At the insistence that Wave Dancer stop to Trade at their camps, however, Otter politely refused. Once the canoes had veered off, they’d bent to their paddles, placing as much distance as they could between them.
The moon had begun to wane against1 the graying dawn as Otter and Pearl finished their nightly turn at the oars. A stout wind bore down out of the west, and the coastline had gradually turned to the east. Here the beaches gave way to steep cliffs topped by a thick wealth of mixed conifer and maple-oak forest.
To the north, they could see more land narrowing down toward them, as if to funnel them into a slender vein of water.
“This has to be the entrance to the northern passage,” Pearl told him. “The place where the Badger people hunt for the big sturgeon.” “I remember. Trout said it was dangerous through here.” He shook his head. “I wish we could have crossed this stretch at night.”
In the rough water, Wave Dancer leaped and fell with the long, flat swells. She seemed to ride differently now, as if the Fresh Water Sea had seeped into her soul. Of course, Otter had to admit, they rode higher on the water, with so many of the packs flattened and gaps where rows of jars used to sit. He still had several rolls of palmetto matting, two sacks of conch shells, one parfleche of sharks’ teeth, two jars of stingray spines, three sacks of yaupon, a jar of barracuda jaws, four big bags of hanging moss, six bundles of White Shell fabrics, some Tall Cane pottery, and two packs of tobacco leaves. That was it—and nothing to show for the return trip, since they’d eaten everything they’d Traded for.
“Look up there.” Otter pointed to a series of sparkling fires that twinkled under the dark canopy of trees. “Looks like quite a village.”
“We’re coming to the straits, all right,” Pearl said thoughtfully as she studied the shoreline. “Trout told me that we’d recognize it. The land hooks, remember? Perhaps like that bay we circled last night. This might be the last headland.”
Otter watched the fires gleaming on the cliffs off to the right.
“Did he say what it would be like on the other side of the straits?”
“We’ll be able to see land on both sides. We stick to the near shore and follow a wide channel between the mainland and an island.”
When they rounded the high headlands, Otter could see nothing but water to the east.
Green Spider sat up in his blankets, stretching his thin arms as he threw back his head and yawned. He blinked, rubbed his eyes and relieved himself over the side, obviously still fascinated by the bubbles.
“Men! At least the wind’s not blowing in my face,” Pearl muttered over her shoulder.
Otter turned his attention to the north shore as it became visible in the morning twilight. Faint patterns of mist were fleeing with the increasing breeze that blew down their backs to expose more wave-cut cliffs topped by high-peaked spruce, fir, and pine. The trees rose like dark somber spears among the brilliant green of the newly leafed maples and oaks. On both shores, monoliths of rock reared up, perhaps Earth Mother’s guardians of this realm of water. Otter could see that fierce storms had lashed the battered banks and cast the corpses of huge trees high onto the rock.
“I’d hate to pass this in a storm.”
“Me too,” Pearl agreed.
“They are always a little bit late,” Green Spider declared.
“Who?.” Otter asked, glancing around.
“Those wild people.”
“What wild people?” Black Skull asked, sitting up in his blanket and blinking away his slumber.
“Well, I certainly wouldn’t look over there to see them.”
Green Spider pointed to a recessed cove.
Otter shaded his eyes. Men were rushing down a narrow trail on the pockmarked cliff. They looked like ants as they leaped and scrambled over the rocky drop. On the beach, canoes had been pulled up above the wave line. Most of the scuttling men carried what appeared at this distance to be sticks.
“Black Skull! I don’t like the looks of this. These guys might be worse than the Khota.” Otter threw his back into paddling; a picky little voice insisted on reminding him that they always ended up paddling for their lives just when they ought to be settling down for a well-earned rest.
“Green Spider,” Pearl suggested, “you might not want to paddle ” with as little effort as you can muster.”
The Contrary settled himself, digging in with his paddle.
Wave Dancer fairly flew through the water, rising and falling as she raced the windborne waves.
Otter spared no breath for talk but kept an eye on the canoes that launched from the little harbor. One by one, they pushed off in pursuit, until nine dark slivers shot toward them.