People of the Lakes(40)

That morning they had passed the confluence of the Western River. She’d been that far north before. But from there on, she had been seeing country new to her. The journey had taken on a different feeling: one of inevitability.

What would it be like? How would she live with these people?

What would this strange northland be like?

The canoes would beach on some strange northern river, and the oddly dressed Khota would crowd around her, nudging, peering, grunting to each other as their stares invaded her. She’d have to walk among them like a curious trophy. Despite the numbing fear, she must act with all the pride and bearing of the Anhinga.

How can I do that if they start poking, prodding? The very thought brought a chill to her. Would they resent this woman of the south coming among them? Surely a man as great as this Wolf of the Dead would have women who wanted him, perhaps even loved him. How would they deal with her arrival? Teasing?

Testing her courage? Outright hatred?

Pearl knotted her fists. She knew none of their customs. What if she offended their beliefs? Would they understand—or would they shun her for an intruder?

Glancing at the warriors around her, she could remember no moment of sympathy. Of all of them, only Grizzly Tooth regarded her as anything more than a prize. She could read nothing but desire in the eyes of the others—and then only when Grizzly Tooth’s attention was elsewhere.

As the fire crackled, she studied the war leader from the corner of her eye. She was the only woman among four tens of men. Could he keep his young men under control? Or would Wolf of the Dead even care if his warriors decided to sate themselves within her?

If you don’t think about it. Pearl, maybe it won’t happen.

Despite the predatory stare Grizzly Tooth gave her, she forced herself to remember quiet mornings in the backswamps as the mist curled off still water and around the swollen boles of tupelos.

She could see the dewdrops, gleaming like crystals on the hanging moss. The lilt of birdsong carried as Alligator floated, only his eyes and nostrils breaking the placid surface of the silky water.

As she stared into the fire, memories of other fires in happier times were kindled. Faces formed, so finely etched in her memory.

Brown eyes sparkled, and echoes of laughter broke bright from the lips of friends and family, only to vanish in the emptiness of her soul.

I’m never going to see my people again. I’m headed into the unknown … and I’m going to die horribly among the barbarians Black Skull dug his decorated -paddle into the sluggish water, driving the dugout canoe through the thin sheet of ice that crackled and shattered under the force of their passage. As the boat passed, fragments of ice tinkled and whispered against the hull.

The V’ed bow wake washed over the crust, clearing the ice to expose wobbling white bubbles trapped beneath.

The Deer River was bleak at this time of year. The thin dusting of snow that had fallen the night before now vanished in the brightening daylight. Mottled yellow-brown mats of fall leaves carpeted the ground under naked trees half-strangled by ropy masses of dormant vines. In the shadowed hillside fringes of woodland, light-starved saplings cast a chaotic pattern on the forest floor.

Overhead, clots of fluffy white cloud scudded off to the northeast, driven by the relentless south wind. On the north-facing slopes, crusted snow lay blue-white in the shadows. Spears of ice clung to the shadowed limestone outcrops that peered through leaf mold and patchy, reddish-yellow sands.

They’ve all lost their minds, Black Skull groused at himself.

We’re on a fool’s errand!

He craned his neck, studying the next bend. From his position in the war canoe’s stem, he had to peer around three men. Two of them were Clan Elders, each dressed in their clan colors. And finally, up in the bow, he sat, bolt upright, head erect—facing, of all things, backwards!

In spite of his irritation, a sudden need to shiver settled. in Black Skull’s flesh—and it wasn’t incited by the bracing morning air.

Black Skull thrived on discipline and order; he had little time for foolishness. Foolishness in a warrior was a weakness, and no one could accuse Black Skull of weakness. As a child, he’d lived in weakness, and in fear. But Granduncle had shown him the way: the warrior’s path. Through discipline and duty, Black Skull had destroyed his tormentor and overcome his weakness.

As a warrior, he organized each day, conducted himself with honor and propriety as befitted one of his rank, observed the rituals and taboos of his War Spirits, and obsessed himself with training.

And then lightning struck the temple and Black Skull’s ordered life began to dissolve.

I’m cursed with a lunatic … on a lunatic’s mission. To emphasize his wrath, he used his pointed war paddle to send the canoe flying forward.