People of the Black Sun(95)
Dekanawida’s stomach squealed, and she smiled. “It sounds like you’re ready for purple cornmeal mush.”
“Obviously.”
Baji bent and retrieved their cups and spoons from where she’d stowed them beside the hearthstones. As she spooned their cups full, raspberry-scented steam encircled her face. Never before had the fragrance of raspberries been so overpowering. She might have been wandering through an endless field of ripe berries.
When she rose and handed him a cup with a spoon sticking in it, she asked, “I wonder where Hiyawento and Zateri are today? I’m worried about them. Do you think they’ve reached the safety of Canassatego Village yet?”
“I hope so. They should be close.”
“Gods, I pray their villages made it to Canassatego unharmed and all is well.”
“As I do.”
He picked up his wooden spoon. After he’d tasted the mush, he smiled. “This is delicious. That was a fat muskrat we snared last night. The flavor of his meat goes well with the raspberries.”
“I gave Gitchi one of the muskrat legs. I doubt he tasted it at all. He wolfed it down in four bites.”
When he heard his name, Gitchi ambled over to sit on his haunches beside Dekanawida, looking up with soulful eyes, probably hoping for another leg.
As Dekanawida ate, his short black hair fell around his face, framing his slender nose and brown eyes. “Speaking of Hiyawento, I’ve been thinking about Shago-niyoh coming to you on the trail.”
A thread of unease went through her. “What about it?”
She ate the rich cornmeal mush, and tried not to look at him. Her fear of discovery had not ebbed, but only increased as the days passed.
“Did Hiyawento ever tell you about Shago-niyoh coming to him?”
She lowered her spoon to her bowl where it clacked against the wood. Surprised, she said, “No. When did this happen?”
“Twelve summers ago. Soon after we all escaped from Bog Willow Village. At the time, you and I would have either been on the trail with Mother and Father, tracking the old woman, or maybe canoeing the river, I’m not sure about the timing.”
A swallow went down his throat, as though memories filled the space behind his eyes, and they hurt.
“What happened?”
He tilted his head and frowned. “He said he was lying in the old woman’s canoe. He was very sick. You recall how badly they’d beaten him after he killed the warrior and made sure we got away.”
“Yes.” Love for Wrass filled her.
Dekanawida rubbed his eyes. “He thought he was dreaming when the man waded through the water to get to him. The man wore a black cape, and had a nose bent to the right. Wrass thought he might be one of the hanehwa.”
Hanehwa were enchanted skin-beings. Witches—like the old woman—skinned their human victims alive, then cast spells upon the skins, forcing them to serve as guards. Hanehwa never slept. They warned the witch of danger by giving three shouts.
“How did he know it was Shago-niyoh and not one of the hanehwa?”
“The man spoke to him, which hanehwa never do.”
“What did he say?”
Dekanawida seemed to pause to get the words right. “He said, ‘We are all husks, Wrass, flayed from the soil of fire and blood. This won’t be over for any of us until the Great Face shakes the World Tree. Then, when Elder Brother Sun blackens his face with the soot of the dying world, the judgment will take place.’”
Baji frowned at Dekanawida. The Great Face was the chief of all False Faces. He guarded the sacred World Tree that stood at the center of the earth. Its flowers were made of pure light. The World Tree’s branches pierced the Sky World where the Blessed Ancestors lived, and her roots twined deeply into the underworlds, planting themselves upon the back of the Great Tortoise that floated in the dark primeval ocean that spread forever around the land. Elder Brother Sun nested in the World Tree’s highest branches.
“Why have you never told me this story?”
His shoulders lifted. “It’s Hiyawento’s story, not mine. The first time I heard it was twelve summers ago.”
She studied his tormented face. “The first time? There was another?”
“Yes, just a few days ago. In Coldspring Village. I—I wanted Hiyawento to tell Taya about it.”
There was a small awkward moment of silence, as though he feared she might view it as a betrayal; he’d wanted Taya to hear the story, but he’d never felt Baji needed to hear it.
Baji playfully bumped shoulders with him. “Good. That was the right thing to do.” He gave her a small apologetic smile, and she said, “The images are different, though. From your Dream, I mean. In your Dream, Elder Brother Sun turns his back on the dying world and flies away into a dark hole in the sky. In Hiyawento’s, Elder Brother Sun covers his face with the soot of the dying world. Are they the same event, or different?”