The Dawn Country (26 page)

Twenty-seven

W
rass sat on the sandy, leaf-strewn bank with his hands tied behind his back. His balance was off. He kept falling over, then righting himself, trying to stay upright. The agony in his head was unbearable, but his ankle hurt worse.

Gannajero’s four warriors had formed a tight circle three paces away. Though their voices were low, their grim expressions told him more than words. At least one of them was on the verge of bolting into the wilderness at the first opportunity.

“The boy is useless,” Dakion said. He gestured with his war club, and his buckskin cape flared and buffeted in the wind. His broad muscular shoulders strained against his cape. “We should crack his skull and leave him for the wolves. We can find new children anywhere.”

Ojib responded, “Even in his condition, he’ll bring a few trinkets.”

“But he’s more trouble than he’s worth! He can hardly walk now. I think he broke his ankle in the fall.”

Waswan used the back of his hand to wipe his knobby nose and straightened his sapling-thin body to glare at Dakion. “The boy is
her
property. She decides what to do with him.”

Wrass looked down at his foot. His ankle was badly swollen and had turned a mottled reddish purple, but he didn’t think it was broken. Just badly sprained. The thick bed of leaves had cushioned his fall, and probably saved his life. He just couldn’t put his weight on the ankle. One thing was certain—his hope of escape was gone. He wouldn’t be able to run for days, maybe longer. The despair that filled him was like an animal eating him from the inside out.

He let his aching head fall forward. It didn’t matter. Zateri and the Dawnland girls had gotten away. That made seven children Gannajero had lost in just a few days.

Dakion turned to Kotin. “Kotin, we should be far south by now. What if those girls walk into a nearby village and tell them they were held captive by Gannajero? The chief will organize a war party of hundreds to come looking for us. We need to put distance between us and—”

“Didn’t you hear what Waswan said? It’s
her
decision!” Kotin snarled, and jerked his head toward Gannajero.

Back in the trees, she stood bent over, working on something on the ground. She kept making small grunts, as though it was hard labor. Occasionally she lifted her knife high enough that the white chert blade glinted in the sunlight.

“What’s she doing?” Dakion said. “She won’t let any of us get close. Is she—?”

Ojib interrupted. “I’m more worried about that messenger who came to see her. Why won’t she tell us what he said?”

“Maybe because it’s none of our concern,” Kotin replied. “The message was for her.”

“But how did the man know where she was? He must have followed us from the big warriors’ camp. If so much as a single person there recognized her”—Dakion waved an arm extravagantly—“there could be fifty canoes searching for us this instant!”

Kotin shook his head, but it was so faint Wrass doubted the other warriors noticed. Revealing broken yellow teeth, he said, “If there were, I promise you, she’d know it.”

“You give her too much credit. She’s just an old woman. She has no powers or the children would never have been able to escape. We’d already be far south and safely away …”

His voice faded when Gannajero abruptly stood up. Everyone saw her lift the dead boy’s eyes. They had shriveled and turned opaque. She held one eyeball in each hand and was slowly turning around in a circle, murmuring. When she stopped turning, she let out a sharp gleeful laugh and stared off to the north.

“I don’t like this,” Dakion hissed. “She just does these bizarre things to scare us.”

Gannajero put the eyes back in her belt pouch. Then she bent down, draped something over her left arm, and started toward them. Whatever she carried was long enough to drag on the ground. It slurred wetly over the leaves.

Dakion shook a fist at Kotin. “We have to do something now, before she—”

“Are you the hero, Dakion?” Gannajero asked in a low menacing voice as she emerged from the trees.

“What?”

She walked into the clearing, and Wrass frowned at the thing draped over her arm. Slowly, like poison working through his veins, he realized it was a human skin. Thin and coated with blood, the arms and legs swung as she walked. Revulsion wrenched a small cry of horror from his throat. He scrambled backward, trying to get as far from her as he could.

“I’ll let you be the hero, Dakion,” she said with mock kindness. She’d started to tiptoe forward, like a hunting cat. “You should have asked.”

In less than a heartbeat, Dakion had his war club in his fist. “You’re crazy, old woman!”

“Yes, I am doomed to walk this earth alone forever.
I
have nothing to lose.” Her toothless mouth widened. “What about you?”

Dakion swallowed hard. “The boy is worthless. Just tell me why we can’t kill him?”

Gannajero’s smile froze on her wrinkled face. Without taking her gaze from him, she said, “She’ll come for him.”

“Who will? What are you talking about? There could be one hundred canoes on the river behind us, chasing us down, and all you can do is blather nonsense? Just let me kill the boy, so he doesn’t slow us—”

“I’ve already told you I’ll let you be the hero. Why are you still so worried about the boy?” She cocked her head in that strange birdlike manner, eyeing him first through one eye, then the other.

Dakion appeared totally confused. He took another grip on his club as though the shaft had grown slick with sweat.

The other warriors backed away. Kotin, in particular, looked terrified.

“The boy”—Gannajero gave Dakion a cruel toothless grin—“is mine. Understand?”

Dakion looked as though he might burst at the seams. He waved his war club threateningly. “What are you going to do with him? Is he a hostage? Why won’t you tell us what the messenger said? What are you hiding?”

An old hatred, something grown fine and sharp over the long summers, flickered in her black eyes. “The messenger said that my brother promises me wealth and power beyond my imaginings. Would you like to share in that?”

“Your brother?” Dakion said. “Who is he? How rich is he?”

The old woman scanned the faces of her warriors. “Anyone who wishes can walk away now with no punishment.” She adjusted the limp skin over her arm. “Go on. Get out of my sight. But anyone who chooses to stay will be richly rewarded.”

The men glanced at each other. She’d already bestowed enough wealth upon them to make them very rich men. Wrass studied the gleam that came to each man’s eyes. How could they still want more?

“So,” Gannajero said. “No one wishes to leave.”

They shifted; someone mumbled; all of them glanced at the skin over her arm.

“Then get out of my way,” she growled.

She walked through the middle of their circle. Men stumbled backward to clear a path for her. As she knelt and began rinsing the skin in the river, graying black hair flopped around her wrinkled face.

Kotin gave the other three men an evil look. “I’ve been with her a long time, and she’s never failed to keep her promises. In a few short moons, you could all have enough wealth to ransom a village. Keep that in mind the next time you threaten to betray her.”

Wrass—beside the maple tree—saw Gannajero smile.

Dakion kicked at an old branch. “She’d better keep her promise. I expect to live long enough to enjoy my earnings.”

Gannajero stood up and stretched the clean, dripping skin out from arm to arm. Without turning she called, “Who would like to help me make a frame? As soon as he’s dry, I’ll enchant him. Then we’ll leave.”

Kotin and Ojib trotted to her side. Dakion shook his head. Dust swirled and sparkled faintly in the still air around him.

With practiced ease, Gannajero collected and tied together four long sticks of driftwood, creating a rectangular frame. Ojib and Kotin then helped Gannajero stretch the feet, hands, and neck into place to keep the skin taut while it dried. The vaguely human-shaped skin continued to drip onto the old leaves.

The shape fascinated Wrass. He couldn’t take his eyes from it. The old woman had skinned Akio as a man would a deer, her knife slitting up from the ankle to the groin, then peeling back the skin. The legs and arms appeared to be twice as wide as they had been when alive and sheathing muscles. Only the head was missing.

Something clinked. Wrass’ gaze shot back to Gannajero as she pulled a beautiful copper bell from her belt pouch. Pounded into a thin sheet then twisted into a cone, such copper bells were traditionally used to adorn the moccasins of ceremonial dancers. A shell bead was hung in the center of the cone and made it tinkle pleasantly.

Dakion shouted, “Where did you get that? That’s mine!”

He tramped over to where his pack rested in the canoe and began digging through it, searching, as though to make certain.

While he occupied himself, Gannajero carried the bell to the skinned neck and tied it on. Even the slightest breath of wind encouraged it to make music.

Dakion roared, “You took it!”

Gannajero touched the bell with gnarled fingers. It had been polished to a beautiful sheen. She took a few moments to stare at it before she glanced at the other warriors and whispered, “It’s like giving a fresh fox skin to a dog just before the hunt. By the time you release the dog, he’s so desperate for the taste of fox blood that he’s lunging at his tether and frothing at the mouth.”

Fear prickled Wrass’ skin. What was she talking about?

Dakion climbed out of the canoe and stalked back with his club swinging. “Why did you tie it to the skin? Give it to me.” He extended his hand.

Gannajero laughed softly. “I’m training a new dog.”

“A dog? Are you calling me a dog?”

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “This
hanehwa
has one duty. No matter where you go, he’ll track you down and tell me where you are.”

As the implications sank in, Dakion’s extended hand slowly clenched to a fist. Where only moments before he’d scoffed at her powers, now he licked his lips and his eyes darted to the others. “She’s insane. I don’t believe any of this.”

“Yes, I can see that.” Gannajero straightened, and the shells and twists of copper on her cape flashed. “Kotin, untie Hawk-Face. He can’t run. Then bring the skin and come find me. I want to talk to you. Alone.”

“Yes, Gannajero.”

Kotin quickly walked over and slit the ropes tying Wrass’ hands. “Don’t try anything stupid,” he growled.

Wrass struggled to give him a defiant glare. “I can’t even walk. How could I?”

Kotin turned away and went to retrieve the frame with the stretched skin. As he walked back into the trees where Gannajero stared up at the sky, the old woman said, “Hang it up there where it can dry in the sunlight.”

The other warriors gathered around Dakion, whispering ominously.

Wrass hadn’t had any water since dawn. He gazed longingly at the river, but when he tried to put weight on his ankle it felt like fiery splinters were being driven into his flesh.

Wrass rolled to his hands and knees and started crawling for the water. The entire time, Dakion watched him hatefully.

Tears blurred his eyes. While he’d badly injured his ankle in the fall, every part of him hurt. His ribs felt as though the muscles had been pulled loose from the bones.

When he finally reached the water, he greedily scooped it into his mouth with his hand. Rivulets spilled down his chin, but he kept drinking until he could hold no more. There was no telling when he’d get to drink again.

Wrass rolled to his back and, for a few blessed moments, lay on the riverbank staring up at the gathering Cloud People. The blue-black giants were pushing eastward.

“Load up,” Gannajero’s gravelly voice rasped. “We’re heading south.”

She and Kotin tramped past Wrass without even glancing at him. It was as though he no longer existed. Gannajero climbed into the bow of the lead canoe and irritably watched her men stow their gear. “Come on. We’re in a hurry!”

Ojib clambered for the rear of Gannajero’s canoe and picked up a paddle, while Waswan settled into the rear of the other canoe. Dakion and Kotin remained on shore to push off.

As Kotin shoved the lead canoe into the current and leaped into the bow, Dakion glanced at Wrass and shouted, “Wait! What about the boy? Is he riding in my canoe?”

“We’re leaving him,” Gannajero answered, just before the river grabbed hold of her canoe and carried it downstream.

“I don’t believe it!” Dakion gestured wildly to Waswan. “She’d planned all along to leave him? Why didn’t she just tell me?”

Waswan chuckled, and his small inhuman eyes glinted. “She probably thought it was none of your business.”

Dakion shook his head, shoved the canoe into the river, and jumped in. As they paddled out into the current, Wrass heard Dakion say, “With all the starving wolves in this country, that boy will be dead by nightfall.”

Wrass shoved up on one elbow to watch them disappear around the bend.

Stunned, an odd floating sensation came over him. They’d left him. He was free. Before he realized it, tears warmed his face. He could … he could go home! It might take him a while, but if he splinted and wrapped his ankle, he’d make it. There were many good walking sticks in sight. A fallen maple branch about his height lay less than ten paces away.

A few instants later, when he tried to stand up, reality returned with a vengeance. His ankle went out from under him, and he landed hard on the sand. Grabbing his screaming ankle, he rocked back and forth. The swelling was worse. Only a hand of time ago, he’d been able to fit both his hands around the joint.

Fear seeped through his relief and joy.

Dakion had been right. Many large predators ran along this shore. It was a primary hunting trail for wolves, bears, and cougars.

Wrass looked back into the trees. He couldn’t see it, but he knew it wouldn’t take the wolves long to catch the scent of Akio’s freshly skinned corpse.

He had to get as far away from here as he could.