People of the Lakes(18)
“I’ll miss you … again.”
“And I, you.”
Four Kills touched Otter on the shoulder. “You know that you always have my love … and Red Moccasins’ as well.”
“I know.” Otter pulled loose, stepping to the side of his broad canoe. “Actually, I came down here to get something.”
He glanced up. “Judging by the laughter, it’s about time for the exchange of gifts.”
Four Kills crossed his arms against the chill of the night wind.
“Yes. In fact, I’d better be getting back.”
Otter bent over the gunwale of his canoe, fished around, and found what he was looking for: a heavy, flat slab wrapped in thick folds of sturdy brown fabric. “Here it is. Come on. You’re supposed to be at your wife’s side.”
Four Kills squinted in the darkness. “What is that?”
“Your wedding gift from me. I think you’ll like it.”
“Something useful?”
“Hardly, but you’ll have the wealthiest household in Tall Cane territory.” And Otter would incur Grandmother’s wrath by giving away such a fabulous prize to his brother’s wife’s clan. The copper plate he now fingered stretched as long as a man’s arm, and half as wide. The heavy metal had been pounded to the thickness of a turtle’s shell and polished to a bright luster.
Otter would, avoid looking into Red Moccasins’ eyes as he uncovered the plate and handed it to her. He would only allow himself to smile at her mother—and then politely step back.
Otter tucked the heavy plate under one arm and gripped his brother’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s get you back before Grandmother comes raging down on us like a winter storm.”
And I’ll enjoy watching the Tall Cane Clan’s eyes go round at the sight of this much copper in one piece!
Perhaps -it was an arrogant act—but it brought satisfaction.
Giving a copper plate like this would bolster him enough to bear her presence and to smile as if this were the happiest night of his life.
He glanced sideways at his brother, who watched him warily.
Four Kills would understand—and forgive him this little bit of pride.
That same night, many months’ journey to the northeast, sunset had cast golden hues across the hilly, winter-gripped land of the Flat Pipe people and their allies, the High Heads. It was said that of all the peoples on earth, none were so influential as the Flat Pipe, and no ceremonial centers so grand as theirs. Of all the mighty works in the Flat Pipe world, few would argue that Starsky city wasn’t the most spectacular of all.
Starsky nestled among the rolling, forested hills in a west east-trending valley, bounded on the north by the ice-choked Flying Squirrel River and on the south by the smaller Duck River. Their channels joined on the eastern edge of the site, where the canoe landing was situated. A patchwork of fuzzy gray trees and irregular fields covered the slopes to the north and south of the rivers—the beginning of the farmsteads. Sunflower and goosefoot stalks protruded in enough places to give the snowy fields a tawny look.
Starsky had gone quiet in the cold and growing darkness.
Footprints crisscrossed pathways through the deep snow and onto the earthen monuments contained within the embankment of the great solar observatory with its huge Octagon. To the southeast, the Great Circle, with its eagle-shaped central mound and high gateway, lay empty this night, none of the Star Society astronomers braving the chill to use the huge lunar observatory.
Clustered throughout the long, linear earthworks, mounds, circles and squares, were the clan houses, society houses, and charnel huts. Threads of smoke rose from the smoke holes, piercing bark-and-thatch roofs before spiraling into the night sky.
One charnel house stood out. It was oblong, peak-roofed with bark, and black smoke curled out of the smoke holes. Such smoke poured out only when a cremation was underway. Blanket-wrapped people had gathered in knots around the doorway.
The brightly colored blankets contrasted with the glaring world of white. Headdresses of copper, mica, and glistening beads offset rich black hair, carefully washed and, for the somber occasion, pulled into severe buns and pinned with conch shell-whorl pins. As the people stood silently in the new darkness, their frosty breaths intermingled, as did their grief.-
One young woman stepped out of the smoky interior and into the cold. She pulled her blanket tight about her shoulders, as if seeking protection from something besides the cold. Many thought her the most beautiful woman in the world. Full lips balanced the proportions of the firm, straight nose and strong brow. Those eyes—large and dark—should have sparkled with laughter, but now they betrayed the deep sorrow of a bruised soul. Hands like hers were meant for holding, the fingers long and slender. Even as they clutched the blanket, they did so tenderly.