Raven Mocker (6 page)

S
nakewater was tempted for a moment to leap from her bed and attack the intruder with her butcher knife. She took a deep breath to regain her composure, and to think. She was furious, but a wrong reaction to the situation might carry consequences.

It was tempting to play along, to learn more about this person who skulked around in the dark with such a revolting proposal. Yet doing so would imply that the accusations against her were true.
Wait ….
This might even be a trap. She must not even suggest a willingness to negotiate such a bargain. To do so would virtually be an admission of guilt.

Either way the person outside her door was dangerous. For a man actually to seek such a thing was completely foreign to the customs and ways of the Real People. He might be dangerous to her or to others, with such a bizarre goal in life. If it was a trap, there was also great danger to her. Her answer would be critical.

“Snakewater,” the voice said in a loud whisper, “are you still there?”

“Where else would I be?” she snapped. Then she tried to take control of her temper. “I was only wondering,” she said more calmly, “how anyone could think such a thing possible. I know nothing of the Raven Mocker, beyond the old story.”

“Huh!” came a sarcastic grunt from outside. “Of course
you would have to say that. But think about it. I will be back.”

“Who are you?” Snakewater demanded. “Why do you bother me with this?”

She waited …. There was no sound outside. Quietly she rose and stepped to the doorway, knife still in hand, and flung the doorskin aside. There was no one. Not even a retreating figure in the dim starlight. Had she dreamed it? No, it had been too real. She glanced at the position of the stars as they rotated around the one fixed star in the north. Yes, a long time until morning. Well, when morning came, she would look for footprints in the dust outside the door. For now … She let the leather curtain fall back into place and sought her bed. There would probably be little sleep, but she would try.

“Wado,”
she said into the dark. “Thank you, Lumpy, for waking me!”

Despite her doubts she quickly fell asleep.

T
he next morning the whole episode seemed like a dream. She lay there a moment, then rose to look outside. It was barely growing light. Dew that had collected on the roof dripped from the edge and spattered in the dust below. And,
yes!
It spattered in the footprints that she saw along the front of the house. And, yes,
there
was the spot where he had stood, shuffling a little with nervousness as he had talked with her. Now she had a strange feeling that it had
not
been a trap. The misguided man in the dark had actually believed that she could teach him to be a Raven Mocker. She shook her head sadly at the thought of such a sick mind. However, a person with such a belief could be very dangerous, especially to her, with the Council ready to further discuss the problem that faced both Snakewater and Old Town.

There was yet another question that now occurred to her. The visitor in the night, having been rebuffed, might easily turn against her completely. He would not be certain whether she could identify him. Possibly he might fear she would go to the Council, putting him in jeopardy.
What recourse would he have? A cold chill crept up the back of her spine. In that case she could see no alternative for him except to kill
her.
It was not a pleasant thought. If he did kill her, of course, it would prove her innocence before the Council. A hollow victory, one she would not be alive to enjoy.

After worrying for half the morning she came to a conclusion. She must talk with someone, a person who would be aware of what was going on, in case something happened to her. Better a person with authority…. Of course! Three Fingers… Why had she not thought of it before?

I
t was not easy to find a way to talk privately with such a person as Three Fingers. But it was still early. People were just beginning to go to water, stumbling around sleepily. Men and women used different sections of the river, of course. If she hurried over to wait, partially concealed, along the path the men took to the river… No sooner had the idea formed than she was hurrying in that direction. She encountered a man or two and, when appropriate, nodded a greeting. Mostly she kept a little way off the path, making use of bushes and patches of fog to remain as inconspicuous as possible. It did not occur to her that this would lend an ethereal nature to any encounter with a sleepy citizen.

She concealed herself behind a clump of shrubs and waited. Younger men, having completed the morning ritual, were drifting back toward the town by twos and threes, visiting about the weather. Older men, rising more slowly, were mostly headed toward the water. She had no idea where Three Fingers might be. It was possible that he had finished the morning ceremony and returned to his house, but she thought not. The sun was barely peeking under the sky dome, and Three Fingers was, above all, a deliberate and thoughtful person. No, he would be among the later persons to go to water

Snakewater was almost convinced that her guess was wrong. The sun was fully up, starting to crawl up the dome, and the men were no longer heading toward the
river, but back. She had nearly decided that she must forget the secrecy and go to the house of Three Fingers, when he appeared from the direction of the town. He looked very sleepy and undignified, his hair awry, yawning and scratching his belly. She had guessed right after all. Three Fingers was a late riser.

“Ssst! Three Fingers!” she called.

The man nearly jumped off the path in his surprise.

“It is Snakewater,” she said hurriedly. “I must talk with you.”

“I—I …” he stammered, trying to regain his dignity. Irritation and embarrassment showed plainly in his face. But after all, talking to citizens was part of his responsibility as Peace Chief.

“Wait here,” he said irritably. “I am going to the water.”

W
hen he returned a little later, his dignity was restored. He appeared alert and confident, well dressed, and his turban was carefully wrapped. The irritation was gone from his face, replaced by his usual look of friendly concern, which befitted his position and office.

Snakewater rose from her concealment and motioned for him to follow her into the woods a little way. He did so, although she was certain that the situation was not to his liking.

“What is it, woman?” he asked almost irritably as she stopped and turned. “This is most unusual!”

“That is true,” she agreed. “But, Three Fingers, the whole thing is unusual. A man came to my house in the night.”

His eyebrows rose in surprise, but she continued.

“No, not in that way! Be sensible, Three Fingers! He came about the Raven Mocker.”

“Ah! How so, Snakewater?”

“He wanted me to teach
him
to become a Raven Mocker. He offered to make me rich if I would do that.”

“I see …. This is a serious thing ….” he mused.

“I thought you should know of this.”

“Yes, yes… I had no idea that there were those
who… ” His voice trailed off. Then he seemed to regain the authority of his office. The confusion was gone, shrugged aside, and he was again the dignified Peace Chief of Old Town.

“Let us consider,” he began, firmly now. “The Council is to meet tomorrow. I have given this much thought. There are two or three families who will back your accuser. Mostly the people will support you. Some are unsure. But this… You have no idea who this was?”

“None. I did not recognize the voice.”

“Mmm… And he would make you rich?”

“So he said. But I could not do so.”

“Yes, yes, I know this.” Three Fingers waved her protest aside. “But
he
does not, it seems. There are few men in Old Town with the wealth to offer. I can think of none who would consider such a thing. But there may be those who could
not
have the wealth, but would try to cheat you. Yes, this would be one of those ….”

“I had not thought of that,” she said. “I had wondered, since I refused, that he might fear I would tell of his offer.”

“But you do not know who he is.”

“True. But he does not know that. Oh, yes… He said to think about it, and that he would be back.”

“Ah! Now we have him!” Three Fingers chortled.

“How so?” Snakewater was puzzled.

“The Council meets tomorrow. He would want to know before then, so he will come tonight!”

“Three Fingers, I am sick of this whole thing! I have decided to leave, to go west. The trader said there are others of the Real People moving west, building towns.”

The Peace Chief nodded. “I can understand, Snakewater. I would hate to see you go, but for you it may be best. It is yours to decide. Still, that is another matter. I am concerned about this attempt to buy your powers. That cannot be done, can it?”

“I
have
no such—”

“I know, Snakewater. But your medicine gift, the conjuring. That cannot be misused, can it? If you used such a gift to harm someone, what would happen?”

“It would kill me, I suppose.”

“Yes. Even more so, with the Raven Mocker secret?
If
you had it, of course?”

“I would think so. I do
not
have it, though.”

“Yes, yes. Mmm… When did you intend to leave?”

“I don’t know, Uncle. If I left before the Council, there would be no need for a Council, no?”

“I had thought of that. The trader said that the travelers west would be taking the other road, through Keowee, instead of Old Town. They should be there tomorrow.”

“So I understood,” she said. “I had thought, maybe, to join them there.”

“Snakewater,” he said seriously, “you don’t
have
to go, you know. The Council will clear you.”

“I know. But still, I think it might be best. Besides, I am tired of thinking about it.”

“I can understand that. If you try to join the travelers, though, you would leave today?”

“Maybe. I had not thought through the whole thing. My visitor came just this past night. But I
have
decided to leave.”

“You would walk?”

“Of course.”

“Could you ride a horse?”

“I have no horse.”

“That was not my question, Snakewater. It would make your travel much easier.”

“But I—”

“Let me see about a horse for you,” said the Peace Chief, waving aside her protest. “Now, here is what I’m thinking, about your visitor last night. I want to catch him. A warrior or two, hidden near your house when he comes …. We can do that, whether you are still here or not.”

She thought for a few moments.

“I am made to think,” she said finally, “that I would rather be gone.”

Three Fingers nodded. “I can understand that,” he agreed. “But let us plan how to accomplish this.”

I
t was a busy day, trying to prepare her departure without appearing to do so. Much of the preparation could be done inside her house, of course. It consisted largely of packaging her plant medicines for travel. A major problem was trying to decide what to take and what to leave. She wanted to take everything. The bundles and bunches of herbs, selected carefully, prepared and dried and now hanging from the walls and ceiling, represented many days of search and collection. Some were already pounded or ground, and stored in gourd containers or packets of well-tanned buckskin. These could be easily carried on the horse that Three Fingers had promised. The dilemma that she faced was what to do about the array of hanging clumps of plant material. She hated to leave any of it behind, but it was obvious that she must. Some of the rarest and most valuable specimens she partially processed and packaged. It was hard to estimate how much she could carry on a horse. Three Fingers had managed to bring her a pair of pannier bags, which could be prepacked, ready to toss over the animal’s back and tie to the saddle.

Almost too late, after the panniers were nearly full of her herbs and medicines, she realized that food, too, would be important. She gathered the most nutritious and least bulky of her supplies of dried meat, corn, and other vegetables, as well as nut meats. She must abandon
a large supply of nuts and acorns still in the shell, but they would be too bulky and heavy to take …. No time today to pick out nuts …. She added to her pile of plunder a favorite cooking pot, obtained a few seasons ago from a trader. It was of shiny metal, one of her few concessions to white man’s technology.

By evening she was ready, or at least as close as she could manage. Her fire outside the door had been fed slowly, a little at a time, and she had intentionally moved around as she usually did in the evening, showing herself to any who might be interested in watching. Just after it was fully dark, Three Fingers and one of his grown sons approached quietly.

“Are you ready?” he whispered.

“Of course!”

“It is good …. Come… your horse is in the trees there. Corn Plant will carry your bags. You have food, weapons?”

“Three Fingers,” she scolded, “I was using such things before you were born.”

“Yes… yes, of course.”

She picked up her short bow and its quiver of arrows, and the blowgun, a dart already in place. A last moment she stood in the darkness of the familiar room. She could see nothing, but the feel of the place, the smells of herbs drying, of fires and cooking, of habitation, she would want to remember.

“Good-bye, Lumpy,” she whispered. Then, to the others, slightly louder, “Well, let us go.”

They reached the horse, a steady old mare, concealed in a clearing in the woods, and the three quickly loaded the packs.

“You know the road to Keowee,” said Three Fingers. “You should have no trouble. The moon will be up soon.”

“Wado!
I thank you for your help, Three Fingers, Corn Plant …. How will you do this, now?”

“Hide near your house,” said the Peace Chief. “Build up the fire a little. See who comes.”

“What if no one does?”

“Then I will announce at the Council that you are gone, and there is no problem anymore. But I think he will come, don’t you?”

“I am made to think so,” Snakewater answered. “He will want an answer to his bargain before the Council meets.”

She mounted the horse, a bit clumsily. It was hard to swing a leg over the bulky baggage. And it had been a long time since she had been on a horse. But she’d manage, she told herself.

“If you can,” she said, “you might send word what happened here …. No, that would be hard. I may learn someday …. Or not. But never mind.”

She pulled the mare’s head around and clucked her forward, flapping the reins gently.

“May it go well with you, Snakewater,” said Three Fingers softly, after the retreating shadows.

W
hipper waited until the night was more than half gone. Old Town was sleeping as he rose, leaving his wife softly snoring and the children quiet. If they woke, they would think only that he had gone to empty his bladder. That would be his story, regardless of how this meeting turned out. He was sure that the conjuror would be expecting him tonight. He had told her that he would return, and this was the last night before the Council was to meet. Snakewater would not allow the Council to convene without having resolved her business with him.

This was probably the best thing ever to happen to him in his entire lifetime, he thought. He knew that he was not well liked or even respected. It was not his fault that people were so unreasonable. Everyone went out of the way to find bad things to say about him. Even his name …
Whipper.
He had been only about twelve summers when the other boys found him whipping the dog. The animal was tied, and he was simply punishing it. The dog had defecated, and he had stepped in the dung with his new moccasins. But had it not been his dog anyway? He could whip it if he wished. The other boys had run to tell adults,
claiming that he had beaten it half to death. That was untrue, of course …. Not nearly half.

But the adults had believed the troublemakers, and he was severely scolded. The dog did limp for a long time, and the incident earned him the name “Whips His Dog”… Whipper. He had protested, but the more he complained, the more they used it and more they laughed at him. He finally stopped complaining, but it was too late. The name stuck.

There was the incident of his first kill …. He had found a dying deer in the woods and shot an arrow into it just as two other hunters came into the clearing. They claimed that it was a deer they had been tracking, after wounding it with an arrow. Whipper responded with indignation, stating unequivocally that he had been waiting here, still-hunting, for half the day. He was a big young man, his voice loud and dominating, and the others had backed down. They sat to watch him skin out his prize. They seemed quite amused when he rolled the carcass over, to reveal the arrow of Black Otter protruding from just behind the ribs.

There were other episodes too. Misunderstandings or someone else’s fault, every one. No one ever took his side in a conflict, no matter how loud or firm his statement. He had no friends. It had never occurred to him that he was simply disliked because he was a coward and a bully.

He had married, although he was certain that people laughed behind his back and made jokes about why any woman would marry him. He did treat his wife well, within the limits imposed by his shiftlessness. That, of course, was primarily because separation and divorce among the Real People was the privilege of the woman. If she chose such action, she had merely to toss his possessions out the door. So, for his own protection, he treated her far better than people might imagine. Especially those few with whom he associated. They bore the brunt of his resentment toward everyone more successful than he, which was practically everyone.

But now this grand plan had occurred to him. He had
overheard his wife talking to another woman about it—
the Raven Mocker ….
Somehow in his twisted, vindictive mind there grew the idea that this would be the ultimate revenge. He’d watch his enemies grow old and die, while he might live virtually forever. Along with this he somehow expected to acquire all the intelligence of each of his victims. Some would have acquired great wisdom simply by their longevity. Wisdom, to Whipper, was identical with prosperity. When he had acquired the status of the Raven Mocker, he could easily outwit the people who had wronged him all his life. He imagined himself laughing at their helplessness while he became rich and prosperous. Just how that was to occur he was not certain yet. But it was sure to come with wisdom.

The old woman… Ah, it had been easy to fool her, with his domineering voice and attitude. She probably thought him wealthy beyond belief, able to actually carry out his offer of wealth. Even if he could do such a thing, he would not, of course. The wealth would be for himself. As soon as she gave him the secret, she was dead. If she refused his offer, he’d kill her anyway, to keep her from accusing
him
at the Council tomorrow. He’d be no worse off than before. Maybe better. There might be something of value in that miserable hut. Then he’d set it on fire, to conceal his deeds.

These were his thoughts as he walked past her smoldering fire and toward the doorway. Over his shoulder he saw the tip of the rising moon. He paused, listening. There was a sound of deep, regular breathing… or was it only the wind? He lifted the doorskin and stepped inside. There was a catch in the pattern of the breathing now, and then it paused. Ah, yes, she was awake.

“Old woman,” he said softly, “I have returned. Now let us talk. Are you ready to teach me the secret?”

There was a subtle rustling in the corner to his left. He turned to face that way. As he did so, he drew his knife. Something was wrong …. The old woman’s bed was directly across the room from the doorway. She should be
there
, not to his left. Maybe she had moved ….

“Where are you?” he demanded, peering into the blackness. “We have trading to do!”

A very little starlight filtered in through the smoke hole in the roof. He thought he saw a movement. Maybe he simply heard or felt the presence there, this time on his right.

“Is there someone else here?” he demanded. “Answer me, old woman!”

In an attempt to see better he thought to let moonlight enter the doorway. He lifted the doorskin with his left hand, holding the knife in front of him in a defensive position. Now there were other sounds in the room. Rustling, thumping, footsteps …. There was still not enough light, and impatiently he tore the doorskin from its pegs over the opening and cast it to the floor. There was little to see—not even the bed he had expected to be there. Something touched the top of his head, and he struck out at it blindly. Oh … a bundle of dried plants. He knocked it aside impatiently.

“Old woman!” he practically yelled. “Show yourself!”

His demand was answered by more rustling and thumping, now to his left, then to his right, then behind him as he whirled, striking out in a panic. His knife encountered only empty space. He could have sworn he heard suppressed laughter, and he turned in that direction, swinging wildly with his knife. He lost his balance, his feet tangled in the wadded doorskin on the floor, hands outstretched to stop his fall. His knife dropped, and he tried to twist away from falling on it. It was happening so quickly…. There was only the space of a heartbeat before he felt that something had struck him in the soft place just below the V of his ribs. The blow knocked the wind from his lungs and he rolled over, grabbing at his midriff. To his horror his hands encountered the haft of a large knife… his own, jutting out of his belly.

The darkness deepened rapidly, and before he lost consciousness he thought again that he heard the sarcastic giggle.

He did not see or hear the two men who came running, pausing only to light a torch at the dying fire.

“What—what happened here?” asked Corn Plant.

Three Fingers shrugged.

“No one else came in, did they, Father?” asked the younger man.

“I saw no one,” Three Fingers agreed.

“Could she use her power to do this?” asked Corn Plant.

Three Fingers was slow to answer but finally spoke, in awed tones.

“I think not,” he said. “If she could, she
would
not, though. No, this is something else.”

H
alfway to Keowee, Snakewater stopped and dismounted to rest. Maybe she could walk a little while to ease her aching hips and legs. The mare began cropping grass beside the trail. The moon had risen now, and it was easier to see. She’d rest a little, and move on.

There was a slight rustle in a clump of bushes, and the mare jumped away in alarm, staring bug eyed at what seemed to be only empty space.

“What—” stammered Snakewater. “Who is it?
Lumpy?
What are you doing here? Go on home!”

There was silence for a little while, and then she spoke again.

“Really?” Tears were streaming down her cheeks now. “Going with me? Oh, thank you, Lumpy….”