She heaved a sigh. With the plague and attacks, they’d had a terrible summer. Many people she’d loved were gone. But for the first time in many summers, the Flint People had plenty of food to carry them through the long winter ahead. The corn bins were full to bursting. They’d buried beans, squash, goose and duck eggs, in large pits to keep them from freezing, and every house had hundreds of bags of dried raspberries, cherries, persimmons, and plums, not to mention the chestnuts, walnuts, and pecans they’d harvested last moon. If they didn’t get raided, they’d have a joyous winter of storytelling and weaving baskets.
Just as she started walking again, surprised voices rose from the palisade. Warriors hurried along the catwalk, staring down at something outside the village gates.
“Blessed gods!” a man shouted. “It’s Kanika! He was with Chief Cord’s war party. Open the gates!”
Buckshen carefully shuffled around to peer at the crowd gathering in front of the gates, waiting for the guards to remove the locking planks and shove them open. People sprinted past her.
She focused on the gates, saw them swing open. The crowd rushed out, and a din of concerned voices erupted.
More people raced by her. “What’s happening? Someone, come tell me what’s happening?”
“I’ll be right back with the news, Matron!” a man yelled as he galloped by at full speed.
Buckshen fiddled with her walking stick, trying to be calm as cries rent the air, and she thought she saw a man being carried across the plaza. “What happened? Is he hurt?”
A tall man dashed toward her. Her hazy vision couldn’t make out his face. He stopped, breathing hard. “Matron, it’s Kanika. Chief Cord sent him ahead. He’s been running flat out for two days and nights to get here. He’s fevered and raving—”
“Where is Chief Cord and his war party?”
The man seemed to straighten up, and his fists clenched at his sides. “There were attacked by the Hills People, Matron, less than one day’s run from Bur Oak Village.”
She weakly reached out to clasp his arm, to keep her knees from buckling. “The war party contained over six hundred. How many did we lose?”
“I—I’m not sure, Matron. I think Kanika said four hundred in the ambush. I don’t know how many were lost in the battle the day before—”
“Four hundred? Dear gods. Where is Chief Cord?”
“He was wounded badly. The survivors of the attack are hauling him home on a litter, as well as many other wounded warriors. They can’t travel very fast. They’re probably two days away. You should also know that Kanika was spouting gibberish. Apparently, he and the other survivors hid in the forest near the Hills camp and heard the new war chief, Negano, telling his warriors that they were heading back to Bur Oak Village to destroy the Standing Stone nation once and for all.”
“What else?”
“Something strange, garbled. About a miracle happening during the Bur Oak battle. Apparently, Sky Messenger’s Dream is coming true. Kanika said the Prophet stretched out his hand and Elder Brother Sun brought a great storm that swept the Hills warriors from the battlefield. But he was raving, Matron. It may just be his fevered imaginings.”
Buckshen’s trembling fingers squeezed his arm. “Find the other matrons. Tell them to meet me in the council house. We will wish to question Kanika as soon as he’s rested and eaten. Hurry.”
Twenty-three
Hiyawento stopped on the crest of a hill to look down across the rolling hills. The smoky air clawed at the back of his throat. Afternoon sunlight enameled an endless vista of charred trees and scorched earth. As he pulled his water bag from his belt, and took a long drink, his gaze narrowed. The forest fire had been intense. It must have burned through almost one moon ago, for the ash had washed down every crevice and drainage, streaking the vista like deformed onyx roots. Agweron Village sat in the heart of the blackened chaos. From this distance, the longhouses resembled heaps of burnt splinters.
Towa finally caught up and stood beside him breathing hard, staring across the charred country. He’d seen thirty-two summers pass. Though his long hair had not yet surrendered to silver, lines carved the corners of his eyes and cut half-moons around his mouth. “Dear gods, this happened after I was last here.”
Hiyawento handed him the water bag and waited while Towa gulped several swallows down his parched throat. When Towa lowered the bag, Hiyawento said, “I heard the mysterious fever that ravaged the land last autumn hit the Landing villages especially hard.”
“It did. When I was here the longhouses were half empty. There were so many orphans the clan mothers seemed overwhelmed. But surely they wouldn’t have set fire to their own country to rid it of the evil Spirits that brought the fever? They must have been attacked by Mountain People, and the fires spread into the forest.”