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Authors: Kathleen O'Neal Gear,W. Michael Gear

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BOOK: People of the Owl: A Novel of Prehistoric North America (North America's Forgotten Past)
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“Yes, Elder.”
“I spent a winter up north, you know. Poison and snakes, but that was a long time ago. How many winters? Three tens? Three tens and three? I can’t recall. But cold? I tell you, I thought my bones would crack. You don’t know the value of a good hot fire until you’ve been that cold.”
“I agree, Elder.”
“We not only come to welcome you,” Deep Hunter interrupted, “but to offer our respects over your uncle’s death.” The enigmatic smile remained on his thin lips as he asked, “There is talk that Owl Clan will have a very young Speaker. Have you given that any thought?”
White Bird kept his expression blank. “I have been in seclusion, Speaker. My first responsibility was to the purification of my souls and body. I have no hint as to what my clan might be considering.”
Deep Hunter nodded absently.
What was he hiding? White Bird’s souls tingled with warning. It was one thing to deal with Mud Stalker. He had always been an enemy, but what motivated Deep Hunter?
The Speaker smiled easily. “Come and see us when you have a chance. After that winter up north the Elder will have a warm fire for you, and I shall make sure our stew has been adequately stirred. We will have a great many things to talk about.”
“Thank you, Speaker. And you, Elder Colored Paint, have a pleasant day.”
“Going back to the fire,” Colored Paint muttered. “Just talking about it has made my bones shiver. A bit of winter lingers inside me. I think it was because I got so cold upriver that time. Hope it doesn’t bother you the way it does me.”
“I hope not, too, Elder.”
Deep Hunter added: “Give your mother my greeting. Send her my respects concerning your uncle. Tell her that we need to speak. Soon.” He led Colored Paint down the line to Yellow Spider.
White Bird glanced uneasily at the growing crowd. He wished he could just press his way through them and sprint up the slope to the plaza. From there he could run full tilt north to his mother’s house on the first ridge and learn the news.
Time began to drag as he worked his way through the throng. It seemed that the entirety of Sun Town had poured out to greet him. Everyone was curious as to what he had brought, and just as anxious to see the barbarians and to invite them to visit, eat, and tell their
tales of the far north. It took but a suggestion from White Bird to the gathered young men, and they surged to the beach and muscled the muddy damp canoes onto their broad shoulders. He smiled at the clans vying for the honor of carrying the Trade up to Owl Clan’s territory.
As they started up the slippery slope, people crowded around Hazel Fire and his companions, shouting questions and invitations.
Not that Traders didn’t come from distant places, but these were young warriors, not the professional rivermen with wild tales that were meant to awe their audience into a lucrative Trade.
White Bird did enjoy a moment of satisfaction as the crowd surged up the slope from the landing. He was watching the Wolf Traders, noting their expressions the moment that they stepped out onto the expanse of the great southern plaza. They stopped short, stunned at the sight of the huge curving ridges topped with lines of houses. Even with the drizzle that masked the Bird’s Head to the west, they stood stunned, speechless at the majesty of Sun Town’s earthworks and the geometric perfection with which it was laid out.
“There is no place like this on Earth!” Gray Fox finally gasped. “Do the gods live here?”
“No,” Yellow Spider assured him. “They are in the sky above and under the earth beneath your feet, where they should be. No, my friend, you have just entered the center of the world. We are the Sun People, and there are no others like us anywhere.”
White Bird led the procession, striding with the same presence and posture he had seen his uncle adopt for formal occasions. Behind him the crowd lined out, a gaudy procession who marched and clapped their hands, Singing and laughing, the canoes bobbing on a buoyancy of shoulders.
He had forgotten the immensity of Sun Town. In respect, he touched his forehead as he crossed the town’s center line, the low beaten path in the grass that delineated the Southern Moiety from the Northern. As he entered Owl Clan territory, his heart seemed fit to burst. A swirl of emotions—joy at success, sadness at the news about his uncle, and pride in his clan—swirled within him like mixing floodwaters.
As he came striding up to the first ridge, he stared through the rain, feeling water trickle down his face to soak his already wet breechcloth. “Greetings, Elder Wing Heart,” he called as he stopped short of the borrow ditch below his house. “Your son has returned. He has been cleansed and brings Trade for the People.”
As if on cue, his mother stepped out from behind the hanging, stately, looking every inch the influential Elder that she was. “Welcome
home, White Bird. My heart is filled with gladness to see you.” She paused. “More so given the sorrow that has filled us after your uncle’s death.”
“I grieve for the Speaker,” he answered, voice ringing.
It was at that moment that the Serpent stepped out behind Wing Heart, his face streaked with charcoal as was appropriate when dealing with the dead. A black face didn’t frighten the freshly dead souls.
The crowd had flowed around his party in a semicircle, watching the greatest of spectacles. He could feel the anticipation, the rising excitement. People hung on every word, wondering if Wing Heart would declare him to be the new Speaker. Or would she wait? Did she have the kind of influence to make such a declaration, knowing full well that her clan would be forced to support her? Would she take that kind of risk, knowing that to have to withdraw it later would amount to a terrible loss of face?
White Bird straightened, his heart hammering with anticipation. Yellow Spider was standing by his side, spine stiff, shoulders back, head proud. The four heavy canoes were lined up behind them, evidence of his ability to provide for the People.
Wing Heart stood as if frozen, staring across the divide created by the borrow pit. In its boggy bottom, cattail and cane had sprouted, the first green shoots of spring. Water lilies were coming back to life, the emerald leaves floating on the black water.
“White Bird,” she called out imperiously, “nephew of Cloud Heron, who was once Speaker of the Owl Clan, I would …”
A muttering ripple ran through the western end of the crowd, people parting as if they were water. White Bird cocked his head at the interruption and the rising babble of excited talk. Unease tightened in his chest, his muscles charged the way they would for combat. He realized he was breathing hard, as if he’d just run for several hands of time.
When the crowed parted, it took White Bird a moment to recognize the boy. He looked like a drowned urchin, black hair plastered to his head. Smears of watery soil blotched his cheeks, shoulders, and scrawny chest. What had originally been a white breechcloth looked gray, stained with clay and ash. But what affected White Bird the most was the look in those large, haunted eyes. Power seemed to radiate from them like heat from a glowing cooking clay.
“Mud Puppy?” the question popped unbidden from White Bird’s lips as the boy walked past, that eerie stare locked on a world beyond this one.
The boy didn’t hesitate but plodded down and splashed through the water and up the ridge toward Wing Heart.
“Mud Puppy?” she barked angrily. “What are you …”
But Mud Puppy walked past her, stopping instead before the Serpent. In the sudden silence, White Bird couldn’t hear what the boy said, just the mumbling of his low speech.
“That is ridiculous!” Wing Heart blurted.
White Bird couldn’t stand it. Snakes take the little imp, he’d just ruined everything! Before he could think, he was striding forward, enough aware to round the eastern edge of the borrow pit instead of slogging through the water so that he could stalk up to his mother’s house. No; he wouldn’t wring his brother’s scrawny neck, not here where the entire world could see, but he’d sure do it as soon as no one was watching.
The Serpent had straightened, his face oddly drawn by a frown. Wing Heart shot a hard hand out to grasp the boy’s arm. White Bird could see the muscles in her back tense and knot as she dragged the boy toward the doorway. Her body twisted as she pitched him unceremoniously into the shadowed depths of the house.
“People!” The Serpent raised his hands high. “Word has just come to me that the Swamp Panthers are sending a party to raid us. Five warriors will attack Ground Cherry Camp the day after tomorrow at dawn. Who will go to ward off this threat?”
The announcement stopped White Bird cold. Without looking, he could tell that the crowd hung upon a precipice of indecision. It was instinct that led White Bird to raise his hand, shouting, “I will!” only to wonder what he’d done, and what had happened in this moment that should have been his greatest triumph.
A
low bank of clouds rolled up from the gulf. They drifted across the dense forests, following the valley of the Father Water northward.
In their inky shadow, Many Colored Crow dived and soared, riding the warm southern winds. On wings of night, he flipped and cavorted. High atop its ridge, Sun Town lay tucked away in sleep.
Many Colored Crow had waited for the last of the figures to leave the Men’s House. Had waited for the Dancing and Singing to conclude. He had let the young warriors preparing for battle purify themselves with sweat baths and liberal doses of black drink. He had let the dancers gyrate and pirouette as they wore their totem masks of redheaded woodpecker, bobcat, and snapping turtle. He had allowed the Power to flow into the warrior’s muscles and enervate their souls. This night it was to his benefit to allow Masked Owl’s vision to come true.
As he spiraled down through the humid air, he located the lone house in Snapping Turtle Clan grounds. It stood at the easternmost summit of the first ridge, not a dart’s cast from the Men’s House.
Inside, Mud Stalker had just fallen into a deep sleep, his body lying on a cane-pole bed against the back wall. The Speaker’s gray hair was tousled on a raccoon-skin pillow, his body covered with a tailored fox-hide blanket.
Many Colored Crow settled silently on the thatched roof and surveyed the surroundings. He could see the souls glowing in the night. These poor humans who were falling into the lines of Power being drawn by Masked Owl and himself.
For now, however, he had more urgent matters to attend to. The future had to be prepared just so. Perhaps his brother didn’t understand what was coming, how so much was going to be decided here.
You never spent enough time looking into the future, Brother. It is a fault which will cost you this time.
Satisfied, Many Colored Crow spread his wings and began to insert himself into Mud Stalker’s Dreams.
A
nhinga disliked mist. As dawn broke it lay on the swampy land, cottony and thick, tendrils drifting through the trees and rising off the stale water. It obscured the grayish light that filtered through the trees, blurring her surroundings as she led her small party of young warriors up from their beached canoe. The air oppressed, cool, and damp. Moisture beaded on her hair like pearls and left the weapons—the atlatl and darts she clutched in her right hand—clammy in her grip.
She knew this place, had come here once in the company of her uncle. The Sun People called this Ground Cherry Camp: a clearing where the plants grew in the sandy soil of an abandoned levee a half day’s run south of Sun Town. Despite the mist that clung like torn ghosts to every branch and bole, she knew this was the way.
At the landing, several overturned canoes had been propped on sections of rotting log, awaiting their owners’ return. A well-beaten path led up through tangled vines that wove an impenetrable web through the mixed sweetgum and oak. Even in the dim light she could see footprints, still clear from the night before, unfaded by the heavy dew that settled on the green world; it beaded on silvered leaves and dripped stolidly onto the damp ground.
Bobbing mayapple leaves danced as she passed, her bare feet water-streaked as she stepped through the ground cover. Buds were just forming, anticipatory to blooming. Overhead a small beast scampered through the parallel rows of lanceolate leaves on a white ash—then identified itself by a fox squirrel’s high-pitched chattering.
Snakes take it, had the squirrel given them away? Anhinga raised a hand, and Spider Fire stopped close behind her. The others, too, froze in place. In silence they waited, ears cocked to the gray dawn, but only the calls of the birds, the soft moaning of insects, and the irregular patter of water dripping from the trees could be heard.
“No voices,” Slit Nose whispered from the rear. “Maybe there’s no one there?”
“Or they are still asleep,” Spider Fire added. “It’s early.”
“Hush.” Anhinga glanced nervously at the encompassing fog that pressed down around them. Was it her imagination, or had it thickened, drawn closer?
A shiver played down her spine. She had never liked thick mist like this. Something about the way it rose from the water, as though alive, played eerily with her imagination. That it flowed around everything in its path bespoke a great Power that she had yet to comprehend. In times like this, when death prowled the land, mist could carry ghosts right around a person. She could imagine wraith hands tracing their way along a living person’s body, caressing it, slipping thin fingers into a person’s nose, mouth, and ears. How could you tell? How would you know that you had been witched? Any evil could be lurking just there, beyond your vision, waiting for you to step into its lair.
“Let’s go,” Right Talon muttered as he clutched his darts and atlatl. “If anyone is there, they’ll be wide-awake by the time we finally arrive.”
Mist Finger gently tapped his wooden dart shafts in agreement, but said nothing. Anhinga shot him a sidelong glance, measuring him. After his cavalier words the night they had left, he had been solid, never boastful like the others, and calmly capable when it came to making camp and seeing to the things that needed to be done. During the two days they had been traveling she had found herself admiring him more than once. Smooth muscle rolled under his greased skin. He stood straight, proud. Something in his demeanor made it clear that as he aged, he would become a leader. If only he hadn’t been so blunt that night in the canoe.
He just spoke what the others already knew,
she reminded herself. Yes, they had come to impress her. Mist Finger’s assertion that first night in the canoe simply lifted the veil, placed all of the young men’s actions in complete clarity.
So, are you going to marry any one of them?
She had begun to look at them through different eyes. They were no longer childhood friends, no longer the easy companions of hunting and fishing expeditions or harmless teasing. The seriousness with which they dedicated themselves to her, to this raid, bespoke of adulthood as she had never before understood it.
As she considered that, she realized her attention had fixed on Mist Finger. He alone didn’t fidget, didn’t stare anxiously out at
the mist-shrouded trees, but met her uneasy gaze with his clear brown eyes. That look reassured, speaking to her without words. He smiled the way he might if he were reading her souls.
“Are we going?” Slit Nose asked, “or would you rather wait for the mayapples and greenbrier to bloom?”
Anhinga strode forward, breaking eye contact with Mist Finger. A curious tingle had formed at the root of her spine, warming her pelvis. She flipped her hair, worn long and braided in anticipation of the day’s coming trials. Her other hand tightened on the darts and atlatl in her hand. After all, this wasn’t about handsome young men who made her heart leap. It was about war—about revenge and blood. Within moments, provided that Panther Above favored her, they would be killing enemies.
Taking a long stride, she tried to ignore the mist that sifted through the vines and branches. A sweetgum seedpod rolled under her heel as she marched up the trail. How far was it? She tried to remember.
The trail leveled off, winding through the trees. The branches overhead disappeared into a gray haze, hanging moss dangling like daggers. The trees themselves might have been ghosts vanishing into the haze. Ghosts?
Why did everything, no matter her momentary revelation about Mist Finger, return to ghosts? Was it because Bowfin’s lost souls prowled these selfsame forests? Did her brother’s empty eyes even now peer over her shoulder? Was he confused by her oddly timed attraction for Mist Finger when she should be contemplating the death of his killers?
A stab of guilt made her reorder her thoughts. Was this the right decision? Was it the time to strike? Is that what left her filled with unease? When she glanced up, it was to stare straight into the piercing eyes of a huge barred owl. The bird was perched on a branch, half-obscured by the patchy mist. She could see its scaly feet, the black talons gleaming where they encircled the wood. Those nightspeckled feathers were grayed by the dew, slick-looking and shimmering; the bird might have been born of the mist itself. The eyes boring into hers did not seem to be of this world.
Attention riveted, she stumbled over a morning glory vine, and her arms windmilled. But for Cooter’s quick reaction, she would have fallen.
“Thanks,” she whispered.
“You all right?” he asked, voice hushed.
“Fine.” She pointed up at the branch. “That owl …” The
branch, half-vanished in a gray wreath of mist, vaguely reappeared, empty, the leaves hanging limp. Surely, had the owl flown, they should have been stirred.
Her party had stopped, staring up curiously. She shook her head. “Nothing,” she whispered. “Hurry. Let’s get this over with.”
Her mind on owls, ghosts, and death, she didn’t realize how far they had come. The land opened before she knew it. Thick fog masked the clearing, as she led her young men into it. She crouched. Ground Cherry Camp, that was right here, wasn’t it? In the clearing?
As she looked around she could see the characteristic plants rising from the patchy spring grass. The telltale triangular leaves were curled under the weight of the dew, cast in gray by the tiny droplets. The trail they followed continued, winding into the thickening fog.
Turn around and run!
The words echoed hollowly between her souls. She could feel it, the wrongness, the sense of impending doom. Had everything gone deathly quiet? Her step faltered. It had been lunacy, bringing these young men here to try and do this thing. Someone would be killed as a result.
But you promised Bowfin. You can’t back out now. You are Jaguar Hide’s niece. His blood runs in your veins Your heart beats in time with his.
“Anhinga?” Right Talon asked under his breath. She could hear his worry.
“It’s all right … we’re close,” she almost mouthed the words. “Just being careful, that’s all.”
In swirling mist, she saw a house—just the gray shape like a blinked image that vanished as quickly into the murk. In that instant she realized it was all right, that they had arrived in secrecy, that the Sun People were caught unawares.
She motioned them close. “That is the camp. We charge in, kill all we can, and escape. Keep your wits about you. It’s easy to get lost in this fog. If we get separated, meet back at the canoe. If anyone gets cut off, he gets left behind.”
They all nodded, eyes wolfish and gleaming as they smiled their anticipation. She could see the fear, the anxiety bundled in their tense bodies. This day’s events would be sung about and retold for generations at the fires of her people. Reputations that would carry them for the rest of their lives would be forged here, today. She would be proven worthy of her uncle’s pride and respect. Perhaps this was even the first step on the long road to eventual clan leadership.
“Let’s go!” She gave Mist Finger a quick intimate smile, seeing
his eyes warm as he caught her meaning. She promised herself that if they survived this, made it home, she would be spending time with him. Perhaps that was the Spirit World’s attempt at justice. Bowfin’s death would be compensated by providing her this perfect young man to love.
As she moved forward in a crouch, her nimble fingers fitted a dart into the nock of her atlatl. She had crafted the spear thrower herself. Made of osage orange imported from the northwest, the hard wood had been carefully shaped to fit her small hand. The length of her forearm, the wood was engraved with the design of a panther that could have been creeping its way around the shaft. A red jasper banner stone hung from the center to provide a counterbalance. The hook in the far end that cradled the cane dart butt had been laboriously carved into the wood itself. The handle she gripped was wrapped with panther sinew. Two loops had been fashioned to insert her fingers into to keep them from slipping.
Her darts were made of straight sections of cane a little longer than she was tall, each tipped with a sharp stone point flaked from red-orange chert pebbles recovered from the deposits in the hillsides of her homeland. She herself had grooved the cane shafts midway along their lengths. Into them she had tied split blue heron feathers for fletching to stabilize the long darts in flight. In her hand she carried five of the deadly darts. Three she would drive into some enemy’s body. Two she would keep in reserve in case they should have to fight their way out, or should she need them on the way home to kill an alligator or deer for the supper pot.
BOOK: People of the Owl: A Novel of Prehistoric North America (North America's Forgotten Past)
11.52Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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