It Dreams in Me (17 page)

Read It Dreams in Me Online

Authors: Kathleen O'Neal Gear

BOOK: It Dreams in Me
3.75Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
“STAND A FEW PACES AWAY, CLEARWING. THIS WILL BE A private discussion.”
“Yes, Matron.”
Wink ducked out through the rear entrance of the Matron’s House and found Birch waiting for her on the log bench that rested against the wall. Birch had her white hair pinned in a bun on top of her head. Her dress blew around her sticklike arms.
Wink sat beside her, and Clearwing walked four paces away. He stood with his bow down, but nocked, his eyes scanning the foreground.
“Just tell me if this is your doing?” Birch asked.
“I’d rather not.”
Birch turned to peer at her with her mouth tight. “I feel the same way you do, Wink, but this sets a dangerous precedent. If you can kill the elders of another clan for political gain, they can kill your elders.”
Wink exhaled hard, nodded.
Birch turned away to gaze out at the flowering dogwood trees on the cliff behind Blackbird Town. Their sweet scent carried on the wind. “The rest of the council knows nothing about this, is that it? You are purely to blame?”
Wink stared down at her hands. Her nails were torn and dirty, the cuticles bitten to the quick. “When this is all over, Birch, whoever remains on the council will be forced to make a decision about Water Hickory Clan. I still believe civil war is the worst outcome. We must remain united, or the Black Falcon Nation will collapse. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
A lock of white hair blew loose from Birch’s bun and fluttered in the breeze. “You are setting yourself up to be the sacrificial offering.”
“The Law of Retribution will demand that both sides pay.”
“Ah, I see,” Birch said softly.
Wink breathed in the fragrant air and closed her eyes for a few blessed moments. She was so tired she couldn’t keep her head from wobbling.
Birch said, “Well, you certainly have them on the run. I guess you scared them silly this morning. Bittern and Sea Grass have been hiding in the Water Hickory Matron’s House all day long. Sea Grass has two guards left, out of twenty.”
Not for long … .
Wink studied the golden gleam that swirled behind her closed lids. If she let herself, she could fall asleep right now, in a single heartbeat, and Birch might not notice for twenty. The possibility was tempting.
Birch leaned closer to her to whisper, “Rumor has it that at nightfall, Sea Grass is going to try to sneak out of town and make a run for it.”
“She may make it.”
Birch shifted on the bench. “Really? Why?”
Wink opened her eyes and through a long exhalation said, “Because I haven’t decided about her yet.”
“Why not? She’s the worst of the lot.”
“I know, but there has to be a witness. Someone to pass along the story.”
Birch made a flip-flop gesture with her hand. “Well, she’s not the one I’d choose, but since I know nothing about this—”
“Who would you choose?”
“If it were up to me, I’d select Bittern’s daughter, Tern.” Wink opened her eyes, but she saw nothing outside. Her souls were traveling down the long road that led into the future. “I can’t do that.”
Birch’s brow furrowed. “She’s the best choice. Do you know why?”
“Of course I know why. Don’t be insulting.”
Birch chuckled. For a while, they just sat together in companionable silence, and Wink was deeply thankful that Birch had asked for this meeting.
Wink rose to her feet. “You are my friend, Birch. I will never forget that.”
Birch got up and smiled. “Never plot alone. It takes too much strength. Besides, plotting happens to be the one thing I’m good for these days. Otherwise I just sit in my house listening to one person after another tell me about their squabbles with their neigh—”
“
Matron?
” Clearwing called.
“Yes?”
“Feather Dancer just trotted out into the plaza to meet a runner. The poor man looks half-dead. He stumbled into town and collapsed in a heap. A crowd has gathered around them.”
Wink frowned and walked over to stand by Clearwing, where she could see the plaza. Feather Dancer crouched beside
the man, who was coughing and weeping while he told his story.
“Who is that? Can you tell?”
“No, Matron. Not from up here.”
“Perhaps I should go down—”
“Please don’t. If it’s important, Feather Dancer will be here shortly.”
Wink nodded, and Birch came up beside her. Something was wrong; Wink could feel it like an earthquake deep inside her, getting stronger, set to tear her world asunder.
Feather Dancer rose and ran hard for the Matron’s Mound.
Birch said, “Well, there’s your answer. It’s very important. Do you want me to leave, or stay?”
“Stay. If you don’t mind.”
“I don’t.”
Feather Dancer raced around to the rear of the Matron’s House, bowed halfheartedly, and said, “Matron, I have news of the Fan Palm Village battle.”
“What happened?”
“The Water Hickory warriors caught ours just before they made it to Fan Palm Village. There was a skirmish in the forest. Our warriors were greatly outnumbered. They fought a valiant retreat into Fan Palm Village.” Feather Dancer paused to take a breath.
“Hurry, War Chief, finish the tale,” Wink said, not able to stand it any longer.
“Every warrior in Fan Palm Village joined ours. They fought side by side to drive back the Water Hickory assault. The tide changed many times during the day, but by nightfall, our forces had decimated the Water Hickory warriors. The few survivors fled for their lives.”
Clearwing grinned broadly until Feather Dancer gave him a stern look.
Birch sighed. “Well, at least that’s good news. Did the Loon warriors fight valiantly, or were they mostly cowards?”
“I heard that they fought very bravely, Matron,” Feather Dancer said.
“Hmm,” Birch grunted as though amazed. “They may make worthy allies after all.”
Wink braced her shoulder against the log wall. Her knees were shaking. She didn’t know how much longer she could keep standing. “Any word from Rockfish?”
“Yes, but I’d rather tell you in private.”
She straightened. The knot of suspicion around her heart had begun to tighten until it was almost a certainty. It took effort to force herself to say, “Tell me quickly.”
Feather Dancer was blunt. “The Water Hickory warriors apparently had orders to target Chief Long Fin first. He’s dead.”
The blood drained from her face as a thousand images flitted across her souls at once: his birth … his smiling little boy face … the tears of his first broken heart … .
Birch grabbed her arm and whispered, “Let me take you to your bedchamber where you can lie down.”
Wink didn’t answer. She stared at Feather Dancer. “How did he die?”
“The arrow pierced his liver. He bled to death. Rockfish was with him.”
An unearthly sense of gratitude filled her. She whispered, “At least he wasn’t alone.”
Birch said, “Come along. Let’s go inside.”
Wink just stood for a few moments with her eyes closed, trying not to see … anything. A black cavern was forming in her chest. At the end of her days, when she stood before her ancestors in the Land of the Dead, she would be called upon to account for this. Dear gods, how would she do it?
She said, “Thank you, Birch, but I still have many things to
do today. It would help me if you could tell Tern that I wish to see her.”
Birch released her arm. “Yes, of course.”
Wink ducked through the rear entrance and numbly walked to her bedchamber. Clearwing took up his position outside.
She made it almost to the sitting mat by the fire hearth before she stumbled, sank to the floor, and her shoulders began to heave.
After too long a time, she forced herself to get up. To prepare for Tern’s arrival.
STAR PEOPLE GLITTERED THROUGH THE THIN LAYER OF clouds, turning the trees and old lodges silver.
Strongheart draped a blanket around Sora’s shoulders and handed her a cup of tea to go along with her bowl of catfish. She set the cup aside, pulled off the crisp fish skin, and ate it while her eyes probed the dark forest. Though she had been awake for nearly one hand of time, she could not shake the deep-seated fear that twisted her belly. “How long was I gone?”
“Two days.”
She stared into his eyes. A knowledge lived there, something old and deep, as though after a lifetime of searching he had finally deciphered the nature of the gods.
“I’m sorry,” she said in an exhausted voice.
“There’s no reason to apologize. You can’t control your illness.” He knelt to her right and retrieved his own cup of tea. As he drank, the firelight cast an amber gleam over his round flat face. “Besides, we had a good long talk, about Flint, among other things.”
She ate a chunk of fish and swallowed it as she looked around. “I don’t remember any of it.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said, “I do. I—”
“Where is Flint?” she asked, suddenly panicked.
Dear gods, he must have gone out into the forest and the warriors captured him. He may be dead … .
“He went hunting. He said he’d be back by nightfall. I’m sure he’ll return soon.”
Don’t think about it! There’s nothing you can do now. You’re a captive. You have to figure out how to escape … .
The feel of Flint’s hands around her throat two nights ago suddenly intruded, but her memories played tricks on her, transposing Skinner’s hands for Flint’s, and then Flint’s for Skinner’s. On the terrible night Skinner died, he’d tried to choke her to death.
“Sora?” Strongheart whispered, as though not wishing to disturb her thoughts. “Did you hear me?”
“Forgive me, I didn’t hear you. I was lost in memories of things that happened over a moon ago. What did you ask?”
“I asked about the Midnight Fox. You had seen six winters when the Midnight Fox first appeared to you, is that right?”
“No, I had seen seven winters.” He knew that. Why had he deliberately gotten it wrong?
“You discovered him just before your father’s death. Why? What made you notice him?”
She cocked her head, wondering what he was doing. “I discovered him a few days
after
my father’s death. You see, he glittered. When I looked more closely, I noticed that he resembled an animal lying curled on a dark forest floor. A midnight-colored fox, I thought. I could just make out his shape, but I was entranced by his sheer size. How could an animal that big live behind my eyes? In time I learned that he was not merely
darkness. He was a darkness that saw. That spoke. And he was just a baby. He would grow. As I would.”
There! There’s a warrior out in the trees! I see him moving from trunk to trunk … .
When tears filled her eyes, Strongheart reached out to her.
“No, don’t touch me, Priest,” she said, and wiped her eyes, all the while trying to see through the smoke-colored trees to the warrior prowling the darkness. “I’m all right. I just can’t help shaking when I remember.”
“Flint tried to Heal you, didn’t he?”
“Yes, of course, Flint tried. He thought he could kill the Fox. Then one night he woke to find the Fox staring down at him from my eyes. I was very happy. I knew that he must finally understand.”
In a voice almost too soft to hear, Strongheart asked, “What did you think he would understand?”
“But it’s perfectly clear. How can
you
not understand?”
“Sora, most humans see themselves as the tormented, rarely as the tormentors. Rarer still is the person who glimpses the murderer within. That’s why killing is a kind of desperate mourning.” He tipped up her chin to look into her eyes. “Do you agree?”
She massaged her temples. “Yes, I agree that killing is a kind of mourning, but I killed no one. If murder was done, it was done by the Fox.”
No one believes me. No one ever has. But it doesn’t matter now. Eventually, the warriors will come for me and the Loon Nation will order my death … . I must prepare myself.
A gust of wind assaulted the forest and flipped off the blanket that covered her shoulders. Strongheart rose and draped it over her again. “I want you to think about my next question before you answer.”
She lifted her head to peer at him, and he said, “Who are you mourning?”
“Who am I mourning? I’m not mourning, I …”
The words died in her throat.
She sat back on the buffalohide and stared up at the Star People who spread across the night sky like a great dark blanket covered with sunlit seashells.
“I mourn them all. My father, my sister, my mother. Others. What does that have to do—”
“Everything, Sora,” he said in the kindest voice she’d ever heard. “In fact, it’s the heart of the matter.”
He waited, sipping his tea, as though he could not give her the answers. She had to find them for herself.
But all I can think about is how close the warriors are. They must move in at night, tightening the circle, lest I try to escape under the cover of darkness.
She shivered. “I don’t understand why Flint isn’t back yet. He said he’d return at nightfall?”
The lines around Strongheart’s mouth deepened. “He said something else.”
“What?”
“He said, ‘If I’m gone for days, she knows why.’”
She reached for more catfish, and her hand shook. She tried not to notice how Strongheart’s gaze remained on her, silently asking questions she did not want to answer. After she swallowed her fish, she said, “We argued.”
Strongheart pointed to his own throat. “Is that where the bruises on your throat came from?”
She reached up to touch them. “I didn’t know they were there.”
“They are.”
As though angry with himself for letting Flint hurt her, he clenched his jaw and looked out at the starlit lake where geese
floated soundlessly, their bills tucked beneath their wings. Occasionally they quacked to each other in soft intimate voices. “What did you argue about?”
“He told me about the warriors.”
Strongheart frowned as though he had no idea what she was talking about. “What warriors?”
“The—the warriors. Hiding in the trees.” She pointed out at the forest and started trembling again.
“Sora, there are no warriors in the trees.”
She shook her head fiercely. “It—it’s all right. I understand. In the same situation, I suppose I’d have you guarded as well.”
He blinked and set his tea cup down. “How many warriors did Flint say there were?”
“A-at least one hundred.”
Strongheart’s mouth quirked. Then he laughed out loud. “Really? I wonder why he felt free to go hunting? You’d think a hundred warriors would have made him nervous—even two warriors would have given me pause.”
She cocked her head in disbelief. “Why do you think it’s funny? I don’t like being a hostage, Strongheart. I wish you’d told me.”
In less than a heartbeat, his smile faded to a dire expression. “Sora, there are no warriors out there. None. You are not a hostage.”
“Y-yes,” she insisted. “There are warriors. I—I’ve s-seen them.” To stop the stutter she clenched her fists and shook them. “It’s all right. I understand!”
Thoughts churned behind his eyes, but he sat perfectly still. Then something changed; it was as though his eyes began glowing from an inner light. “Dear gods,” he whispered, “that’s how they did it.”
“What?”
“Sora,” he said her name with such warmth it left her floundering.
“Please tell me something. Just before the Midnight Fox attacks you, is there anything that happens? Anything that lets you know he might be waking?”
She lifted her hands and held them out, palms up to the firelight, which flowed across the surface, shadowing the lines. The tracery resembled the complicated web of a poisonous spider. Stunned by the sudden realization, she said, “My fingers twitch.”
“They twitched two nights ago. I saw them. Do you recall?”
“No, I—I don’t.”
“Flint must have seen that happen many times over the fourteen winters you were married.”
She lifted a shoulder. “Maybe. I can’t say for certain.”
As though talking to himself, he whispered, “The story about Walking Bird. Flint knew exactly how to plant it.”
She leaned over and put a hand on his. “Knew what?”
He gritted his teeth, clearly upset with himself for not having concluded this before. “I may be wrong, Sora. They could just as easily have staged it after giving you a Spirit Plant.”
She repeated, “Knew what, Strongheart?”
He turned to her. “Let’s talk about Flint, shall we? Would you say he’s a sensitive man, and proud of it?”
“Yes.”
“I suspect he sulked over every unkind word as though it were a tragedy of monumental proportions?”
She nodded in surprise. “Yes, I used to be terrified of saying the wrong thing because he acted as if I’d tried to cut out his heart. He’d punish me for moons.”
“His mother must have lived in terror of hurting his wonderful delicate feelings.”
His words carried no hint of reproach; he was simply stating what must have been the case, but it was as though he was fitting together the broken pieces of a pot, seeing for the
first time what it might have looked like, and finding the shape ugly.
Sora replied, “She did live in terror. She once told me he threw the worst temper—”
“Sora”—he touched her cheek—“Flint uses his hurt feelings to tyrannize those who care about him. He loves playing games. He has a vulgar infantile streak. A dangerous one.”
“What does that mean? I thought all men were like that.”
Strongheart’s serious expression dissolved to a smile. He obviously couldn’t help it. “No, at least I certainly hope not.” He shook his head as though to shake off the mirth, and continued. “Men like Flint are weak. They so fear that their vulnerabilities will be discovered that they must find everyone else’s vulnerabilities first. They use them like weapons.” He hesitated, and his eyes narrowed again. “He knows your vulnerabilities very well, doesn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“I believe he may be using them for the benefit of his clan.”
The words struck at her heart. Despite all the horrors they had inflicted upon each other, she’d never stopped loving Flint. Stubbornly, she insisted, “There are warriors in the trees, Strongheart. I know there are. I’ve seen them!”
“I know you
think
you’ve seen them. I don’t doubt that, Sora. But they aren’t there. Flint wants you to think you need his protection.”
Anxiety stitched her chest. Her gaze darted over the dark trees and out across the starlit lake. She wanted to believe him, but …
I did see them … didn’t I?
Sternly, she said, “Look me straight in the eyes and tell me I am not a hostage.”
He leaned toward her and said, “You are not a hostage. There are no warriors.”
She searched the depths of his eyes for some hint of deception, but found none. “But … I would swear to you that I saw warriors skulking through the trees.”
Deep inside her, her souls looked at the images again—dark shadows leaping between trunks … running through the brush … climbing high into the treetops … .
“Chieftess, what I’m about to say may sound like babbling, but please listen.”
“Of course.”
“I have treated many cases of the Rainbow Black. Just before the sick person collapses, she is very susceptible to storytelling.”
“What does that mean?”

Other books

5 Buried By Buttercups by Joyce, Jim Lavene
The Iron Grail by Robert Holdstock
Rockstar by Lexi Adair
The White Garden by Carmel Bird
Laird's Choice by Remmy Duchene
The Law of Angels by Cassandra Clark
Carmen by Prosper Merimee