People of the Owl: A Novel of Prehistoric North America (North America's Forgotten Past) (6 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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Then she saw Deep Hunter. He stood back from the rest, illuminated by a single torch. His sister, Colored Paint, was the Alligator Clan Elder. Colored Paint had recently named her brother Speaker after the death of their uncle. Deep Hunter had his arms crossed, the thick muscles bunched and shining in the firelight. She met his dark eyes, seeing a hard gleam that didn’t match his formal smile. Deep Hunter didn’t look happy. No, indeed, she thought he looked like a man who had just suffered a disturbing upset. Throughout this last turning of seasons, Deep Hunter—with Colored
Paint’s approval—had promised Owl Clan their support. Deep Hunter would do anything to keep Mud Stalker and Alligator Clan in a subservient and obligatory position. Even if it meant supporting Wing Heart and Owl Clan.
Why do I feel that I’ve been betrayed?
She nodded a greeting to Deep Hunter and bent her lips into a facile smile—just in case she needed to keep the fiction alive.
Eagle Clan’s Elder, Stone Talon, perched on her wooden crutches, her gnarly hands gripping the smooth wood of the polished branches that kept her crooked legs from collapsing. Toothless, her face looked like a desiccated gourd; Stone Talon worked her gums and wrinkled her fleshy nose as though smelling something foul. Her faded vision seemed to be wavering, as though searching for something. A group of her young hunters—no doubt the ones who had borne her down to the landing—looked as if it was all they could do to keep from crowding at the water’s edge and shouting questions at White Bird.
Deep Hunter strode down to face his sister. Gesturing for emphasis, he asked Colored Paint a question, then turned at the answer to frown out at the water where the canoes floated. Deep Hunter was a brash man, given to impulse. He had no halfway in his souls, but being a hothead and unpredictable made him dangerous in his own right.
Yes, they were all worried. That brought Wing Heart a twist of amusement she wouldn’t have felt earlier in the day. Cloud Heron wasn’t even dead yet, and they had already buried him? Had the fools considered Owl Clan to be defanged? Without any Power at all? She allowed herself to smile with an oily satisfaction. After a turning of seasons filled with worry and fear, her heart felt as though it might burst. This moment was worth savoring. She let the glory of victory fill her, felt it throbbing in her nerves, pulsing in her veins. She might have been a youth again, charged with the sheer joy of being alive.
People parted for her as she neared the shore. In the halo of torchlight, she walked imperiously between the hulls of beached canoes and out into the murky black water. Slippery, clinging mud slipped between her toes. Water lapped against her ankles like a lover’s tongue.
The surface lay smooth and glassy before her, blackness lit by dancing yellow ribbons of light that reflected from the rings thrown by the bobbing canoes. Slim arrows of the night, the craft drifted at the edge of the torchlight: four of them, just as had been reported. She gave a cursory inspection to the barbarians, not that they mattered
much, and turned her attention to the tall young man who balanced so perfectly on the stern of the canoe floating off to the right.
What a hero he made! Firelight reflected off the grease that he had smeared over his rippling skin, accenting the swell of his thick muscles. He stood like one of the warriors in the stories about the first days. A foreign-looking breechcloth hung from the leather belt at his slim hips; a bright yellow wolf’s face was painted on the front flap. His hair, too, was in a bun pinned up at the side like the barbarians wore theirs. She could see his white teeth as he smiled in her direction.
“Are you well, my son?”
“I am
very
well, Mother.”
She didn’t react to the satisfaction in his voice. “And you, Yellow Spider? Are you well?”
“I am, Elder. Thank you. And my family?”
“They, too, are well. I shall send a runner immediately. Your mother and your brothers and sisters are out at Turtle Shell Camp. They will rejoice to hear of your arrival.” Her voice turned dry. “It seems that they have worked most assiduously to placate your angry and lost ghost.”
Across the distance she could see Yellow Spider take a deep breath. “I am sorry for that, Clan Elder. I can only hope that my return, with the Trade we bring, will reimburse the clan for any hardships my funeral might have incurred.”
Scattered laughter broke out at that. It brought a smile to her thin lips. She had always liked Yellow Spider, had approved of his offer to accompany White Bird upriver. “I would imagine so, Yellow Spider. We can only wish that all deaths would reward us as well as yours appears to have.”
“How is my uncle?” White Bird called.
“My brother, the Speaker, is not well, White Bird. Your absence has caused us some concern. Others worried, but I knew that you would not have prolonged your absence were it not that you were acting in the People’s greatest interest.”
White Bird, in a demonstration of his supreme balance, bowed low at the waist, the canoe barely rocking. “Indeed, Mother, were there any other way, I would have returned last fall. I apologize for leaving you without my help, but my responsibility to the People must be of more importance than my personal desires.”
Well spoken, boy
.
“And who are the people you have brought in these loaded canoes?”
White Bird was standing straight now, his canoe having drifted sideways as he looked over the torchlit crowd on the bank. “I would present my companions, they are Wolf People, from the far north. Yellow Spider and I, hearing of remarkable Trade up beyond the confluence of the three great rivers, made the decision to change our plans. Rather than simply barter for a load of Trade in the Blue Heron lands, we risked the way north. Many hostile peoples guard the river between the Blue Heron lands and the land of the Wolf People. By means of craft and guile, Yellow Spider and I passed those wild tribes. By the fall equinox we had reached the land of the Wolf People. There, Chief Acorn Cup, father of my friend, Hazel Fire”—he pointed to the young barbarian in the stern of the next canoe—“welcomed us into his village. He was a most gracious host. At Acorn Cup’s insistence, we stayed the winter. And such a winter … you have never seen snow so deep! Or felt such a biting cold that almost splintered a man’s bones!”
Wryly,
she thought,
Chief Acorn Cup, good host that he was, no doubt left something warm, willing, and female in your bed to keep icicles from forming on your manhood.
“Acorn Cup was right in warning us not to travel, so I spared my Trade, passing out a little at a time as the winter passed. And as you can see”—he made a grandiose gesture that rocked his canoe—“we have brought a great many things for the People as a result.”
“Then our wait was well worth the time you spent far away.” Wing Heart nodded slowly for the benefit of the gathered people.
Addressing the crowd, White Bird raised his voice. “Yellow Spider and I, at great risk to our lives, have brought four canoes piled high with Trade. What we have is a gift from the Owl Clan to the people. We provide these things freely and with an open heart. Owl Clan asks but two things: We ask that you provide for the needy among the clans first. He who is hunting with a blunt dart must receive the first of the stone points we have brought. He whose children are shivering in the cold must first receive the fine furs until all are warm. Those inflicted by spirits and evils shall partake of the medicine herbs we have brought. We ask that only after the needy are taken care of, will the rest of you take your pick of the remaining Trade.”
“And the second thing?” Clay Fat called.
White Bird pointed at the barbarians. “These brave men have risked their lives to help me bring this Trade to the people. Owl Clan asks that you treat them as our honored guests. That you bestow upon them gifts to take back to their distant homeland. We ask that you provide every courtesy to them, as they have provided
to us. They come from a different place and have different customs. When we lived in their village, they did not mock us when we made errors in their ways. And, my people, believe me, we made some very silly mistakes! They are not stupid, though through ignorance of our ways they may act like it. We simply ask that you do not mock them because they do not know our customs.”
“These things shall be as you wish,” Clay Fat cried happily. “Tell your friends that Rattlesnake Clan offers our homes and hospitality to these Wolf People.”
Wing Heart lifted her chin slightly, thankful once again that Rattlesnake Clan remained loyal to her.
“What are your orders, Clan Elder?” White Bird called ritually.
“You are to camp on the Turtle’s Back. There, you will be attended to. You are to cleanse yourselves before entering the sacred enclosure of Sun Town. You are to divest yourself of evil thoughts, of pettiness, and spite. You are to submit to the Serpent and his attendants when he comes to prepare you. When you are ready, we shall receive you and your Trade.”
“It is as you order, Elder.” White Bird bowed again, then settled himself easily into the canoe’s stern. In what Wing Heart assumed was the language of the barbarians, he said something, and the rest of his companions lowered themselves into their boats. Paddles were collected, and the canoes turned to stroke off into the night, following White Bird’s wake.
Wing Heart remained as she was, tall, head up, watching her son paddle away. There, just beyond the glow of the torches, he would land on Turtle’s Back, a low island that broke the lake surface. Traditionally, Traders camped there, allowing themselves to be cleansed of any evil taint that they might have picked up, or that might be hovering close to their goods. The People couldn’t be too careful. Surrounded as they were by jealous and spiteful peoples, curses and spells constantly flew in their direction—especially from the Swamp Panthers to the south. Despite the Power of their town, malignant evils continued to invade them. No matter that the earthen bands protected their central ground, and that spirits couldn’t cross the water boundary of the lake that stretched east of the village, people still came down sick, and wounds festered, even when rapidly and efficiently treated by the Serpent.
After what Wing Heart deemed as a proper amount of time, she turned, slogging out of the mud and onto the crusted shore. Passing between the canoes, she stopped. People began drifting back up the slope, talking animatedly in the light of their torches. Cane Frog’s young hunters lifted her and bore her away on their shoulders, while
Three Moss, trotting along behind, muttered in low tones.
“Mother?” the voice caught her by surprise.
She glanced down, seeing Mud Puppy standing there, his thatch of hair unkempt, preoccupation behind his large watery eyes. A cup was in his right hand, a flat piece of slate held over it with his left. “Where have you been?”
“I was catching a cricket.”
A cricket! He was catching a cricket?
Fifteen summers old, but he might have been ten, given the way he acted most of the time. She shook her head, biting off the harsh comment that leaped to her lips. Not here, someone would overhear, and Power take it, though everyone knew her son to be an idiot she needn’t go out of her way to prove them right.
“White Bird is back?” he asked plaintively.
“Yes, yes, your brother is back. Now, go away. I have things to do. Much must be arranged.”
She pushed past him, starting up toward the trail as Clay Fat stepped in beside her. He was a ball of a man, chubby of face, with a wide mouth. His belly preceded him like a canoe’s prow. In his four tens of winters he had alternately been an irritant under her skin or a blessing, depending upon the circumstances.
“I see that Mud Puppy actually managed to show up. What happened? No spider dangling from the ceiling to distract him?” Clay Fat smiled; some of his kinspeople close enough to hear chuckled. Even Wing Heart’s torchbearers smiled as they walked behind her, their burning cane torches held high.
“It was a cricket this time, can you imagine? What is it about that boy? I’d swear, his souls aren’t anchored to his scrawny little body. He’d rather hide out in the forest staring into a pool of water for hands of time than learn or do anything useful.”
“He has become a very capable stone carver for someone so young,” Clay Fat pointed out. “Children his age can’t usually sit still to make it through a meal, yet Mud Puppy can finish intricate carvings.”
“Carvings will not make him useful when it comes to running a clan.” She lifted her arms and let them drop. “As much as I feel cursed by Mud Puppy, White Bird more than makes up for him. Old friend, a weight is lifted from my souls. My son has returned. You cannot know how relieved my heart is.”
Clay Fat’s smile widened. “I cannot tell you how happy I am that White Bird has returned.” He jerked a thumb back at Mud Puppy, who was talking to one of his scrawny friends. “Some people have begun to worry about him. There is talk that he has Dreams. That
he sees things. Did you know that the Serpent has been watching him?”
“Mud Puppy? Why would the Serpent be watching him? He’s harmless. Witless. And as to his Dreams”—she made a face—“you can tell people to relax. I have more faith in Power than to believe it would be interested in a skinny half-wit like him.” She paused, then added pointedly, “He’s Thumper’s yield, you know.”

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