People of the Lakes(19)

Long black hair, shimmering in the fading light, was pulled back now, pinned tightly in mourning instead of billowing in raven waves down her back. One need only glance at her to know that the chill in her soul was colder than the frozen air she now breathed.

Star Shell noted the sympathetic expressions cast her way by grieving relatives. She stopped, staring up at the fading sunset and hugging her blanket even more tightly around her. Her gaze shifted across the broad valley to the northwest, to the heights where the Flying Squirrel earthworks stood to mark the constellation for which the mound had been built.

She knew this valley well. Had the charnel house not blocked the view, she could have seen the trail that led up to the famous chert quarries—placed there by First Man when the world was new. The surface on that high ridge was riddled with huge holes, for countless generations of men had dug the sacred chert from the rocky ground. Part of Starsky city’s political strength came from controlling those chert deposits. Traders arrived from all over the world to obtain the large nodules to Trade up and down the river systems.

According to the story, just after the Creation, First Man had battled a mighty monster. With lightning, he killed the beast, and its blood ran into the ground, becoming the multicolored chert. Because of the sacred nature of the stone, it was used only in special ceremonies. A person who petitioned the Spirit World might use the sacred chert to cut off a bit of flesh for an offering, or perhaps to pierce himself and offer the blood. Such offerings were made for the safe return of a relative or very close friend, for success in Trading, or sometimes in hopes of curing a loved one.

Warriors flaked the stone into potent dart points. The secret societies made tools from it with which to carve pipes, atlatls, or mica effigies. In the Potters’ Society, blades struck from sacred chert were used to incise the design zones of the ceramic jars and pots.

Star Shell heard the approach of her father; his moccasins crunched in the packed snow as he came to stand beside her.

Polished copper ear spools hung from his earlobes, and his tattooed face looked puckered from the cold. He had snugged a yellow-and-black blanket about his shoulders. For the first time, Star Shell noticed that those once broad shoulders had slumped.

When had he aged so?

But then, she too had aged. Not so much in the body, for she was still a young woman—just two tens and four years old.

Despite the three children she’d borne Mica Bird, she retained her legendary beauty and her physical endurance. Only her soul had withered.

“It’s almost over,” her father, Hollow Drill, told her. “When this last fire burns down, we’ll collect the ashes. Then I’ll build a tomb. When I’m dead, you can bury me there beside her.”

“I’ll miss her.”

He bowed his head. “After all these many winters, it’s hard to think of being away from her—even for the short time I have left.”

“Don’t speak like that, Father, I can’t bear to think of both of you gone.” She shivered lightly. “I’ll be back for Mother’s burial. It will be hard for you. Especially at equinox and solstice.

I won’t leave you alone.”

“It’s a long way.” He paused. “And what will your husband say if you miss the rituals at Sun Mounds? You have other responsibilities, Star Shell.”

“He’ll understand.” How easily the lie came to her lips.

“Will he?”

She shrugged, defenseless against his penetrating gaze.

Hollow Drill sighed. “I’m sorry, my daughter. I could have stopped it. Kept you here. Married you to someone else.”

“No, Father. He wears the Mask. Nothing can be denied to someone who wears the Mask. It was the same with his grandfather before him.” She shook her head, hating the thoughts that clung to her like fungus on a rotting tree. She feared Mica Bird. Feared him so much it paralyzed her soul.

In the past four years, he had used the Mask time and again.

He donned it in heated clan meetings—and his opponents died within days. Tension had divided many of the lineages. Some people had packed up and left, moving to distant places where they had kin. Others stared at him adoringly, in awe of his Power, and did his bidding without question or hesitation.

Since Star Shell’s youngest daughter had died, matters had grown worse. Not just the beatings, but other things. He insisted on wearing the Mask before coupling with her. He said it gave Power to his seed. And then, as he covered her, the Mask would be propped beside the bedding—to watch.

If she protested, he beat her into submission before spreading her legs and driving himself painfully inside. His ejaculation made her physically sick.