me before the Council meeting?” Three Moss watched him as she caught up her loose hair and pulled it back into a shock behind her head. She smiled as his gaze fixed on her taut breasts. “I would think you hadn’t been with a woman for moons, Speaker. Had you forgotten what a woman’s body is like?”
He chuckled. “I had indeed. Moons, yes. It’s been even longer than that.”
“I enjoyed myself,” she told him evenly, eyes measuring. “Myself, I would have no objection to sharing a bed with you every so often.”
“And your husband?” He raised an eyebrow.
“He is a hunter who prefers the swamp—and I think he spends a great many nights in beds that aren’t warmed by my body.”
“I see.”
“For now, just consider the advantages that might be of benefit to your clan. After today, I would expect Snapping Turtle Clan to have a great deal of prestige. Frog Clan, with my influence, might
be a solid ally for you, Speaker. I can’t wait to tell Mother that Moccasin Leaf has agreed to return our root grounds. It will make her most happy. Almost as happy as I was several times last night.”
He nodded. “I, too, enjoyed last night. At my age, and for as little practice as I have had in the last turning of the seasons, it was a delightful reminder that I’m not decrepit.”
She laughed at that. “No, indeed you are not.”
“But I will pass on breakfast. Give my regards to the Clan Elder. I have some things to see to before the Council meets. This is too important to allow anything to go amiss.”
She nodded as she found her kirtle, wadded on the floor where it had been hastily discarded the night before. Her eyes held his as she slipped it on. “Why do men always give a woman that look when she dresses?”
“Because deep in our souls we see it as an ending rather than a beginning,” he replied. “Endings are always laced with regret while beginnings are sprinkled with hope.”
She stopped at the door, one hand on the cane-pole frame. “This is just the beginning, you know. After Owl Clan, you still have to unseat Thunder Tail. Deep Hunter will be thinking the same thing.”
He nodded. “I have plans for him.”
She smiled. “Will I see you tonight?”
He stood, making a face as his bones complained. With his good hand he recovered his breechcloth and belt. “If all goes as I hope, I was thinking of feasting the Council tonight. Invitations have already gone to the Clan Elders. Had you not been otherwise occupied last night, you would have heard.”
“I see.” A smile. “And after the feast, what? Politics with the Speakers?”
“Some. But after that, perhaps I would be interested in discussing some things with a Clan Elder’s daughter.”
“Yes, well, after last night it will be interesting to see just how long you can still paddle in my canoe, Speaker.”
“Let’s hope I’m not
that
decrepit.”
And then she was gone.
He stood for a moment, frowning down at the smoldering embers in the fire pit. Cane Frog was old. How many seasons did she have left anyway? Was it worth a marriage to Three Moss? Or would his interests be better served with a different alliance? Perhaps one of Deep Hunter’s nieces? True, they were all currently married, but,
as he had come to understand so well, things could happen to a husband. Only this time, no crow was going to lead any hunter to the body.
E
ach time Pine Drop shot a glance in Water Stinger’s direction, she fumed. How dare her mother and uncle treat her like a common captive? By blood and pus, she was their daughter! A woman married to a Speaker, one who had provided her lineage and clan with an heir! Yet here she was, treated like an errant child, who, if she pushed the issue, would end up in public humiliation when her kinsman physically prohibited her from leaving her house.
Her fire popped and crackled in the bright morning light as she continued the chore of smoking the last of yesterday’s catch of fish.
It was but two days to the beginning of the solstice ceremonies. Sun Town had become a hive. People kept passing and calling solstice greetings to her. Some she knew, others were strangers. She played the game, keeping her voice light as she called polite responses. Reading their expressions, she realized that no one but her seemed aware that something sinister and brooding was being hatched. That gave her pause.
Night Rain ducked out of the house wearing a white kirtle belted at the waist. Her thick hair was parted, appropriate to her married status and pulled back over her shoulders. She had inserted long white heron feathers at an angle over her ears. As attractive as she looked, a single glance at her eyes would have been sufficient to discourage anyone from approaching her.
She walked over and crouched beside Pine Drop—so close that their thighs were touching. “We’re still captive!”
“Water Stinger insists on watching my every move.” Pine Drop reached over and tucked the cloth around her baby’s face where the infant slept in the cradleboard. “I threw a cooking clay at him when he insisted on following me down to the borrow pit. I
don’t
need my cousin peering up my rear as I squat.”
“He is under Uncle’s orders.” Night Rain made a face. “But I’ll take a cooking clay with me next time.”
“I got my revenge when I changed Tadpole after her feeding.”
“Tadpole?”
“It seemed more fitting for a little girl than Mud Puppy. Not only
is she Salamander’s child, but each time Uncle hears the name, it’s going to drive him wild.”
“When did you decide this?”
“Last night. She’s old enough for a name, Night Rain. It’s been three moons since she was born. If her souls haven’t settled into her body, they never will. I think it’s safe to name her now.”
Night Rain ground her teeth as she studied Water Stinger. The young warrior leaned insolently against the house wall ten paces distant, face expressionless, arms crossed as he watched them.
“Why do you think Salamander killed Eats Wood?” Night Rain asked bluntly.
“
If
he killed Eats Wood—and we still don’t know for a fact that he did—I would wager a moon’s food that he had a good reason. Snakes! I wish I could just talk to him!”
“Did he ever flatly deny it?”
Pine Drop had been considering just that. “Now that you mention it, no. Thinking back, he very cleverly evaded the question. I need to talk to him.”
“Uncle doesn’t trust us when it comes to Salamander.”
“You were there. Did the ax really fit the wound?”
“Perfectly.” Night Rain shook her head. “I can’t believe I did this to him. If I’d taken Anhinga’s ax like Uncle wanted, it wouldn’t have fit. The shapes are different. I looked at them very closely.”
Pine Drop studied her sister. “I still don’t understand why you did that.”
Night Rain’s shoulders rose and fell. “I don’t either. Isn’t it silly? I just want everything to be like it was. I want us to be a family. You, me, Anhinga, and Salamander. I should hate them, but somehow I don’t. How did that happen?”
“You were happy,” Pine Drop said. “We all were. Salamander made it happen.”
“I didn’t want to see him hurt.” Night Rain lowered her head and squeezed her eyes shut. “I always do the wrong thing! I always hurt the people I love. What’s the
matter
with me?”
BOOK: People of the Owl: A Novel of Prehistoric North America (North America's Forgotten Past)
8Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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