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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) (64 page)

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

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“Do you follow your clan, or your heart?” Pine Drop asked absently. “That’s partly what Salamander meant yesterday.” She took a breath, coming to a decision. “All right, are you up to stopping this silliness?”

Night Rain wiped at tears that dampened her eyes. “What did you have in mind?”

“A way to save us, if you don’t mind lying a little. It is sure to enrage Mother and Uncle. It may have terrible consequences for us. Uncle might even cast us out of Sun Town for it.”

Night Rain was looking half-sick. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re thinking before I have to decide.”

“I killed Eats Wood.”

“
What?”

“Uncle wants us at that Council meeting. He wants us to see Salamander charged with murder as well as with witchcraft. We are to be witnesses to his disgrace and humiliation. That way we will be docile nieces the next time he needs to marry us off for the clan’s benefit.”

“You mean to say that in Council? That
you
killed Eats Wood?”

Pine Drop peered coolly into her sister’s shocked eyes. “Think about it. A clan is responsible for the behavior of its own. Eats Wood was a walking spineless leech. A wiggling bloodsucker who would have eventually glutted his appetite on some young woman. He was trouble waiting to happen. We agree on that, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, our story is that he came on me in the forest just after Tadpole was born. He wanted to taste my milk, wanted to slide into my canoe as he watched my naked baby’s body.”

“That’s
disgusting
!”

“As disgusting as a man can get,” Pine Drop agreed. “I had Salamander’s ax that day. I had taken it from his house while I was on the way to gather firewood.” Her lips quirked. “Our family has a history of getting into trouble when we’re after firewood.”

“Not funny.”

“When I finally realized that Eats Wood wasn’t just making crude jokes I was so upset and distressed that I crashed the ax through his head.”

“From behind. That’s the only way the ax fits.”

“From behind,” Pine Drop agreed, fitting that new fact into her story. “Let’s see. He turned toward Tadpole, who was on the ground in her cradleboard, and I struck.”

“So, how did he end up in a canoe under a root down in the Jaguar Hide’s swamp.”

“Because I asked Salamander to help me dispose of the body. You, Salamander, and I carried him to the canoe landing one night, and Salamander took him away. You and I had no idea where, and we didn’t ask.”

Night Rain looked horrified. “You would do this? Say this?”

“And you will say that it is the truth.”

“Why?”

Pine Drop smiled. “Because, like you, I want to be happy again. I want to spend the rest of my life with the man I love.”

“You might be giving up the chance to be Clan Elder.”

“You can take my place. Most of the blame will be mine.”

Night Rain gaped. “You would actually do that?”

Pine Drop nodded. “I know my husband. Whatever he did, it was done to protect someone, to keep them from harm. No matter what, Night Rain, he will not be given a fair chance in the Council. You and I both know that.”

Night Rain nervously chewed her lip, her brow lined. “Uncle will know it’s a lie. He will wonder why I didn’t say something, do something, when I brought him the ax. Snakes! He still thinks it belongs to Anhinga.”

“It was an easy mistake to make,” Pine Drop said simply. “You were upset at having to steal Anhinga’s ax. You ducked into Salamander’s house, grabbed the first ax you found, and ran. Uncle may not believe it, but the Council will.”

“Snakes, I’m already feeling scared,” Night Rain muttered. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“If we don’t save him, Night Rain, we will hate ourselves for the rest of our lives. Do you want to live with that?”

“No, Sister. I’m with you all the way.”

“Hello the camp!” a pleasant male voice called.

They turned to see Yellow Spider walking up with a drinking gourd cupped in his hands. “Salamander sends his greetings! He made tea this morning, and since there was extra, he wanted you to have this.”

Water Stinger stepped forward, a keen expression on his face.

Pine Drop jumped to her feet, hurrying to meet Yellow Spider before Water Stinger could come close. She smiled into Yellow Spider’s strained face and took the gourd. In a loud voice, she declared, “Thank you, Yellow Spider.” In a hushed rush, she whispered. “You must tell Salamander to trust me today like I once trusted him!” With her eyes, she burned emphasis into each of her words.

“He told you to remember him fondly as you share it.” Yellow Spider replied bluffly, playing his part with difficulty. The faint wink and slightest jerk of his head in acknowledgment filled her with relief.

“Would you care to join us?”

Water Stinger was now too close for subterfuge.

“I have things to do.” Yellow Spider touched his forehead in respect. “But thank you for your kind offer.”

“Give our husband our regards,” Night Rain called in a too-shrill voice. “We will see him soon.”

Yellow Spider managed a quick glance at Water Stinger, read the
man’s aggressive posture, and nodded before he turned on his heel and strode away.

He sent us a gourd full of tea? What is this all about?
Pine Drop evaded Water Stinger’s eyes and retreated to the ramada where she squatted beside Night Rain. Lifting the gourd, she sloshed the liquid and sniffed. The soothing aroma of mint filled her nose.

“He sent us tea,” she said as she studied the gourd container. “Isn’t that just Salamander’s way? The whole world is about to fall on him with claws and fangs, and he sends us tea.”

Night Rain took the gourd and drank. “It’s good, too. Try some.”

Sixty

A
nhinga was wrapping clean moss around the baby’s bottom when Salamander ducked through the door. He stepped over and smiled down at his daughter. Anhinga tied the thongs that bound the little girl in the fabric wrap.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Salamander said with longing.

“She has her mother’s looks and her father’s souls,” Anhinga replied, and straightened. She lifted an eyebrow at the roll of clothing in his hands.

“For you.” He extended them. “If you would put this on before you leave, anyone who sees you, even from a distance, will believe you to be a member of Owl Clan.”

She read the tension he tried so hard to hide. “It has really come to that?”

Hating to, he gave her a short nod.

“You and I, Husband, are not like the others. We know that life is neither fair nor predictable.” She ran her fingers along his face as she stared into his eyes. “Perhaps Power places us where we are for specific reasons, as your Masked Owl would have you believe. I will go the moment Yellow Spider assures me that Saw Back is otherwise occupied.”

“Thank you,” he said unsteadily.

“You made me promise,” she recalled. “And now I will make you promise something.”

“What is that?”

“Come to me.” She bent down and kissed him gently on the lips. “You are the bravest man I know. If you live through this, I will be waiting for you at the Panther’s Bones.”

“I promise. If I live, I will come to you,” he whispered. “Never forget my love for you.”

From outside, Yellow Spider’s worried voice called, “Salamander?”

“It is time.” He turned reluctantly, then looked back, haunted eyes pleading with hers.

“Go, my husband,” she told him simply. “Or come with me now, and we will leave this all behind us.”

“We are who we are,” he whispered, and ducked out the door.

For a long moment, Anhinga’s heart seemed to sink right through her body and into the muddy earth. She closed her eyes, feeling the hammering of loneliness closing around her.

How long she stood, she couldn’t say. Then a voice penetrated her benumbed souls. “Salamander?”

Her frantic thoughts searched and placed a name with the voice. “Little Needle? Is that you?”

A round and youthful face appeared in the doorway. “Has Salamander gone to the Council?”

“He has.” Anhinga smiled at the boy. “But he asked me if I saw you, to ask you for a favor. He would like you to do something for him.”

“He’s Clan Speaker,” Little Needle answered. “He can just order it.”

“That’s not Salamander,” she told him warmly, “and you know it.”

Little Needle smiled with an apparent wistfulness. “I know.”

Anhinga pointed to the two large ceramic pots resting on cane matting beside the door. “Do you see those pots? The ones with the owl designs on the side? They need to be delivered, Little Needle. One needs to be placed at Speaker Deep Hunter’s fire, and the other set inside Mud Stalker’s doorway. You are
not
to do two things. First, you are not to sneak a taste! Do you understand?”

At the boy’s solemn nod, she added, “And you are
not
to mention this to anyone! Not to the Speakers, and certainly not to Moccasin Leaf. Salamander wants to tell the Speakers of this special gift in his own way. Do you understand why that might be?”

Little Needle, big-eyed, jerked another nod.

“Good. Salamander thinks very highly of you, you know.”

“I know.” His voice sounded small.

“If you could place those pots without being seen, it would make the surprise even bigger. Could you do that?”

“I think so.”

“Good.” She smiled at him, thought for a heartbeat, and reached for the little red chert owl that Salamander had been carving. Finished, but for the polishing, the little potbellied figure was cool in her hand. “In return for your service, I want you to have this. It’s to remember Salamander by.”

Little Needle studied the little owl she dropped into his hand, and tears welled in his eyes. “Thank you, Anhinga. I’ll do it.” He swallowed a sob. “For him. No one will see me, I promise.”

A
terrible battle raged in Mud Stalker’s souls as he surveyed the huge crowd that had gathered around the Council House. He wanted to pace back and forth irritably, to release the rampant energy that powered his bones and muscles. But he dare not. He had waited all of his life for this moment, planned of it, Dreamed of it. If Snapping Turtle Clan was to be ascendant, he must show himself and Sweet Root as controlled, steady, confident, and worthy of leadership.

His souls screamed to be about this last great task. He nodded to people as he met their eyes, keeping his face calm and possessed. He kept his bad arm cradled, struggling to project the countenance of a serene Speaker faced with a difficult task. The mighty weight of the clans was poised, watching, waiting with him.

Where are Pine Drop and Night Rain?
The question ate at him as he looked at Sweet Root. His sister stood to one side, her back resting against one of the poles. She had a sour look on her face, her darting eyes betraying her growing anxiety.

Mud Stalker turned, looking across at Owl Clan’s contingent. Moccasin Leaf’s face was pinched, her eyes glittering. Beside her, Half Thorn had a stupid smile on his lips. He was greased, dressed in a fine white breechcloth with a purple-dyed cape over his shoulders. He had stuck so many white heron feathers into his hair that he looked like a bristly flower.

That is the man I am going to make Speaker of Owl Clan.
Not even the elevation of Salamander had filled him with such disgust.
Ah, Wing Heart, if only your souls had stayed around to see this. But, perhaps it is better that they have fled. As great as you were, it is better that you have escaped the humiliation.

At Alligator Clan’s spot, Deep Hunter fretted. He reminded Mud Stalker of a male dog standing over a pile of scraps. He was anxious to growl and show his teeth, but he was unsure whom to snap at. Colored Paint was talking in low tones to Sour Mouth and Saw Back in the shaded rear where the rest of the lineage leaders were gathered.

Mud Stalker centered his attention on the young warrior with the misshapen face. Saw Back’s eyes might have been hot stones. He kept smiling in that lopsided manner he had adopted, and his gaze kept turning to Owl Clan, as if in anticipation of his enemy’s arrival.

In Frog Clan’s spot, Three Moss was leaning to speak into her mother’s ear, her hand on the old woman’s bare shoulder. It would speak volumes through the silent movement of fingers against the old woman’s skin on this day.

Clay Fat looked miserable, as if he’d eaten something for breakfast that disagreed with him. Clan Elder Turtle Mist’s head was tilted his way, her mouth moving as she spoke in obvious irritation. Clay Fat was the only unknown. He might vote either way. Not that it mattered, with Cane Frog in hand Mud Stalker had his majority.

Eagle Clan’s Thunder Tail sat beside Stone Talon, a brooding darkness behind his stiff face. He seemed not to see or hear anything but the plodding thoughts slipping between his souls.

Enjoy yourself today, Leader, it will not be many moons from now before I take your place.

A stir in the crowd was the only warning before Salamander pushed through the throng and walked into the eastern entrance. A sudden hush fell on the Council House as all eyes turned toward him.

Salamander seemed unreasonably calm, as if he had no idea what lay in store for him. He wore a simple brown breechcloth while a spectacularly dyed fabric draped from his shoulders. Wing Heart’s work, most definitely. Mud Stalker could almost feel the owl’s eyes staring back from the design.

To Mud Stalker’s surprise, Salamander called some sort of greeting to Saw Back. The latter just glared in return.

A half heartbeat later, Salamander nodded to Yellow Spider, and the warrior slipped away through the crowd.

What was
that
all about?

It was then that Water Stinger appeared at his elbow. “Speaker?”

“Yes, what is it? Where are Pine Drop and Night Rain?”

“Sick, Speaker.”

Mud Stalker blinked, trying to absorb the information. “What do you mean, sick?”

Water Stinger looked truly mystified. “They were fine until a half hand of time ago. Then, all of a sudden, Night Rain threw up. A moment later, so did Pine Drop. I put them in their beds, but they are not well. Their eyes are all wrong, their pupils have grown large. The worst thing is, Speaker, they are delirious, talking to people who are not there.”

“What?”

“I think it is some kind of fever, but their bodies are not hot, and they aren’t sweating. It’s just the opposite. They feel cool to the touch, breathing slowly. You would think they were more corpses than alive.”

“Attention! Your attention, please! I think we are all here,” Thunder Tail called as he stepped out into the open by the smoldering central fire. “This Council has been called to deal with a most serious matter.”

Mud Stalker pushed Water Stinger away in irritation, trying to recapture the string of his thoughts. “We’ll have to do without them. Go, Cousin. Be ready for my signal.” He stepped forward, waiting to be acknowledged by the Leader.

Thunder Tail raised his voice, trying to be heard by as many as possible. “It has been alleged by some that Speaker Salamander of Owl Clan has been involved in witchcraft, his spells and attacks having been leveled against not only his own relatives, but others as well.”

A ripple of conversation rolled through the crowd. Mud Stalker tried to keep the smile of satisfaction from his lips.

“That is not the only charge.” Thunder Tail looked from face to face around the Council. “Speaker Salamander’s third wife, the woman known as Anhinga, is believed to have murdered a young man named Eats Wood, a member of the Snapping Turtle Clan.”

Another eruption of conversation followed.

“These are serious charges!” Thunder Tail gave Mud Stalker a hard stare. “Who makes these charges?”

Mud Stalker and Sweet Root stepped forward, crying in unison, “We do!”

Deep Hunter also stepped out, not to be left behind, and cried, “Alligator Clan makes these charges.”

“As does Frog Clan!” Cane Frog’s reedy voice barely carried across the circle.

To everyone but Mud Stalker’s surprise, Moccasin Leaf strode out, and cried, “So does Owl Clan!”

All eyes turned to Clay Fat, who stood uncomfortably and stepped out from under the palmetto-and-cane roofing to squint in
the sun. “Rattlesnake Clan is unsure. We would hear the evidence.”

Mud Stalker had been hoping for just that request. He raised his hand high over his head, the signal to Water Stinger. “Snapping Turtle Clan will address the murder of our young warrior first.” Give them a brutally murdered corpse to start with, and the less substantive charges would follow of their own accord.

A buzz of voices and a stirring of the crowd preceded the six strong young men who came forward at a trot. Between them they bore Eats Wood’s mud-caked canoe. Red Finger came striding along behind, a cardinal-feather cloak over one shoulder, his creamy white breechcloth swinging with each step. Sunlight glistened on his gray hair.

The canoe was borne through the eastern entrance and laid carefully on the ground at Mud Stalker’s feet.

Mud Stalker glanced around the Council. “I would have this Council recognize my cousin, Red Finger. It was he who found Eats Wood’s canoe.”

As Red Finger recounted his story about the pesky crow, Mud Stalker’s souls delighted at the expressions he saw in the audience. People were truly captivated and awed.

Red Finger finished and produced the little round white stone. He held it between thumb and forefinger as he turned so that all could see it.

Mud Stalker cried, “What are we to learn from this? Power wanted Eats Wood’s murderer found!”

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

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