People of the Lakes(34)

That’s what winter was for: telling stories, working on weavings, and gossiping with friends. She’d hoped for that once.

Now, instead, she struggled along in the cold, her visions of happiness dashed. She hadn’t even found time to mourn for her mother. How could things have turned so wretched? What had she done to deserve this?

She gave the Magician a sidelong glance. “You talk a lot, but you haven’t told me very much. About the future, I mean.”

“The future?” He clucked to himself. “Do you think knowing the future would make you feel better? What would you say if I told you that tomorrow you would fall through the ice on a river crossing? What if I told you that your body would never be found and that your ghost would spend forever down there in the mud, lost and alone? Would that make you feel better?”

“I’d turn right around and head back to Starsky City and my father’s house.” “That’s what I thought. You don’t really want to know the future. No one does.”

“But you seem to know, and it doesn’t slow you down. When we reach Sun Mounds and face Mica Bird and the Mask, it won’t be pleasant for you.”

“No,” he admitted heavily. “I won’t enjoy any of it. But you must understand, I don’t know how things will turn out in the end. I only know what appears probable. Nevertheless, I have accepted certain responsibilities in this matter.”

“But why, Tall Man? This is very dangerous. What business is it of yours?”

“Suffering is the business of every human being, Star Shell.

If one has the courage, one can save other people from a great deal of pain. That makes it worth the risk, doesn’t it?”

“I … I don’t Know.” She blinked thoughtfully. “Can’t you just give me a hint? What are we walking into? He isn’t going to kill us, is he?” Tall Man sighed. “Very well, I’ll let you know this. I promise that you won’t die at his hands. But when we arrive at Sun Mounds, you will begin the most horrible days of your life.”

She could see the clan house now, a brown lump in the snowy flats on the terrace beside the small creek. Two more days and they would arrive at Sun Mounds. What did that mean for her?

For her daughter? Would she ever again see a smile on Silver Water’s face? Or was she condemning her daughter to a life of misery?

“I just hope you’re wrong, Tall Man.”

“So do I.” But he didn’t sound encouraging.

Otter stepped into warm dampness as he entered the White Shell clan house. The humid air smelled of spiced food, wood smoke, and wet clothing; the sweet pungency of tobacco permeated the whole. A blazing fire crackled in the central hearth, and people had already settled on the benches that lined the walls, or found spots on the crowded floor. Two of Blue Jar’s daughters, Clay Bowl and Tea) Wing, tended the earth oven, wrapping patties of goosefoot-and-knotweed flour in leaves before dropping them onto the glowing cooking clays.

More cooking clays heated in the roaring flames of the central hearth and would be placed over the top of the patties. Water would be sprinkled onto the clay cubes to explode into steam.

Layers of hot clays, patties, and more clays would be alternated until the oven was filled. The contents would then steam and roast for several hours, and the warm hearth would do double duty to heat the house.

Otter took a quick inventory as he shrugged out of his soggy foxhide coat. Not much had changed since last fall. One of the cattail mats that divided the three rooms of the clan house was new. Clusters of gourds still hung from the roof. Most of them were full of seeds that Grandmother used in curing or cooking, or both. Others held leaves, flowers, pollen, and mineral powders for dying textiles in different colors. Net Sags of nuts, dried raspberries, sugarberries, and plums hung near the doorway.

Strings of dried onions had been tied together with cordage and dangled like shrunken white beads. Soot had coated most of the thatch, roof poles, and cord bindings. The constant smoking of the ceiling kept rot and fungus to a minimum and reduced the number of spiders and insects that lived in the roofing.

The cane walls had been painted in bright, geometric designs —the same as those the women wove into their fine fabrics.

The lightning patterns, chevrons, and triangles identified the work of the White Shell Clan, just as other clans used designs peculiar to themselves.

The clan leaders had settled themselves on the floor in the back of the room. Blue Jar, Otter’s mother, rested on a reed mat beside the fabric cushion where Grandmother would sit. Round Seed and Red Dye, Otter’s aunts, sat in their places to the right of Grandmother’s cushion.