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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) (38 page)

BOOK: People of the Owl: A Novel of Prehistoric North America (North America's Forgotten Past)
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He had sat on this very spot that morning. Curious, she tested the soil, finding a loose spot. Her questing fingers parted the dirt, feeling around until, yes, right there. She picked up the irregular stone. No bigger than a large pebble, it lay cool on her palm. Rubbing the clinging dirt away, her fingertips traced the recognizable shape of a little potbellied owl. The same one he had been working on that day, or another? How many of these had he crafted?
Pine Drop pursed her lips. There were so many things she didn’t know about her husband. With the exception of one magical day, they had never talked. Never spoken as a woman did with her husband.
You never made the effort.
Was it her fault that he had married the barbarian? The morning after she had left the Woman’s House, she had passed that way, seen the new house he had built Anhinga on the location of his mother’s old one. Just the sight of that building had stung something in her souls.
Spiders and scorpions, why? What did it matter? Why did she care what Salamander did, or who he did it with, so long as it did
not reflect on her, or her clan? It was an arranged marriage only, the interminable result of an attempt to align her clan with his. Or, it had been until Wing Heart’s souls had fled. Now it was a political relic. Owl Clan was effectively emasculated. She, herself, had done her part in their undoing. She had helped to lower her husband’s prestige by her dalliance with Three Stomachs.
It had been her duty to her clan, ordered by her mother and her uncle, not some wild impulse generated from her loins. She had done as her elders wished, and done it well. She had enjoyed coupling with Three Stomachs; he had conjured sensations she had never experienced with a man.
Then why don’t you feel happy about it?
Memories of Salamander’s face haunted her. She remembered the expression he had worn every night when he entered their house. He might have strapped on a mask so that no one could read the thoughts behind it. With it, he had seemed impervious to her viper’s tongue, and oblivious to her disgust when he climbed into her bed to perform his husband’s function for her clan.
It takes two to lie together with pleasure.
She had at least had a husband to teach her the ways. Embarrassed, she remembered her first fumbling attempts at coupling and how Blue Feather had patiently shown her the body’s secrets. From the awkward manner Salamander had come to her, it had been his first time with a woman. He had been rudely jerked from boyhood and placed in his dead brother’s bed, to sire children on his wives. Wives who took every opportunity to mock and belittle him. One day he had been playing with toys, the next he was Speaker. Then he had been thrust forward in the Council to explain his mother’s very public spiritual disintegration to a hostile audience that wanted nothing more than his and his clan’s destruction.
That was the same young man who had brought her here to see a marvel. In a face that should have reflected revulsion at her mere presence, he had instead displayed delight as a heron hunted the shallows and a spider built a web. She recalled the happiness on his face as they paddled the canoe load of fish traps out into the channel, baiting and dropping them into the still waters.
When did I ever see magic?
It wasn’t a prerequisite for being Mud Stalker’s niece.
For a few hands of time, she had been free. That notion surprised and saddened her. In an entire lifetime she had never enjoyed happiness like she had out paddling around with Salamander. At the height of it, she had ruined everything with a carefully crafted question when she tried to trick him into betraying his clan.
She reached down, patting her stomach below the navel. The cramps were gone. After this last period, she felt better than she had in moons. Had it been guilt over spearing herself on Three Stomach’s giant member?
By the Sky Beings, I’m tired of all this.
Perhaps this morning she could begin to put things right. A future might not exist for her and Salamander. She was, after all, Snapping Turtle Clan, and no matter that she might now disapprove of what her mother and uncle had asked her to do, she was nevertheless in line to one day become Clan Elder. If the clan leadership ended her marriage with Salamander, as they soon would, it did not mean that Salamander should have to hate her for the rest of his life.
If this were handled right, they might be able to make some agreement between them, a way to balance the competing needs of their clans with an understanding of each other. Surely a woman who might someday become Clan Elder could manage that.
Was it her imagination, or was the eastern horizon now gray? Yes, indeed it was. It would be soon, or not at all.
His form was a murky shadow among shadows as it passed the ramada. She could hear the soft whisper of his feet on the packed clay.
She took a deep breath, closing her eyes and rehearsing the things she wanted to say.
“Masked Owl?” he asked plaintively. “When you came to me last night, you told me to climb the Bird’s Head at dawn.”
Pine Drop started, staring around in the darkness. Was there someone else up here? Or was he talking to the Sky Being?
Salamander called, “Can we go flying again?”
She could see him now, his thin form barely outlined in the building gray. His skinny arms were raised, his head tilted up at the fading stars in the night sky. Her skin began to prickle as if bobcat fur were being rubbed across it. She swallowed hard, heart racing. Snakes and lightning, he
was
talking to the Sky Being!
“Is Water Petal’s baby going to die?” he asked and cocked his head, listening. He must have heard an answer because he said, “I’m sorry, too. It will bruise her souls. Haven’t my people suffered enough?”
He nodded, his eyes still fixed on the sky. “Yes, I understand. I just hurt for her, that’s all.”
Another pause. The light had grown enough that she could see his face: rapturous, and, unless her eyes tricked her, glowing of an unearthly light. His eyes were pools of spinning darkness. She could feel her souls knotting and twining around themselves, frightened,
frozen in place. Pus and blood, she wasn’t supposed to be seeing this!
Her mouth had gone dry; her muscles tensed, ready to leap to her feet. Frantic fingers wound into the blue feathers, crushing them, pulling some loose. Where she had cherished them for the beauty and warmth they provided, now she was thankful that their dark coloring helped to hide her shivering form.
“When they arrive I shall take very good care of them,” Salamander said quietly. “Yes, I know.” A pause. “In time, Masked Owl.” He closed his eyes. “Just for the moment, can we Dance with the One. Just until the sun breaks the horizon? Take me on your wings, fly me up into the sky one more time.”
In moments, the light would be bright enough that he couldn’t help but see her when he opened his eyes. Pine Drop screwed a bit of courage from her terrified souls. Glancing up to be sure his eyes were still closed, she slipped over the rounded summit of the Bird’s Head. Obscured by the brow of the great mound, she hurried away, placing each foot with care lest she slip on the dew-slick grass.
She sprinted down the final incline on the mound’s southern shoulder and reached the level grass. Only then did she realize that the little stone owl was still clasped in her sweaty palm.
T
he wind had changed, blowing down from the north and bringing uncharacteristically cold air with it. Bits of branches, flower petals, nearly ripe seedpods, and occasional leaves torn from distant trees went flying past.
Salamander walked with his back hunched against the blow as he tried to sort his churning emotions. The session in the Council that day had been particularly bitter. Moccasin Leaf had been given recognition and had asked if the Council would recognize a new Elder should Owl Clan present one. The vote had been unanimous: yes. When it came to Owl Clan’s vote, he had stood and quietly added his yes to the vote.
Now his stomach ached at the memory.
Was it disrespectful? Did I betray Mother?
He had no answers, nothing that would help this feeling. The vacancy had to be filled, and it would not be with Water Petal. Not enough support existed for her among Owl Clan’s lineages. Moccasin Leaf had done her job well. People were ready for a change.
Then, during other discussions, had come the periodic gibes and barbs concerning people who married barbarians. About their lack of respect, about their shiftlessness. He had watched Pine Drop’s expression as the remarks were made. His wife had sat calmly in the rear of the Snapping Turtle delegation, her face reflecting nothing. She had refused to meet his eyes, even once.
So now he walked past the Southern Moiety’s pole, its top decorated
by streamers of colored cloth, feathers, and painted bones that dangled from leather thongs. He walked down the gap separating Alligator Clan from Snapping Turtle. Only a blind man would have been unaware of Elder Stone Talon as she sat at her ramada on the first ridge. She might have skewered him with a dart, so piercing was her glare.
He climbed onto the third ridge, walking eastward past the line of houses. When people spoke to him, he answered politely. He could almost taste their curiosity as they watched him pass; and he dared not look back as he approached his wives’ house for fear that they were following in a parade to see what happened.
Salamander hadn’t been here since Anhinga’s arrival. For most of the time, both Pine Drop and Night Rain had been in the Women’s House. Since then, well, he had been putting this off.
He rounded the last house. Night Rain was crouched under the ramada, grabbing up spilled cordage where the loom had been blown flat by the restless wind. She had laid a stone on a small ceramic jar full of red feathers, probably from a cardinal, that she had been weaving into the warp and weft.
“Can I help you with that?” Salamander asked, bending over beside her.
She shot him a scathing look. “No.”
He nodded, backing away. This was going to be as bad as he had imagined. “Where is Pine Drop?”
“Inside. She took the stew in before it blew full of dirt. As if you’d care.”
He took a deep breath and walked to the door as Pine Drop called, “Night Rain? Who is it?”
“Our
husband,
Sister. Evidently his barbarian camp bitch has given him time to come collect his things.”
Salamander ground his teeth, a sinking in his chest.
“Come in, Husband.” Pine Drop’s face appeared in the doorway. “If you don’t, you’ll be blown away. Oh, would you mind helping Night Rain with the loom? Another gust like that last one, and she’ll be blown clear down to the Panther’s Bones.” At that she smiled. “And, fortunately for us, you’re probably the only man here with the ties to get her back without bloodshed.”
The tone in her voice shocked him. Apparently it flattened Night Rain, for she made no other comment as he helped her maneuver the loom through the doorway while the wind tried to rip it away.
Inside he peered around in the gloom. To his surprise his belongings were just as he’d left them. Truth be told, he had expected to find them piled outside the door and reeking of dog piss.
Pine Drop resettled herself behind the fire. Newly kindled, the first flames were licking up around the sides of her carved soapstone bowl.
“It’s still warm, but if you’ll wait it will be hot soon.” She looked up at him and smiled. “Please, be seated, Salamander. We have a lot to hear about.”
He opened his mouth, but words stuck in the bottom of his throat. Still mute, he seated himself, aware that Night Rain, too, was gaping.
“Sister?” Pine Drop asked. “Could you pour some of that raspberry juice from the gourd for our husband?”
“N-No!” Night Rain sputtered. “He can drink toad urine for all I care!”
To Salamander’s complete surprise, Pine Drop reached out and slapped her sister hard across the cheek. “You will do as I say, Sister. Pour our husband some of that raspberry juice.
Now!
”
“No, it’s all right,” Salamander managed to blurt. “I didn’t want to be any trouble.”
Night Rain was speechless, her eyes wide, fingers to her cheek. She gaped in disbelief at first her sister, then Salamander.
“It is no trouble, Salamander,” Pine Drop said. “It is only your due as our husband. And before I forget, thank you for the baskets of fish you had your kinsman, Bluefin, deliver to us. We really appreciated them.”
“I would have brought them myself,” he said through a tight throat. “I was busy. Every waking hour …” How did he finish that?
“It took me more than a half moon to build this house,” she replied reasonably. “You and your kin did it quickly.”
Night Rain unsteadily reached for the gourd hanging on the peg by the door and handed it to Salamander. She was still stunned as she said, “You hit me!”
Pine Drop shot her a glance as she used a stone knife to slice sections of lotus root into the stew. “And I’ll do it again if I ever hear you use that tone of voice with me.”
“What has gotten into you?” Night Rain demanded hotly.
Pine Drop fixed her with a hard stare. “Responsibility, Sister. My lack of it, and yours.”
“What?” Night Rain’s face twisted.
“Very well, let’s discuss this. Has our husband failed in any of his responsibilities to us?”
“He married that barbarian bitch!” Night Rain thrust a finger at Salamander.
“Our husband is Speaker for his clan.” Pine Drop sat back on
her haunches, hands on her brown thighs. “The Swamp Panthers came to Owl Clan, offering a daughter to them in return for an agreement to stop raiding. It was not our business what he did. Since that time, our husband has had to find lodging for his new wife.” She lifted a wry eyebrow. “Or did you intend to welcome her here?”
Night Rain’s mouth opened and closed as if she were a fish.
“That’s what I thought,” Pine Drop finished, then looked at Salamander. “You have behaved as an honorable man should.” She lowered her eyes. “We, on the other hand, have not.”
“I don’t understand.” To cover his discomfort, he sipped the thick raspberry juice. Sweet and delicious it helped to snap him out of his confusion.
Pine Drop met his eyes with an honesty he had never seen there before. “Salamander, we have behaved badly. You are our husband, and for as long as this marriage lasts, we are your wives. You have fulfilled your responsibilities to us without flaw. From this day forward, we will fulfill ours. Isn’t that right, Night Rain?”
“What?”
Pine Drop might have been stone. “I am the first wife, Sister. When it comes to this marriage, I have the right to expect obedience from you—something I have been lax in. You do not have to like Salamander, but you will treat him with respect. It is the way of our ancestors. You don’t have to like it, you must only obey. If you have a problem with this, we will go out behind the house and settle it once and for all. Do you understand?”
Night Rain nodded in a daze.
“There, good. Let us start fresh, then.” Pine Drop smiled when she looked back at Salamander. He had managed to keep his jaw from falling.
“Now,” she began brightly, “what are your plans for tonight? Can you spend it with us, or must you go back to Anhinga?”
He tried to bring his racing thoughts together. “I told her I might not be back until morning.”
“Good.” Her eyes reflected concern when she said, “I want you to know, I have never seen the courage that I saw today when you voted with the Council on Moccasin Leaf’s motion.”
His voice turned hoarse. “Afterward I heard people whispering that I had shown disrespect for Mother.”
“Did you?” Pine Drop asked.
“No. She cannot lead. She is ill. I, alone, am responsible for my clan. As much as I hated to do it, it was the right thing,” he said woodenly, the wound in his souls opening.
She reached over and placed her hand on his. “Sometimes the right thing is hard to do, isn’t it?”
He nodded, jarred by the sincerity he saw in her eyes. Snakes! Who was this new Pine Drop?
“I have to get air,” Night Rain said, bursting for the door.
“Give her time,” Pine Drop told him as he watched his young wife flee. “She still has a lot to learn.”
“We all do,” he murmured warily.
A
nhinga watched the evening fall. The shadows cast by the rows of houses lengthened, the dome of the sky deepening in color. A trio of buzzards circled in a high spiral overhead, mocked by a single surly crow who dived and harassed them. Children’s voices rose and fell as they engaged in a stickball game on the grassy Northern Moiety flat just across the borrow pit. Even the smoke from the evening fires seemed lazy as it rose into the quiet air.
Anhinga rubbed her arms, smearing the grease that kept mosquitoes from her skin. Casting an uneasy glance down the row of houses, she could see Water Petal’s and sense the worry there. The little baby’s fever had burned hotter, cooking life out of that thin and fragile flesh. She had seen it among her own people. It would be soon now.
Here I am. Alone in the camp of the enemy.
She made a face and walked from her house, past the pestle and mortar, to the ramada where Wing Heart sat at her loom.
Anhinga cocked her head, watching the old woman’s nimble fingers as they slipped thread back and forth through the warp.
“Hello, Elder,” Anhinga called.
Wing Heart seemed oblivious.
Anhinga stepped over and seated herself on the cane matting. She snugged her knees inside her arms and studied the old woman’s visage. Fleeting expressions seemed to shift like leaf shadows in a breeze. They rippled across the texture of the old woman’s face, slipping among the wrinkles and hiding at the corners of her mouth. Her dark eyes, like midnight droplets, sparkled and danced, animated by some clinging remnant of her souls.
“My uncle always feared you,” Anhinga ventured. “Do you remember him? Jaguar Hide? Does that name conjure any spark in your memory, old woman?”
The bony brown fingers never skipped, the vacant eyes never flickered.
Anhinga frowned and reached down. Salamander’s adze lay forgotten on the cane matting. Anhinga picked it up, staring thoughtfully at the tool. The handle was the length of her forearm, and had been crafted out of the Y of a branch. The angle of the Y held a thin slate celt that had been set into the wood and bound by wraps of what looked like deer sinew. She tested the edge with her fingertip. Recently sharpened.
“Does it worry you to be here alone with me?” She studied Wing Heart from the corner of her eye.
Nothing.
“Your people killed my brother.”
Wing Heart’s eyes remained focused on a far horizon.
“Your son killed the man I would have married.”
Wing Heart’s lips twitched, and unexpectedly she said, “No, Cloud Heron. I don’t think you should marry Back Scratch.” Her head dipped, as if hearing a reply. “Surely not.”
Anhinga glanced around, seeing no one the old woman could be talking to. “What happened to you?”
“Thumper’s a good man. Hard to believe he’s kin to young Mud Stalker.”
The adze balanced well in Anhinga’s hand. She glanced around again, seeing that no one was close. In the shadows, it would be so easy. She could rise, drive the sharp stone head of the adze right through the Clan Elder’s head. The body wouldn’t be found until morning. She would be long gone, having struck the Sun People a terrible blow.
BOOK: People of the Owl: A Novel of Prehistoric North America (North America's Forgotten Past)
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