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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) (41 page)

BOOK: People of the Owl: A Novel of Prehistoric North America (North America's Forgotten Past)
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Green Crane rubbed the back of his muscular neck as the canoe drifted forward. He and Always Fat were opposites, as well as inseparable companions. They had been planning this journey for a whole turning of the seasons, content to leave it hovering at the edge of imagination until Spring Cypress had arrived in their little village. Green Crane had been smitten at the sight of her. His attraction had only grown as he came to know her.
She was an enigma: A woman from Sun Town, that’s all she would say. In the days it had taken to woo her, he had learned little more about her. He knew that she had come to his bed as a virgin, that she had left Sun Town of her own will over a broken love, and little else. One of the other Traders in his village thought he might have seen her before, and that she might have been Rattlesnake Clan; but he couldn’t be sure of it, nor would Spring Cypress confirm the story. She had just smiled sadly, and told him, “That life is dead.”
Green Crane, however, wished to start a life of his own, one in which she figured not only as his lover, but as his wife. Among his Wash’ta people, a woman came to a man’s clan with a dowry. Spring Cypress had arrived with nothing but a fabric bag slung over her back and her incredible beauty. Before his clan would allow him to
marry, a payment had to be made. Her subsequent status within both clan and village would be dictated by the value of that payment.
The hide-covered load behind him consisted of an entire turning of the seasons’ worth of Trading, dickering, hunting, and collecting. The bulk of the goods were from buffalo: finely tanned winter hides, smoked and dried meat, carved and polished horn implements. In addition, they carried lumps of silvery galena for ornamentation, different mineral pigments, raw hematite, and large quartz crystals, all of which brought a premium at Sun Town.
“
I shall ensure that you come to me as no woman has come to this clan in living memory
,” he had promised.
In that brief moment, her eyes had shone and she had thrown her arms around his neck, hugging her slim body to his. “
I cannot go with you, Green Crane. I cannot step into that place again. Not as I am now, a failure and a fugitive. My clan could reclaim me, hold me. I will not be their prisoner again.
”
So he had come here, paddling down the White Mud River from his Wash’ta Mountain homelands. But somehow, along the way, he had become lost in the winding channels that led into narrow distributaries, dead ends, and ever-circling swamps of cypress and tupleo.
“How do people live in this mess?” Always Fat wondered.
“They must know the ways like we do the valleys of our home. I’ve heard of flatlanders getting lost, not being able to tell one valley from another.”
“Mountains make sense,” Always Fat reminded. “They have ups and downs. This place just has around and around.”
Green Crane shook his head. He pointed a finger at the tiny patch of open sky over their heads. “Up!” He turned his finger toward the calm water. “Down!”
Always Fat pointed a finger over his shoulder. “Back.”
They turned the canoe around and began paddling the way they had come.
After a hand of time they had retraced their way to the branch they had last taken. There, the canoe bobbing, Green Crane bent over, his hand cupping water as he slaked his thirst. “Tastes like tree roots and mud,” he muttered.
“It could be worse.” Always Fat pointed at the yellow lotus flowers in the shallows. “At least there’s always something to eat here. Out in the western plains you can die of thirst and starve to death.”
Green Crane glanced up at the sky, seeing the angle of the sun. By the Striking Eagle, had another day gone? “Well, from the sun, that way is west.” He pointed.
“Hooraw! Saved.” Always Fat lifted a mocking eyebrow. “Which way is Sun Town? For that matter, which way is anything?”
Green Crane considered the webwork of waterways around him. The hanging moss draping the low branches reminded him of green buffalo beards. Gaudy birds chattered and sang as they flew past. Two anhingas perched on a protruding log, unconcerned by a human presence as they sunned their wet wings in the afternoon.
“I don’t think we could retrace our path even if we tried.” Always Fat tapped his fingertips on his paddle. “So, we take the little channel, there.”
“Why would that little channel take us through when the wide one we just tried wouldn’t?”
“Because it’s a way we haven’t tried yet,” Always Fat reminded. “If it turns bad, we’ll come back and try something else.”
Green Crane smiled as he shrugged, lifted his paddle, and drove them into the narrow channel. Many of his friends didn’t appreciate Always Fat. But in the turnings of the seasons that they had passed together, Green Crane had come to value his companion’s ever-present good humor. What a gift the gods had given him. No matter what the trial, Always Fat could only see the bright side.
The trees closed in, arching over their heads as they guided their slim canoe between the narrowing banks. Light dimmed; the canopy overhead turned opaque. Green Crane ducked vines, batting away spiderwebs. “Are you sure about this?”
“No. But our canoe isn’t stuck in the mud yet.”
Tufts of leaves began brushing his elbows as he used the point of his paddle to push them along. The forest sounds tightened, bearing down on him. Gods, this was getting narrower.
He ducked a low branch, its bark scaly with moss and algae. What he thought was a vine turned out to be a green snake that slithered away within inches of his eyes. He caught his breath, placing a hand to his heart.
“You all right?” Always Fat whispered.
“What if that had been a water moccasin?”
“We would have apologized when it bent its fangs on your tough hide.”
At the sound of their voices, a dark shadow shifted in the Y of a tree. The panther cast a yellow-eyed glance their way, then leaped to the packed leaf mat, vanishing like a silent shadow into the gloom.
“Gods, that was a big cat!” Green Crane felt for his atlatl and darts. The fine white chert points had been chipped to an edge sharp enough to cut, but would he have time to prepare before some swamp monster plucked him from the canoe?
Always Fat swatted something off his head. “A centipede,” he muttered. “I swear it dropped right on top of me.”
“Precious Striking Eagle, just get me through this and I’ll stay home, love my wife, and treasure my children.”
“You haven’t got a wife,” Always Fat reminded. “Just the promise of a wife. Until you pay for her, you can’t have children. You can’t pay until you trade all this stuff with the Sun People for exotic goods we can’t get at home.”
“Must you be so cursedly pragmatic.” He craned his neck, gaze following the winding vegetation up into the murky heights of the trees. Had there ever been a sky up there?
“I think it’s a little brighter up ahead.” Even as he spoke the watercourse widened. Within moments they were pushing the pointed bow of their canoe through a tangle of marsh ferns and out into the light.
“Pumpkin soup!” Always Fat cried. “Now where are we?”
Green Crane noted the shadows. “That way is west.”
“Which way is Sun Town?”
“I have no idea.”
“We could figure out where up and down are again.”
“You think that would help?”
“Did it help last time? Wait. Who’s this?”
Green Crane turned his head seeing a low-slung dugout canoe heading his way. The center was heaped with long pointed baskets that he recognized as fish traps. A skinny youth sat in the rear, his hair parted in the middle. His greased skin caught the light as he paddled steadily toward them.
“
H
ello!” Green Crane called in Trade pidgin as he carefully stood in the bow and waved.
The youth raised an arm, apparently unconcerned as he paddled closer.
“Trusting sort,” Always Fat noted. “Maybe strangers pop out of the hidden channel all the time.”
“We are Wash’ta,” Green Crane called. “Come to make Trade.” He dare not say more until he found who the youth was, where he was, and if he were friendly. Green Crane could almost sense Always Fat’s fingers as they surreptitiously rearranged his atlatl and a dart for quick utilization.
The youth dragged his paddle like a rudder to steer as his canoe glided toward them. He turned large brown eyes on Green Crane and nodded. Thin and reedy, he looked little more than a boy. A smudged white breechcloth was wadded around his waist, at his feet lay a pile of fish. An atlatl and darts rested close at hand. “I had hoped to find you.”
That set Green Crane back. “You did? You knew we were lost?”
The youth cocked his head, those odd eyes seeming to enlarge. “Did you see an owl watching you?”
“We saw many things,” Always Fat answered. “Alligators, snakes, and one very big panther.” He jerked his thumb back at the bruised ferns they had just passed between. “Was that one of your spirits?”
“That might have been one of my wife’s,” the youth replied, an ironic smile on his lips.
“Where is your wife now?” Green Crane asked. What terrible thing had he led them into? He and Always Fat were lost in the swamp. Witches could capture them, devour their souls, and no one would ever find their remains in the maze of this terrible place.
“She has gone back to her people. I am to think she is in the middle of her moon. It is all right. She is lonely and homesick and needs time to plot with Jaguar Hide.”
Green Crane shook his head, unable to quite grasp the meaning behind the words.
The youth stood then, balancing in the rear of the dugout. “I am Salamander, Speaker for the Owl Clan, son of Wing Heart.”
“Of Sun Town!” Green Crane cried, his worry evaporating. “We made it!”
“We came to Trade,” Always Fat repeated.
“I was told to seek out Owl Clan,” Green Crane added, taking the skinny kid’s measure. “Do you know a boy named Mud Puppy?”
The wry smile had a mocking quality. “I knew him very well.”
“Knew? As in the past?” Green Crane felt a sinking in his breast. “My Trade pidgin isn’t very good. You mean he’s … what? Dead?”
“He was
called
Mud Puppy,” the youth said, “now is he known as Salamander.”
“But you said you were Salamander.” Always Fat shifted in the back of the canoe.
“I was Mud Puppy before I was made a man.”
Green Crane slapped his sides. “We have come to find you! To show you this.” He fished in his belt pouch to retrieve a little red stone owl.
At sight of it, Salamander’s face brightened. “How is she?”
“Safe. Spring Cypress said to give this little owl to you when I saw you. To tell you it bore her safely to my people. Being safe, she would return the owl with great thanks. She thought you might need it to keep your own luck strong.”
He made a pushing-away gesture with his hands. “It was a gift—not just for her journey, but for all of her life. She is my friend forever. Return it to her with my love and my fondest wishes for her health and happiness.”
“You said you are Speaker?” Always Fat had his paddle balanced across his knees. “As in the Council?”
Salamander nodded sadly.
“But you are a … a …”
“A boy?” he supplied. “I’m afraid my body has not caught up
with the age that this last turning of the seasons has branded into my souls.”
“Can you show us the way to Sun Town?”
“It would please me to do so.”
“How far?”
Salamander glanced at the slanting sun. “We shall be there sometime after nightfall. You shall have to stay on the Turtle’s Back until you are cleansed. Are you familiar with our ways?”
“We have heard of this.” Green Crane reseated himself and collected his paddle. “We have only come to Trade. Not visit. Once we have done that, then we can return to our people. You need not bother with a cleansing.”
They had not followed Salamander for even a hand’s time when the youth looked across at them, asking, “Is Spring Cypress happy?”
“She is. Or rather she will be once we return with our Trade.”
“She is to be his wife.” Always Fat pointed at Green Crane. “He has fallen in love with her and makes this journey to acquire wealth to pay for her.”
Salamander studied him thoughtfully across the short distance separating the canoes. “Are you worthy of her?”
Green Crane shifted. What was this youth to her? Who was he? An old interest of hers? “I would hope that I am.”
“Do not hope,” Salamander said soberly. “You must always
be
worthy. There is a difference, a matter of commitment that you would make when dedicating yourself to such a woman as Spring Cypress.”
“Did you once hold hopes of marrying her?” Always Fat asked the question Green Crane couldn’t.
Dreamy eyes covered Salamander’s smile. “She was beyond my aspirations. She will have to tell you the story when she thinks it proper. Let us just say that she and I share a special bond between our souls. We had a single precious moment together that filled us both with courage. She left rather than spend her life in misery.” He shot a measuring look at Green Crane again, as though he were weighing his souls.
“I think,” Green Crane mused in a voice only Always Fat could hear, “that he is more than just a green youth with a title.”
“Indeed he may be.”
In a louder voice, Green Crane asked, “Can you help us conduct our Trade, Salamander? Say, for the sake of Spring Cypress? Our success benefits her.”
Salamander barely seemed to hear, as if lost in his thoughts, but then said, “I am happy to advise you. By that Owl you carry and
the Spirit Helper who watches over you, I will make you a most favorable Trade. Just what did you bring, and what do you need?”
Green Cane knotted a fist in victory. He could already imagine Spring Cypress’s smile when he returned with a canoe loaded to the gunwales with finery.
T
he knoll protruded from the swamp like a floating monster’s back. Anhinga sat cross-legged on the dark soil, her eyes on the lofty green depths of the cypress forest. The canoe she had used to come here was pulled up on the muddy bank. A fire smoked beside her, the blue wreath rising pungently from the damp wood. Mosquitoes hummed in a column, stymied by the crushed gumweed she had mixed into grease and slathered over her skin.
As she waited, she absently wound her finger around and around a long black lock of hair. Her other hand pressed against her abdomen. She was late, that was all. It happened to women who were worried, working hard, or under pressure in strange circumstances. Had anyone been more anxious than she married to a stranger in a strange land filled with enemies?
You’re all right. You haven’t had the morning sickness. You don’t feel different.
But how did a woman feel? She made a face. Surely Salamander couldn’t have planted a child that quickly.
What is it about him?
He wasn’t what she had had in mind when it came to a husband. Her thoughts immediately went to Mist Finger, recalling his smile, the rolling muscles in his shoulders and arms. A man should look like that, have that brave glint in his eyes.
So why, she wondered, did skinny Salamander absorb so much of her? Her first surprise had come when they had consummated the marriage. That sudden and magical explosion in her loins had taken her by complete surprise; and better yet, he shot lightning through her each time they coupled. But his lure on her interest was more than that. His large brown eyes had a Power she didn’t understand. He seemed to see past her skin, down into her souls. Most perplexing, he always smiled when she lied to him, as though reassuring her.
He can’t know that I am going to kill him
. It was impossible—unless his Spirit Helper had told him. She and Jaguar Hide were the only ones who knew the plan. Not even Striped Dart had been informed. They couldn’t trust her brother to keep his silence. What, then, caused Salamander to give her that knowing look, the one that reminded
her of a parent one step ahead of his errant child?
She lifted her lip, irritated at the very thought. Salamander? A step ahead of her? Everyone in Sun Town thought him a fool—with the possible exception of Pine Drop.
A fish jumped in the water beyond her camp. The thickened boles of bald cypress, tupelo, and overcup oak protruded from the still waters. Strands of hanging moss drooped, lacy and gray-green; here and there thick patches of mistletoe had knotted and strangled their host’s branches. The first fernlike needles were beginning to brown on the cypresses. A dry crispness hung in the air, a precursor of the winter to come.
Through the trilling of the songbirds and the hissing of the insects, she heard the hollow thunk of a paddle against wood. Movement caught her eye as Jaguar Hide paddled through the maze of waterlogged roots and protruding knees.
When he met her gaze across the distance, he smiled and raised a hand in greeting.
She rose gracefully to her feet and stepped down to the water’s edge. He slid his canoe in beside hers as she offered him her hand, helping him to his feet. He groaned and made a face as his legs straightened. “Age,” he growled. “Used to be I could live in a canoe.”
“Hello, Uncle.” She threw her arms around him, hugging his hard body against hers. “I see that you escaped the nasty Sun People. But I still haven’t forgiven you for just paddling off like that.”
He held her at arm’s length, inspecting her from the parted crown of her head to her brown toes. “I came as soon as I got your message. What are you doing here?”
“They think I’m off to spend my moon in solitude.”
Sudden fear leaped behind his eyes.
“Don’t worry, Uncle, I passed that on the way here,” she lied. “I wouldn’t expose your souls to woman’s blood.”
“I would hope not.” He grabbed a sack from the canoe and led her over to the fire. With a careful glance he studied her small camp. His gaze fixed on the tall, delicately leafed plants that grew on the far side of the small island. “What is that? Water hemlock?”
“It is indeed. People don’t come here because the death plant grows here. Some think it taints the surrounding waters. We can meet here in private.” She indicated a ceramic bowl resting in her canoe. “I bring water with me.”
“Very well, you have exceeded all of my hopes. Tell me everything!” he cried, lowering himself beside the fire. “You are married, yes? To Salamander? You didn’t kill him yet, did you? And what of
Sun Town? What have you learned? What can we do to harm them? What is the truth about Wing Heart? Has she really lost her souls?”
“One thing at a time, Uncle!” She threw up her arms in mock surrender. She related her time in Sun Town, telling of building the house, Wing Heart’s condition, and the collapse of Owl Clan.
“Tell me about this boy, Salamander. Is he really a Speaker?”
“He is. But most think him a young fool.”
“From your tone, I take it that you don’t?”
“I am not sure, Uncle. But fool or not, there are forces gathering to act against him. He has no allies except for his cousin, Water Petal, and she’s ignored by everyone. There is a move afoot to replace him. They have already replaced Wing Heart. She is nothing more than a husk of a woman, like a pod stripped of its seeds.”
“They have treated you well?”
She shrugged. “I am not one of their people. I am tolerated. Uncle, I can kill them anytime—with impunity—and escape in the night. I am unguarded. Not trusted, but not a prisoner, either. I think I should strike. I can be home before the next moon.”
“I would prefer that you wait,” he told her. “The time is not right. Not yet. Will it bother you to stay for several more moons?”
BOOK: People of the Owl: A Novel of Prehistoric North America (North America's Forgotten Past)
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