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

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BOOK: People of the Owl: A Novel of Prehistoric North America (North America's Forgotten Past)
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My old teacher once told me,
When you are running, just run.
When you are walking, just walk.
When you are standing, just stand.
But never ever wobble.
That’s when the Sky Beings see you.
T
hick patches of black cloud came sliding up from the gulf, accompanied by low rolling thunder. The moon after equinox was a time for storms. Wing Heart glanced up at rain-swollen heavens as she wondered whether to take down her loom and move it, and the half-finished fabric, into the shelter of her house. Faint teasings of a southerly breeze toyed with her hair and the fine strands of glossy hemp that she played through the warp, knotting the strands on certain threads to create a pattern before pressing it tight with her fine-toothed deer-scapula comb.
As she glanced up at the sky again, she noticed White Bird coming across the plaza, his sack of goosefoot seeds hanging from one hand, a use-hardened digging stick from the other. Hazel Fire stepped out from the Men’s House, crossing to intercept him. Across the distance she could see the two men wave in greeting, Hazel Fire breaking into a trot to catch his friend.
A satisfied smile crossed Wing Heart’s lips. Her son was married, fresh from his first night in his wives’ house. He was the talk of Sun
Town, the culmination of years of her hopes and ambitions. His name was on everyone’s lips—which meant her name was close behind, followed, of course, by that of Owl Clan.
Wing Heart filled her lungs, her breast fit to burst with an ecstasy she could scarcely contain. Had it been but two weeks past that she had been wallowing in misery, sure that her noble son was dead, and her only heir was the simple Mud Puppy?
“Hello, Wing Heart,” Moccasin Leaf greeted as she stepped around the house wall. She carried a wicker basket in which lay several bass, their mouths gaping, dead eyes staring up at the dark clouds as though in last hope for water.
“Moccasin Leaf.” Wing Heart nodded. “Good day to you.”
Gray-haired Moccasin Leaf had lived nearly four tens of winters. She had a wrinkled round face with a jaw that sucked up squat against her nose, the teeth being long gone. Aged and frail, her dark eyes had lost none of the quick wit that had so long bedeviled Wing Heart and her lineage. The old woman wore a light brown kirtle today, the shape of an owl woven into the material. She lowered herself, grunting, and placed the wicker basket with the fish on the ground beside Wing Heart.
“I have come to make amends.” Moccasin Leaf worked her wide shallow mouth and placed her hands on her withered thighs. “You were right, I was wrong. White Bird has returned, and in the space of days, proven his worth not only to the clan, but to the moiety and our people. No one has been voted into the Council at such a young age. He will be twice the man his uncle was.” She paused, looking out to where White Bird had stopped a dart’s cast to the south. He and Hazel Fire were involved in some sort of passionate discussion.
“I was just lucky,” Wing Heart conceded. “It could very easily have gone the other way. He might have been killed upriver.” She paused. “Had he been, I would have declared Half Thorn to be the Speaker.”
“As well he should have been,” Moccasin Leaf muttered, her eyes on White Bird as he gestured a passionate negation in his conversation with the Wolf Trader. “No matter, the good of the clan has been served. I just came by to tell you that I will support you, and your son. So will the rest of my lineage.”
“Half Thorn bears no ill will?”
Moccasin Leaf snorted through her short nose. “What do you think? Leadership of the clan has rested in your lineage for three generations. You have only sons for heirs, and one was missing while the other … well … Half Thorn was already addressing the
Council in his dreams. People in the other lineages had begun to accord him a greater authority. Now that is gone. Of course he is upset, but it will pass.” She gave Wing Heart a sharp look. “It would help if he were consulted on certain matters important to the clan. Especially given the youth of the current Speaker.”
The old woman left the hint dangling like bait. Wing Heart considered. On the one hand, she had authority and prestige right now simply to squash her old rival the same way she would a carrion beetle. Perhaps, in another time, she would have. Something stayed her.
Am I grown maudlin? Softened by Cloud Heron’s death? Or simply careless in the afterglow of victory?
“Very well, Moccasin Leaf, I accept your offer of support. The Speaker and I shall be calling on Half Thorn. We look forward to sharing his knowledge and expertise.” As if he had any.
She smiled at Moccasin Leaf the way a sister would at the resolution of a petty argument. It was a small price to pay for clan unity. What she and White Bird would spend in time and irritation for the short term would be countered by increased goodwill and the longterm ability to expose Half Thorn for the fool that he was. The man had been too long a fisherman and hunter in the swamp. He had no idea about the complexities of interclan politics or the layers of deception that leaders like Stone Talon, Mud Stalker, and Deep Hunter resorted to. Half Thorn took everyone at their word, thinking in his naïveté that they said what they meant and meant what they said. The idea that a circuitously implied promise might be easily ignored or offered deceitfully had never found even a casual resting place in the man’s souls. Even Mud Puppy was smarter than that, or at least, she hoped so.
“Very good.” Moccasin Leaf sighed, slapping her thin thighs. “Then we understand each other.” She looked out at White Bird, who was gesturing with the digging stick, indicating the sack of goosefoot seeds he held. Resignation lay in the old woman’s eyes. “You have a great Power in your lineage. It is as if your blood has been blessed by the Sky Beings. To stand against you is to be like a forest in the path of a hurricane. In the end, only broken trunks and litter are left.”
Wing Heart waited long enough to be politic, then said, “I have given my life to the betterment of my clan. Under my lineage’s leadership, Owl Clan has risen above the others. All people look to us. All of our lineages, not just mine.” Thunder boomed across the sky, and the southern breeze stiffened. “If White Bird succeeds, we all succeed.”
Moccasin Leaf tucked a strand of gray hair back where the wind had worried it loose. “Indeed. What you say is true. But know this, Elder: Some of us worry about the risks you take to maintain your prestige. It is said that Water Petal will take your place when you follow your brother to the Spirit World. And if she carries a female child, or bears one in the future, that your lineage will be assured the leadership onward forever.”
“That is a matter for the future, Moccasin Leaf. In the time you talk about, neither you nor I will be in a position to influence who is Elder or Speaker. That is for our grandchildren and their grandchildren.”
“True. But know this as well: Many are disturbed that in marrying White Bird to the Snapping Turtles you also committed Mud Puppy. You may indeed have found a new ally and blunted other clans’ ambitions, but many within our clan think that including Mud Puppy in the bargain went too far.”
She smiled. “Mud Stalker insisted. Understand, Moccasin Leaf, in all dealings with the clans, there is an element of risk. Just as you, coming here today, gambled that I, being in a position of strength, would accept your offer of support and fish”—she gestured at the drying bass—“rather than turn you down cold. And it worked out to our mutual benefit. The Speaker and I will do our best to ensure your lineage’s position while you support us.” Lightning flashed across the sky, followed several seconds later by thunder.
Moccasin Leaf still watched White Bird. The Wolf Trader had turned, looking somewhat upset as he stalked off for the Men’s House again. White Bird resumed his course toward the clan grounds, face rigid in anger, the sack of seeds clutched in his strong hand.
The old woman said, “So, what would Mud Stalker gain by placing Mud Puppy in line for the Speaker’s position? Why would he insist upon that? He has to know that it would be the decision of Owl Clan to approve him as Speaker. Snapping Turtle Clan cannot tell us who our Speaker must be.”
“Exactly. He and his allies are working on many levels,” she said thoughtfully, fully aware of her own complicity in the deal. “He has always been a crafty one, Moccasin Leaf, and, finding himself beaten, he has done the best thing he could.”
“Which is what? Hope that White Bird dies mysteriously and that he can place Mud Puppy on the Council to humiliate us?”
“That is how it is supposed to look on the surface, but as you and I both know, it wouldn’t be the thing to gamble on. No, what appears to be an act of desperation is but the covering to conceal
the fact that he is buying time. More than that, he has gained a great deal of prestige, moving to block Rattlesnake and Eagle Clans from strengthening their position with us. Our crafty Mud Stalker now has more room to maneuver, the ability to broker different deals with the clans depending on how the future plays out.” She nodded, half to herself. “It was a smart move, daring and rapid, given the sudden turn of events. Our clans come out ahead, the others lose.”
“Then he is a very dangerous man.” Moccasin Leaf seemed to have forgotten their antagonistic relationship for the moment.
“Yes, very,” Wing Heart agreed.
“What is he doing?” Moccasin Leaf indicated White Bird. The young man had stopped at the edge of the borrow ditch, laying his sack down before vigorously punching the digging stick into the damp brown soil. He used his chest, pressing down to drive the stick deep, and then levering the soil to break it.
“He has some idea about those goosefoot seeds. Have you seen them? Larger than the ones we collect around here. White Bird thinks that by growing them, we can tap the plant’s Power. That these larger seeds will be produced here.”
“Looks like a lot of hard work.” Moccasin Leaf shook her head. “Why go to all that effort when the plants grow wild everywhere. For all the work he’s going to have to put into it, he could just wait and collect the wild seeds with half the effort. And not only that, when you go around and collect the wild seeds, you find other things: turtles, rabbits, squash, hickory nuts. It looks like foolishness to me.”
Wing Heart bit her lip, aware of the darkening clouds. Black stringers of rain could be seen where they whisked down from the closing storm bank in the south. “It may well be. He saw it work among the Wolf Traders to the north and wants to try it here, that’s all. He just wishes to see.”
“I had better get home,” Moccasin Leaf mused, her eyes on the storm front with its flashing lightning.
“Would you help me move my loom inside first?” Wing Heart asked, standing.
The old woman took the other end of the loom. “That boy of yours, I should say, the Speaker, he’s going to get wet planting all those seeds of his. From the look on his face, he’s determined.”
“That is what makes a good Speaker,” Wing Heart agreed, casting a glance over her shoulder. White Bird’s body bent and swayed as he continued driving the sharp stick into the dirt, breaking the grassy sod, turning the soil. The expression on his face hadn’t changed, as if it were a matter of honor that he plant his seeds.
The notion that it was a little silly lodged in Wing Heart’s souls, but then young people acted on whims on occasion; Snakes knew, she had as a young woman.
Together, she and Moccasin Leaf maneuvered the loom into the shelter of the house and propped it against the wall beside the doorway. In the shadow of the storm, the interior was dark, inky.
“Thank you for your help,” Wing Heart began. A sudden white flash lit the interior, rendering the beds, pots, and fire pit in brilliant contrast to the sharp black shadows. A split heartbeat later, a
bang!
fit to deafen exploded outside. The closeness of the lightning bolt left Wing Heart breathless, half-scared out of her wits.
She glanced at Moccasin Leaf, seeing the old woman’s shadowy form, panting, her hand to her heart. “Close one,” she gasped.
“Good thing we weren’t outside,” Moccasin Leaf agreed. “It might have scared the souls out of our bodies.”
Wing Heart led the way out into the open. The first large drops of rain came pattering down. She could see people ducking out of houses or peering out from under ramadas. They were owl-eyed, wary, postures half-crouched. Some stared, eyes locked, a look of horror on their faces.
Wing Heart turned, following their gazes. Her thoughts stumbled for a moment, unable to fathom what she was seeing. A faint blue streamer of smoke rose from the lump, rapidly tugged away by the gusty wind. The shape confused her for a moment. A human body didn’t smoke like that; it shouldn’t be lying so stiff and … and … Her souls froze. She couldn’t move, couldn’t think. The word “no” echoed hollowly inside her as if she were but an infinite emptiness.
“Snakes take us,” Moccasin Leaf whispered as she stared through the increasing rain at White Bird’s smoldering body. The digging stick had splintered; yellow flames flickered on the seed sack beside the body. The rain came in a pounding rush to extinguish it.
T
he village called the Panther’s Bones lay on a low, flat-topped terrace that rose above the surrounding backwater swamp. Six individual mounds, some of them three times a man’s height, overlooked the swamp. The seventh, a single conical mound, guarded the western edge of the village, a lone sentinel against the Land of the Dead and the dangerous souls that hid beyond the horizon. A prominent rise guarded the north, the symbolic place of darkness and cold.
A strong man, skilled with the atlatl, could cast a dart from east to west; it would take him two long casts to span the distance between the Bird Mound at the southern edge of the site and the northern prominence. Within that area, several clans of the Swamp Panthers had built their homes: domelike structures with thatched roofs atop low wattle-and-daub walls.
Jaguar Hide’s people lived in a land of plenty. The pine-covered uplands to the west provided them with stone for tools, as well as pinesap to be mixed with bear grease to keep hordes of stinging and biting insects at bay. At the foot of the piney hills lay Water Eagle Lake, a dependable body of water that refilled annually when the spring floods inundated the land. His people wanted for nothing, except, perhaps in bad years like this one, for a little dry land. Relatives had come seeking shelter among clansmen and kin, bringing with them larders of smoked catfish, oven-baked duck, seasoned deer, raccoon, and opossum. Housing was so critical that cane-framed
lean-to shelters had been attached to house walls and quickly roofed with palmetto and grass fronds. Under the high bank, row upon row of canoes had been drawn up onto the mud. When they weren’t fighting amongst themselves, or squealing in play, a roiling tribe of children and flea-infested dogs was pestering people, snatching morsels of food, and generally being a nuisance.
Jaguar Hide sat in front of his house and watched the last of the storm fading into the northern horizon. Sunlight slanted through the treetops, sparkling in wet leaves. Blue fingers of smoke rose from damp fires in the open, or through the gap between the rafter poles and supporting walls. He could smell fish broiling in the earth ovens. Two women were taking turns pounding cattail roots in a wooden mortar. The rhythmic
thump-thump
of the tall pestles might have been the heartbeat of the village.
He glanced at the dark doorway behind him when he heard his niece stir on the bedding within. How many times had he waited thus? How many times had one of his relatives or friends lain in misery as their bodies or souls struggled to recover from some wound inflicted by the Sun People?
He tried to remember any single turning of the seasons when his people hadn’t been mourning some injury. One by one, a seemingly endless litany of faces passed through his souls’ memory. So much pain, so much tragedy. All of his life he had tried to harm them, pay them back. His raids, the constant warfare, had done nothing. Sting them too hard, and they struck back, violently, their greater numbers blunting any advantage the Swamp Panthers had in their endless swamps.
If only there was a way to really hurt them!
He heard Anhinga as she flopped on her bed, then groaned. She might have been a grub the way she clung to the darkness inside the house.
“It’s a beautiful evening. Why don’t you come out and help me eat some of this fish? It is smoked and seasoned with freshly picked mint leaves.”
No answer.
“Are you going to lie around in there like a mushroom? Just feeding on the dark?”
Still no answer.
He grunted to himself, knowing full well what her trouble was. His knees cracked as he rose and ducked through the small doorway into the dim interior. She lay on her side, knees up, arms tucked against her breasts. He could see the scabs on her smooth young flesh. Like the old man he was, he settled himself on the bed’s pole
frame and reached out to stroke her hair. “No one is blaming you, Anhinga. The other clans understand war. They understand that when young men go on raids, sometimes they don’t come back.”
Her body tensed under his touch, a suffering sound caught in her throat.
“If I could have just one wish, I would have you talk to me again.” He gently patted her head. “I would have you tell me what you are carrying between your souls. I would not care what you said, if only you would talk again.”
He lost count of his heartbeats as he carefully stroked her long black hair. He had washed it for her, and during the process, she hadn’t said a word, enduring, expression vacant as if carved of wood. Her eyes had been fastened on something far away, some terrible memory.
She whispered hollowly, “I want to kill them, all of them. I will dedicate my life to it. I swear.”
“Ah, you are set to lead another war party?”
“No,” came the weak reply.
“How will you do this thing, then?”
“Go alone.” She swallowed hard. “Just me. I’ll hunt them one by one, find them alone out in the swamp and kill them until they kill me.”
He grunted noncommittally. “Are you sure that you don’t want to stay here, live with me, help to keep your silly brother from pitching us headfirst into lunacy?”
She turned then, staring at him for the first time with impassioned eyes. “They
killed
me, Uncle! Not my body. My souls. I am not the young woman you knew. I am someone, some
thing
else. When I close my eyes, I see them, ripping pieces out of my friends, slinging their intestines around in the air. I see them throw a human liver into the air to watch it spatter when it hits the ground. I watch them urinate into Mist Finger’s eye sockets over and over and over again. Those things fill my souls. Knowing that, do you really think I can just step out of here, marry some young man, and be the woman I once was?”
He pursed his lips, allowing the sting in her words to chill his souls. “No, Niece. Of all people, I understand.” He paused, waiting, knowing that she was watching him, trying to read his pensive expression.
“But you don’t agree with me,” she said bitterly.
“I agree with your goal, yes.”
“But?”
“I don’t think you will accomplish much.” He cast her a sidelong
look. An old, often discarded plan surfacing between his souls.
Is she the one? Could she do it?
“Why is that, Uncle?”
“Because in the end you may kill one or two, maybe even three or four before they find you and kill you. It has been tried before. Your actions are those of a mosquito. You draw only a little blood before they swat you and go on about their business.”
He could see the hardening in her eyes, the distrust mingled with suspicion that he knew something she didn’t. “What other way is there?”
If you tell her, if she accepts, you will be condemning her to death.
The memory of the endless faces came back to haunt him, as if all those long-dead eyes were watching, waiting. Hatred stirred like a serpent in his breast.
She was expecting him to try and talk her out of it, so his answer caught her by surprise. “I don’t know if you are strong enough, dedicated enough. I have waited, planned, and hoped, but until now no one has impressed me with their dedication to our people. None of the other clans would have permitted it, not with the risk to their young woman.”
“What risk?”
“The risk entailed in truly harming our enemy. Oh, I don’t mean killing some stray fisherman, or some woman out digging for ground potatoes. I mean striking into the heart of one of their clans. Wounding their pride, soul, and spirit.”
“How would this be done?”
Is her life worth it? And even if she succeeds, will it make a difference in the end?
He ignored her, allowing an expression of satisfaction to change the lines in his face as he imagined the consternation among the Sun People.
“Uncle?”
He drew a breath, letting her stew, then asked, “What was the name of the one who captured you?”
“White Bird.”
“Yes, of the Owl Clan. He has just been made Speaker. I’ve heard that that foul beast Mud Stalker has offered two of his clan’s women in marriage. Indeed, quite a name the young White Bird is making for himself.”
“How do you know that?” Anhinga was up on one elbow, watching him now, a dark gleam in her eyes.
“Traders passing along the White Mud River have talked to some of our people who were out casting nets. Word gets around, and White Bird, it seems, is the source of a great many words.” He
smiled happily. “Owl Clan. He is the son of Elder Wing Heart. Quite a woman, that one. A most worthy adversary.”
“How would you strike her?”
“In a way she would never suspect. Through cunning, patience, and misdirection.” Yes, she had taken the bait the way a catfish snapped up a minnow.
“What would I have to do?”
“The hardest thing that any hunter must do, wait. Bide your time while opportunities pass before you. You would have to control your hatred, bury it deep like a coal in an ash pit. You would have to accept the man you hate the most, smile into his eyes, open your body to him. But, most difficult of all, you must earn his trust.” He slapped his hands on his thighs. “And, that, I fear, is beyond you. Injured though you are at this moment, I don’t know if you have the true dedication of the souls to really harm this White Bird and his clan.”
“Then you do not know me very well, Uncle.” She flashed him a defiant glance, hands knotted. “I Dream of seeing him bent down, in tears, blood running from wounds I have dealt him.”
“It’s a nice Dream.” He shrugged. “But if you succeeded, they would kill you—kill you in a most unpleasant way. For that reason, I can’t let you do this.”
“I am already dead.”
“Yes, for the moment. But if you stay here, I think you will heal in the end. Perhaps even smile again.”
She looked away. “You don’t know the things I saw.” She swallowed hard. “Souls don’t recover from that.”
“I know what you saw.” He shrugged. “I just don’t know if you really hate him enough to go through with it in the end.”
Her hand fastened on his arm, bruising in its intensity. “They took
everything
from me,” she hissed. “My brother, my friends, my future. They made me an exile among my own people. I
hate,
Uncle. Deep down between my souls, the burning is there. Upon my honor, upon my souls, I
hate
like no one you’ve ever known.”
“So you hate? Even the weak can hate. In the end it eats them like a liver fluke. From the inside. And ever so slowly.” A pause. “If you want to
hurt
them for what they did to you, it would take something more. Something I’m not sure you have within you.”
“What?”
“Strength.” He was watching her eyes, searching for any hint of dismay or fear when he said, “If you would truly hurt him, go back. Marry him, Anhinga. Be his wife, earn his trust. And then, when the time is right, you may kill him and his mother, too.”
Not even a flicker of doubt reflected when she said, “I can do that.”
“Are you sure? Do you understand what I’m asking? You must deceive a man you are living with day and night. You must trick him into believing that you love him. Have you any idea how difficult that is?”
She was smiling now, eyes fixed on the distance in her souls. “Uncle, I am strong enough to do this thing. He will never know until it is too late. On the souls of my dead friends, I swear it.”
T
he thing that horrified Mud Puppy the most was his brother’s head. The lightning bolt had split the skull, popping it open like the husk surrounding a chinquapin seed. Both of White Bird’s eyes protruded, pushed out from inside. No amount of pressing could return them to the sockets so the corpse just stared in a gray-filmed, crabeyed amazement. The Serpent had managed to wipe the white foam from his lips and press the tongue back in. He had wound the head tight with a length of cord to keep the gaping mouth shut. A seared streak ran from under the jaw, along the side of the throat, across the right chest and stomach to follow the inside of the thigh down through the heel.
White Bird lay on his back, arms thrust out, legs stiff as logs. A faint gurgling could be heard from inside his gut. The way the firelight from the central hearth flickered over the smooth and tight skin teased Mud Puppy’s imagination. Unwilling to dwell on the horrifying corpse, Mud Puppy kept staring up at the sooty rafters, searching in vain for any sight of his brother’s souls. They should be hovering up there, twirling around in the haze of smoke, watching, exploring what it meant to be freshly dead and talking with all the other relatives who had preceded him. Mud Puppy saw nothing in the haze that reminded him of White Bird’s souls.
BOOK: People of the Owl: A Novel of Prehistoric North America (North America's Forgotten Past)
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