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

People of the Owl: A Novel of Prehistoric North America (North America's Forgotten Past) (28 page)

BOOK: People of the Owl: A Novel of Prehistoric North America (North America's Forgotten Past)
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“I am happy to cast my vote to acknowledge Speaker Salamander to this Council.” Mud Stalker balled his upraised hand into a fist. To Salamander it looked more like the expression of victory than anything else.
As if in a blur, he heard the voices of the Clan Elders and Speakers calling out in favor.
“Nay!” came the strident cry.
Salamander started, following all eyes as they turned to Deep Hunter. The Alligator Clan Speaker stepped out with his sister, Colored Paint.
It was Colored Paint who said, “Alligator Clan believes that the Council would be better served by more mature leadership. We want it stated on this occasion, that although we are outvoted, we believe the acceptance of a mere boy does not serve the Council well.”
Mud Stalker glanced at Wing Heart, clearly expecting some answer from the Council’s leader. She might have been sculpted of
mud, as aware as a cooking clay as she gazed vacant-eyed at the sky.
“Cousin?” Water Petal called from behind. “Clan Elder, do you have a response?”
Wing Heart might have been deaf, lost in her thoughts.
With a slightly perplexed look, Mud Stalker turned, glaring at Deep Hunter. “Well, it is obvious that Clan Elder Wing Heart considers your objection so ludicrous that she needn’t even acknowledge it.”
Chuckles broke out. Salamander felt his ears redden with embarrassment. Deep Hunter was right. He shouldn’t even be here. Why was this happening? What was Mud Stalker’s purpose in insisting on his following in White Bird’s footsteps when Alligator Clan’s objections seemed eminently logical?
With renewed interest, Salamander studied the people in the circle.
They are laughing!
The notion came to him as he studied the smug faces of Mud Stalker and Back Scratch. Clay Fat and Graywood Snake looked uncomfortable, as if caught doing something embarrassing. Thunder Tail’s expression was wooden, while Cane Frog’s blind face exhibited a grin, as if she, too, sensed some sort of victory.
“The objection of Alligator Clan is noted,” Mud Stalker replied with satisfaction. “The vote, however, is clear.” His voice rang in the hot air. “
Speaker
Salamander, of the Owl Clan! Step forward and meet your Council!”
Water Petal’s sharp jab sent him unsteadily forward, halftottering on his feet. Mortification seared his souls as he forced his feet to carry him into the open. His tongue knotted at the back of this throat; he tried to keep his knees from trembling. As he looked up into Mud Stalker’s gloating eyes, he couldn’t find a single word to say.
“Speaker Salamander,” Mud Stalker cried. “With your acceptance, this Council has finished its business. In honor of the occasion, will you do us the favor of dismissing the Council?”
Salamander froze for a moment, the only sensation that of his heart battering against his ribs. “Dismissed,” he croaked.
Laughter broke out, adding to his misery. He shot a quick look over his shoulder, hearing Water Petal telling Wing Heart, “The Speaker dismissed the Council, Elder. It’s over now. Salamander is now Speaker.”
“Who?” Wing Heart asked faintly as she turned away.
Salamander didn’t hear Water Petal’s response.
“I feel like a fool,” Salamander muttered.
“You did fine.” Mud Stalker beamed down at him. “Just trust me, young man. I’ll see you through this.”
And then they came, each of the Elders and Speakers, each congratulating him. The hands, pats on the back, and smiling faces blurred as they crowded around him.
Only after the others stepped away did Deep Hunter and Colored Paint approach. Deep Hunter’s face reeked of disgust as he leaned forward, voice low. “So, you are now Snapping Turtle Clan’s tool? My old adversary planned that well, boy.”
“I am Owl Clan,” Salamander managed.
“Yes, well, we’ll see, won’t we?” Then Deep Hunter turned and stalked off, his muscular body betraying an unbending anger.
“We’ll see,” Colored Paint agreed, following her brother.
Thankful to be left alone, Salamander noticed that Mud Stalker seemed to be the center of attention as the remaining Council members wished him well.
Is that the plan? I am supposed to do as Mud Stalker wishes? Is that why he insisted on me?
The knowledge was sobering. Even more so when Mud Stalker turned to him, slapped him on the back, and said, “Come, Speaker Salamander. Your wives have made a great feast. We look forward to celebrating our good fortune!”
But when Salamander looked in Pine Drop and Night Rain’s direction, they glared back at him as though he were some sort of carrion-eating bug.
I could have gone with Spring Cypress. I
should
have.
Mud Stalker’s heavy hand propelled him forward toward his future.
T
wo days after the solstice ceremonies, he had followed the Serpent to the house where Clan Elder Graywood Snake had lived. The oval-shaped house had been built on the first ridge, just to the left of the low causeway leading up to the Bird’s Head.
Graywood Snake had died suddenly. One moment she was hobbling across the plaza, the next, she cried out and fell over. Her souls had fled before she hit the ground. That had been last night.
Heat filled the house, heavy like a weight, and more stagnant, if possible, than the muggy afternoon beyond the door. In such hot weather a corpse had to be processed quickly, for in hot air corruption was drawn quickly to feed on a corpse. Salamander wasn’t sure why that was. Something about corruption’s ability to scent death? The Serpent had never given him a straight answer as to the reasons—which led Salamander to suspect that the old man didn’t really know.
Salamander squinted in the dim light, his hands working with smooth strokes as he severed the thin muscles inside the old woman’s thigh. He had to saw at the thick tendon that tied her thighbone to the mound of her pelvis. In the process, he tried not to touch the woman’s deeply wrinkled vulva. It reminded him of a shriveled gourd husk, whiskered with mold. Worse, it reminded him of his wives’.
Beside him, the Serpent’s raspy old voice rose and fell as he chanted the Death Song. The melody called to the Sky Beings and
Earth Beings, asking them to come and see, to be witness to the passing of the great Elder’s souls. Next he Sang to reassure Graywood Snake that she was being cared for in the manner of her people, that her corpse was being treated with the proper respect.
The thick tendon parted, and Salamander was able to roll the leg back to expose the ball joint to his sharp stone knife. The Serpent turned his attention to the skin still left around the woman’s hips. With practiced strokes he peeled away the old woman’s vulva and severed the tissues inside to leave an arched hump of bone, raw and bloody. The bowels, vagina, and bladder that had once been cradled within had already been removed when they excised her organs.
Outside the door, Salamander could hear soft weeping as Speaker Clay Fat and his sister, Turtle Mist, mourned the death of their Elder.
What had been Graywood Snake’s leg came free in Salamander’s hand. He set it carefully to the side, picking bits of tissue from his fingers and wiping them on the inside of the wicker basket that held the old woman’s flesh and organs.
“You have become practiced at this.” The Serpent studied him with thoughtful eyes. His sagging face—like Salamander’s—had been streaked with black charcoal stripes to appease the Dead. “You are already better than Bobcat. Have you given thought to following me?”
“No, Elder. That is Bobcat’s place. He knows the songs. He did very well walking at your side for the summer solstice ceremonies.”
“You could, you know. Follow in my footsteps, I mean.”
“I have other responsibilities.”
“You are no longer the child I once knew. You have aged in the last three moons since you were made a man and married.”
“I have too much to worry about.”
“Yes, I haven’t heard a word from your Clan Elder at Council since you were accepted there.” Then he resumed his chanting.
Salamander pinched his lips, frowning, his thoughts locked on Wing Heart’s perplexing silence. She might have lost part of her souls, given the way she walked about, a listlessness in her eyes.
He picked up the Serpent’s words and Sang in gentle accompaniment as he thought of his mother. He couldn’t help but compare her to Graywood Snake. Unlike his mother, he had always liked Graywood Snake. Even after his near-unanimous nomination to the Council, she had treated him like a fellow rather than a jest, as the others had.
Salamander ran his blade down the inside of the leg, separating the thin skin. With careful strokes he severed the ligament and tendons
in the round, peeling the muscle back from the bone. That done, he had placed the cool flesh in the basket; reverently, he severed the tendons at the kneecap and folded the leg bones double. He laid them with the arm and leg bones that already rested on the rick of wood. Dry and seasoned, the pyre would burn hot and completely, in defiance of the moisture that hung in the summer air outside.
“I will miss you, Elder,” Salamander said as he cleaned the last bits of tissue from his knife and ritually passed it over the smoking coals in the fire pit. Not that the house needed a fire, given the melting heat of the day, but the smoke was required, not only for purification of the tools, but to keep evil spirits out and away, and to assist Graywood Snake’s souls in their passage from this life to the next.
Sweat beaded on Salamander’s forehead as he Sang the final verses of the Death Song. Then he and the Serpent carefully placed the naked bones of her torso atop the pyre, propping them in the cradle of her limbs so that they wouldn’t roll off.
“Rest well, old friend.” The Serpent patted the rounded globe of her skull with blood-encrusted hands. “You have always been a light in my life. Your fond wit and smile brought happiness to many of my days. I will see you someday soon.”
Salamander watched the old man’s gentle motions as he caressed the bones. “Does it bother you?”
“Hmm?” The Serpent turned, gaze absent. The skin seemed to hang like a wet rag from the flat planes of his charcoal-smeared face.
“She was your friend.” Salamander gestured toward the bones. “We have just cut her into pieces. It seems like a violation.”
Salamander hated it when the old man gave him that look of irritated consideration. “Her souls have left the body, Salamander. I am overjoyed to be the one to help her during her passing. Put yourself in her place. If your souls were hanging here in the air”—he pointed at the smoke-filled ceiling—“would you want some rude stranger, or an old and dear friend, seeing to the care of your body?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Ah, that’s because you have not considered death, my young friend. The living lose themselves in the pain of the moment. They are completely absorbed by their own sense of loss. They never think about how fragile the souls of the freshly dead are. Imagine yourself as having just died: You are lost, grieving, your body refuses to respond to your orders as it did when you were alive. Your loved ones are all around you, crying, pulling their hair. You try to help them, to calm them, but they are deaf to your entreaties. You can
only watch their pain, unable to soothe it. Meanwhile, all around you, spirits are gathering, calling to you, trying to get your attention. Old friends, long dead, are crowding around and demand to speak with you. Other spirits are circling, knowing you are vulnerable, easily attacked. You must guard against them, but you are so confused, worried, and scared like you have never been before.” He shook his head. “I think dying is much more frightening than being born.”
“You think they are linked?”
“Yes,” the old man replied. He looked at the basket made of split cane. “Can you carry that?”
“If you can Sing. I’m still learning the words.” Salamander stepped over, crouched, and shifted the basket onto his back. Graywood Snake had been old and frail; she weighed almost nothing. He took the load and ducked out into the hot sunshine. Eyes slitted against the glare, he could see Clay Fat, his portly body streaked with perspiration, his round face stricken. Turtle Mist’s features were drawn, her eyes sad.
They will be all right, won’t they? Not like Mother.
The aftereffects of death now scared him. His mother hadn’t been the same since White Bird’s death. Instead, she had turned into a walking husk, the seed that should have been within gone black and shriveled. He wondered if perhaps White Bird had been so frightened that he had clawed away part of Mother’s souls as his own had been drawn into the realm of the Dead.
The basket leaked, and as he walked, Salamander felt wet drops of fluid spattering his legs. Their route took them southwest, proceeding through the gap that separated Rattlesnake Clan from Eagle Clan. One by one they passed the remaining ridges. From the rows of houses, people from Graywood Snake’s clan watched with somber eyes, many singing and calling final wishes to their departed Elder.
“So, where are the souls?” Salamander asked.
“Hovering close to the bones, you know that.” The Serpent paused in his Singing. “Why do you ask?”
“Because of the people,” Salamander replied quietly, keeping his head down as was respectful toward the dead. “They call out to Graywood Snake, but what is left of her in the basket is soulless meat, correct?”
The Serpent grinned humorlessly. “That is the way of people, Salamander. The living see the Dead everywhere. It hurts nothing and makes the living feel better. Perhaps the Dead hear all of the calls. I don’t know, and worse, I can’t find out until I, myself, am dead.”
They passed the last of the ridges with their mourners, and walked out onto the beaten grass beyond. To their right, the Bird’s Head rose high and resolute into the yellow-hot air. The ramada at the top looked fuzzy and wavered in the humidity. Bright fabrics that had been tied to the sun poles hung limp and heavy.
As they walked toward the distant forest, insects chirred and whizzed around them, transparent wings glittering in the white light. Looking to the south, across undulating dimples of old pits, Salamander could see Dying Sun Mound, flat-topped and green at the end of the causeway. On this day a group of children and dogs chased across the low-walled expanse of the mound, flinging a leather-wrapped ball back and forth with sticks. Their shouts and barks barely carried in the heat.
Sweat broke free to stream down Salamander’s body and mix with the juices that streaked his buttocks and legs. He batted at the growing number of big black flies that buzzed around, drawn by the odor of fresh wet flesh.
Their route took them past the southern end of the huge borrow pit. As they rounded the rim of the deep pit, Salamander could look down into the dark waters. Insects broke the surface, and a flight of ducks exploded from the green weeds that lined the shore, their wings whistling as they battered the air.
Salamander was wishing for a drink by the time they made the forest margin. Entering the shadows provided the slightest relief from the searing sun, but the hot wet air seemed to press in close.
The Serpent led the way along a narrow trail beaten into the leaf mat by the passing of tens of tens of tens of bare feet over the ages. They walked under the arching span of hickory and beech trees before stepping into a small clearing thick with old brush.
“Clay Fat needs to send someone to burn this brush next winter,” the Serpent muttered.
Each of the clans had a spot like this, removed from the Sun Town by a short walk. Here, in a small clearing, the cuttings were disposed of.
Salamander glanced around, seeing the thick brush. Old branches, worn gray by weather, poked out of the clusters of palmetto, privet, and honeysuckle. Raspberries were forming, the fruits green and lush. They would produce a harvest that no one would come to collect. A thousand spiderwebs laced patches of white in the branches.
“They catch the flies and beetles,” the Serpent said, noting his interest. “For some creatures, there is good hunting around the leftovers of the Dead.”
A crow cawed above. Since the night of his initiation, he had grown more than a little leery of crows. Salamander looked up, seeing the black bird alight on the waving tip of a branch to watch with one beady eye. Only then did the white droppings that marred the leaves and branches catch his attention. No wonder the place looked so lush. Death fed life here, be it the carrion eaters or the plants. He swung the basket down, reaching in to help the Serpent remove slimy strips of muscle, skin, and viscera. These they draped around on the brush, easy at hand to the scavengers. More crows called in the treetops, eager for the coming feast.
Salamander batted at the flies as he laid the last of Graywood Snake’s body onto the sagging branch of a privet bush. He realized the crunchy stuff under his feet was maggot casings.
“Evil spirits!” the Serpent cried to the open sky. “Stay here, and away from the souls of our departed friend. This is your place! Take what you will of what we leave here, and be content. Come no closer to Sun Town, or I shall have to do battle and destroy you.”
BOOK: People of the Owl: A Novel of Prehistoric North America (North America's Forgotten Past)
11.83Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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