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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) (53 page)

BOOK: People of the Owl: A Novel of Prehistoric North America (North America's Forgotten Past)
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Mud Stalker’s party had been here, waiting for more than a hand of time. Two flocks had gone winging past, neither falling for the bait.
Red Finger clicked a warning that brought Mud Stalker alert.
He heard the rasping of wings before he spotted the ducks—mallards all—flying up the main channel. Immediately Thumper began his quacking and chattering. Of all the hunters in Snapping
Turtle Clan, none was as talented when it came to calling ducks.
To Mud Stalker’s delight, the flock turned, wheeled overhead, and came swooping in to land just past the decoys.
“Be ready!” Mud Stalker whispered as he loosened the cord that held their blind up. He would have to drop the blind, grab the knot of his bola, straighten, and cast as if in one motion.
“Ready!” Clay Fat said in a breathy exhale.
In heartbeats the ducks would detect the ruse. Mud Stalker, as hunt leader, watched the ducks as they splashed to a halt behind the decoys. Paddling, they turned to inspect the decoys. They couldn’t have been more perfectly placed in the trap.
Thumper was continuing his calling, making the sounds ducks made by blowing air past his cheeks, onto the back of his hand, and clicking his tongue.
“Now!” Mud Stalker called, letting the blind fall and sitting upright. As he rose he grasped the center of his bola, whirling it around his head. The taut thongs hissed as they tore through the air.
The ducks began to bolt, reaching out with their wings as they turned away from the falling blinds.
Mud Stalker made his cast. From long practice, the whirling stones, bound by their leather thongs, sailed out, neatly wrapping around the nearest mallard, fouling her wings.
Clay Fat, too, cast—then capsized their canoe as he floundered out into the knee-deep water.
Mud Stalker clawed for balance, then closed his eyes as cold murky water rolled over him. He thrashed, twisted his way upright, and managed to get his feet under him. As he shot up out of the water, he flipped his head to clear his vision.
Clay Fat was howling, sloshing like a giant buffalo through the water. Mud churned in his wake. Across from them, Red Finger and Thumper were likewise charging forward, waving their arms and howling.
Retreat cut off, the panicked ducks flapped and paddled, taking off straight into the overhanging nets. As they entangled themselves, the net was pulled loose, dropping down over the frightened birds.
“YoooYaaah!” Clay Fat yelled, splashing from foot to foot in the waist-deep water. Mud Stalker ran his hand over his wet face. Next time the big oaf could wait in a blind onshore. He looked back at the capsized canoe, the gunwales just breaking water, then waded over and grabbed up his bola-entangled duck. He grasped the duck by the head, whirling it around and around until he broke the bird’s neck. Then he unwound the leather thongs from the wings.
Ahead of them, the mallards thrashed in the net. In a line, the
men waded forward, taking the ends of the netting and gathering it in.
“Where’s your canoe?” Thumper asked as he floated his up to the catch.
“Underwater.” Mud Stalker jabbed a thumb over his shoulder.
“There’s a lot of me to get out of a canoe in a hurry,” Clay Fat said with a wide grin. “It was faster just to turn it over.”
“And drown me in the process,” Mud Stalker growled, but he could see Clay Fat’s delight. The Rattlesnake Clan Speaker was happy. Against that, a dunking in the water hardly mattered.
One by one they retrieved the terrified ducks from the netting, breaking their necks and tossing their spasming carcasses into Thumper’s canoe. In the end, they had trapped three tens and eight, a nice morning’s work. The feathered mound in the middle of Thumper’s canoe gleamed cream, brown, and greenish blue in the light. In the pile of ruffled wings he could see orange-webbed feet, yellow bills agape, and the green-headed males, their eyes dimming and half-lidded in death.
Feathers from the spring molt drifted in the calm air and dotted the roiled water.
“Come,” Clay Fat called to Mud Stalker as Thumper and Red Finger began drawing in the net, neatly folding it between them. “Let us right your canoe. They can take the catch, we’ll carry the net.”
“If you don’t sink us again.”
It took but a moment to lift one end, shipping the water out. The knuckle’s worth that sloshed in the bottom didn’t seem to bother Clay Fat as he carefully climbed aboard. Their paddles were recovered from where they floated under the crushed blind.
Slipping over the stern, Mud Stalker seated himself and tucked his paddle under his right arm, using his left awkwardly to maneuver the craft around. They paddled up to where Red Finger and Thumper waited. The two men carefully lifted the wet net and settled it amidships.
“Don’t lose Clay Fat’s ducks on the way back to Sun Town,” Mud Stalker warned. “The Speaker will sink your canoe next time.”
That brought a round of good-humored laughter from everyone.
“Are you sure you want to give me all of those ducks?” Clay Fat asked, as they paddled out to the main channel.
“You seemed to take the greatest pleasure in the hunt. I still have ducks from last fall. Snakes, my sister keeps insisting on boiling one every ten days. I’m tired of duck meat.”
“But these are fresh. Not dried and covered with soot. They won’t taste like smoke and mold.”
Mud Stalker laughed, making his irregular strokes with his paddle. “Enjoy them. It is a gift from Snapping Turtle Clan to you, Speaker.”
“We are obligated.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“Clay Fat, were you and Wing Heart ever lovers?”
“No.” A cautious pause. “Why do you ask?”
He jerked his head back, indicating Thumper’s canoe where it followed a couple of lengths behind them. “My cousin back there was married to her for a while. In a fit, one night, she divorced him. I think she was mad at me and took it out on Thumper. It hurt him more than he ever admits. I think he really loved her.”
“We were never lovers.” Clay Fat sounded sad.
“Just … what? Friends?”
“Yes. I always admired her. I enjoyed just sitting, talking to her. Some of those times were the best in my life. I can remember the dark sparkle in her eyes, the way her throat looked when she laughed. In all of my Dreams I would never have thought she’d have lost her souls like she did. She was so strong. I thought she was the smartest Clan Elder I’d ever met.”
“From your voice, I can tell you liked her.” He made a face. “She and I fought like weasels.”
“She always enjoyed beating you.”
“I’m sure. That’s why, in the end, I let her win.”
“Indeed?” Clay Fat’s tone was neutral.
“What do you mean, ‘indeed’? How could any of us have stood against White Bird? The youth would have made one of the greatest Speakers ever.”
“He didn’t last very long if you will recall.”
“You needn’t remind me. I grouse every time I remember that I married my favorite nieces to him. Who would have thought they would have gone to that skinny little scorpion?”
“I’m not sure I’d use that word to describe him.”
“How well do you know Salamander?”
“I saw him a lot at Wing Heart’s.”
“Was he always into sorcery?”
Clay Fat was silent.
“My nieces are married to him. They haven’t been the same since they went to his bed.”
After a while longer, Clay Fat asked, “Don’t you think sorcery is a harsh word? Are you sure it isn’t just jealousy? Perhaps they like him?”
“Do you think my girls would like that Swamp Panther bitch, too? No, I tell you, there’s something going on there. I tried to get Night Rain to tell me the other night. She insists on hiding something.” Mud Stalker paused, then cast his gaming pieces. “Tell me, what did you hear him say the other day at the Serpent’s cleansing?”
“He was talking to his dead friend.” But Clay Fat didn’t sound too certain.
“Did you see how quickly Pine Drop dragged him away? Did you see the expression on his face? The way his eyes looked? That wasn’t a man in grief, my friend.”
“Now that you mention it, he looked almost euphoric. As if he were seeing something wonderful instead of the freeing of a dead Serpent’s souls.”
“What did he ever get from the Serpent, anyway?”
“The old man liked him.”
“They processed bodies together. Salamander spent a great deal of time with the old man. I’m not sure he wasn’t learning other things.”
“Such as?”
“Poisons. The dark uses of Power. Is Salamander truly an idiot, or is that just what we are supposed to think?”
Silence.
“I want you to remember that, Clay Fat. I want you to keep an open mind. You owe me nothing for the ducks but your promise that you will keep an eye on Salamander. And consider him anew.”
“I will, Speaker. But what are you really thinking? That Salamander is a sorcerer?”
“Do you remember the night of his initiation? He talked to spirits! He laughed, Speaker. When has any young man laughed? And do you remember how the Serpent stalked off into the night? Had you ever seen him do that before? I hadn’t. Let me add one last thing: Salamander’s enemies never seem to last long.”
“I don’t understand.”
“His uncle, Cloud Heron, lingered in death for many moons. Curious, wasn’t it, that he didn’t die until White Bird had returned from the north?”
“You can’t blame that on Salamander.”
“Who stood between him and the Speakership?”
“White Bird.”
“He is dead.”
“Salamander can’t throw lightning, Speaker.”
“What did Wing Heart think of her youngest son? Did she like him? Was she proud of him?”
“No.” Clay Fat didn’t sound so sure of himself anymore.
“And what happened to your old friend, Wing Heart? What kind of person can drive his own mother’s souls away?”
“I can’t believe that Salamander is a witch! He doesn’t look like one, doesn’t act like one. He’s not that smart.”
“Perhaps he isn’t,” Mud Stalker said offhandedly, knowing full well the seed had been planted. “What about his Swamp Panther wife? Eats Wood had been spying on Anhinga. He came to me, telling me that he suspected she was here to harm us. Do you remember that she went away every moon, even when her belly was swollen with Salamander’s child?”
“Yes.”
“She was meeting with Jaguar Hide. Eats Wood was sure.”
“Did he ever see her meet with him?”
“He did. From a distance. The thing is, the last time he left to spy on her, he never came back. I have no proof, but, as I said before, I just want you to think about these things. Especially about what happens to people who are close to Salamander.”
“You have two nieces married to him. What do they say?” Clay Fat’s voice had taken on a pensive tone.
“They say nothing, Speaker. If you were married to a witch, to someone who could drive his own mother’s souls away, would you say anything?”
A deep frown lined Clay Fat’s forehead.
“Oh, forget it. It’s probably nothing.” Mud Stalker smiled.
P
ine Drop rinsed her cloth in a bowlful of water before she bent over and sponged Anhinga’s brow. Outside a wind whispered and moaned, driven by a spring storm. Had she ever known such a wet winter and spring? No sooner did one storm blow itself out than another rolled in.
Anhinga lay on a bison hide that padded the dirt floor. To her side the fire crackled and popped, its flame illuminating the inside of Salamander’s house. Over the winter, soot had blacked the roof and laid velvet fingers on the hanging bags of squash, smoked fish, jerked venison, and the desiccated carcasses of geese, ducks, and turkeys that hung from the rafters.
Anhinga gasped as another contraction tightened in her belly. Pine Drop smiled down at her in reassurance and took one of her hands, squeezing it. She glanced at Water Petal. Steady as a stone,
Salamander’s cousin had seen them through the long watch.
“Aiiahhh!” the cry broke through Anhinga’s clenched teeth. Her pretty face contorted; water beaded on her skin before trickling down the lines of pain.
“You must push now,” Water Petal said as she squatted between Anhinga’s bent knees.
Night Rain watched from the side, a wad of dried hanging moss in her hands ready to soak up fluids. She had sponged up the Swamp Panther woman’s water several hands of time ago.
Pine Drop continued to hold Anhinga’s hand, squeezing firmly. “Don’t fight it. When the time is right, when your womb is ready, the little one will come.”
Anhinga’s expression relaxed, and she gasped for air. “By the Panther’s bones, nothing prepared me for this.”
BOOK: People of the Owl: A Novel of Prehistoric North America (North America's Forgotten Past)
2.37Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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