The Broken Land (5 page)

“Are all the captives gone?” one man called. “Two were mine!”

“Four belonged to my clan!” another man called.

“Where’s Sky Messenger? Is he dead?”

Deru held up his hands to still the assault. “We know nothing yet. Go back to your suppers. Eat and sleep. We will remain here until Utz and his search party return. We won’t have any answers until then.”

Deru strode through the mumbling crowd and straight back to where Wampa held the two women. When she saw him coming, Wampa rose, clutching her war club. “War Chief, they say they are not from this village. They saw the smoke at dusk and came to find out what had happened.”

He grunted. Wrinkles carved lines around the older woman’s mouth and furrowed her forehead. Gray-streaked black hair clung damply to her sunken cheeks.

Deru crouched before her. “Who are you?”

The old woman chuckled. She’d seen perhaps forty summers and had an air of authority about her. She was accustomed to respect, which meant she had wielded power in her village.

He said, “Don’t lie to me. I know you were one of our captives.”

Her lips curled into a contemptuous smile. “That means nothing to me.”

“It will. Soon. I plan to question your friend first.” He gestured to the second, younger, woman, who had seen perhaps twenty-five summers. “Is that what you wish? Your silence will cause her great pain.”

The old woman’s nostrils trembled with loathing. “You can’t hurt us now. Those we love are safe.”

“For a while. But my search party will recapture them. How did you escape?”

Silence.

“Did my deputy, Sky Messenger, help you?”

Wampa sucked in air, startled by the suggestion, but she said nothing.

Wind Woman shrieked through the forest. When she hit the meadow, she tossed up autumn leaves like a playing child, and they fluttered away on the gust.

The old woman closed her eyes and began Singing her death Song. She had a deep, quavering voice that sent a chill through Deru’s blood. The other woman joined her, and together their voices drifted over the camp. Every warrior quieted to listen.

Deru rose to his feet.

Wampa walked closer to him and softly said, “War Chief, it’s not possible. Sky Messenger would never—”

“That’s what I would have said one finger of time ago. But that was before I saw the tracks on the riverbank.”

Wampa’s face slackened. “Then … there’s proof?”

“Not proof. Not yet.” He waved a hand at the two women. “Wampa, take the captives to my fire, and shove some large branches into the coals. Fiery brands always hasten answers.”

Four

L
ong before dawn, my lungs feel like they’re on fire. I’m so exhausted I can barely concentrate. The storm has worsened. Icy wind whips my cape about my legs, hindering me as I climb through the deep snow, trying to reach the trail that runs along the ridgetop. If I can make it to the windswept highlands where the snow isn’t so deep, the running will be easier. But this steep slope is slick and difficult. Towering hickory trees thrash above me, their dark limbs flailing against the faintly brighter sky.

Somewhere ahead, Gitchi climbs. I don’t see him, but I hear his paws scratching for purchase. The sound makes me work harder.

I cast a glance over my shoulder. Wavering sheets of snow obscure the landscape. But they’re back there. Seven warriors. One of them is Utz. I heard him calling orders when they almost caught me around midnight.

I grab hold of an exposed root and pull myself over a ledge where I can look down on my backtrail. Nothing. I see no one. I slump to the snow, trying to catch my breath. They’re probably reeling on their feet, too.

They know, however, that they can’t let me get too far ahead or the snow will cover my trail and they’ll never find it again.

I scoop a handful of snow and shove it into my mouth. It goes down cold and seems to become a block of ice in my belly. My stomach knots. I eat more snow and contemplate what orders my friends carry. I have known Deru my entire life. Many times, he has treated me like a son. Despite his affection for me, however, he is war chief. If he believes me guilty of treason, he must make an example of me.

Which means they have orders to kill me on sight.

Gitchi trots back and stands at my shoulder, panting. Even in the darkness, his eyes glint when he turns to look at me. I stroke his throat, and he whimpers, as though to say,
“Get up. We have to keep moving.”

I say, “I know,” and force myself to stand. Wavering veils of white blow across the ridgetop. The trail is a vague serpentine slash through the forest, rising and falling with the terrain. Deer have kept it open, their hooves churning the snow away, their legs dredging it back.

Gitchi trots out ahead and vanishes into the falling snow. I pound the trail behind him.

It quickly becomes routine: just run, don’t think about the future. Instead, I fall into the past … .

…
She runs at my side, her perfect face streaked with sweat, her long hair dusted with summer pollen … .

How can these memories be so clear? Her footsteps are there. It’s unnatural. A spike driven into the heart.

… Occasional touches, a bare brush of skin inflaming the world … Breathing hard because we know what we want of each other, but it must wait … Messages passing between us, directly through lips, eyes, carried on the sweltering, dogwood-perfumed, air …

Unconsciously, I reach for her, like a man in danger would reach for his war club. My fist closes on snowflakes. She is not here. She is not.

Behind me, twigs crack.

A voice. Utz.

I do not stop to look. I force my burning muscles to charge ahead. Like a madman, I dash around boulders and leap trees that have fallen across the path. Gitchi’s sleek body flashes on the trail ahead of me, dark gray against the white snow.

“There he is!” Utz calls.

“I see him.”

I do not recognize the second voice, and for a brief instant I try to determine why not. Has the man’s voice gone hoarse from running? Perhaps he’s turned away from me and his words are being blunted by the trees? Or maybe emotion has strangled it—because he knows what comes next?

As I pound into a dense grove of maples, the darkness closes in. Owls huddle on the branches, their feathers fluffed out for warmth, watching me with glistening eyes.

When I emerge from the grove, I enter a clearing ringed by short witch-hazel trees covered with straggly yellow blossoms. Winter solstice is only two moons away, and they are blossoming. Though these are the last flowers, for the fruit pods have already popped their seeds and sent them flying. The husks blow across the snow.

Momentarily, I am confused. I look around for Gitchi, or his tracks. I see neither. Which way did he go?

Utz calls, “I told you … south … Hannock, you go …”

They’re spreading out, surrounding the meadow.

Suddenly, Wind Mother dies down to a soft purl. The branches stop clattering, and a lethal silence possesses the world. If I make a single move, they’ll hear me. As though the Cloud People have sliced open their own bellies to hide me, torrents of snow flood from the dark sky. Wet snow, heavy. I can no longer see the trees, or anything more than two paces away. I swing around to look behind me. They could be right there and I’d never …

Yes. There.

A man walks through the heavy snow toward me. Soundless. His silhouette is faint, but definitely there. Swaying. Every instinct I have is urging me to pull my war club from my belt and strike him down before he sees me. As my heartbeat thrums, I start asking questions. Just because he is a friend, is his life worth more than mine? Besides, I don’t have to kill him. Just disable him. Knock him unconscious so he can’t call out. But if he does call out …

Subtly, I draw my club and brace my feet.

The snow has become a solid wall, pouring out of the darkness. It is so quiet I hear the flakes alighting on my shoulders. I blink to clear my eyelashes.

I’ve lost sight of him. Did he turn? Is he walking away from me? How is it possible that I hear nothing? His feet should be crunching snow.

As my fingers tighten around the shaft of my war club, my shoulder aches with fiery intensity. It is an old injury, broken by an enemy warrior when I’d seen eleven summers. On cold nights, it always hurts.

Another glimpse. Movement.

My heart beats harder, pounding against the large False Face gorget—a shell pendant that covers half my chest—resting beneath my war shirt. When Father gave it to me, he told me it would protect me. It is a Power object. Alive. Its soul is always present with me, but especially when …

The Voice is barely audible,
“Bahna is right. It’s about forgiveness. All of it.”

The creature seems to ooze from the storm. Like an amorphous black cloud, he takes shape less than eight hand-lengths from me. My arms go weak. I lower my weapon. Old Bahna is a Healer in my home village, Yellowtail Village, but I have no notion what he’s talking about.

He steps closer. His black cape has no snow upon it, but gleams as though enameled with the night. As always, I wonder if he’s really here, or stands bathed in moonlight in the Land of the Dead, and only appears to be here in this meadow. He’s never come this close to me before. My skin tingles as though I’m covered with biting ants. He’s turned slightly away, watching the warriors who almost certainly surround us.

I’ve never known his real name. My sister, Tutelo, gave him a name twelve summers ago: Shago-niyoh. I so often only hear his voice seeping from the air that I generally call him “the Voice.”

Barely audible, I breathe, “Why are you here?”

The earthiness of wet bark suffuses the darkness. The creature takes a step closer and stops with his black cape swinging around his tall body. I gaze into the utter darkness inside his hood. He leans toward me until his face—if he had one—would be almost touching mine, and says, “
Drop all of your weapons.”

I stiffen as though I’ve been slapped. Does he want me dead? Even if I do not plan to use them on my friends, I will surely need them later. “Why?”

“You are no longer a warrior.”

Stunned, I say, “That won’t matter to the Mountain People, or the—”

“Head north into the country of the Island People. I have one task to take care of; then I’ll find you. Remember what I said.”

“About forgiveness or the fact that I am no longer …”

There is only cascading snow in front of me now. I blink. Look around. It takes a few moments to catch my breath. My soul must be loose. The meadow is silent. Where are my pursuers? Where is Gitchi? He’s probably bedded down in the snow, hiding, as I taught him to do when enemy warriors approach.

I listen for any sound.

Wet flakes quietly pat upon my cape.

Finally, I look at the war club in my fist, heft its familiar weight. My life may well depend upon this single act. Still … I have never disobeyed Shago-niyoh before, but every instinct I have is telling me that this is suicide.

I force my hand to lay the club down. As I do, my fingers sting. Have I been clutching it so tightly? I scan the snow again, searching for movement, ready to grab the club if necessary.

Somewhere above me, beyond the snow, the Cloud People must be thinning, for paler gray stains the darkness. If I’m still here, in this open meadow, when my pursuers have enough light to see, I won’t have to worry about anything ever again.

One by one, I strip my weapons belt, dropping stilettos, knives, anything else that might conceivably be considered a weapon. Each lands in the deep snow with barely a sound.

My empty hands flex at my sides. I’ve been a warrior for twelve summers. If I am no longer a warrior, what am I?
Who
am I?

I look around, trying to get my bearings. Which way is north?

In warrior’s practice, when we are children, our parents blindfold us, lead us around in circles for half the day, and then lock us in a hole in the ground. From within the blackness, we must be able to identify the directions.

When I’m on the war trail, it’s easy. The position of Elder Brother Sun, or the slant of sunlight, gives away the directions. Even at night, the positions of the campfires of the dead mark them. But at night in a storm? I have only my internal sense of place.

I close my eyes and try to feel the land.
What direction am I facing?
The faintest breeze blows. It’s fall. Wind Mother usually comes from the west or north. The wettest snows, like this one, are born out over Skanodario Lake …

After several moments, I turn to the right, and start walking.