The Clan Elders used to speak of the Mysterious One’s quiet soul.
And I wonder if this is not the bridge I am seeking. But how do I find it? Where is it?
is it inside me? Or outside? … Or both at once?
Inklings stir the back of my soul, as though I already know the answer to that question … I just haven’t seen it yet.
Stone Wrist sat on a stump before his house, enjoying the sunshine.
Spring had been particularly dull and rainy, but warmth bathed the land today. His modest house lay several dart casts beyond the earthen enclosure of the Buckeye clan grounds. He could see the conical roof of the clan house and the faint smear of bluish smoke rising from the incense burning in the charnel house. This close, the walk back and forth wasn’t punishing—
and he was close enough to know most of the goings-on.
This morning he had found himself enchanted by the distant cries of children involved in a game of stick. Women were working the fields to the east, bobbing as they plied chert hoes to chop out pesky weeds from around the newly sprouted goose foot. The hearty laughter of men could be heard from the canoe landing, and from somewhere behind him, the dull tunka-thunk of a pestle carried on the hazy air.
High above, two buzzards twirled about each other, the sole threats to the few puffs of cloud. A man could do worse than to live with this kind of simple happiness.
Stone Wrist had become a broker of sorts—a Trader’s host, offering a friendly household and plentiful food in return for pleasant companionship. The Traders who stayed with him generally left a special something behind as a token of appreciation.
Those pieces of shell, obsidian, mica, or copper allowed him to Trade with friends and relatives for enough goosefoot, sunflower seeds, squash, or whatever else he might need to nourish his legendary belly.
Of late, he’d noticed pains in his groin, but they seemed to lessen when he lay down, and such discomforts were minor when compared to the ease of his life.
Today would be very nice. His sole duty consisted of enjoying the warm sunshine and contemplating Pale Snake, his most recent guest. Now there was a truly peculiar man. So delightfully amiable, yet curiously secretive. Sometimes he claimed to belong to an old High Head Clan, other times to the Many Paints, and sometimes to the Serpent Clan of the north—whatever that was. Nights spent with Pale Snake generally overflowed with merriment, as well as with jokes just off-color enough to be genuinely amusing without offending good taste.
I could stand a bit more of his company. Stone Wrist nodded to himself and leaned his head back to catch the full benefit of the sun. What did Pale Snake do up there in the north? Too bad he came by only every two years.
“Stone Wrist?”
He glanced up, then had to use the flat of a hand to shade his vision from the sun. “Greetings! You’re new. Looking for a place to stay?”
“Not particularly.” The man stepped out of the sunlight, and Stone Wrist could see that this was no ordinary Trader, no indeed —not with split human jawbones hanging down his chest like a breastplate.
“How then might I be of service, warrior?”
“I’m looking for a woman.”
“Looking for a woman? Aren’t we all?” Stone Wrist noted the travel stains on the warrior’s high moccasins. Similar blotches could be seen on the shirt, and on the rolled blanket he carried. Other stains, a bit more rusty looking, had to be blood. Human or animal?
“Her name is Star Shell. Perhaps you’ve heard of her?”
“Oh, yes. Everyone has, I daresay. And about the Mask … and that man, a warrior from down at Blue Duck, who has vowed to find her.”
“I am that man. I am called Robin.”
Stone Wrist straightened, a hand to his chin. “The same? You don’t say? What brings you to me, noble War Leader?”
Robin hunched down beside him, and Stone Wrist was reminded of a supple cat ready to spring. Ropy muscle corded under supple bronze skin. That narrowed gaze cataloged the approaches to Buckeye clan grounds. This was a hard man, and those unforgiving eyes now turned to Stone Wrist. “I told you, I’m looking for a woman. I’ve heard that a woman and a little girl left here a couple of days ago … and that you were there.
I think that woman was Star Shell.”
Stone Wrist cocked his head. Robin spoke softly, precisely, and sounded all the more dangerous for it. Something in the human soul can sense a killer’s Power—the ability to deal practiced death. That awareness now chilled Stone Wrist’s fat encased heart. “I know of no Star Shell, great warrior.”
“But you do know of a Trader who took a woman and a girl from here? Perhaps in a canoe?”