The Broken Land (15 page)

Taya sat impassively. She appeared to be studying Kittle’s expressions and gestures, which made Kittle smile to herself. The girl, thank the gods, was smarter than her mother. Already she had learned that revealing her true feelings to Kittle was like baring her breast to a stiletto. Better to study your opponent for a time before responding. You wouldn’t get wounded nearly so often. Kittle took another drink of milk and waited to see what conclusion her granddaughter arrived at.

“I wasn’t sure what to believe, Grandmother.”

Kittle set her cup down on one of the hearthstones. “Nor was I. That’s why I rescinded the death sentence.”

Taya’s delicate black brows pinched. She was thinking, assessing the implications. Remarkable.

Yosha said, “Mother, stop taunting her and just tell her why you—”

“Close your mouth while you still have teeth.”

Yosha’s jaw hung open like a clubbed dog’s before she clamped it tight.

Kittle’s attention returned to her granddaughter. Taya’s eyes moved over the rear longhouse wall that stretched like a dark leather blanket. The scent of wet elm bark was fragrant, suffusing the fire-warmed air. Painted suits of wooden body armor, woven from slats of hardwood, leaned against the wall on the top shelf. Constructed by a master woodworker, they were strong enough to deflect an arrow. Above the armor hung an enormous False Face mask. Shagodyoweh gowah, the great Protector, cured sickness. His massive bent nose and wide mouth were both expertly carved. Long black hair framed the oiled face. Tied to the top of the mask was a tiny medicine bag filled with tobacco from Kittle’s own sacred garden, dried over a basswood fire, then pulverized. Before rituals, she removed a pinch and burned the tobacco as an offering. Such masks required constant care and frequent use or they could cause illness. She’d known one woman whose mouth had started to grow crooked because of an unhappy mask that had not been danced in in a long while. Kittle listened to the cries and coughs that spanned the longhouse, then glared at the Great Protector. Half the village was sick, many dying. Refugees from decimated villages crowded her plaza. Shagodyoweh seemed powerless to fight the witchery that afflicted the world.

“But Grandmother, you told Speaker Koracoo that you didn’t want to hear his tale of woe. Why? Did you already know the story?”

“Very good.”

Taya hesitated. “From someone in Yellowtail Village?”

“A good high matron has spies everywhere. I need to know what happens in every longhouse in our nation.”

Taya’s chin lifted as though in understanding. “Then you believe his vision is true?”

“As soon as I heard that he’d returned I could have had him killed. I’m the one who placed the death sentence upon his head. It was an offense to our Ruling Council and a challenge to my authority when his clan did not immediately carry out the council’s order. Why do you think I didn’t have him killed?”

Taya’s sharp gaze did not leave Kittle’s face. “Speaker Koracoo?”

Kittle smiled knowingly. “Indeed. The Speaker for the Women may be soft-spoken these days, but she has a warrior’s heart. She is no one’s fool. Even if he is her son, if Koracoo had possessed any proof of treason, she would have killed him herself in a heartbeat. Just to set an example.” Kittle tossed another branch on the fire, and sparks drifted lazily toward the smoke hole in the roof.

“Then, if Koracoo did not carry out the sentence of death, it was because she, too, believes Sky Messenger’s vision?”

“I’m not sure yet. But she must think the fate of our nation may depend upon her son staying alive—and that gives me pause. Of all the women in the world, girl, never, ever underestimate Koracoo.”

As the flames blazed higher, Taya shifted to move away from the heat. The painted finches on her cape swayed as though taking wing. “What is his vision, Grandmother? The bits I have heard sound like nonsense.”

Kittle laughed softly, pleased by her granddaughter. Despite living a protected, privileged life, Taya was at least curious. Of course, she would never rule the nation, not with seven aunts and four older sisters, but it was rewarding to know that the intelligence that marked Kittle’s maternal line had not died with Yosha. She watched morosely as her daughter pawed another chunk of cornbread from the platter and began to chomp it, totally unaware that an important discussion was taking place. Crumbs dropped into her lap and perched there like red insects.

More gently, Kittle said, “Do not say no to this marriage just yet, Taya. In some way I do not yet grasp, this alliance is critical to Yellowtail Village. Our village needs many things. Let us see what they offer first.”

An ugly stubborn expression came over her granddaughter. She pulled her shoulders back and stared dry-eyed at Kittle. “Very well. But I wish you to know that I do not wish this alliance. Dadjo has as much as asked to marry me, and I—”

“Dadjo’s wishes mean nothing to me.”

“But Grandmother! He’s the man I—”

“Stop sniveling. I have a job for you.”

Taya sniffed. “What is it?”

“If you have the chance, I want you to convince Sky Messenger to return to the war trail. We—”

“How am I supposed to do that?” she asked in an aggrieved voice.

“You’re a woman now. Think of something. We need every warrior we can get. Hug me now, and go away.” Kittle opened her arms, and Taya grudgingly rose to hug her. It felt like nothing more than bones were encased in her cape. The harvests had been particularly bad this autumn. Hunger stalked every village, but so long as Kittle had breath in her body, Bur Oak Village would be the last to starve—even if she had to raid every village of the Flint or Mountain People to do it. “Leave us. I need to speak with your dimwitted mother.”

Taya rose and walked to the other end of the longhouse toward her mother’s compartment. Many young women and girls stopped her to ask her questions, but she just shook her head and continued on her way.

Yosha held a half-eaten chunk of bread in her hand. “She wishes to marry Dadjo, you know.”

“I could not care less. At least I didn’t have to beat her for being as ignorant and unconcerned about the welfare of her clan as you are. Give me the rest of that bread.”

“No. It’s mine.” Yosha pulled it away.

Kittle held out her hand. “You’ve had enough food for the day. The rest of that could feed one of the refugee children in the plaza.”

Yosha shoved the bread into her mouth and tried to swallow it whole before Kittle could take it away. She and Yosha had been engaged in a struggle of wills most of their lives. At this late date, Kittle had no intention of letting her daughter win. She reached across the fire and slapped the rest of the cornbread out of Yosha’s mouth. It bounced across the floor mats, cracking into pieces as it cartwheeled. “That was for the ‘whoring’ comment.”

Yosha cried, “Mother!”

“Now get down on your hands and knees and pick up every crumb. Do you hear me? If I find anything larger than a gnat’s toe on that floor mat when you’re done, you’ll be licking it up with your tongue. When you’re finished, I want you to personally take the bread outside and give it to one of the refugee children.”

“But that’s demeaning!” Yosha burst into tears and dropped to her knees to begin collecting the morsels.

“Feeding a hungry child is demeaning?”

Kittle glowered at her daughter. It galled her almost beyond bearing that one of her daughters could care so little about the needs of others. All those summers that Kittle had spent in loyal service to the clan, and for what? Her children and grandchildren to act like spoiled vermin? Neither Yosha nor her daughter knew anything of sacrifice or loyalty.

Kittle rose, walked to the entry, and shoved aside the leather curtain. She stepped out beneath the porch to survey Bur Oak Village. The rainy plaza stood empty, but for a few dogs that loped through the downpour. If the storm kept up, the rain would soon turn to snow.

Despite Kittle’s hopes, Koracoo would not be back today. She would wait, let Kittle worry, then she would return and offer almost nothing. Kittle chuckled. It was the way of things.

Tomorrow would be an interesting day.

A young Trader, a man she had not seen before, ducked out of the Bear Clan longhouse and trotted across the plaza toward her. His Trader’s pack bounced upon his back. He was tall, unusually tall, and had a very pleasant square-jawed face. As he approached, he said, “Good day, High Matron. Would you mind if I enter your longhouse to Trade?”

Kittle smiled for such a long time that the man blushed. “What is your name?”

“I am Hiyade, of the Hawk Clan in White Dog Village.” He smiled back, but it was a shy, uncertain gesture.

“Of course you may Trade. After you are finished serving the rest of my kinsmen, return to me.”

He bowed. “I’ll be happy to, Matron.” He darted into the longhouse like a frightened rabbit.

Kittle smiled to herself and stood for a time longer, watching the rain fall, before she returned to the warmth.

Fifteen

S
torm winds buffeted the forest, sending showers of red and gold leaves gusting down the trail toward the two men who walked ahead of Hiyawento. The sharp gazes of his guards constantly roved the trees, searching for hidden enemies. Both men carried bows, quivers, and war clubs. They dressed in warrior garb, their capes painted with clan symbols. The red spirals of the Hawk Clan coiled around the bottom of Disu’s cape. Saponi’s bore a series of interlocking green-and-blue rectangles across the middle, marking him as a member of the Snipe Clan. Disu stood two heads taller than Saponi, but what Saponi lost in height, he made up for in muscles. His burly shoulders spread twice as wide as Disu’s. When War Chief Sindak had met him on the trail two hands of time from Coldspring Village, he’d said, “These are good men. I would trust my life to either of them. They will guard you well on your journey.” Then he’d pulled Hiyawento aside and softly added, “Listen to them. Believe them,” and trotted back for Atotarho Village.

A fierce gust of rain struck Hiyawento, shoving his hood back. He pulled it up again and held it tightly beneath his chin while he studied the two warriors. They’d barely spoken all day, apparently concentrating on their duty instead.

When they reached the fork in the trail, rain pounded down, and the rocky trail ran with water. Disu and Saponi took the right fork.

Hiyawento frowned and called into the wind, “That’s the wrong trail. That leads to Sedge Marsh Village. We need to take the left fork to get to Bur Oak Village.”

Disu propped his hands on his hips and said something soft to Saponi. Saponi pointed to his own chest, and walked back to face Hiyawento. The man had a pockmarked face with brown eyes and a nose like a flattened beetle. He halted two paces away and adjusted his hood, pulling it lower over his face. “Do you trust War Chief Sindak?”

Hiyawento stared at him. Sindak had been one of the people who had rescued him after he’d been stolen away from Yellowtail Village as a child. “Yes. Why?”

“Because our instructions are to take you to Sedge Marsh Village first. Then, if you wish to proceed on to Bur Oak Village, we will escort you there.” His hood flapped around his face.

Hiyawento looked from Saponi to Disu and back. Both men wore stern expressions. “Why wouldn’t I wish to continue on to Bur Oak Village?”

Neither answered. They appeared to be waiting for him to figure this out by himself. “What’s going on? You know very well that the Ruling Council of Matrons ordered me to head straight to Bur Oak Village without delay.”

Saponi nodded. “At most, this will delay your arrival by a few hands of time.” He gestured to the left fork. “If we go now.”

“Why don’t you just give me the answer, so we won’t have to delay our journey at all?”

Water ran around Saponi’s moccasins. Freshly fallen autumn leaves and twigs filled the stream. “War Chief Sindak said we had to show you, not tell you.”

Hiyawento expelled a breath—and took the right fork. As he headed down the trail to Sedge Marsh Village, he fretted over what Sindak wanted him to see. One destroyed village looked pretty much like another.

The guards had changed positions. Rather than both men walking in front of him to protect him from a frontal assault, as they had been, Disu now strode out in front, while Saponi walked behind Hiyawento. He wasn’t sure he liked this, and he cast an uneasy glance over his shoulder. Probably they were just taking better care of him … but he felt like a caged packrat. If they were attacked, he could neither advance, nor retreat. He’d have to strike out through the brush.

As they continued down the trail, wind-tormented branches clattered and slashed the air above them. He bowed his head against the downpour and concentrated on plodding through the storm.

T
wo hands of time later, the water in the trail turned black, filled with ash or soot, and dread quickened his pulse. He twisted around to stare up at the beech trees that lined the trail. Gray streaks trickled down the trunks, as though not so long ago they had been coated with ash. When they reached the crest of the hill that looked down upon Sedge Marsh Village, he went numb.