People of the Nightland (North America's Forgotten Past) (27 page)

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

BOOK: People of the Nightland (North America's Forgotten Past)

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T
he struggle had encompassed eternity. Silvertip could remember nothing beyond a desperate obsession with keeping himself whole. As the condor devoured his body, bits and pieces of his soul vanished. Nothing could convey the sensation of having his soul sliced up. One moment he would be frantically trying to retain some kind of hold on his very being, only to have a hole torn out of what remained … until the inevitable. But when had that been? When had the last tattered bits of his soul simply given up?

What remained of his body were bones. Little more than the scattered fragments of his soul, and then that, too, began to slip away as one by one, the ligaments rotted, and fingers, toes, legs, and arm bones rolled off the high stone, to drop … where?

Nothing remained to scream as Silvertip’s loose jaw fell away to tumble down the rock. The skull finally slipped loose from the spine, clattering hollowly … falling … .

M
oonglow filtered between the boulders, shooting a sliver of light across Goodeagle’s face. He rolled uncomfortably to his back and struggled to sleep. Cramped between two warriors, he could barely stretch his legs to their full length. Worse, the constant low hum of distant voices chewed at the edges of his dreams like rodent teeth. Every time he drifted off, he heard Windwolf’s soft baritone.

Would he never escape Dreaming the nightmare of Walking Seal Village? After an eternity of restless tossing and turning, he finally sat up, and slid back to lean against the wall. Weariness clung like a granite cape around his shoulders.

Stop torturing yourself. You did the right thing.

He braced his forehead on his drawn-up knees and closed his eyes. His breathing finally melted into soothing rhythms. The voices faded … .

H
e was back, standing in the great ceremonial lodge at Walking Seal Village. He could see the startled expression on Kakala’s face, hear Keresa’s bitter curses. Bramble lay naked, bitten, and raped, her eyes widening as she recognized him.

“Goodeagle!” Bramble sobbed. “Goodeagle … oh, no, get out!”

That was the moment his soul died, and with it, all that remained of the man once called Goodeagle.

In a tight voice, he said, “Kakala, you told me you wouldn’t hurt her.”

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from hers as she looked up at him through stark horror, pain, and fear.

“Goodeagle?” Bramble called, as though he were suddenly the only thing she had to hold onto. The instant that she figured it out registered as a change in her eyes—a single frozen heartbeat of time. Her fear turned to hatred.

He backed up until he hit the wall. Why hadn’t he realized Karigi would do something like this?

Through tear-blurred eyes, he saw Kakala’s jaw harden.

“Deputy Karigi?” Kakala asked in a weirdly calm voice Goodeagle had never heard. “Why is she still here?”

Goodeagle remembered only Karigi’s insolent smile. The words buried in the hatred that seemed to shoot from Bramble’s eyes.

Kakala’s barked order had penetrated Bramble’s spell. “Tell your warriors to get out.”

Karigi blinked. “What? Why?”

“Do it!”

Karigi took a step back, ordering, “Terengi, take your men and bring me Windwolf’s head.”

Glancing at each other, they filed out, striding past Goodeagle as if he didn’t exist. He remembered Kakala, still and quiet. Karigi fidgeting, shooting nervous glances at Bramble.

“War Chief, I intended—”

The rest had been lost as Kakala drove a hard fist into Karigi’s stomach. Goodeagle had watched in disbelief as Kakala kneed the man, lifting him clear of the floor. Karigi had dropped to his knees, his war dart flying.

As Kakala vented his wrath, Goodeagle had watched the dart, seen Bramble’s desperate gaze fix on it.

As though his eyes were disembodied, he’d stared at the dart, vaguely aware of Kakala and Karigi ramming together, their screams of rage disjointed and unreal as they kicked, slugged, and abused each other.

Goodeagle’s remote eyes followed Bramble as she edged a foot toward the dropped dart, toes questing for the shaft.

“She has a weapon!” Karigi’s shout echoed in Goodeagle’s soul.
Yes, use it Bramble! Kill him. Kill me!

A shout came from outside; Keresa knocked him sideways as she hurried to stare out the doorway.

Bramble screamed.

Goodeagle’s heart seemed to stop.

When he looked back, Karigi’s dart was sticking out of Bramble’s chest.

Goodeagle stumbled back against the wall, watching Kakala and Keresa race by, leaving him alone. For the last time, he looked at Bramble.

“I didn’t know he’d do this, Bramble. I swear.”

Faintly, almost inaudibly, he heard a voice plead, “Goodeagle?”

He took a fumbling step toward her—then blindly turned and ran.

Running. Running. I’m still running.

H
e jerked bolt upright, panting.

“Just a … a dream,” he whispered.

Shuddering as though from deadly cold, he folded his arms tightly over his aching stomach. Breath rushed in and out of his lungs in huge desperate gulps.

From the darkness, Washani said, “Yes, just a dream this time. But Windwolf is going to come for you.”

Goodeagle tipped his head back against the cold stone wall, and breathed, “ … I know.”

A
shes looked up at the black ceiling, pretending to be asleep. Silvertip’s cries had wakened her many times last night, but this time his soft whimpers twisted oddly in her belly.

She’d been in the middle of a Dream. The last image still lingered in her soul: She’d been crawling through a black tunnel on her hands and knees. She could hear the people in line behind her whimpering in fear. Silvertip had reached back and grasped her hand, holding it so tightly it ached.

“Ashes,” he’d whispered, “I can’t find the way, and I—I’m afraid. What should I do?”

“The Wolf Bundle,” she’d whispered. “Ask Wolf Dreamer. He knows the way.”

When Silvertip didn’t respond, she’d reached forward and found his face. Tears dampened his cheeks.

“I’m gone,” Silvertip whispered, barely audible, so no one else would hear. “Even the bones have been picked clean. I don’t know what I’ve done … .”

And then Silvertip’s cries had wakened her and she’d found herself staring at the ceiling. The sharp damp scent of the deep tunnel still clung in her nose.

Most of the night she’d Dreamed about her mother, wondering where Skimmer was, and if she would ever see her again. Loneliness made her feel like she had to throw up.

She slid a hand down to rub her belly, and stared at Silvertip. Even the Healer wasn’t sure if he was alive or dead.

They had placed the Wolf Bundle atop his chest. His body now twitched, as though his soul were walking through a horrifying land.

She wondered if he was still crawling through the darkness, lost and frightened.

From right beside her ear, a deep voice whispered,
“Yes, he’s always gone when you need him, but I’m right here, right here, Ashes.”

She tried to scream, but no sound came out of her mouth, so she dove under her hides, and lay there shaking, waiting for him to speak to her again.

Throughout the night, she jumped at every sound, but she never heard the voice again … just Silvertip’s soft suffocating gasps for breath.

Thirty-seven

T
he pale lavender gleam of dawn filtered through the boulders, bleaching the faces of the warriors sitting around the chamber.

Keresa ran a hand through her long hair and paced back and forth. All attention was focused on Kakala.

The big war chief tossed and turned, writhing beneath his sweat-drenched cape, reaching pleadingly for people who weren’t there. All night long he’d shrieked and wept.

“Hako?” Kakala cried. “Hako? Where … where are you? Tanta, where is she? Is she …”

Degan looked up at Keresa and said, “Hako sounds like a woman’s name.”

She nodded. “Yes, it is.”

She’d never heard Kakala speak Hako’s name with such desperation.

Degan said, “Have you known him to be with a woman named Hako?”

“She was his wife once, before—”

Kakala screamed, “You’re dead …
dead!
Tanta get down! What … what are you … doing … ?”

The echoes of his voice rang through the chamber, almost covering the grating that came from above as one of the boulders was rolled aside.

Dawn light poured into the chamber. Keresa looked up. Against the brilliant background, she couldn’t see any of the warriors’ faces. Smart of them. Peering down could get the looker a dart through the face.

“Deputy Keresa,” a voice called. “War Chief Windwolf has granted your request to speak with him.”

“Thank the gods,” she muttered. “Can I climb up?”

“After you remove all your weapons.”

Keresa untied her weapons belt and let it fall to the floor; then she pulled out the stiletto she always kept in her right legging, and dropped it. “I’ve pulled my teeth.”

“All right, climb.”

Keresa climbed up, hesitated just below the scar in the rock where she had dodged death several days earlier. Nerving herself, she lifted her head, half expecting to duck another dart. The warriors just beyond the periphery of her vision were armed, alert, but none was set to skewer her. She pulled herself the rest of the way into the light. Eight warriors encircled her. A short burly man stepped forward.

“I am War Chief Fish Hawk. I need to search you.”

“Of course you do.” She spread her arms and legs, and waited while he ran his hands over her body. To her surprise, he was thorough, but took no inappropriate liberties.

Fish Hawk nodded sternly. “Be careful not to do anything foolish. We have more Sunpath refugees here today. They will not be happy to see you. One wrong move and we might just let them have you.”

“Fish Hawk, you’ve never met a more careful warrior than me.”

They’d overheard the warriors who’d guarded them talking about Windwolf. The tone of voice would have been more appropriate to Old Man Above than a human war chief.

She looked around at them, at the glow in their eyes.
By Raven Hunter’s balls, they’ve made a mystical Spirit out of the man.

According to the story Windwolf had personally gone to speak with the refugee chiefs and clan Elders, asking questions, assuring them
they were safe here. It was said among the guards that many had fastened themselves to his legs, pleading for his leadership.

Is there anything we can do to use that against him?

Keresa started forward, but Fish Hawk’s hard hand on her forearm stopped her.

“I think it’s better if you follow me. Windwolf is concerned about your safety.”

Fish Hawk had said Windwolf’s name with such reverence, she ground her teeth. And why not? Her own warriors were starting to speak of him the same way.

Fish Hawk stepped out in front of her while the other two warriors fell in behind. Her spine prickled, knowing they had their darts centered on her back.

They followed the trail over the top of the rockshelters that composed Headswift Village. Below, she heard children talking, and the voices of elders. A dog barked happily.

Fish Hawk led her around the base of the boulders and straight through the Sunpath village—if it could be called a village. When the people saw her, they ran forward to stare and call insults. Her knees trembled, but she kept her head high.

As she rounded a corner, groans and sobs filled the air. Many people wore bandages. Black bloody tatters of hides wrapped heads and legs. One old man—with a face like a weather-beaten mountain—gazed at her through hate-filled eyes, watching her every movement.

As she passed, an old woman with a missing eye spat at her, crying, “Nightland
filth
! You killed my family. You killed my
whole
family!”

Keresa’s heart skipped. Had she been on that raid? There had been so many.

Memories rose of a Hunting Horse camp they’d attacked in the early days. After they’d burned it to the ground, they’d gone down to inspect what remained, and she remembered too clearly the multitudes of orphaned children wandering among the ruins, crying, searching for family they’d never find again. Kakala’s eyes had possessed a haunted gleam for days.

She said, “You have
many
more refugees.”

Fish Hawk replied stiffly, “Karigi and Blackta are still attacking Sunpath camps. The people who can make it here, do.”

With this many mouths to feed, they’ll be running short of food soon.

Fish Hawk led her around the boulders and onto the path in front of the rockshelters.

They had placed the dead Nightland warriors in a pile at the bottom of the hill. Looking down she could see they were naked. Had they stolen even the clothing? Many of the bodies had been brutalized—objects of the hatred these people lived. Two guards now stood to protect the dead. Blood trails marked the paths where they’d dragged the bodies. The Lame Bull dead must be in the ceremonial cave, being ritually prepared for the journey to the afterlife.

Fish Hawk stopped. “Wait here.” He ducked through a low oblong opening.

She leaned against the stone wall, pressing her hot cheek against the cool rock while she fought the overwhelming urge to vomit. The two warriors stared at her with cold eyes.

Pull yourself together. You can’t let Windwolf see you like this.

Arranging this meeting had been nearly impossible. Through two long days, she’d begged every person who’d stood guard to let her speak with Windwolf.

Think, rot you!You don’t have time to feel sorry for yourself. Look, learn, plan.

As she forced herself to study the village, something struck her as odd. The two guards at the corpse pile were barely more than boys. Eight men guarded her people. Where were the rest of the warriors? Surely some of the Sunpath refugees had been warriors? When mixed with the Headswift Village warriors, there should be many men and women with atlatls and darts walking around. She tallied a total of ten. Then she noted an eleventh, down working with a group of older boys and girls, training them how to use a war club.
Children?

Fish Hawk ducked out and held the door curtain aside. “Go in. He’s waiting for you.”

She rubbed her sweaty palms on her cape, called on all of her courage, and ducked beneath the leather curtain.

Inside she stood face-to-face with the one man she’d feared for most of her adult life. Their eyes met: that same challenge crackling between them as it had when they’d tried to kill each other just a few days past.

He wore a clean blue war shirt painted with red buffalo on either
breast. Then she looked closer. His eyes might have struck fire, but his face was haggard, lined with fatigue. His muscular legs were locked the way a man did to fight exhaustion. Black hair clung to his forehead in clean wisps, as though he’d just bathed.

“Deputy, please sit down.” He gestured to the hides around the fire hearth where a small blaze burned.

She walked to the hides, but remained standing. The firelight cast a pale amber glow over bare rock walls. The chamber spread about four paces across. He apparently had few belongings. His atlatl and a stack of darts—many of them belonging to her warriors—leaned against the wall. Beside the fire a tripod with a hide bag stood. Wooden cups rested near the hearthstones. A rolled buffalo hide had been shoved against the wall to her right.

Windwolf went to stand in the middle of the chamber, and the heavy weapons belt he wore clattered. He gestured to the bag hanging on the tripod. “You must be thirsty. Please fill yourself a cup of tea.”

She crouched, picked up a cup, and dipped it into the tea bag. The tea, made of rosehips and dried berries, smelled sweet and warm.

She straightened and studied the knives, stilettos, and two war clubs he carried. “I assure you, War Chief, I’m in no position to be dangerous. They forced me to leave my weapons in the chamber.”

“I don’t meet any Nightland warrior unarmed. You in particular. You’re dangerous no matter what.”

Her stomach cramped threateningly. She tipped her cup up, drained it dry, and dipped it into the bag again. She might not get anything else to drink for days—or forever.

Through the laces of his shirt, she could see his chest was streaked with deep cuts. Hurt and tired. Could she find a way to use that? Wring information from him he wouldn’t ordinarily reveal?

She knelt on the hides.

A brief expression of relief crossed his face. He lowered himself across the fire from her, and stifled a weary sigh.

“War Chief,” she began, “thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

He nodded. “How is Kakala?”

“Delirious. As I’m sure your spies have told you. He keeps reliving old battles. All night long he called for Hako and Tanta, and screamed things about Brookwood Village.”

Windwolf reached over and dipped himself a cup of tea. As he
swirled the liquid, he said, “He was placed in a cage as punishment, wasn’t he?”

“Yes. Our Council of Elders ordered that every warrior involved in the battle be locked in a wooden cage. Since War Chief Gowinn was killed in the battle, Kakala, his deputy, was singled out for punishment. They tortured him for two moons. When he was finally freed, he crawled out of his cage a changed man, they said. He spent several moons living alone in the mountains.”

Windwolf sipped his tea and casually said, “Why did the Nightland Elders do that?”

She lifted a shoulder. “If you punish people for losing battles, they won’t lose as many.”

“If you escape, will they do that to you?”

A cold sensation filtered through her, as though ice water had just been poured into her veins. “Let’s … let’s talk about something else.”

He slowly shook his head. “Once, before the coming of Nashat and the Prophet, the Nightland People were envied. Your people harvested the waterfowl, fished the Thunder Sea, hunted the seasonal migrations of the caribou, and stored their wealth of food in the ice caves for winter. You crafted the finest artwork, conducted the most elaborate rituals. Your Dreamers charted the paths of Father Sun, Sister Moon, and the Star People. You made the finest boats out of wood we Traded north in return for your dressed hides, paintings, and shell jewelry.”

She sat silently, remembering.

Windwolf clapped a weary hand to his knee. “And now your Council orders its finest warriors placed in cages.” His gaze bored into hers. “I have just learned that they had Kakala locked in a cage again because he failed to take Headswift Village with ten and eight warriors. How he was returned to leadership is a little hazy, but tell me, are your chiefs mad?”

She caught herself on the verge of speaking, and bit her lip.

“I thought so,” he added, reading her expression too well. “Tell me, how did Kakala get out this time?”

“On the Guide’s orders.”

“He didn’t order him placed there?”

She gave him a narrow-eyed glare.

“Nashat,” Windwolf guessed.

At her silence, he asked, “What do you think of this Guide of yours?”