The Dawn Country (23 page)

I say, “I’m going to be a warrior when I grow up.”

Sindak nods approvingly. “Good. We need more men to help protect our peoples.”

A smile creeps over my face, and my heart feels lighter. “I have a bow at home. Father made it for me.”

“Are you good with it?”

Shame makes my shoulders hunch up. “No. My friend Wrass can shoot a bird in the head at fifty paces. He’s the best shot of all the boys in our village. But I’m going to get better.”

“I know you will. Just practice, Odion. That’s all it takes. If you spend two hands of time every day—”

“Yes, practice,” Wakdanek interrupts, “but please remember that the best preparation for battle is a heart at peace.”

A heart at peace.
Somehow, deep inside me, I know I need to remember this. Silently, I mouth the words.

Sindak gives Wakdanek an askance look. “That’s ridiculous. The best preparation for battle is an enormous quiver of really sharp arrows, and even sharper wits.”

“But … my mother is a peacemaker,” I say. “At least that’s what Father calls her.”

“Yes,” Sindak replies with exaggerated politeness. “I’ve heard him. I never knew any word could carry such loathing until I heard Gonda call Koracoo a ‘peacemaker.’”

Wakdanek frowns. For a long time, he just paddles. I can’t decide whether he looks annoyed or disheartened.

Bravely, I say, “I want peace.”

“That’s wise,” Sindak responds. “But to get it and keep it, you have to be willing to fight for it. You—”

“Why do you say such things?” Wakdanek asks in a plaintive voice. “Don’t you know that everything in the world is related? People, animals, trees, stones, the Faces of the Forest, the Cloud People? We are all One.” He ships his paddle and extends his hands to Sindak. “Every time I lay my fingers upon a branch, the tree recognizes me. If I listen, I can hear her calling my name, trying to reach across the gulf that separates us and gently touch my heart so that I will know she is my grandmother and means me no harm.”

Sindak says, “That’s usually when the first ax blow lands.”

Wakdanek stares at him.

Sindak appears lazily amused, as though he’s failed some test of intelligence and is proud of it. Wakdanek, however, has a sober worried expression.

I say, “Grandmother Jigonsaseh gave me a milkweed seed once. She told me that if I blew the seed from my palm, my breath would never stop. She said it would carry across the world to touch the cheek of a deer, and then rise into the sky to sail with the Cloud People. That’s what you mean, isn’t it, Wakdanek?”

The Healer smiles. “Yes. Connected. Related. That’s why we must name our enemies carefully, because killing the enemy has only one outcome: We kill a part of our own soul. And by doing so, we cripple the world itself.”

“The world is already a cripple. Who cares?” Sindak says.

Wakdanek leans back as though utterly confounded by Sindak. “I care. Very much.”

“That’s nice. However, sometimes your enemies deserve to die. I mean, don’t you want revenge against the people who killed your wife and took your daughter captive?”

Pain flickers in Wakdanek’s eyes. He clenches his jaw for a time. At last, he answers, “Since we are all related, Sindak, right now the entire world is resonating with my grief. Even the souls of my enemies. They’ve already harmed themselves far more than I ever can.” His gaze flicks to War Chief Cord.

Sindak glances at Cord, too; then his brows lift. His expression says that the Healer is either lying or stupid. “Well, Wakdanek, I feel better for you. However, if the same thing ever happens to my family, I plan to hunt down my enemy, chop him to pieces, and feed him to my dogs. And since we are all related, I expect that while I watch each bite slide down their throats, the world will also resonate with my thrill of justice being done.”

Mother has apparently been listening. She turns halfway around in the bow, and says, “Less talking and more paddling would be helpful.”

Sindak and Wakdanek both dig their oars into the water, and the canoe flies forward like an arrow. Ahead of us, there is a wide bend lined with leafless prickly ashes. As the current sweeps us around the curve, I see a few shriveled red-brown fruits still clinging to the twigs. The boat abruptly sways and leaps as we maneuver around submerged rocks. Cold spray hits me in the face. When we are through, the river spreads out again and calms down.

Wakdanek says, “We should talk more, Sindak. Perhaps, in time, we can find something we agree upon.”

“I doubt it, but I’ll hear you out.” Sindak drags his paddle and guides the canoe around a floating log.

Wakdanek shakes his head.

They stop talking.

Gitchi grunts and squirms as I shift to lie down on the packs. I hold him against my chest. While I gaze out at the sunlight in the treetops, Gitchi licks my chin. I feel safer with him close, as though he is already guarding me. I let my eyes fall closed.

Perhaps, if I hold the puppy tightly, my muscles will stop twitching long enough for me to get some sleep.

Twenty-three

A
kio herded the children down the leaf-covered trail into the forest. Twenty paces from the canoes, he found a small clearing in the brush surrounded by towering sycamores. The massive branches cast dark crisscrossing shadows across the rocky ground.

He ordered, “Lie down, all of you. Flatten out on the ground and be quiet!” At the age of sixteen summers, he was the lowest-status warrior here. He couldn’t afford to fail. If even one child escaped, the old woman would surely kill him; then he’d never make it home. And he wanted to go home, badly.

The children stretched out across the bed of frosty leaves, but the hawk-faced boy, Wrass, kept staring at Akio. How did the child have the strength to move? His face was so battered and bruised his own parents wouldn’t recognize him. His left eye was swollen almost closed, and dried blood covered his skull. Part of his scalp had been torn loose. It would be a miracle if he didn’t lose patches of hair. Akio had seen that happen to badly beaten men. The loose patches of scalp died, leaving strips of gray bone showing in the middle of what was left of their hair.

He glanced back toward the clearing where Gannajero stood. He was doing his job. He’d proven himself, and just as he’d been told, after two moons of being allied with Gannajero he’d already acquired enough wealth to live comfortably for the rest of his life.
I get to keep that. That’s what
he
said. And everything I get before I go home. It’s all mine.

Just the thought of what he’d do with such wealth left him practically panting to please Gannajero, to keep her from suspecting …

Zateri, who lay beside Wrass, cupped a hand to his ear and whispered something. Wrass glanced at Akio, then subtly nodded.

Akio wet his chapped lips. Had the children seen something? He drew his bowstring back a little tighter and examined every shadow.

Wrass turned to whisper, “He could just be a lone fisherman, Akio. Why don’t you leave him be?”

Akio stepped forward. “Didn’t I tell you not to talk? Do you want to die, boy?”

Akio aimed his bow at Wrass’ head, but his gaze jerked back to Gannajero. She was moving, tiptoeing toward the canoes like a hunting weasel. When she reached the edge of the water, she hesitated—seemed to be cataloging the contents of the canoes, looking for something. Finally, she climbed into one and started shuffling through the packs.

“What’s she looking for?” he whispered a little too loudly. Every child turned to look at him.

Gannajero tore open Dakion’s pack. Dakion’s had a white beaver painted on the front, and he could see it even from this distance. As she searched the pack, Gannajero grunted softly. The longer Akio watched her, the more his fingers tightened on his nocked bow … and he wondered if she’d really seen a canoe following them, or if this was just an excuse to go through Dakion’s pack.

She continued her ransacking for a few more heartbeats, then made a satisfied smacking sound with her lips, pulled something from the pack, and tucked it into her belt pouch.

“The old witch is clever, I’ll say that for her.”

While she glanced around, she neatly tied the pack’s laces and replaced it exactly as she’d found it.

“Do you see anyone yet?” Wrass whispered.

“Stop talking!” Akio glared at him. He suspected the boy was doing that on purpose, to rattle him or distract him. “The next word out of your mouth is going to be your last. Or maybe I’ll shoot one of your friend—”

His voice faded when three faint shouts echoed through the trees. Gannajero leaped to her feet and crouched like a hunting stork. At the same instant, Akio glimpsed a shadow moving stealthily amid the dense buttonbushes—less than ten paces to Gannajero’s right.

He considered shouting, but what if it was Kotin returning to report? She’d told him to keep quiet, not to move until she called out to him.

The shadow stopped at the edge of the leafless shrubs. The slender trunks stood twice the man’s height and hid him almost completely. He …

“Your brother sends his greetings, Gannajero.”

As her gaze darted over the thicket, her wrinkled face hardened into frightening lines. “What do you want? Who are you?”

“Your brother says he’s very sorry he missed you at the big warriors’ camp last night. He asked me to deliver a message.”

“He was there? At the camp?”

“He tracked a traitor to the camp. A man who left with a Trader who specialized in child slaves.”

Akio’s pulse pounded so loudly he could scarcely breathe. What was the old man up to?

“Your brother offers a Trade. If you give him both of them,”
the messenger said,
“he will give you what you desire most.”

Gannajero vented a low ugly laugh. “He’s too selfish to give me what is rightly mine. It would cost him everything he holds dear. And if he was in the camp last night, he’s probably the one who poisoned my stew pot.” As she straightened, the tendons in her wattled neck stood out like cords stretched too tight.

Akio watched the messenger silently back away through the shrubs and move into the deep forest shadows. He tried to keep an eye on the man, but in less than five heartbeats, he was gone.

Gannajero kept her eyes focused on the brush, as though she thought he was still there, and a slow expression of pure hatred carved her face. “And if he’s serious about this offer, where’s the
proof?
He knows I have to see it!”

When no answer came, she clenched her fists and marched closer to the buttonbushes. “Tell him I
want
it!”

The hawk-faced boy, Wrass, jerked slightly, as though he’d been bitten by something in the old leaves. He didn’t say anything for a time; then he boldly sat up, stared Akio in the face, and said, “You should tell her he’s gone, before she—”

“Shut your mouth, boy!” Akio hissed. “Didn’t I tell you to keep quiet or I’d—”

From the corner of his eye, Akio saw the arrow gleam in the sunlight as it flashed through the trees. He let out a shriek and threw himself forward. When it drove fire into his back, Akio staggered drunkenly.

From the trees, a faint whisper said,
“The old man sends you his greetings as well, Akio. He thanks you for your service, but says you’re no longer useful.”

Gannajero barked, “What’s happening?” and started running toward him. “Dakion? Ojib? Get over here!”

Blood dripped from the black chert point that stuck out of Akio’s chest. For several moments, he didn’t understand. His legs went wobbly as pain seared his chest. The bow dropped from his numb fingers and landed silently in the frozen leaves.

Wrass cried, “This is our chance. Get up!
Run!
” He scrambled to his feet. The children shot away through the forest like a flock of frightened doves.

Akio was still on his feet when Gannajero arrived, breathing hard, her face twisted with rage. “What did he say? Tell me quickly, before you die!”

A smile quivered Akio’s lips. “Boy … must have seen … distracted me.”

“What did the man
say?
”

Akio toppled to the ground. With his last strength, he reached out. “Help … Gan—”

“Tell me what he said!”

“ … followed … me.”

“Blessed gods. You led him right to me? You worthless fool!” she shouted.

“Gannajero!”
Ojib cried. “Where are you?”

“Over here,” she called back.

Feeling was draining from Akio’s body, but he managed to squirm onto his side, to spit frothy blood from his mouth. It created a brilliant scarlet pool on the frozen leaves.

Gannajero knelt. Birdlike, her head cocked one way, then another. Akio’s facial muscles seemed to have frozen solid. He couldn’t even …

Ojib and Dakion sprinted headlong up the trail with their capes flying out behind them. “Gannajero, are you all right? What happened?”

“I was attacked, you fools.”

Dakion’s eyes narrowed; then he swung around with his bow up, scanning the forest for intruders. “Who killed Akio?”

The old woman opened her belt pouch and drew out a small pot, a hafted chert knife, and an eagle-bone sucking tube. “He’s not dead yet,” she said.