The Broken Land (36 page)

Thirty-five

T
aya woke to the rich smell of cooking grouse. When she opened her eyes, she saw Sky Messenger crouched before a fire adjusting the roasting stick so the bird would cook on the other side. The faint gray rays of early morning outlined his muscular body. Last night, his tenderness had left her breathless. Her gaze moved from his shoulders to his narrow waist and legs, and it occurred to her that he wasn’t wearing his cape, just his knee-length buckskin shirt and leggings. She looked down and saw that he’d draped his cape over the top of the blankets to keep her warmer through the night.

“Are you awake?” he called.

Taya dragged herself to a sitting position and rubbed her eyes. “Barely.”

Gitchi’s head turned from where he lay beside the fire, tearing a rabbit apart. Blood covered his gray muzzle. He gave Taya an unnerving appraisal, then went back to his rabbit.

The wind had died down. Only a few leaves cartwheeled across the trail. She reached for her pack and drew out her carved antler comb. Yesterday’s gale had turned her hair into a snarled mess. While he cooked, she took her time, combed the waist-length strands smooth, and then plaited them into a long braid. She knew the style accented her perfect oval face and made her dark eyes seem larger, and she wanted to please him this morning.

He dipped a cup into the pot at the edge of the flames, then rose and brought it to her. “It’s spruce needle tea. The grouse is almost ready.”

“Thank you.” She took a sip of the hot tea and let the tangy flavor filter through her waking body.

“You’re beautiful this morning.” He stroked her hair and went back to turn the bird again. As fat dripped onto the flames, they sputtered.

It was comforting sitting with the warm blankets coiled around her waist. She was hesitant to leave them. She drank more tea and studied the burned village. Smoke still scented the air, but there were no flames this morning, at least none she could see. The charred palisade—burned through in many places—resembled a gigantic mouth of rotted black teeth. Through the holes, collapsed houses were visible, standing in smoldering piles, but she saw no dead bodies, just a few roaming dogs.

Taya shoved her blankets aside and rose with her cup in her hand. “Did you see anyone in the night?”

Sky Messenger’s brown eyes lifted and narrowed. He seemed to be watching someone right now, someone moving through the destroyed village. But he said, “No. Come and sit down. I’ll fill our bowls.”

As she walked toward him, he slid the grouse off the stick and into one bowl, then used his fingers to quickly rip it in half and deposited the larger portion in her bowl. Afterward, he sucked on his fingers as though he’d burned them.

She sat down beside him, placed her tea cup to the side, and picked up her bowl. As she blew on the grouse to cool it, she said, “You could have used my knife”—she touched the hafted chert knife on her belt—“to cut up the grouse.”

“Yes, thank you. That would probably have been acceptable.”

“Acceptable?” She pulled off a succulent strip of dark meat and put it in her mouth. The delicious flavor coated her tongue. “This is good. When did you have time to hunt? I didn’t hear a thing.”

“It wasn’t much of a hunt,” he said, and swallowed a bite of meat.

“The bird fluttered up on that fallen log five paces away. I killed it with a rock, a lucky throw; then I skinned it and slid a hickory stick through the middle.”

“Yes, the hickory flavor is wonderful.”

As they ate, she smiled at him, and he seemed confused by it. She felt so happy this morning. When she’d eaten everything but the leg, she picked it up and placed it in his bowl. “You need more food than I do, Sky Messenger, though I appreciate you for taking care of me.”

He glanced at the leg and suspiciously said, “Are you sure? I don’t want you to get hungry on the trail.”

“I’ll be fine.” She rubbed her greasy fingers in the dry leaves to clean them and reached for her tea cup again. As she sipped, she watched Gitchi. He was taking his time eating the rabbit. His tail wagged often. “You should have taken that rabbit away from him and cooked it for us. Then neither of us would have to worry about being hungry on the trail.”

Sky Messenger replied, “It’s his rabbit. He hunted it.”

“You could give him a leg, or maybe even two, but he’s a wolf. He doesn’t need as much food as we do.”

“The rabbit belongs to Gitchi.”

Annoyed, she chastised, “You protect that old gray-faced wolf like he’s a human being, Sky Messenger. He’s not.”

Sky Messenger reached out to pet the wolf ’s head, and the love in Gitchi’s eyes touched even her. “He’s my friend.”

Taya frowned into her tea cup. She hated to admit it, but she was jealous of the affection he lavished on the decrepit wolf. She turned the cup in her hands and decided to change the subject. Anything to keep the morning filled with warmth and conversation.

“What did you mean when you said it would have been ‘acceptable’ to cut up the grouse with my knife?”

The wrinkles across his forehead deepened. He finished chewing the bite in his mouth before he replied, “I’m still finding my way, discovering what I can and cannot live with.”

“I don’t understand. What’s wrong with cutting up a grouse with a fine chert blade?”

“I just need to think about it for a time longer.”

This confused Taya, who tried to decipher what he meant.
A knife is unacceptable to him.
Why? She could understand, no matter how ridiculous, that he didn’t want to carry a bow, spear, stiletto, or war club—he’d stopped fighting—but a knife?

“So,” she said, “you consider a knife to be a weapon?”

His head waffled, as though uncertain. “I’m just at the foolish stage, Taya. Don’t waste too much time trying to figure it out. I don’t understand it myself yet.”

“But, you mean you’re at the stage of figuring out what is a weapon and what is not?”

“Yes.” He picked up the leg she’d given him and concentrated on eating it. When he finished, he lowered the bone to his bowl and wiped his greasy hands on his leggings. Many people did that because the oil helped to keep water from soaking into the leather. Sky Messenger rose to his feet and extended a hand. “May I take your bones away?”

She gave him her bowl. It was considered disrespectful to the animal to throw its bones on the ground. He walked away to the sycamore and carefully placed the bones in the crook of the tree. Then he said a soft prayer, thanking the grouse for its life, and walked back to kneel in front of her. When he bowed his head, his heavy brow cast shadows over his brown eyes, and his black hair fell forward.

“A knife is a tool, Sky Messenger, not a weapon. A leather punch is a tool. An awl is a tool.”

“Yes, in most hands. But in my hands”—he opened his palms and stared at them distastefully—“they have often been weapons. I can see the faces of each person I killed with a bone awl, a punch, or a fine chert blade.”

“You were a warrior fighting for your people. Of course you used whatever you could find to defeat the enemy. You should be proud of it. Not ashamed.”

The few brief moments of happiness between them vanished. The curtain closed over his eyes again. He rose and walked away to stare down the trail toward the distant pond, which shone a deep blue.

Taya drank her tea and frowned at his back. Was he going to start refusing to use tools? If he wouldn’t touch an ax, how could he chop wood to keep them warm? If he wouldn’t touch a knife, how could he skin animals for their food? What good was he if he wasn’t willing to be a warrior, a hunter, or perform any other manly duty?

Blessed gods, does Grandmother know this?

Sky Messenger folded his arms and walked out into the trail, apparently waiting for the Trader.

Beyond the rolling tree-whiskered hills, dawn had begun to blush color into the day. A swath of deep purple limned the eastern horizon. High above it, the brightest campfires of the dead continued to gleam.

When she’d finished her tea, she silently gathered up their things and packed them—a menial duty she usually left to him. Then she set both packs beside the trail and went to grab his cape. It smelled of wood smoke and crushed grass. She held it to her nose for a time, just breathing in his scent, before she walked to him and draped it over his shoulders.

It must have startled him, for he jumped slightly and looked at her. “Thank you,” he said softly. He pulled it forward and tied it beneath his chin.

Taya touched his arm. “I’m sorry. I know you’d like to thrash me for the things I just said.”

“You exaggerate.”

“I’m just trying to figure you out, probably as hard as you’re trying to—”

He threw up a hand to silence her and squinted down the trail. “There he is.”

An ugly little man with five pack dogs trotted toward them. He was humming a tune, watching his feet. When he lifted his head and saw Sky Messenger standing in the middle of the trail, he stopped suddenly. Greasy black hair framed his scarred face. “What are
you
doing here?”

Sky Messenger called, “I came to find you, Raloga.”

“Me?” The man’s hand flew to his chest. “Why? What did I do? Where’s your war party?” His gaze darted across the forest.

As he walked forward, Sky Messenger pulled something from his belt pouch and handed it to the Trader. “White Dog Village was burned several days ago. There’s no need for you to stop. I will pay you to deliver a message for me, but it must be done quickly.”

The man took the exquisite pearl bracelet, turned it over in his hands, and eyed Sky Messenger suspiciously. “This is valuable. You must want me to do something dangerous. Where would you have me go?”

“To Coldspring Village.”

Raloga glanced at Taya, then looked back at Sky Messenger. “And who am I to see?”

“I want my message delivered exactly, do you understand?”

The Trader nodded.

“Tell War Chief Hiyawento that Odion wants to meet him in the aspen meadow at midnight.”

Taya’s blood went cold.
Hiyawento?
He was one of the most feared war chiefs among the Hills People.
He
was Sky Messenger’s old friend? The man who’d saved him? He was a monster!

“Umm,” Raloga said. “Who is Odion?”

“Just tell him. He’ll understand.”

Raloga shrugged and grinned, revealing four yellow teeth in an otherwise toothless mouth. “You are paying me well for such a simple message. Is it risky?”

Sky Messenger’s voice took on a timbre Taya had never heard before, low, threatening. “I’m not paying you to ask questions.”

Raloga’s smile drooped. “Fine. That’s fine. I didn’t mean to anger you. I’ll deliver it exactly as you said.”

“Then you will live a long and happy life, my friend.” Sky Messenger slapped him on the back hard enough to make the Trader stumble.

“Er, yes, well … then, if you don’t mind, I’ll be on my way.” He lifted a hand and quickly trotted away with his dogs surrounding him. He cast two backward glances, apparently to make certain he wasn’t being followed, and vanished up the trail.

Taya walked to stand beside Sky Messenger. Her cape flapped around her legs. “What are you trying to do? Hiyawento is married to Chief Atotarho’s daughter! We can’t go see him. Atotarho is an evil cannibal sorcerer. If he captures us, he’ll cut our hearts out and eat them for breakfast. Do you want to die?
”

Sky Messenger’s gaze remained on the point where the Trader had disappeared. “We should be there by midnight. I’ll be able to answer your question then.”

Thirty-six

R
aloga scratched his itching armpit. He’d had to run hard to get here in time, and sweat drenched his shirt. It was almost midnight, yet people crowded the plaza of Atotarho Village. Everywhere he looked cook pots boiled near huge bonfires, and the scent of sweet corn cakes baking in ashes rose. Drum beats pounded the air. Arranged in a rough oval around the plaza were four longhouses, four smaller clan houses, and a prisoners’ house. The magnificent longhouses—the biggest ever built—were constructed of pole frames and covered with elm bark. The Wolf Clan longhouse was truly stunning; it stretched over eight hundred hand-lengths long and forty wide. The others were shorter, two or three hundred hands long, but still impressive. The arched roofs soared fifty hands high. Was Hiyawento in council with the matrons? Or the elders? He might have just been meeting with War Chief Sindak, or various war deputies.

“There must be three thousand people here. What’s happening?” His five dogs pricked their ears and looked at him. “Come on, we don’t have much time.”

As he shouldered through the crowd looking for War Chief Hiyawento, he passed people in brilliant capes, wearing elaborate shell, copper and carved wooden jewelry. Sounds of laughter and singing echoed from somewhere ahead.

He tapped a youth of perhaps sixteen summers on the shoulder. “What’s happening?”

The young warrior’s face was alight. He wore his hair pulled back and fastened in a tight bun. “We captured two hundred prisoners in our last raid. The matrons are deciding who will be adopted into the clans and who will be tortured to death.” He clapped Raloga on the shoulder. “There’s plenty of food. Fill a bowl and join the celebration.”