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

People of the Owl: A Novel of Prehistoric North America (North America's Forgotten Past) (18 page)

BOOK: People of the Owl: A Novel of Prehistoric North America (North America's Forgotten Past)
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With forced aplomb, she said, “I appreciate your kind offer, Mud Stalker. In spite of our past, it intrigues me.”
“Let me ask: What if I added nectar to the suggestion?” He was stroking his throat now with the studied indifference of a man who held all the right gaming pieces. “What if I told you I would not only support White Bird for Speaker within the Council, but I would argue, no, insist, that Mud Puppy be confirmed in White Bird’s place should anything ever happen to his brother.”
It was said so casually, almost in an offhand manner. With difficulty she kept her voice even. “Why would you do that?”
Mud Stalker’s head lowered, irritating her that she couldn’t see his eyes. “Sometimes, Wing Heart, the best way to win is not to fight. Sometimes a smart person finally realizes that to win tomorrow, he must lose today. For years I have tried to break Owl Clan. This is no secret between us.”
“No,” she responded flatly. “It isn’t.”
“The night the warriors prepared to counter the Swamp Panther attack, I had a Dream. A very Powerful and persuasive Dream. Bird Man appeared and told me how the fight would end. He told me that I would know the truth of his words. Very well, I have seen the return of White Bird, seen his Power in Trade and war. He will be Speaker—and a very capable one. Perhaps the most capable of all the Speakers in memory.”
“Bird Man told you to make this offer? In a Dream?”
“He did.”
“I will still be the Owl Clan Elder.”
“Indeed you will,” Mud Stalker said grimly. “But you and I both know that it will not be forever.”
She finally chuckled, reading his meaning beyond the words. “When I am dead and gone and another is Elder, my son will still be Speaker.”
“And he will be Snapping Turtle Clan’s friend.” Mud Stalker smacked his gums. “To ensure that, I will make you yet another offer. Snapping Turtle Clan will offer to marry Pine Drop and Night Rain to your second son should anything happen to the first.”
“They’d go to Mud Puppy?”
“Indeed. If anything should happen to White Bird, Mud Puppy shall inherit his wives.” Mud Stalker gave her a challenging grin that the darkness couldn’t hide. “Tell me, Clan Elder, can anyone else offer so much? Back Scratch, Red Finger, Sweet Root, Falling Drop, and I have discussed this. My lineage is committed to making
this alliance. Your son shall be Speaker. And your second son after him. With their support you shall be the leader of the Council.”
“Forgive me, but I still have trouble understanding why.”
He chuckled dryly. “Because in six days the world has turned itself upside down. We can’t help but believe that the spirits are on Owl Clan’s side. Who are we to fight the spirits? For the future of my clan, I will even allow you to maintain leadership of the Council.”
She felt like howling in triumph, but not yet.
He knows me too well
. She couldn’t help but narrow her eyes against the darkness. “We shall consider, old enemy. First, I have a funeral to conduct. And then, after I dissect this offer you have made, I shall give you my decision.”
He inclined his head before standing. “That is fine. In the meantime, as a gesture of our goodwill, we would like to provide a feast in honor of your dead brother. He served the People well.”
“We would be obliged.”
Mud Stalker waved it off. “It is simply a gift, a gesture of our goodwill.”
As he walked away into the night, she couldn’t help but wonder:
What kind of trap have you laid for me, old enemy?
T
he Truth is
in
the error.
That’s the problem.
It is the deep-throated rumble of buffalo calling to each other in the wintertime. The flash of the firefly on pitch-black nights. It is the far-off call of the blue heron on her way to the sunset.
Don’t you see?
Meaning is not in words, but in between them.
Do you think the buffalo hears Truth when she is calling out to another buffalo? Or when someone answers her? No. She hears Truth in the space between.
When she is listening.
Just listening.
A
nhinga clenched her teeth, desperate to keep the vomit that burned the back of her throat from passing her clamped lips. Should they see that, it would shame her, as if she were not already more than shamed. Enough of the accursed Sun People had come by to kick her and urinate on her that she could no longer feign unconsciousness. She had surrendered that fiction the first time one of them touched a smoldering stick to her naked side.
She glared around her like a trapped raccoon, snarling and hissing her hatred as her tormentors heaped physical and symbolic abuse upon her. Her legs and arms had been wrapped in tightly bound cords. Even her ability to flop like a beached fish had been curtailed by the rope that tied her to an upright log set into the dark earth. Her skin stung where they had seared it with hot brands. The odors of urine and feces plugged her nose. Most of it had dried. She didn’t need their waste spattered upon her to be shamed or broken. They could do nothing to her that she hadn’t done to herself.
By craning her neck she could see the remains of her companions. Blood-and-offal-stained earth marked the spot where the bodies had been dismembered. She had watched with horror as little boys gleefully pulled the intestines out of a long slit cut into Mist Finger’s abdomen. The horror had been so great that she couldn’t help but weep as a young man used a bloody strip of flesh flayed from Cooter’s leg to beat her. She’d flinched, more from the feel of Cooter’s cold black blood than from the pain.
Her souls numb, she blinked and watched the last of the dancing men. Their bodies flickered in the firelight, greased and shining yellow and black as the flames licked up from a central fire pit. Night had fallen cool and moist; her skin prickled with gooseflesh.
A great shout broke the silence as the men leaped and raised their arms to the night. Then they stood frozen, watching the door where her assailant stepped out into the open. She could see the young man, naked, his muscular body bathed in firelight. The wash of fresh blood might have been painted on the skin of his chest. Her staggering thoughts couldn’t quite place it—then she remembered where she had seen the like before: He had been freshly tattooed, the designs pricked into his skin with a copper needle.
Her gut heaved and bile rushed into her mouth. Tattooed: the realization stuck in her head. A victorious warrior celebrating some great accomplishment underwent tattooing to mark the occasion. In this case, her captor was being marked for his actions in capturing her alive and killing Mist Finger face-to-face.
If only I could die!
She tensed against the binding cords, finding no looseness. Die, she would, but not yet. Soon though, when they had taken the time to sever the thick tendons that ran behind her heels and finally untied her, then she would take the first opportunity to scavenge a sharp piece of stone and open her veins.
The young men were hooting and dancing, slapping the blood-smeared young man on the back as he passed through their ranks.
“Thank you, my friends,” he called out in a fine baritone. “Together we have done great things. We have shared black drink, undertaken the ceremonies to cleanse ourselves of the taint of war, and paid our enemies our highest compliments.”
They laughed at that. In the darkness, Anhinga spat the bile from her mouth.
“The middle of the night has come.” The young man pointed to the north, a bronzed god in the firelight. “The stars have nearly circled the heavens. Go home, my friends, and sleep. Tomorrow, I am told, my uncle’s house will be burned and his Dream Soul set free to find the ghosts of friends long dead.”
“And Snapping Turtle Clan will provide a huge feast,” the burly warrior on one side called as he shook his fist. Anhinga remembered him—the slimy weasel that had groped her as he carried her up from the canoes. Her nipple, the least of her hurts, was still sore from when he had pinched it.
“Until tomorrow,” the war leader cried.
“Tomorrow!” the rest shouted in unison. As they broke up and dispersed into the darkness, she could hear them chanting, “White
Bird, White Bird, White Bird” over and over again.
The blood-streaked White Bird watched them go, a smile on his face as he stood illuminated in yellow firelight. Only when the last of them had stepped out of sight did his expression fall and his shoulders slump. He made a face as he reached up, prodding carefully at the drying blood on his chest. Where the tattoo had been pricked into his skin must have felt like fire.
Walking like an old man, he stopped long enough to stare down at her and say, “Tomorrow … I’ll cut you then.” She almost sighed as he walked past and into the darkness.
Left alone, she finally allowed herself to weep. Tears of rage and grief came welling from the hollow between her souls. One by one she saw the faces of her friends: Cooter, Slit Nose, Right Talon, Spider Fire, and, finally, Mist Finger.
Mist Finger’s eyes were sparkling as he looked into hers. If she but glanced over to where his body had been laid, she could still see the bloody arch of his ribs. His hollowed-out pelvis was a dark mound in the shadows. Two of the hungry brown dogs were growling, chewing on the edges of his hipbones as they tugged against each other. In another life, far away in the world of imagination, she would be holding him, sharing her body with him, planning a life with him as her husband.
Sobs choked in her raw throat. All she had left was death.
“Are you all right?” a voice asked softly from the darkness behind her.
She started, fear leaving her shaking as she blinked at the tears that clung to her damp lashes. She jumped at the feel of fingers on her calves, trembling as they moved down to her ankles.
“He didn’t cut you,” the soft voice continued. “Good. It would be harder if you had been maimed.”
“Who … who are you?” She struggled to keep her teeth from chattering.
“He said you have to live. He said you have to go back.”
“Who … who said?”
“He did.”
She felt the vibrations as something sawed at the ropes binding her. “What are you doing?” Fear leaped up like a thing alive to sing along her nerves and muscles.
“I’m cutting you free.”
Hope like a flame tingled within her.
“He said you had to live. To be free.”
“Who? White Bird?”
“No. I can’t tell you.” It sounded like a boy’s voice, and she
flopped her head over, staring at the dark form that hunched above her. From the corner of her vision she could just make out his skinny body as he crouched over his work. The sawing was more vigorous, and she could feel cords parting.
“Can you walk?” he asked.
“Yes.” But could she? She hadn’t been able to feel her arms or legs for hours. And the headache, Snakes! That alone might double her over when she stood up.
“You stink,” he said vehemently.
“When they weren’t urinating or defecating on me they were pelting me with my friends’ guts.” How could she say that so matter-of-factly?
“You shouldn’t have come here.”
“It’s your people who shouldn’t come to my lands. As long as you come to take our stone and kill us, we will come to kill you!” The last cord around her middle parted, and her arms fell like severed meat to slap onto the ground. Her horror grew when she couldn’t move them.
Tell me I’m not paralyzed!
Had it been the blow to the head? She had heard tales of warriors hit hard on the skull who hadn’t been able to move afterward. But then the painful prickling began as circulation ate its way into her upper arms.
She gasped as her legs came free and rolled loosely apart. They, too, might have been wood for all she could feel.
“There,” the boy said. “You can go now.”
“I can’t,” she hissed, fear trying to strangle her. “My legs … I need a while. Time for them to come alive again.”
At this the dark form above her seemed to hesitate. She wiggled sideways enough to see him as he peered owlishly into the dark. The dying fire barely cast a red glow onto his round face. She could see his profile, a stub of nose, thin cheeks, and thatch of black hair. More than a boy, he was less than a man. As he stared around the movements were furtive, frightened.
“Why are you doing this? Are you one of my people? A lost relative taken as a slave? Do you want me to take you home, is that it?”
“No. I’m Owl Clan.”
She shook her head, face contorting as blood pouring into her arms began to ache and pulsate. She tried to remain still, the slightest movement shooting fire along her limbs.
“No one can know I did this,” the boy continued. “They wouldn’t understand. I’m already in enough trouble.”
She couldn’t stifle a gasp as he reached down and began massaging her leg. “No! That hurts!”
“But it will be gone sooner.” He sounded so sure of himself. “We don’t have time. He told me to be fast.”
“Who?” she gritted through clenched teeth, as his hands ran waves of agony through her legs. She might have been floating on a flood of biting ants.
“He said you had to live,” was the simple answer.
Whining, she managed to pull her arms up and blasted her souls numb when she bent her knee. Movement was coming back. No, she wasn’t paralyzed. Blessed Panther, she had to get up.
An eternity passed before she could prop herself on all fours, and, one arm around the boy’s neck, stagger to her feet.
“Come on,” he hissed, as they wobbled off into the darkness. “It’s this way.”
“What is?”
“The canoe landing. But maybe you could be so kind as to take one of the Snapping Turtle Clan’s boats? They don’t like us anyway.”
“Sure, boy. Anything you want. I owe you.”
M
ud Puppy stood with his feet sunk in the black mud of the canoe landing and looked out into the darkness. The dugout canoe faded into the night, a dark streak on midnight waters. He could hear the faint gurgle of water as she stroked, droplets tinkling as she raised the paddle.
It didn’t make any sense. Why let her go? What could Masked Owl have in mind? She hated them, he had felt it rising off of her like the stench of waste she had been coated with.
A shiver ran down his back as he turned and trudged wearily up the incline above the canoe landing. White Bird would never forgive him if he found out. And Red Finger would slit his throat if he ever learned that Mud Puppy had fingered his canoe for the Panther woman to steal.
“
W
hat is going on?” Hazel Fire asked, as he and Yellow Spider joined the growing crowd. They stood on the far northeastern corner of the plaza. At their feet the marshy borrow pit separated them from the first ridge. Atop that, Wing Heart and White Bird watched
as the Serpent chanted and reached into a small clay bowl of black drink. This he cast from his fingertips onto the walls of the second house in the line that stretched ever westward in the long arc of the Northern Moiety.
“That is the house where Speaker Cloud Heron lived.” Yellow Spider’s expression betrayed his inner feelings: sorrow, grief, and a curious sort of expectation.
“Ah, yes.” Gray Fox came to stand beside them. “He was White Bird’s uncle, yes? The one who died just after our arrival?”
“He was my cousin,” Yellow Spider replied. “In many ways he was my teacher as well as White Bird’s. Snakes, I could tell you some stories. Once, when I was much younger, he caught me handling his atlatl. It was his most sacred possession. He was subtle, our Speaker; instead of beating me to within a hairbreadth of my life he made me eat raw fish guts for a whole moon.”
“You
did
that?” Hazel Fire asked incredulously.
“Everyone knew that I had done something terrible. The Speaker never told people what. And you can wager that I never did, either. But it was so humiliating and vile that I never broke one of his rules again.”
“I’d have sneaked something cooked when no one was looking,” Gray Fox muttered uneasily.
“I wouldn’t,” Yellow Spider declared. “Trust me, the Speaker would have known. He would have seen it reflected from my souls.”
BOOK: People of the Owl: A Novel of Prehistoric North America (North America's Forgotten Past)
6.49Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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