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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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Her heart had begun to batter her breastbone with an unfamiliar energy. Her whole body felt charged with a bursting intensity. This was the war rush she had heard her elders mention, but never, until this moment, had she experienced it. Nothing she had ever done prepared her for the tingling, the excitement, the heady rush of euphoria, fear, and anticipation.
Panther Above, I am alive!
On bunched legs she charged into the camp, desperate for the sight of the enemy. The mist-shrouded huts were all around her now. It would be but a moment before she found a target. Borne as if by a storm surge, she threw her head back and a scream of ecstasy tore from her throat.
A shape emerged from one of the low doorways, but to her dismay, it ducked away into the mist before she could make her cast. “We are the Swamp Panthers! We are here to kill you! Bowfin! My brother! Come and watch us take our revenge!”
She danced on feathery feet, muscles charged, but only the swirling mist and the gray-thatched huts met her anxious gaze. Behind
her, Spider Fire, Cooter, and Slit Nose, slowed, circling, darts nocked and back for the cast. They bent low, peering into the fog, searching for someone, anyone to attack.
“I saw one!” Anhinga declared. “He ducked out and ran before I could kill him.”
“This accursed mist”—Right Talon gestured with his free hand—“is the work of …”
She heard the impact: a hissing slap, as it smacked into Right Talon’s left side. She blinked, seeing the blood-shiny stone point where a hand’s length of dart protruded from Right Talon’s right side. On his left, the shaft still vibrated, driven in up to the fletching. The expression on Right Talon’s face reflected a wide-eyed disbelieving confusion. The young man’s mouth was open, working, but no sound broke his lips despite a mighty contortion of his chest. He sagged to his knees, darts and atlatl clattering to the ground.
Instinctively, Anhinga was in the act of reaching out to him as a second dart hissed and thumped into Slit Nose’s body. He had been agape, frozen in disbelief as he watched Right Talon collapse. The scream that ripped from Slit Nose’s lungs would haunt Anhinga’s nightmares for the rest of her life.
“We are ambushed!” Mist Finger came to his senses first. “Run! Back to the canoe.”
His voice broke Anhinga’s panicked trance. She turned, pelting back the way they had come. She flinched as something hissed through the air beside her head. Her eyes caught the briefest flicker of something flashing past before it buried itself in the mist.
Cooter, running at her side, grunted, stumbled, and pitched headlong into the charcoal-stained dirt. She saw him hit, saw his body bounce at the impact and slide. He pawed weakly at the damp soil, a long dart implanted in the middle of his back between his shoulder blades.
Screams of rage and ululations of joy broke out on all sides. Shapes emerged from the mist, charging toward her, darts in their hands.
Warriors!
So many of them! Gripped by terror, she opened her hand, letting her darts and atlatl drop into the grass as she sprinted on Mist Finger’s heels headlong back down the dark slash of trail up which she had led them brief moments before. She barely heard the sobbing sound her throat made as fear tightened it.
Spider Fire’s voice shrieked from behind her, the sound that of wrenching pain. So violent was it that birds broke from the trees, flapping into the gray haze.
Panther, let me live. Help me. Keep me alive.
Breath was tearing at her throat as she pumped her arms, flying through the mist-choked
forest. The ground dropped away, and she dashed from foot to foot on the wild descent to the canoe landing, feet sliding on the wet dirt as she scrambled for balance and speed.
Mist Finger, too, had thrown away his darts for speed. She was several body lengths behind him as he slewed to a stop, almost toppling as his bare feet slid in the muck. He had started to bend, reaching for the canoe, when a man rose from behind it.
She watched in horror as Mist Finger raised his arm, barely having time to block the blow as a stone-headed ax snapped both bones in his forearm. Mist Finger screeched in agony as the enemy warrior whipped his ax back and forth, each smacking blow breaking through Mist Finger’s pitiful attempts at defense. As she watched, Mist Finger was being beaten into a hunched mass of blood and broken bones.
A wild scream, instinctive, broke from her lips as she threw herself at her enemy. Her fingers were out, ready to scratch him apart.
Instead of the hard impact she expected, the man turned. He looked young, no older than she, a smile on his lips. She could see Mist Finger’s spattered blood stippling the young warrior’s face, hair, and chest. A dancing fire lit the man’s dark eyes as he gracefully pivoted on one foot. Carried forward by her momentum, Anhinga couldn’t react as he artfully dodged out of her way. As she flew past, his arm swung, the movement blurred. Yellow flashed—lightning in her brain—as her head rocked with a hollow bang that deafened her.
Her loose body hammered the muddy ground. A shrill ringing in her ears and pain, such terrible pain, filled her. Her brain had been dislocated from her body, as though floating behind her swimming vision. Her eyes blinked of their own volition. She was staring into Mist Finger’s face—seeing but not comprehending the blood that ran from his gasping mouth or the blank emptiness behind his eyes. That image cast itself on her souls as she fell away … and away … Drifting into a soft gray blankness.
T
he way the Swamp Panthers’ slim canoe lanced into the bank filled White Bird with admiration. The wake came from behind, rippling the smooth brown water as it rushed up onto the grimy black shore. People were shouting and waving as they spilled down the long slope from Sun Town to the canoe landing.
White Bird laid his paddle to one side. Ahead of his feet the dead warrior lay limp and beginning to bloat. He had been laid in the canoe bottom, facedown, limbs akimbo. Ahead of the corpse, just behind Yellow Spider, lay the girl, her arms and legs trussed as though she were a captured alligator.
White Bird had studied her all the way back from Ground Cherry Camp. She hadn’t regained consciousness; her breathing was labored. The way her head was turned he had been able to see her eyes jerking under the lids, as though she were locked in frantic dreams. Despite the way her face was mashed against the curving side of the canoe, he could see that she was a pretty thing. Thick black hair had been pulled into a braid that now lay curled like a blood-encrusted snake behind her head. The smooth lines of her muscular brown back slimmed into a narrow waist before the full swell of her hips. Her kirtle had been displaced, revealing a rounded curve of buttock above a long and firm thigh. Sleek calves ended in delicate if mud-stained feet. In all, his masculine self had been delightfully distracted by that enticing young body.
And, best of all, she is mine!
He had captured her fairly. Not only
that, but he had killed an opponent in hand-to-hand combat. Of all of his party, White Bird was the one who had fought toe-to-toe. He glanced happily at the dead warrior lying naked and supine behind the girl’s feet. The young warrior’s broken arms rested at unnatural angles. A dribble of urine leaked from the limp penis. Bright midday sunlight gleamed on the blackened wounds on his head. The eyes had dried, graying and vacant. A swarm of flies already droned in a wavering column when they weren’t crawling across the dead flesh. From where he sat, White Bird could see pale knots of eggs the flies had laid in the dead man’s eyes.
White Bird’s companions might have killed the others—those who had driven darts into the raiders had been singing ecstatically on the trip and waved their bloody darts when they weren’t paddling. He, however, had faced the enemy alone. Power lay in that. His exploits would be talked of among the clans. Pride, like a flood, rose within him as he stepped out of the canoe and helped Yellow Spider pull it onto the shore.
The crowd engulfed him like a wave; people were looking into the canoe, the more adventurous reaching in and prodding the bodies with a foot or hand. The flies rose in an angry buzz.
“Tell us! Tell us!” the cries came. Someone near the rear said, “The boy’s vision was true!”
White Bird lifted his hands, stilling the throng. “My people, yes, my brother’s vision was true. It was as he said. We found them where he said they would be, at Ground Cherry Camp. This dawn, in a thick mist, we ambushed them. This girl, I have taken on my own.”
The other canoes slid onto the beach, warriors laughing as they shipped their paddles and leaped ashore. The victors lifted their bloody darts and shook them as they hooted and pranced in their joy. The trophy corpses were lifted—bloody and leaking fluids—before being borne up the long incline to be displayed on the western side of the Men’s House atop the Father Mound.
“White Bird killed one bare-handed and took the girl! He took two!” the story circulated from lip to lip, eyes drifting his way.
Aware of their sudden awe, White Bird acted with the humility expected of a warrior, saying, “I was lucky. That’s all. Someone had to cover their escape route. It was the others who laid the trap and broke their attack.”
“But it was White Bird’s planning,” Yellow Spider insisted. He and Eats Wood, a man from Snapping Turtle Clan, reached down to lift the girl from the canoe bottom. “Because of his cunning not one of us was even injured!”
“Carry her correctly,” White Bird reminded, fully aware that Eats Wood—who already had an unsavory reputation when it came to young girls—held the captive in such a way that his hand was cupped suggestively around one of her breasts. “You be careful, Eats Wood! Hear? The Snakes alone know, I hit her hard enough to drive the souls loose from her body. I don’t want her dead.”
“We know how you want her!” old Red Finger barked wryly. “And for that, she doesn’t need any souls!”
A round of laughter came in response. White Bird waved it down. “Yes, yes, but let’s just get these corpses up to the Men’s House, shall we? On the way, please, thank these warriors who have demonstrated their courage and skill. They have placed their lives at risk for your safety. While these were young and inexperienced raiders, they might just as well have been more cunning and dangerous. So treat my companions with the respect they deserve. We are all obligated.” In appreciation of the moment, he faced his fellow warriors and touched his forehead in respect. To his surprise, so did the rest of the gathered people.
Water Petal dropped into step beside him as he started up the slope. She wore her kirtle loose around her pregnant belly and a fabric shawl over one shoulder. Behind him, Yellow Spider and Eats Wood bore the unconscious girl. The dead warrior was dragged unceremoniously by his feet; the broken arms and battered head left marks on the damp soil.
“How is Mother?” White Bird kept his voice low, casting a glance to read Water Petal’s expression.
Her round face betrayed her concern. “She is grieving, Cousin. All through the last winter she knew that your uncle was failing. The two of them were a team. They built Owl Clan’s prestige, indebted the other clans to ours. He might have been dying, but as long as he was alive, she could act as if it were the two of them working in unison. She could go at night, and even though fever was eating him, she could talk her ideas over with him, share her fears as she had since she was a young girl and he a starry-eyed youth.” She shook her head. “But now … I don’t know. It’s as if part of her souls died with him.”
“When will the funeral be?”
“Since you have returned we will burn his house as soon as you have finished your obligations at the Men’s House. Bobcat, the Serpent’s apprentice, has cleaned Cloud Heron’s bones. Your safe arrival, and in such triumph, will do more than anything to relieve your mother.”
He nodded at that. “What about Mud Puppy? Has he … I mean, he came out of that odd trance, didn’t he?”
Water Petal’s frustration showed in her expression. “He has spent most of his time gone, much to your mother’s despair. He has been shadowing the Serpent like a hawk, but when the Elder asked, the Serpent said the boy’s constant company was agreeable.”
He lowered his voice, fully aware of Eats Wood behind him. “Did you hear the talk at the landing?”
In an equally guarded voice, Water Petal said, “I did. But, White Bird, it was as he said, wasn’t it? There were five—and the girl?”
He nodded, bothered as he had been since the beginning of this madness. “It was just an accident that I didn’t kill her.” He glanced back. “But let me tell you, she was a scrappy one. Fit to take me down with her bare hands.”
“So, now that you have a wildcat, what will you do with her?”
“Keep her as a slave.” He took a deep breath. “A Speaker should have someone to serve him, to cook and keep his house until a suitable marriage can be arranged.” He shrugged. “Besides, Spring Cypress can make use of her.”
“If she’s as scrappy as you say, she’ll run.”
White Bird nodded. “Before I let her loose I’ll cut the tendons behind her ankles. It will slow her down to an awkward walk; but she doesn’t need to run in order to cook, or clean, or …”
“Or accept your hard manhood?” With that Water Petal laughed. “Under all that blood and mud she looked comely, what I could see of her.”
He remembered the rage in her eyes, the terrible desperation as she flew at him, arms outstretched. “Let’s say she will be a challenge for me.” The knowledge that she hated him would delight him every time he shared her bed.
“Swamp Panther, isn’t she?” Water Petal asked.
“Yes.” A pause. “How did Mud Puppy know they were coming?”
“Your mother and I have been talking. I think we have an explanation. Some of Clay Fat’s cousins killed a boy while they were down digging Panther sandstone. It was probably just a lucky guess on Mud Puppy’s part. Of course they would want revenge. Snakes! I should have figured that out on my own.”
“By why just these youngsters?” White Bird wondered, idly aware that they were but a few winters younger than he himself. “Jaguar Hide isn’t this clumsy.”
“No. Keep that in mind, Cousin.” Water Petal shot him a warning look. “Tell me, are you keeping her alive just because you want
her as a slave? Or do you take Mud Puppy’s warning seriously?”
“It was just as he said, Cousin. It might have been a lucky guess, but it was just as he said. There were five young warriors and the girl.” It had been luck—not Mud Puppy’s prophecy—that he’d managed to smack her unconscious. Since then his interest in her had been enflamed by the charms suggested by her very alluring body.
He concluded, saying, “As to the future of Mud Puppy’s vision, we’ll see.”
“I suppose,” Water Petal said into his silence. “Well, when you wear her out, or find yourself married to a willing wife with an appetite of her own, your interest will slacken—as male members always do after they’ve inserted their seed.” She patted her pregnant stomach. “Then you can dispose of her as you will.”
He laughed. “How did you come to be such an expert? You’re but three winters older than I.”
“I’ve been married for nearly two of those winters,” she replied tartly. “My husband, like you, is a young man. Believe me, I have learned about appetites and desire.” She lowered her voice, “But your mother may not remember when she was young, filled with a craving for a man’s flesh inside her canoe. So we’ll share this secret—just the two of us.”
He nodded as they crested the rise. The Men’s House loomed to the left. The large thatched building dominated the western side of the irregularly flattened mound. Above the centerline atop the roof, carved wooden effigies of Snapping Turtle, Eagle, and Rattlesnake stood against the afternoon sky. The totems of war glared out at the world with painted eyes, beaks, fangs, and talons raised to remind the world that Sun Town’s warriors and hunters were to be feared.
Lifting a hand, he placed it on Water Petal’s shoulder. “Thank you.”
She gave him a knowing glance, a faint smile hiding behind her full lips. “Remember, Cousin, I am here for you. Now, as well as in the future.”
He recognized the wariness in his breast for what it was: the realization that the world would never remain as it was today. He met her gaze and nodded, not in commitment, but in acknowledgment. Would she be the one he wanted for Clan Elder after Wing Heart was gone? Could they forge that kind of relationship? The same sort his mother had had with his uncle?
“Where do you want her?” Yellow Spider interrupted his thoughts as they approached the Men’s House.
“Lay the dead ones out in a line there.” White Bird pointed to
the shoulder of the mound. “As to the girl, tie her to the sunset post. Just the way you would a captured alligator.”
Yellow Spider nodded as he and Eats Wood carried the girl over. Though she still hung limply in their arms, White Bird was certain that he saw her eyes flicker. Snakes, could she be awake? If so, she must have the self-control of a piece of stone. A blow to the head like that should have been agonizing, and the pain of her hanging head would have felt as if her skull were exploding.
“Tie her carefully!” White Bird added. “I think she is a tricky one. I can’t take the time right now to cut her tendons—and I don’t want her in a position to wiggle herself free when no one is watching.”
“I’ll cut her tendons for you,” Eats Wood chimed in. He had his hand on her bared breast again, and White Bird could see the girl’s brown nipple pinched between his callused fingers.
“No!” White Bird barked, angered by the man’s familiarity with the captive. “I want to do it. She’s mine, property of Owl Clan. Thank you for your service in bearing her here. I am obliged.”
Eats Wood gave him a sour nod, released his hold on her, and allowed her torso to drop soddenly to the ground. The girl’s head bounced on the packed silt. White Bird was sure he caught the painful wince before she could hide it. No matter, with Yellow Spider doing the binding, she wasn’t going anywhere. For his part, he had the ceremonies and war cleansing to attend to in the Men’s House. Even as he turned toward the large thatched building, he could smell the pungent odor of black drink wafting from within.
BOOK: People of the Owl: A Novel of Prehistoric North America (North America's Forgotten Past)
7.63Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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