The rafter creaked again.
Eight
For the life of him, Otter couldn’t understand. Why had the Clan Elders come for him? What could he give them that they couldn’t find in the City of the Dead? Nagging worry ate at his gut as he hurried from the forest path and across the clearing into the outskirts of the White Shell clan grounds.
When Otter strode through the summer solstice opening and into view of the clan house, he found a knot of excited people gathered. Otter shot Four Kills a wary look and pushed his way forward.
Grandmother appeared to have everything in order. From the way she looked, she seemed to have overcome her shock; her eyes had taken on that obsidian-sharp edge of cunning.
The four Clan Elders sat on a long bench in the sunlight outside Grandmother’s house. Everyone who had been within the clan grounds and all the people from the nearest farmsteads were clustered about. Anxious to see and hear everything, they were nevertheless cowed wide-eyed by the august presence of the visitors.
Otter and Pour Kills found people backing away, leaving an opening for them, while Tiny Turtle walked shyly beside them, eager to maintain her importance despite wobbling legs and the finger she suddenly needed to chew on.
Otter knew the Black Skull on sight.‘No one else looked like that. The crisscrossing scars only seemed to accent the crushed cheek and offset jaw. The warrior’s eyes, however, burned with an intensity Otter had rarely seen. The man seemed to smolder, and that fearsome face twitched like a nest of mice under thin fabric. One powerful fist clutched the atlatl handle, while the other had clamped to the war club. Sunlight flashed on the polished copper spikes set so wickedly into the wood.
Stories circulated about this man. It was said that he’d killed his own mother, struck her down on orders from his family. In one fight with the Copena, he had killed six of their warriors, chased down the remaining five who fled and dispatched them one by one as they collapsed from exhaustion along the trial.
When Otter met the warrior’s eyes, he gazed on Death.
He had to force his attention to the others. Grandmother stood to one side, that thoughtful look on her face as she tried to absorb the meaning of this encounter, and, no doubt, to determine how the White Shell Clan could prosper from it.
Otter bowed politely to the seated Elders in the order of the directions: Blood, Sun, Sky, and Winter. One by one, white heads bobbed in reply. No more hallowed men could be found throughout the world. What were they doing here?
Finally, Otter faced a skinny, thin-nosed man, little older than himself. A Dreamer—especially one just returned from the Dead—should appear Powerful. Something about him should instill that sense of reverence and awe. By looking at him, a man should understand that here was a human being who had looked upon the face of the Great Mystery.
Instead, Green Spider grinned sheepishly, his expression somehow slack,. his gaze sliding this way and that, as if he had problems-with focusing his attention on any one thing. A turkey-feather cape hung over his bony shoulders, and every rib on the man’s body stuck out like skin stretched over a coil of rope. A thick twist of brown fabric wrapped his waist. Two legs, like warped spindles of cedar, ended in big, sandal-clad feet.
On his first trip south with Uncle, Otter had been introduced to the noted Anhinga shaman, Fell Through the Sky. At the time, the old Dreamer had been alive for over eight tens of years. No more than withered flesh on bone, that frail Elder could have been blown away by a child’s fan. Nevertheless, he’d radiated Power. One could feel it like heat from a fire pit.
In contrast, Green Spider had squatted down and now used his finger to trace circles in the dirt around a broken potsherd that had been pressed into the tan earth by a careless heel.
Blue Jar stood just behind Grandmother’s shoulder, a hand to her mouth, anxiety bright in her eyes.
Four Kills bowed to the Clan Elders, tense, missing nothing as he instinctively positioned himself between Black Skull and Grandmother.
Otter placed his hand to his breast. “I am Otter, son of Blue Jar and grandson of Yellow Reed of the White Shell Clan. I understand the Clan Elders of the City of the Dead wished to speak with me.” He shouldn’t be this nervous. How many times had he landed at a strange clan ground, walked up the bank to the opening in the earthworks and faced suspicious eyes and nocked darts? He’d always maintained some sense of serenity, even while distrustful dogs barked, growled, and snapped at his heels.
Steeling himself, Otter forced that disarming’ smile to his lips and tried to quiet the frantic pounding of his heart.
Old Man Blood inclined his head as he fingered his pink conch shell. “We are pleased to meet you, Otter. May your life be long and may you enjoy good health. May your sisters have many children and may they all grow to old age.”