The Broken Land (20 page)

Twenty

H
igh Matron Tila sat alone on the bench in her chamber at the northern end of the Wolf Clan longhouse. She had a cup of bear broth clutched in both hands. It took great effort to get the wooden cup to her lips without sloshing it all over her worn doeskin cape, but the broth was rich with fat and rested easy in her shrunken belly. There wasn’t much she could eat these days that didn’t come right back up, so she especially cherished this tasty treat.

She’d drawn the leather curtain at the front of her chamber closed, sealing out prying eyes so that she could think. She’d been going over and over the council meeting today, wondering, analyzing tones of voice and gestures. Not only that, she found the constant well-meant intentions of her relatives exhausting. With the curtain drawn, they would, perhaps, leave her alone.

Firelight from the longhouse fires outside coated the ceiling like amber resin and gave her chamber a soft yellow hue. The top of the chamber was open to the high roof, where whole cornstalks and sunflower plants hung. They’d been there for a full moon now, and had acquired a fuzzy coating of soot. As the winter deepened, she feared she would start getting requests for food from villages too weak to hunt or fish. In thirty-three summers, Tila had never refused to send food to any Hills village in need … until this summer. The harvests had been so bad, Atotarho Village simply could not spare a single kernel of corn. People had to fend for themselves as best they could. She prayed they all survived the winter. It was not going to be easy.

Tila clutched her cup and slowly, methodically, brought it to her lips. The warmth eased her pain a little. As she lowered the cup, a small amount shook out onto her cape. She just stared at it, too weak to even brush it away. The doeskin was little more than a rag anyway, worn through in too many places to count. What did it matter if it also bore a few stains? Tila heaved a sigh. She’d been fastidious her entire life. Everything had to be clean and polished, and in its proper place. She’d wanted her daughters to learn … Her daughters. All gone now. And her sisters, too.

As the pain in her chest throbbed, she squinted at the fragrant baskets of dried herbs, arranged according to size, nestled on the floor to her left. To her right, pots filled with corn kernels, beans, and squash seeds lined the wall. Heavy rocks served as lids to keep the pesky mice out.

On the shelf above her sleeping bench sat a special pot. Small and precious, it contained a lifetime of moments: a dried flower brought to her by her oldest daughter, eyes alight, when she’d seen five summers; a tiny, crudely carved finch, her youngest daughter’s first attempt at woodcarving. And so many other things. She often took the pot down, especially of late, to handle each item, and remember those smiles and the love in those young voices.

She’d had a grand life, taken care of her people well, and made more than a few enemies. By and large, there would be more people who mourned her when she was gone than there would be people who celebrated her death. At least, she thought so. Perhaps more importantly, she had never been irrelevant. People still came to her for advice. They still listened to her every word. What more could an old woman ask?

A rush of cold wind swept inside as someone ducked through the longhouse entry. Her chamber curtain fluttered. Soft voices whispered.

Tila straightened and called, “Granddaughter? Did you come to see me?” Perhaps Zateri had changed her mind.

Zateri called back, “Yes, Grandmother, but we can wait. If you’re in bed, we’ll—”

“No, come in child. I’m just sitting here sipping broth.”

Zateri pulled aside her chamber curtain and ducked inside, followed by War Chief Sindak. The sight of Sindak prickled her bones. He reported to Chief Atotarho, not Tila. Something had happened.

Tila gestured to the far end of the bench. “Sit down. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Sindak came to me, Grandmother, and asked me to intercede on his behalf, to arrange a meeting with you.”

Tila clutched her cup tighter, preparing herself. Over the past thirty-three summers, she’d become an expert in tones of voice. This was bad. “I am agreeable to meeting directly with the war chief. What happened?”

Zateri must have just bathed. Her long black hair and smooth skin gleamed. Sindak, however, appeared to have just come in off the trail. Dust coated his cape and hooked nose.

They seated themselves, and Zateri said, “Grandmother, Sindak received curious orders several days ago—orders regarding the Sedge Marsh Village. Were you aware of that?”

Tila frowned. “What do you mean? What orders? He was ordered to destroy the village and return home. That’s all.”

Sindak shoved dirty shoulder-length hair behind his ears. “The day after we returned home, Chief Atotarho told me to select a small party and return to take care of the dead.”

“What do you mean? They were traitors. No one was to care for them.”

Sindak’s thin face hardened. “I know those were the council’s orders, High Matron. However, the chief ordered us to return, gather all the bodies and belongings, and burn them; then he ordered us to bury them.”

“Did he give you a reason?”

Sindak leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees. “He said it would prevent the survivors from recognizing the bodies of their loved ones and Singing them to the Land of the Dead.”

“But you think it was more.”

“I do.”

It was at times like this when her sickness took its greatest toll, for the pain made it hard to think rationally. In the old days, she’d have been two steps ahead of him, knowing before he did what he was going to say next. But tonight she could barely concentrate on his words.

“I’m feeble, War Chief. State your suspicions.”

Sindak laced his hands before him. He had a thin face and dark brown eyes that always looked a little sad. “I think we may have been ordered to burn everything in an attempt to hide the truth.”

Tila brought her shaking cup to her hands and sipped the warm broth to still her nerves. “Go on,” she said, and took a long drink.

Zateri exchanged a glance with Sindak, and he nodded to her. Zateri said, “Grandmother, the survivors say that everyone in the village got sick and died in just two days. When Sindak’s war party arrived, there was hardly anyone left alive to fight them. Doesn’t that sound like witchery to you?”

Tila sat perfectly still, appraising the information. “We all agree that Sedge Marsh Village had been witched. The council even considered, as part of extenuating circumstances, that the elders may have had their souls stolen and that’s why they betrayed us. Are you accusing someone of doing the witching?”

Zateri folded her arms beneath her cape and seemed to be hugging herself. “Grandmother? Is it possible that the fever is worse than we know?”

“Well, we’ve heard stories for moons. Every visitor brings a new version. Apparently it’s been especially bad among the People of the Landing, but the Flint and Standing Stone peoples have been hit hard, too. But I don’t see what that has to—”

“I’m wondering if perhaps Chief Atotarho hasn’t decided to fight the war on two fronts at once,” Sindak said.

Tila scowled and sat back on the bench. “I don’t understand.”

Sindak continued, “The Ruling Council of matrons has consistently forbidden attacking other nations unless we are attacked first. Which means that for many summers we’ve had a sort of undeclared truce with Bur Oak and Yellowtail villages. What if someone decided to use witchery, instead of warfare, to kill them, and their allies? Thereby circumventing the matrons altogether?”

“Let us be clear that by ‘someone’ you mean your chief. Is that correct?”

Sindak didn’t drop his gaze. He bravely nodded. “Yes.”

Accusing the chief of witchery could be construed as treason—and Sindak knew it—unless the accuser had evidence.

“That is a fanciful notion, War Chief. Do you have any proof?”

He lightly shook his head. “No, High Matron.”

“Then, if you wish to pursue this line of thought, you had best find some.” She extended a long skeletal finger to point at his heart. “And it had better be irrefutable. Do you know why?”

Zateri leaned forward and answered, “Yes, Grandmother. Because accusing our chief of witchcraft before the Ruling Council will split the nation.”

Tila gave Zateri a sober look. Her granddaughter had a good political mind. It was too bad she refused to be high matron. “That is correct. The accusation will force people to take sides. Most of the nation will set themselves up against you, War Chief Sindak.” Tila paused to see the effect her words had upon him. His level gaze never wavered.

“I understand, High Matron.”

“Good. I don’t want to hear another word about this until you have ample evidence. Now, leave me. I’m tired.”

Zateri rose quickly, kissed her cheek, and said, “Good night, Grandmother.”

“Good night, child. Kiss my great-granddaughters for me.”

“I will.”

Zateri and Sindak quietly ducked beneath the chamber curtain and vanished into the fluttering firelight.

Tila gulped the rest of her broth and set the cup aside. Gingerly, she stretched out on her side on the sleeping bench and watched the fire shadows dance upon her walls while she thought. She knew, as all the matrons did, that Chief Atotarho had often been accused of being a cannibal sorcerer. But he was a powerful man, hated by some for the strong positions he took on the war. And though she often disagreed with him, he had served their people well.

Though, as her eyes blessedly fell closed and the pain started to dim, she had to admit that she had, on occasion, wondered whether or not he had a hidden agenda … and if witchcraft was part of it.

Twenty-one

Sky Messenger

I
stand beside Taya in the crowded plaza. Though it is cold, the storm has broken and sunlight pours down from the clean blue sky. Where it warms the bark walls of the four longhouses, or the shabby roofs of the refugee quarters, streamers of mist rise. People have been arriving all day, coming in from the allied Standing Stone villages to attend the betrothal feast for the granddaughter of High Matron Kittle. Jewelry sparkles around every throat and wrist, cut from shell or rare stones. A few priceless copper gorgets decorate the chests of the highest-status attendees, mostly the village matrons, chiefs, and wealthy Traders. Men and women mill around eating fish stew from bowls, or happily chewing cornmeal cakes, which is all the high matron can afford to serve and hope to feed the village for the remainder of the winter. The refugees are especially delighted by the feast. A welcome relief from the despair of losing their villages and loved ones, it also means that every person will have a full belly today.

I straighten my new cape. Made of finely tanned buckskin, it has a buttery appearance, like smoked amber. The symbols of my clan encircle the bottom of the cape: red bear claws, alternating with black bear tracks. While traditional, a betrothal cape was a lavish and unnecessary expense for my clan. I would far rather that they’d used the leather to make a cape for one of the ragged children running across the plaza.

Taya’s new cape is even more luxurious. The doe hide has been painted sky blue and hung with figures carved from antler: tiny prancing fawns, bucks standing on their hind legs with their hooves flashing, a doe placidly grazing on invisible grass. Taya’s mother twisted her long hair into a bun at the back of her head and secured it with a polished tortoiseshell comb. If it weren’t for Taya’s scowl, she’d be very pretty. I suspect she may be grieving. As I glance around the plaza, I study all of the young men who stare at Taya. Were any her suitors? Probably. Did she love one of them?

Taya greets an unending line of well-wishers with an extended hand. No matter her personal preferences, she knows her duty to her clan.

As I do to mine.

Nonetheless, all day long, I’ve been wondering what Baji will think when she discovers I am betrothed. Will she be sad? As I am? Or just feel betrayed?

An old woman, the matron of the Turtle Clan in White Dog Village, shoulders through the assembly with her two daughters and extends a parchment-like hand to Taya. “Dearest girl, I offer you my congratulations, and pray that you give the Deer Clan many strong daughters.”

Taya takes the elder’s hand and smiles. “Thank you for your wishes, Matron Daga. Are you well?”

“Well enough, child. The fever is rampaging through White Dog Village, but it has passed me by so far.”

“We are grateful for that.” She pats the elder’s hand and releases it.

Before Matron Daga turns away, she casts a disgusted glance at me, and says, “Your father, Gonda, asked me to give you his regrets. His wife is ill with the fever, and he will not be able to attend this feast.”

My heart sinks. I was hoping to see Father, to speak with him in private. “I appreciate you conveying his message, Matron.”

Daga sniffs and leaves.

Taya whispers, “I don’t know how many more of these false congratulations I can stand.”