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

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

People of the Owl: A Novel of Prehistoric North America (North America's Forgotten Past) (39 page)

BOOK: People of the Owl: A Novel of Prehistoric North America (North America's Forgotten Past)
12.38Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
“I have hopes, Brother.” Wing Heart smiled at that, her face lighting with joy.
Uncle’s words came back. “
Wing Heart? She is the greatest of them. She and Cloud Heron remade Sun Town. Oh, to be sure, they had started on the ridges and high mounds several lifetimes ago, but those two, they dominated the Council. What may have never been finished has been done in two tens of years under their leadership. Never forget: None is as crafty as Wing Heart.
”
“You don’t look so crafty now,” Anhinga noted. Instinctively she reached out, brushing a mosquito from the old woman’s shoulder where Water Petal had missed greasing her. “Panther’s bones, you can’t even take care of yourself.”
The gray head bobbed in the twilight. “White Bird will return, Brother. I can feel it in my bones. With the spring. That’s when
we’ll see him.” When she smiled, a thin drop of saliva tricked from the corner of her mouth.
“He’s dead, Elder.” She pointed at the spot across the borrow pit. “He died there, remember?”
Was that a reaction? The old woman’s smile dimmed; pain glistened in her eyes.
Anhinga lowered her gaze, a heaviness on her souls. The smooth handle of the adze had warmed in her hand. She absently rubbed her thumb along the grain, then laid it to one side. What honor came from tormenting the tormented?
“Elder, you are drooling,” she murmured as she reached for a bit of fabric and wiped at the corner of the old woman’s mouth. “There, that’s better.”
She rose, stepping over to where the grease pot sat. “If you will allow me, you need a bit more grease or the mosquitoes are going to eat you alive.”
“
W
hat is going on?” Mud Stalker demanded as he matched step with Pine Drop. She was carrying a grass-stem basket full of chinquapins. Midday sunlight peeked through low wads of clouds that scudded out of the southwest on a never-ceasing passage of the white-blue sky.
“Going on?” Her self-possessed look caught him off guard.
He tried to balance Night Rain’s hysterical ravings against this calm young woman. “Night Rain came to me. She’s upset. She says that you’ve either lost your souls like Wing Heart, or you’ve been witched. Which is it?”
“If it has anything to do with my souls, Uncle, it’s that I found them.” She gave him a smile too old for her age. She looked more mature than he remembered. The petty tightness at the corner of her mouth was gone. Her smooth brown cheeks seemed to have more color, and a serenity lay behind those dark brown eyes.
“I don’t suppose you’d like to elaborate on that?” He cradled his ruined arm, fingers stroking the scars.
“Uncle, let me ask you a question.”
“Go ahead.”
“Do you expect me to be ready to step in as Clan Elder someday?”
“It is the natural order of things. The Sky Beings willing, I’ll be
long gone before your mother is, but yes, I fully expect our lineage to maintain its control. You are the logical one to follow your mother in the Council.”
“I thought you’d say that.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous! You knew that full well. That’s why I devote so much time to you.” He realized he was scowling, too cagey a politician not to know that this was going somewhere he wasn’t going to like.
“I have to learn to be an Elder,” she told him. “I have to be worthy. To do that, I have to learn to think, to feel, and to lead. Do you agree?”
“Of course.” Had he just stepped full under the deadfall?
“I was hoping you thought that way, because I want you to know that I will do my best for the clan. I need your advice in all things, as I need Mother’s, but from here on, I am making my own decisions.”
“You’ve always made your own decisions.”
“No, Uncle. In the past I did as you said, as Elder Back Scratch said, and after her, as Mother said. But something has happened. I realized what I was becoming: Someone who only does the bidding of others, who can only follow orders, cannot give them.”
“So, what does this have to do with Night Rain and Salamander? We are almost at the point where we can rid you of him. Once we replace Wing Heart with Moccasin Leaf, it will be time to castrate the little tadpole. A statement of divorce will do that as effectively as—”
“No, Uncle.”
“What?”
“I don’t want a divorce.”
Mud Stalker grabbed her arm, pulling her to a stop. She stared at him over the basket rim. He searched her eyes, seeing a stubborn resolution there. “You will divorce him when
I
say so.”
“The clan may not arrange a marriage without the consent of the parties. Nor can it break a marriage unless the husband and wife agree. I disagree.”
“Night Rain doesn’t. She thinks you’ve been chewing jimsonweed. I’m not sure that she’s wrong. What is this crazy talk? Why are you defying me? I am your uncle, your clan’s Speaker.”
“Do you want my advice?”
“Given what you’ve said so far, probably not.”
“Then hear it anyway. I think Night Rain should stay in the marriage.”
Mud Stalker released her arm, shook himself, and asked, “Very
well, Niece, since you’ve discovered all of these magical things, why?”
“Because she needs the discipline.”
“I’m not terribly impressed with yours at the moment.”
“Not discipline to the clan, Uncle. Discipline with life, with responsibility. She’s ready to run off to exile with Saw Back. You know, the Alligator Clan youth?”
“The one your husband got into trouble?” Mud Stalker nodded. “The one who was supposed to see to Jaguar Hide’s death but let him get away?”
“He’s not the sort we would want Night Rain to be married to. He’s dumber than a cooking clay—and not nearly so durable.”
“Obviously, considering it was Salamander who outsmarted him.” Mud Stalker rubbed his jaw, seeing the logic of her words.
“And another thing, Uncle. We have been blinded by our own preconceptions.”
He raised an eyebrow. “We have?”
“Why do you think Salamander is a stupid fool?”
“Because he is! Snakes, girl, four moons ago he was a weird little boy lost in games and silliness. Even his soul-scattered mother considered him to be an idiot and a failure. It took everything I had to maneuver her into marrying you to White Bird, and even more to ensure that addle-brained nit would follow his brother! By the Earth Monsters, who’d have thought that a bolt of lightning would deliver him to us like solstice supper?”
Her enigmatic smile cooled his enthusiasm as she said, “Watch him, Uncle. He is more than he seems.”
“You would advise me? About that fool boy we put on the Council? He’s a laughingstock!”
“For the sake of my clan, yes, I would advise you.”
“But you won’t divorce him?”
“No, Uncle. Not until he gives me a reason to.”
He hated the resolve filling her large brown eyes. Rot it, there had to be some way of talking sense into the girl. “Well, so be it.” An idea came to him. “After this last session in the Women’s House, it is apparent that Three Stomachs hasn’t been able to—”
“No, Uncle.”
“You’re right, Three Stomachs is out, but”—he narrowed his eyes—“have you thought about Speaker Deep Hunter? True he’s a little old, but for the moment he absolutely
hates
Salamander for aiding Jaguar Hide’s escape.”
“No, Uncle.”
“Deep Hunter is a Speaker, Niece. From a powerful clan. A man
of real authority. Your coupling with him will balance some of the obligation we have to him. Not only that, but if this works out, if he can sire an heir, it might be a reasonable mating.”
“No, Uncle.”
“Well, it’s probably early to talk about marriage. I can tell you, however, that he has had his eye on you. I watch these things. Red Finger is going hunting with him in the next couple of days. I’ll have him delicately broach the subject. Trust me, Deep Hunter will oblige. And afterward, well, it will make him a little more amenable to our position in the Council.”
“
No
, Uncle.” She cocked her head, meeting his stare with defiance. “I am married. That’s the tip of the snake’s tail. The end. Find someone else.” With that she walked away, her feet swishing through the tall green grass.
Mud Stalker frowned, trying to grasp where the problem was. Snakes, she wasn’t really enamored of that skinny little idiot, was she?
A
nhinga cursed and rested the heavy wooden pestle on her shoulder as she studied her thumb. The long dark sliver had run under the skin where it folded at the joint. She used her teeth to pull it, turned her head, and spat it out. The pestle had been made of a long pole, taller than she was. The bottom had been sanded round to match the hollow burned into the stump.
She glanced over her shoulder at the old woman seated at her loom. From the first glow of dawn to sunset’s last light she sat there, humming, talking to the dead, and weaving the most beautiful fabrics Anhinga had ever seen.
She had approached Wing Heart several times since that first night, cautiously seating herself and remarking about the weather, the taste of the stew, or the beauty of her weavings. Each time she might have been a leaf blown in by the wind for all the notice the old woman gave her. Sometimes she wiped up drool. Since the death of Water Petal’s baby, Anhinga had found Wing Heart’s kirtle fouled. She couldn’t stand the thought of the soulless Elder squatting in her own waste. Irritated by her compassion, Anhinga had sponged the woman clean before walking down to wash the fabrics in the borrow pit.
I came here to kill her. Now I’m caring for her infirmities.
Anhinga slammed the pestle into the mortar, flattening more of the ground nuts into paste. As she worked, images kept swimming out of her memory. If she closed her eyes she could smell the fires of home.
That blue smoke hung low in the trees surrounding the Panther’s Bones. She could imagine the earthy scent of the swamp clinging in her nose with a blossom’s intensity.
She could see Striped Dart, seated before a fire, his legs akimbo. He had that preoccupied look on his face, his smooth black hair pulled back into a tight curl and pinned to the side of his head. In the fantasy, her brother looked up at her and smiled.
Panther’s blood! They’d had some times. She could see him again as he had been as a boy. How they’d played, she, Striped Dart, and Bowfin! Tag, hide-and-seek, ball games, and play war. She remembered splashing in the waters of Water Eagle Lake when they’d traveled east to the bluffs. The sun shone on their naked brown skin as they frolicked and dived in the murky depths.
Her mother’s and father’s faces formed as they had been then, young and in love, happy with their family. That had been so long ago, those golden summers, lost with the passage of time like water down the rivers of her homeland. Bowfin was dead. When she conjured her mother’s face it was to see the lines of grief as she wailed over Bowfin’s body.
Other memories rose to fill her. Firelight flickered as Mist Finger stood before her. She was on her stomach, propped on her elbows, her knees and toes digging into the soft black dirt. Her breasts had barely begun to bud, his shoulders only beginning to widen.
“I will be a great warrior!” he had said as he strutted back and forth before the fire, his walk an exaggerated mimicry of a great blue heron’s.
“You’ll be a lazy fisherman,” Cooter had replied where he lay on his side, the firelight flashing yellow on his belly. “Me, I’m just going to make canoes.”
“Canoes?” Anhinga had cried. “When you could be a great warrior and have pretty young maidens like me sing your praises?”
“I like making canoes,” he had said simply. “It’s an art to make a good one.”
“I’ll let the maidens sing
my
praises,” Mist Finger had declared. “But, just for you, old friend, I’ll use one of your canoes to carry them off into the swamp when I choose the right one.”
They had all laughed at that. Now, over so much time, it echoed hollowly in her ears.
I miss them.
She bent down, setting the pestle aside, and scraped the paste from the mortar bottom, placing it in a ceramic bowl. She studied the vessel for a moment. One thing was sure, Sun Town potters made better bowls than her people did.
That led her to remember Webfinger, the young potter at the
Panther’s Bones. She wasn’t a known beauty, her face round but pleasant. Anhinga had spent hours sitting at her feet, watching those quick fingers as they worked. Through her magic a lump of mud was turned into a thin-walled hollow by means of pinching, scraping, and pressing with her palms and the wooden anvil.
Home! What I’d give to be there now.
“Excuse me?” A female voice caught her by surprise. Anhinga straightened, picking paste from her fingers.
The woman was young, comely, her breasts still firm, the lines of her belly unspoiled by the growth of a child. She wore a tan-and-black kirtle tied with a married woman’s knot. Her gleaming black hair was tastefully parted down the middle and pinned on the sides of her head. A basket hung from the crook of her right arm. Her face caught Anhinga’s attention; it had a regal bearing. Something in those eyes made her alert. She didn’t need to see the strings of beads, the tufts of exotic northern furs woven into her hair to know that this was a woman used to authority.
“Yes?” Anhinga instinctively rested her hands on the pestle. The solace of the stout wood reassured her. Not all of Sun Town’s people could be counted on to be happy with her presence here.
“I have come to see you.” The accented voice carried no hint of malice or anger.
“Assuming that your eyes work, you have succeeded. I am Anhinga. Daughter of Yellow Dye, who was daughter of Red Walnut, of the Sunrise Clan.”
The young woman nodded, every manner correct and polite. “I am Pine Drop, daughter of Elder Sweet Root who is the daughter of Back Scratch, of the Bluejay lineage of the Snapping Turtle Clan.” She smiled soberly. “I am also first wife to Salamander, Speaker for the Owl Clan.”
Anhinga started. Salamander had told her that his other wives could have cared less about her, as they had apparently cared so little about him. Yet here was this self-assured woman standing before her, bearing a basket.
“Is my husband available?” Pine Drop asked, her eyes straying first to the humming Wing Heart and then to the partially visible doorway of Anhinga’s new house.
“He has gone,” she replied carefully. By the Panther’s blood, she hadn’t come here to check up on Salamander, had she? “He is at his cousin’s. Water Petal, do you know her? Her infant is dead.”
The woman nodded, her eyes still taking Anhinga’s measure. “Yes. I have just heard. I have come offering my clan’s sympathy to my husband and his relatives.” She indicated the basket. “Food
for the family. Smoked raccoon, some boiled crawfish, and smilax-root bread.”
“I wouldn’t have thought you would care.” The words just came out, surprising Anhinga of their volition. “Forgive me, that was not my right to say.” Rot it, Pine Drop might be straight out of the pampered Sun Town elite, but that was no reason for rudeness.
And why do I care what she does or how she treats Salamander?
Pine Drop lowered her eyes, smiling ironically. “If you know Water Petal, you have heard some terrible things about me.”
Anhinga said nothing, guarding her suddenly impetuous tongue.
“I’m afraid most of them are true,” the woman replied, raising her eyes again.
“You admit to lying with another man?” Anhinga asked, curious to see how far she could go. “Just like that?”
A slightly raised eyebrow was the only reaction she elicited. “Among other things.” A pause. “I owe you no explanations.”
“He said he wishes to spend the next few nights with you.” Anhinga fingered the pestle, wondering why the woman’s presence bothered her so. She had known from the beginning that he was married, not just to this woman, but her sister also. Multiple wives were nothing exceptional. Her uncle had
five,
but why did she feel so possessive about Salamander in the presence of this woman?
“My sister and I will be looking forward to his company.” She hesitated. “I may be out of place, but if you need anything, come and see me. I was remiss not to have come to you sooner.” Her smile seemed honest, warm. “You are alone among a strange people, your souls must be longing for home.”
Blood and spit! Is it that obvious?
“Thank you for your kind invitation. I shall discuss it with Salamander. If he approves, I may come and see you.”
“And the Women’s House?” Pine Drop asked. “Have you made arrangements?”
Anhinga jerked her head to the east. “I would prefer to seclude myself in the swamp. It would be better for all.”
Pine Drop’s expression tightened. “Out there? Alone?”
Anhinga laughed. “What man is going to bother me in that condition? Do you think he would want to be close to a woman during her bleeding? And besides, I am Swamp Panther. To me it is more like home.”
Pine Drop seemed to accept that. “As you wish, however, should you need, my clan would offer you space.”
Anhinga’s heart actually lightened. “Thank you, again. You are very kind.”
“I am keeping you from your work.” Pine Drop indicated the pestle and mortar. “I shall take this to Water Petal.” She glanced uneasily at Wing Heart again, and added, “Do come to see me, even if it is just to visit.”
“I will,” Anhinga promised. And she would. Here was yet another opportunity opening before her. “It was nice of you to come here.”
Pine Drop nodded and went on her way.
Anhinga watched the woman walk past Wing Heart’s house and follow the ridge down to Water Petal’s household with its grief and shattered dreams.
Anhinga placed more ground nuts into the mortar and began smacking the pestle home. The sound make a rhythmic
thump-tump thump-tump.
The invitation to the Women’s House had been unexpected, and something that, had the roles been opposite, she wouldn’t have thought of had Pine Drop been at the Panther’s Bones.
Anhinga frowned, removing the pestle. She placed a hand to her abdomen, trying to count the days. Her last menses had been just before leaving the Panther’s Bones, had delayed it, in fact.
You still have time. But soon. Very soon.
She couldn’t be pregnant, not only wasn’t it time, but her stomach felt fine in the mornings. Whether she passed her moon or not, she had to get away. The four days to pass her bleeding would give her time for something she had just begun to plan.
BOOK: People of the Owl: A Novel of Prehistoric North America (North America's Forgotten Past)
12.38Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Matricide at St. Martha's by Ruth Dudley Edwards
Shadow Silence by Yasmine Galenorn
Cinderella Undercover by KyAnn Waters
Royal Pain by Mulry, Megan
A Witch's Path by N. E. Conneely
Orphan Maker by D Jordan Redhawk
El señor del carnaval by Craig Russell