“I know my duty. Upon my soul, I will do anything you order. But this is dangerous! You can’t place yourselves at risk!
If anything—”
“Black Skull, you and Three Eagles will take me and the rest of the Clan Elders to the White Shell clan house. And you will do anything Green Spider asks of you. Obey, Black Skull, and perhaps you shall learn to see in the miraculous way he does.”
At that, the old man had walked away, his white breath hanging in the air behind him.
And here they were, paddling down the half-frozen channel of the Deer River, headed for the Father Water, and then downstream toward the White Shell clan house. They were taking a terrible chance, exposing the Clan Elders this way. A sudden winter storm could freeze them; a canoe could capsize and one of the Elders could drown. Raiders might capture them. The dangers were too numerous to count.
Black Skull winced. Why would Power hover around an idiot?
And what had happened to Green Spider’s soul while he’d been dead? Had the ghosts perpetrated some evil? Twisted him to some malignant purpose?
If being dead made you into a fool. Black Skull wasn’t sure he wanted any part of it.
Even a brave man like Black Skull had to fear when the Dead rose from their tombs to walk this world again. But Green Spider had come back changed, so different.
And I am bound to him?
At least he would be until they arrived at the White Shell clan house. Then he’d be quit of this madness Green Spider had called down on the Clan Elders. And if Green Spider continued to place the Elders at risk, well, a warrior knew ways to do his duty.
Black Skull looked down at the deadly war club that lay within easy reach of his strong right hand. Beneath the pointed stone war head, the copper spikes glowed eerily in the subdued light.
The morning turned out a great deal more pleasant than Otter expected. Troubled dreams had marred his sleep. He’d dreamed that Red Moccasins had been his—a loving wife who accompanied him as he traveled the river. She had been at his side, dickering for a wealth of copper. He could still see her in the dream, a subtle intimacy in her eyes as she gave him that secret smile of conspiracy. In dreams, the woman you love is always perfect.
He stood beside his overturned canoe, mindful of the sun beating down. Beyond the brown shoreline, the Father Water glinted a wondrous blue. The smell of the river seemed richer this morning, beckoning him to distant places. Otter inhaled; the aroma of mud, musky vegetation, and water seeped through his lungs and into his blood.
He refused to focus his gaze across the river to where the gray haze of swamp cottonwood and the slight blue fog of smoke mixed over the Tall Cane clan grounds.
Red Moccasins would be sitting happily beside Four Kills.
Otter’s imagination produced the laughter breaking from their lips, the sparkle of love reflected in their eyes. He could see their hands clasping warmly, memories circling around the passion they’d come to share as their bodies locked together under the sleeping robes and—
“Otter?” Grandmother’s voice destroyed the tormenting thoughts.
He blinked. Grandmother was tottering down from the drying racks, one hand gripping her gnarled, wooden walking stick. In the sunlight, her white hair gleamed with the purity of newly fallen snow. She wore a yellow-and-red dress decorated with black diamond shapes and lightning zigzags. The clear morning light accented the antiquity of her shriveled face.
She stepped around Wave Dancer’s, polished prow and thrust her head forward like a hunting heron as she ran thin fingers over the gleaming hull.
“Waxing it?” she asked, squinting at the wood.
“Yes, Grandmother. Too much moss had grown on her. I used chert flakes to scrape the moss off. After that, I used sandstone blocks to scrub her down.”
“Why wax? Some magic from the bees?”
Otter rubbed his fingers together, feeling the film that caked them, slick and heavy on his skin. “No, Grandmother. Wax helps to preserve the wood. Feel how smooth she is? Some of the saltwater Traders say the boat will move better through the water. I can’t swear it, but it seems to feel that way. Wave Dancer likes it. I can sense her approval.”
Grandmother walked past him and stopped at the shoreline.
She made a grunting sound as she stabbed her walking stick into the lapping waves. They curled over the skid logs set into the landing and ignored her provocation.
Then she balanced on her walking stick: an old heron peering over the sun-silvered waters. The breeze flapped the hem of her dress in slow rhythms. She looked timeless.
Otter shifted from foot to foot, waiting. With a long exhalation, he released the tension and turned back to the boat. A white chunk of beeswax rested on the curve of hull next to the keel.