People of the Owl: A Novel of Prehistoric North America (North America's Forgotten Past) (19 page)

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

BOOK: People of the Owl: A Novel of Prehistoric North America (North America's Forgotten Past)
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“He was part sorcerer then?” Hazel Fire asked, his eyes focused on the house. Perhaps he thought some smoky spirit was going to rise from the door and cast enchantments around and about.
“No.” Yellow Spider rubbed his callused palms together. “He knew people, that’s all. Knew their souls. When my punishment was over he treated me as if nothing had ever happened between us. He never even mentioned the event again, and he was most enthusiastic when White Bird suggested that I might go upriver with him.”
“Was he much like White Bird?” Gray Fox was watching the increasing numbers of people who walked toward them across the plaza.
“They were much the same,” Yellow Spider admitted. “Like White Bird, the Speaker was smart, friendly, and forever thinking two or three steps ahead. Seeing them together you could almost think them twins. That is why so many people are coming to honor his passing. Even the other clans respected the Speaker. He had a way about him.”
“And what is the Serpent doing?” Hazel Fire pointed to where
he was still casting droplets of black drink from his fingertips.
“That is to feed the soul of the house and the Speaker’s Dream Soul. By doing so, it reminds them both that while the site must be cleansed by fire, the People bear them nothing but goodwill. Think of it like this: When people live inside a house they become part of that place. The light is bad, this being sunset, but you can look into the doorway. There, see on the pile of wood? Those are the Speaker’s bones. His Dream Soul is hovering there, attached to them.”
Hazel Fire swallowed hard, stepping back as if to distance himself from the dead spirit.
“No, don’t fear,” Yellow Spider said with a chuckle as he reached back and pulled the Wolf Trader forward. “The Speaker was a good and wise man. A person’s soul doesn’t change just because of death. At least, not unless something terrible was done to kill him. Only then does a soul turn vengeful, just as the living would.”
“Why burn his bones?” Gray Fox’s brow had lined with worry as he stared uneasily at the low doorway. “Why not bury them as my people do?”
“Fire cleanses,” Yellow Spider reminded. “Any evils or bad thoughts that might have gathered at this place will be destroyed or driven off.” He pointed to the gaps that separated the sections of concentric ridges. “When the fire starts, any evil that is trapped here can escape out through the gaps. If you walked to the outer ring, you would see that the line of ash has been parted to let any malevolent spirits out. They will flee toward the setting sun, drawn inexorably to the west.”
“What happened to his flesh?” Hazel Fire shifted uncomfortably. “Those bones look pretty well cleaned off. He didn’t die that long ago. Not long enough to have decomposed like that.”
“The Serpent’s apprentice, Bobcat, stripped the meat from his bones,” Yellow Spider said. “That has to be done soon after death, before the flesh has a chance to draw evil to it. You know what happens to a body after death. Corruption is drawn to it just like ants to fruit nectar. Corruption and the forces that lead to festering are ravenous, forever driven by a fierce and consuming hunger. Since we can’t drive them away, it’s better simply to take the flesh and carry it outside of Sun Town. Each clan has a place where it leaves corruption and rot. Those locations we mark and no one, unless they, too, are filled with evil, would go there.” Yellow Spider shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe as the years pass we’ll concentrate so much evil outside the powerful rings of Sun Town that the world will be a better place. Even as far away as your own villages.”
“And your Speaker’s Dream Soul?” Hazel Fire asked.
“Because of the black drink and the Serpent’s requests to his soul, it will stay here, within the safe confines of Sun Town.”
“You mean you try to keep his ghost here?” Gray Fox was looking increasingly nervous.
Yellow Spider cocked a disbelieving eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t we? Just because the Speaker is dead doesn’t mean he isn’t still part of the clan. Part of what our earthworks do is keep the spirits of our dead within. This way they can whisper to our Dream Souls at night when we’re sleeping.”
“I’ll never let myself Dream again while I’m sleeping here.” Gray Fox touched his breast as if for reassurance.
“I think they speak their own language,” Hazel Fire muttered. “At least no ghost has talked to me in my dreams in any language but my own.”
Yellow Spider turned his attention to Wing Heart as she stepped to the house, calling, “Brother, hear me. We are cleansing this place now. Thank you for all that you have done for our lineage, our clan, and our people. Stay with us, help us, fight for us from the Land of the Dead. Whisper your wise counsel when we are in need, and intercede on our behalf with the forces of light and darkness. Be well, my brother, for we shall meet your Dream Soul when our earthly bodies fail us.”
She turned and walked to a low-smoking fire before reaching out to take a smoldering stick. White Bird stepped forward, his face a mask against the pain in his freshly tattooed chest. He placed his hand around his mother’s where she grasped the smoldering stick. Together they touched it to a corner of the thatch. White Bird had to lean forward, blowing the glowing end until the thatch caught and the first flickers of fire began climbing the dry grass.
“I see things inside,” Gray Fox said as the fire illuminated the interior of the house. “A man’s atlatl, a bundle of darts, and isn’t that a pile of folded clothing?”
Yellow Spider whispered, “Good-bye, Speaker. I will see you soon.” Then, after a pause, he said in a louder voice, “Those are the Speaker’s personal belongings. He cannot take them to the Land of the Dead in their present form. They, too, must be transformed into their spirit selves in order for him to use them in the afterlife.”
As they watched, the Serpent cavorted and shook his turtle shell rattle. His reedy voice rose and fell as he Sang in words Yellow Spider couldn’t understand. The flames spread through the roofing. Thick white smoke curled through the tightly bound shocks of grass before being whipped up into the sunset sky.
W
hite Bird stepped back, an arm raised to protect himself from the violent heat radiating from his uncle’s house. There, just within the doorway, he could see his uncle’s bones laid in a careful bundle on the rick of hickory and maple wood. In the midst of the bonfire the skull charred and blackened, grease sizzling as the rounded bone split, steamed, and oozed. The long bones had been tied in a tight bundle that now spilled down into the crackling logs. One by one they popped as the marrow began to boil inside.
White Bird backed up another step to where his mother stood, arms at her sides, a grim expression on her drawn face. He flinched at the heat, amazed that she could stand it, and struggled with the desire to step back even farther to where the crowd had gathered on the other side of the borrow ditch.
“Farewell, Brother,” she said in a voice mostly drowned by the fire’s roar. Clay began to flake off the walls as the cane-and-pole substructure began to burn. A wreath of black rose in a pillar, bearing the smoke of a dead life to the Sky World. Mother Sun sank below the horizon beyond the Bird’s Head, the sky uncharacteristically blue and cloudless.
White Bird might have been able to stand it, but the dull smarting on his chest where the Serpent had tattooed the red pattern of dots became unbearable. The design marked him as a blooded warrior and a leader worthy of respect. He unwillingly took his mother’s hand and half dragged her back.
The look she shot him was nearly as frightening as the searing heat. Grief lay behind her eyes, grief so powerful it sucked at his souls. And then, as if he truly saw her for the first time, he cataloged her face: Threads of white streaked her hair where she’d pulled it back and pinned it into a severe bun. Deep wrinkles hatched her hollow cheeks, and her mouth had thinned. When had her angular nose gone to extra flesh? He had never noticed that the smooth skin of her forehead had hardened and lined. Her throat, once so fine, now wattled and bagged like an elderly man’s scrotum.
She’s so old!
He stood stunned, trying to fathom what it all meant. The popping of his uncle’s bones, his mother’s old age, the pain of his new tattoos. As of that morning the world might have been dislocated, shifted somehow as it floated on the endless seas. From this day onward nothing would ever be the same. His life might have ended and begun anew.
Even the mysterious nighttime escape of his captive seemed somehow of lesser import—though he’d vowed to find the culprit who had sawed her ropes in two. Protestations aside, he was sure it had something to do with Snapping Turtle Clan, and perhaps Eats Wood and his preoccupation with sticking his penis into anything female.
“Are you all right?” he asked as he leaned close to his mother’s ear.
For several heartbeats she stared blankly at the fire, then his words seemed to penetrate. She swallowed hard, the loose flesh at her throat working. “Yes. Part of me is in there with him. I am burning, White Bird. My souls are becoming ashes.”
“He was a great Speaker for our clan,” White Bird replied as he turned his attention back to the flame-engulfed structure. “I am honored to bear his legacy.”
“Honored enough to take the responsibilities of the clan over your own desires?”
“Of course.” He pointed at the blackened bones now half-hidden in an inky veil of smoke. “He taught me that. My first duty is to my clan.”
“Even if it means giving up your own desires for the good of all? Surrendering the needs of your lineage for those of the whole?” Her voice sounded far away, oddly brittle.
“Yes.” Must they have this conversation now?
“What would you give up to be Speaker?”
At the serious tone in her voice, he studied her from the corner of his eye, aware that they were surrounded by a huge throng of the people. Tens of tens of tens had come to watch the cleansing of
Speaker Cloud Heron’s house, belongings, and remains. For the moment, he and his mother were the center of all attention.
“Whatever I have to,” he said in a low voice.
“Spring Cypress?”
The question shocked him. “Why? I love her. She loves me. We want to be together. Why do you think I—”
“For the clan.” Her low voice had all the flexibility of a stone bowl. “Or did you mislead me?”
“No, I …”
“The clan places its demands above those of its Speaker.”
“Yes, but I don’t understand what that has to do with my marrying Spring Cypress. Rattlesnake Clan has been our ally for so many years that—”
“Things change, boy. Clay Fat has his own plans for Spring Cypress
.
.. but that is not your concern. Tell me now, would you marry Spring Cypress, or be Speaker of the Owl Clan? I must know. Time is short, and if you are not interested in serving, I must quickly find another.”
He tried to keep from gaping, aware that the Wolf Traders were standing across the borrow ditch with Yellow Spider, several arm’s lengths to his left. They kept glancing back and forth between the fire and White Bird. He could see them talking in low tones, trying to understand what they were seeing.
“Mother, I went north—”
“You are talking to your Clan Elder. Whatever your mother wishes is not germane to this conversation. How do you answer your Clan Elder? Will you be Speaker?”
“I would, yes, but to—”
“Even if it means giving up your own desires for those of your clan? Yes, or no?”
“I’ve planned on marrying Spring Cypress since I was a boy! We’ve always understood that she and I—”
Her implacable gaze had fixed on the burning house as the thatched roof slumped, sagged, and collapsed. Smoke, sparks, and glowing ash whirled about within the still-standing walls to rise in a curling vortex. Inside the open doorway the inferno obscured the splintered and scalloped bones on the pyre.
“Yes,” he muttered, feeling a hollow anger begin to strangle his grief. “As you have known all along.”
“No matter the cost?”
“No matter the cost.” His heart might have been stone when he added, “Even if it means I cannot have Spring Cypress.” How odd? At that moment he could barely remember what Lark’s face looked
like. Had he left her so long ago? It seemed like a lifetime.
His mother nodded, reaching out to retake his hand and turning him to face the crowd. Raising his hand high over his head, she cried, “People of the Sun, Speaker Cloud Heron is dead. His remains have been cleansed. His Dream Soul will reside with us here forever. As required by our laws, his house and his belongings, the remains of his body, are being cleansed before your eyes. It is in this moment that I, as Elder of the Owl Clan, do raise this young man’s hand. Greet White Bird, nephew of Cloud Heron, son of Wing Heart, fathered by Black Lightning of the Eagle Clan. As Clan Elder I place this young man before you for your inspection.”
White Bird battled the wheeling sense of confusion, conquered it, and stood tall and straight before them. He wondered what they were seeing. A muscular young man, his chest a painful mass of fresh scabs. A man too young for such a responsibility. This was madness. A Speaker needed to be older, tempered and wise as his uncle had been.
“Hurrah for White Bird!” The shout carried over the crowd. To his surprise, the caller was none other than Mud Stalker.
While he was still reeling from the sight, Spring Cypress caught his attention by bouncing on charged legs. Her whole face beamed with joy and excitement as she clapped her hands for him.
Beside her, Clay Fat’s subdued gaze had fixed on the young girl, his look anything but reassured.
What is going on here?
White Bird wondered, face neutral against the tight agony in his mutilated chest. Not all of it came from the wounds left by his tattooing, as his mother continued to thrust his hand up toward the deep purple sky. The cheering of the crowd before him did little to ameliorate the heat burning into his back.
From the corner of his eye he noticed Mud Puppy, standing off to one side, his slight form illuminated by the ghastly yellow firelight. A haunted look, one of terror, reflected from his large brown eyes. He was shaking his head, and even across the distance, White Bird could read his lips. They were repeating, “Don’t do it!” over and over.
A
nhinga let the canoe drift, carried forward by its own momentum. She banked the pointed paddle across the gunwales as the craft curved slightly to the left—a flaw in its shaping during construction. Paddling it, she had constantly had to correct for that peculiarity.
Now, however, she was so exhausted that she didn’t have enough energy to feel frustrated.
Around her the swamp pulsed with life: the humming of insects; the piping song of the birds rising and falling in scattered melodies; fish sloshing as they broke the surface for skimming bugs. Heat lay on the water, burned down through gaps in the trees by the relentless sun. Sweat beaded on her aching body.
For a long moment she stared at nothing, blind to the brown water with its bits of yellow-stained foam. Dark sticks from a forgotten forest floor bobbed gently, and the flotsam of bark and leaves lay in dappled shadows. The trees, so rich and green in the light might have been shades cast by another world. She did not see or feel the patches of triangular hanging moss that draped the branches and traced over her skin as she floated past. The dark shape of a water moccasin gliding away from her course didn’t register in her stunned mind.
Again and again she relived the nightmare images. All she could see was that last instant when Mist Finger collapsed under the battering of the Sun warrior’s stone-headed war club. Heartbeats later that scene faded into fragments of images as she watched her friends being torn apart before the Men’s House. The vibrant red of bloody flesh, the odd gray of the intestines, the dark brown of the livers as they were cut loose from under the protective arch of human rib cages, painted her souls.
One instance in particular stood out. She flinched as she watched a blood-streaked warrior toss Cooter’s shining liver high. It had risen, flopping loosely, to hang at midpoint and then dive steeply. At impact it had literally exploded into a paste, bits and pieces spattering hither and yon. Who would have thought a man’s liver was so delicate?
She stared, sightless to this world, hearing the humming of the mosquitoes and flies as they hovered about her. Even the sweat trickling down her face seemed so far away, intruding from a different world than her own.
Blinking her dry eyes she glanced down and took inventory of herself. They had stripped her naked, of course. Clothing left wounded souls with a final if ever so small place of refuge. They had denied her even that. Blister-covered welts itched and oozed where they had used burning sticks to elicit her screams. A black bruise marked her left breast, where the one called Eats Wood had viciously pinched her nipple. Despite the bath she had taken at first light, she felt dirty, filth-smeared in a way that no amount of scrubbing could ever cleanse. If she reached up, she could feel the swollen
lump that stuck out of the left side of her head. That was where the flat of White Bird’s stone ax had brought her down. Broken and scabbed skin overlay deeper bruises on her wrists and legs where they had bound her.
In defiance she flexed her feet against the gouged wood on the canoe bottom, thankful that White Bird hadn’t had the time to cut the tendons in her heels. Despite her other wounds, she could still walk, still run, instead of hobbling like an old woman on loosehinged ankles.
Those were the wounds to her body. Try as she might, she could not even catch a glimpse of the wounds to her souls.
As she had paddled through the morning, dream images had flashed in her head: she and Mist Finger in love; their marriage; their first child—his smile as he stared up from moss bedding. She had imagined Mist Finger, grinning at the sight of her as he walked up to their house at the Panther’s Bones. Gone, vanished like the morning mist that gave way to a burning midday sun.
Other memories of her and the dead sifted through her disjointed thoughts. She had grown up with them. Like the vines surrounding a tree, she had woven bits and pieces of their lives into her own. Cooter had brought her the first fish he had ever caught. How old had he been? Five summers?

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