It Dreams in Me (15 page)

Read It Dreams in Me Online

Authors: Kathleen O'Neal Gear

BOOK: It Dreams in Me
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WINK LEANED AGAINST THE WALL JUST OUTSIDE HER BEDCHAMBER. Her black feathered cape brushed her bare feet. “My son? What did Thrush mean? Did our ally know?”
The dark blue light of predawn streamed around the door curtain at the front of her house and painted the corridor with a faint gleam.
Feather Dancer shook his head. “No. But I wanted to prepare you.”
Weary beyond exhaustion, Wink hung her head and said, “Thank you, War Chief. Now get some sleep.”
He bowed and walked away. When he ducked out the front entrance, Clearwing entered and hurried to resume his position outside her bedchamber.
Wink lifted her door curtain and let it fall silently closed behind her. As she stood staring at the painting of the gods that adorned the walls, a hopeless sensation tormented her.
She clenched her fists and sternly hissed, “Stop it!”
Her souls seemed to be listening. Some of her anxiety seeped away … giving her the strength to walk to her clothing basket and begin dressing for what she knew would be a day of shouts and recriminations.
AS I WALK THE ICY PATH THROUGH THE DARKNESS, I FEEL IT; IT is a terrified hunger, a need like none I have ever known. It pulls me as though I am tethered to it by an invisible rope.
The voice calls again … .
It seems to drift in the air around me, and as I walk toward it, it grows louder until it is almost overpowering.
Strange images flash behind my eyes—darkness that has never been touched by the light of day, fragments of memories that do not belong to me, an animal loneliness that I hear in my heart like several packs of wolves howling in unison … harmonic singing.
Somewhere close by fur brushes against stone.
I turn around, searching the darkness for a glimpse, and see acrid pools of blood drying all around me.
The voice calls again … .
Less than a hand’s breadth away.
Horror warms my blood.
In front of my face, the darkness becomes a shimmering midnight blue flood, and in the depths, two enormous eyes blaze to life … .
RAIN POURED DOWN THROUGH THE TALL DARK TREES AND gusted against the old lodges that lined Sassafras Lake, rattling the rotted timbers. A beaten froth scalloped the shore.
Strongheart held his hood closed and took a long drink of his hot tea. Flint stood across the fire from him. He’d been hostile all morning. They’d barely spoken five words since rising, but had gone about their dawn duties, collecting firewood, making the tea, fishing for breakfast. Four catfish, skewered on a long stick, roasted over the low flames. The rich scent filled the air.
“I’m tired of eating fish and birds,” Flint announced. Rain sheeted off his cape, creating a dark circle around his feet. “I’m going to go out and hunt deer. I may not be back until after nightfall.”
“It’s a miserable day to hunt. I was hoping you and I could work together today to Heal the chieftess.”
“Do it yourself, Priest.”
Strongheart turned the catfish so they wouldn’t burn. Already the skins had begun to brown and crisp.
Annoyed, Flint said, “It’s strange that Sora hasn’t risen. The fish are cooked. Maybe I should wake her.”
“No, please let her sleep. She will need it.”
Grumbling to himself, Flint reached for a bowl, slid two catfish into it, and began pulling off chunks of flaky white meat. Around a mouthful, he said, “I hate this place.” He gestured to the fallen-down lodges of Forbidden Village. “You should have never brought us here.”
Strongheart looked around. In the faint half-light, he saw people moving, barely visible even to him, but there nonetheless. Sometimes, he heard curious blends of different accents and languages, and realized they were trying to speak to him, but he could not yet hear them. In time, of course, he would.
In a mild voice, Strongheart said, “You trained him in the use of Spirit Plants, didn’t you?”
“Who?”
“War Chief Skinner. You trained him.”
Flint tilted his head as though sensing a trap. “Why do you care? It doesn’t matter now. None of it does.”
“I was trying to figure out how he did it, that’s all.”
Flint ate another bite of catfish and chewed it while he studied Strongheart. “Did what?”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
Flint just stared at him.
Strongheart continued, “The barbarian Lily People were raiding. White Fawn must have been afraid. She would never have allowed a strange woman to get close enough to poison her. But she’d have greeted your best friend with open arms. Skinner could have cooked her dinner himself, and she would have laughed and teased him, without ever realizing what he
was up to. Skinner loved you. He couldn’t lose you to another woman.”
Flint’s shoulder muscles contracted and rippled through the fabric of his cape. As he lifted his eyes to Strongheart, scarcely controlled fury laced his voice, “You have no idea how close you are—”
“Did your matron plan to blame Sora for White Fawn’s murder? Or was that Skinner’s idea, and his alone?”
Flint made a disgusted sound, shoved a huge chunk of catfish into his mouth, and tossed his empty bowl to the muddy ground. “You’re a fool, Priest. I’m going hunting. When Sora rises tell her I should be back at dark. But if I’m gone for days, she knows why.”
Flint grabbed his bow and quiver from where he’d stashed them beneath the sheltering limbs of a massive cypress tree and slung them over his shoulder. But he stood for several instants staring at his belt from which hung his stiletto and war club. He picked it up and tossed it to Strongheart.
“Guard her,”
he ordered, and trotted away without another word.
Strongheart tied the belt around his waist and watched Flint disappear into the downpour, wondering if he was truly going hunting, or had arranged another clandestine meeting with members of his clan.
The scent of charring catfish rose. Strongheart knelt and slid the remaining fish into a bowl, then turned another bowl upside down on top of them to keep them dry and placed the fish on the warm hearthstones.
As he rose to his feet, a coarse guttural sound filtered through the rain.
He looked around.
All of the ghostly apparitions that had been drifting through
the forest evaporated, but he could sense them staring at something behind him.
Strongheart turned.
At first, he didn’t see …
Two glistening eyes peered at him from the depths of Sora’s lodge. Dark and unblinking, they had a feral quality, like that of a predator with vulnerable prey in sight.
“Chieftess,” he called.
The soft guttural sound blended so perfectly with the falling rain, he wasn’t sure he’d heard it.
He walked toward the lodge, and the eyes lowered to the floor, like an animal lying down.
He knelt in the doorway and saw the chieftess stretched out on her stomach with her chin on her folded hands. Long black hair feathered around her naked body.
“Chieftess?” he said again. “Are you hungry? We cooked—”
The faint guttural cry issued from deep in her throat.
Fear crept through his body like an icy night wind. His shadow-soul shouted at him to run, but he girded himself and ducked inside the lodge.
A strange presence moved around him. He could feel the soft nibble of fangs at his throat. Quietly, he asked, “Who are you?”
Something skittered at the base of the lodge, and a bitter loneliness swelled until the ache almost doubled him over. Tears filled his eyes, but he did not know why.
As he removed his wet cape and hung it on the peg by the door, the chieftess licked her full lips. Ordinarily, she was a beautiful woman with large black eyes, delicate brows, and a pointed nose, but this instant she resembled a wary wolf. He …
Cold flowed around him, penetrating every gap in his clothing,
and he felt like he was lingering on the hazy borderland of death.
Softly, he said, “I’ve been waiting for you.”
She sat up on her haunches and placed her hands on the floor in front of her. “Did you come to give him a home?”
The voice was hers, but deeper, rougher.
Strongheart frowned. He shook his head lightly. “I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t understand. How could any sane person believe that he is still alive inside me? He’s my heartbeat, my breathing. He’s always there looking out through my eyes. It doesn’t matter that he’s been dead for—”
“Who?” Strongheart asked from a safe distance. The cold had deepened in the lodge. He shivered. “I still don’t understand.”
“Yes, of course, I know how crazy that sounds. But this madness isn’t recent. It started the moment I met Flint. That first moon was one breathless secret rendezvous after another. His best friend, Skinner, or a slave, or a Trader—anyone who wished to help the young lovers—would bring me a message: “He’s in the charnel house” or “You’ll find him at the canoe landing.” Often it was, “Go to him in the forest near the giant redbay tree … the dead oak covered with moss … the shell midden near the lake … .”
“How old were you?”
“I had seen fourteen winters. I loved him desperately. Despite my mother’s orders to stay away from Flint, I’d excuse myself from whatever meeting I was attending, and run all the way to meet him. We loved each other in caves and moss-shrouded meadows, even treetops. The massive oak branches provided perfect hideaways where we would lie together for half the day, exploring the other’s body, listening to the oblivious people who walked the trails below. The sensations he brought forth during those lazy days of touching
left me feeling as though the gods themselves had taught me what it meant to be human. But it was really Flint who taught me. He …”
“Taught you? Or taught Sora?”
There was a lengthy pause, as though it did not understand the question. Outside the lodge, something moved, like claws raking the thatch. Strongheart’s knees started shaking, though he hoped it wasn’t obvious to the Spirits.
“What? I’m sorry, Strongheart, what did you ask?”
He cocked his head, astonished, and asked, “Do you know me?”
No answer. She just stared at him with those black glistening eyes.
He said, “Is that when you awakened? In the first moon they’d known each other?”
The “claws” outside hissed, then scampered around the lodge base. Strongheart spun, trying to keep track of it. Most likely a dead branch had been torn from one of the trees, but …
Sora whispered, “No. No, it happened in the first half moon. He talked me into wearing loose-fitting clothing so that no matter where we happened to be, I could just spread my legs and allow him to enter me. Even in the dark moments when his needs shocked me, he managed to make me relax enough that I didn’t resist. I remember once, ten days after we met, my mother ordered me to attend a council meeting with her. She was grooming me for my eventual rise to the position of high chieftess of the Black Falcon Nation. Just before the meeting, I met Flint in the forest and he tucked an oiled wooden ball inside me, which he tied in place with a strip of woven hanging-moss cloth expertly passed between my legs and knotted around my waist beneath my dress. Throughout the meeting, whenever I moved, it caressed me. By the time the meeting
was over, all he had to do was touch me for waves of joy to explode in my body.
“From that day onward, the carefully selected objects he brought into our life evoked a searing sweetness. It didn’t take long before I couldn’t even use a stone to pound dirty clothing in the lake without thinking of what Flint might—”
“Didn’t his curious needs frighten you?” He did not know if was speaking to Sora or the Midnight Fox, or some strange amalgamation of the two.
“No. Just the opposite. The euphoria intensified over the fourteen winters we were married, probably because our couplings grew progressively more dangerous. He took me wherever and whenever he pleased. During a midnight ceremonial when hundreds of people filled the plaza, he would push me against a dark wall and take me standing up. Or he’d slip a marble owl inside me before I had to discuss a critical Trade agreement; then he would watch my eyes during the negotiations. More than the owl, it was his expectant gaze that brought me pleasure.”
Strongheart’s hands clenched to fists. The rain battered the lodge and the world seemed to go darker, as though the light were being sucked away into an enormous emptiness. The hair rose on the nape of his neck.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Sora said. “I’m trying to explain why I had no choice but to kill him.”
“You mean you tried to kill Flint. Yes, he told me about that, but I’ve never really understood why. Couldn’t you have just run away from him?”
“No, I couldn’t run away! He would have followed me. He would not leave me alone! And I could not stay away from him. I wanted Flint inside me.”
A frantic gleam lit her eyes.
Strongheart held out calming hands. “Please, forgive me. I
got lost for a few moments. Let’s go back to your first question. You asked me if I’d come to give him a home. Who did you mean?”
Sora’s shoulders shook with buried sobs, but no tears filled her eyes.
Cautiously, he reached out and touched her hair. She leaned into his hand, like a lonely puppy. “Can you tell me who he is?”
Her eyes abruptly went wide and searched the lodge.
“Do you see them?”
“Who? I …”
A faint fluttering began at the edges of his vision. Then, all around them, unseen presences moved, stirring the moist air without touching the veils of spiderwebs or skinny arms of dead vines that hung through the gaps in the walls.
He murmured, “Yes, I see them.”
“What do they want?”
“I think they are Healers. They want to help you.”
Through the pounding rain and whistling wind, Strongheart heard a familiar gravelly old voice, but it spoke just beyond his ability to hear.
“Juggler?”
Lightning flashed outside, briefly illuminating the camp, and an eerie sensation possessed him. The truth seemed to seep out of the very walls, and soak into his body like prickly pear fruit wine—sweet and intoxicating.

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