Her eyes narrow as she gazes out across the misty battlefield. She is a tough warrior. I have seen her prowess in battle. But despair touches her words: “Then we are alone.”
The warriors on the catwalk are silent.
On this dreadful day, only Wind Mother’s song through the marsh hallows and heals. We all seem to be listening to it.
I straighten my shoulders and, with a confident nod, say, “Others will join us. I give you my oath. Though the gods know, befriending the Mountain People is going to take a strong stomach.”
Wampa laughs. Before Atotarho came to power and changed the Hills People, the Mountain People were the most unfathomable, contrary, and brutal People in the land. It’s inconceivable that the Standing Stone nation and the Mountain People could ever be friends. Nervous chuckles eddy across the catwalk. On the war trail, when things looked hopeless, I was always able to make my warriors laugh. I laugh, too, joining them.
“That’s the old Sky Messenger talking,” Wampa says softly, for my ears alone. “He was one of the finest warriors in the Standing Stone nation. But I think he is gone. I heard Matron Jigonsaseh talking this morning. She says you have given up your weapons for good. So while many of us will be fighting to the death for our people … you will not.”
Her words are not an accusation, but a subtle question. “My duty rests elsewhere, old friend. I must gather more allies for our cause—the cause of peace. If I march into the villages of the People of the Landing or the Mountain People with a war party at my back, or a war club in my hand, my message will ring hollow. They will not listen to me. I must go alone … and unarmed.”
She glances up at the warriors gazing down upon us, judging their expressions. “You’ll be killed on sight, Sky Messenger. We have, after all, been slaughtering their people, burning their villages, and stealing their families for slaves for generations.”
“They may kill me. But if they don’t, and I have a chance to speak honestly with their councils, I believe I can win them to our side.”
Wampa utters a disbelieving grunt. “You are either deluded or a very great Dreamer.”
“I’m hoping for the latter.”
The catwalk erupts in laughter again.
Wampa smiles and points through the gate to the council house. “Go on. I’ve delayed you long enough. The council needs you.”
Before I pass by, I grip her shoulder hard and stare into her dark eyes. “My Dream is true, Wampa. We must make peace with our enemies, or we are all doomed. I…”
My voice fades as the vision blossoms behind my eyes and consumes my world.
… An amorphous darkness rises from the watery depths and slithers along the horizon like the legendary Horned Serpent who almost destroyed the world at the dawn of creation. Strange black curls, like gigantic antlers, spin from the darkness and rake through the cloud-sea—
“Sky Messenger?” Wampa shakes me.
I snap from the vision and return with a gasp. The sunlight is so bright it hurts. “S-sorry. I-I’m sorry.”
I close my eyes for a moment, trying to see nothing, not this world, not the world of the vision. Just nothing. Still, somewhere inside me there is brilliance … and I’m falling … tumbling through nothingness with the flowers of the World Tree, made of pure light, fluttering down around me—
“Are you all right?” Wampa asks. “You were there, weren’t you? When the sky splits and Elder Brother Sun flees into the dark hole in the sky, leaving the world to die?”
I rub my eyes, nod.
Wampa edges closer and hisses to me, “I believe you. So do our warriors. We all believe. Just tell us how to help you make peace, and we’ll do it. Even if we have to eat at the same fire as those accursed Mountain People.”
I suck in a breath, and the smoke from the smoldering palisades stings the back of my throat. “You’re a good friend, Wampa. When I know what to ask, I will. Thank you.”
From the catwalk, a man says, “We believe you, Sky Messenger.” A woman adds, “We won’t let you down, Sky Messenger.” More voices rise.
I look up into their blazing eyes, eyes alight with faith in me, and their hope is suddenly like a cape of iron around my shoulders. It is I who cannot let them down.
I give them a confident nod, lift a hand, and walk through each of the three gates in the palisades. When I step into the village, Gitchi falls into step beside me.
Refugees from destroyed Standing Stone villages crowd the plaza. In the entire Standing Stone nation, there are only two villages left now, Bur Oak and Yellowtail, and they almost ceased to exist yesterday. Lean-to shelters line the entire eastern wall. Children race in front of them with dogs trotting at their heels. Every child is half-starved. Their bellies are distended. Bars of ribs press against thin leather shirts and dresses. High Matron Kittle had to send food to every Standing Stone village last autumn, and even to one Hills village that requested help: Sedge Marsh Village.