Twelve
The Black Skull hadn’t slept well after the feast. At the first graying of dawn, he’d slipped out of the White Shell house. On the seclusion of the beach, he’d practiced with his war club, swinging it while he darted back and forth. After having worked up a fine sweat, he’d stripped and charged into the river.
He swam out into the current, challenged by the gurgling suck of the water. The deep cold leached into his flesh as he flexed and dove into the darkness. With water bubbling in his ears, he fought his way down.
I should feel fear. But he didn’t. Instead, the river’s Spirit surged against him with its probing force, massaging his hot muscles with cold fingers. His ears began to ache.
Black Skull jackknifed and shot up. He broke the surface, puffing for breath as gooseflesh rose on his scarred hide. He flipped water from his face and paddled against the current.
Sticks and bits of flotsam pattered off his skin. Overhead, the sky had gone rosy with dawn.
Floating a dart’s cast from the shore, he spotted the Trader, a gigantic pack on his back as he picked his way down the path in the soft light.
Black Skull flipped and dove. Strong strokes drove him down until he touched bottom. Despite the pain in his ears, he could hear the pulse of the river, the sound of it like hollow echoes.
He groped in darkness, the mud soft under his prying fingers.
Were there no shellfish here? The chill from the cold water had begun to sap his strength. Shivers racked him. Unable to find more than weeds, he shot to the surface and sucked in a new breath.
The Trader had almost reached the drying racks, so Black Skull summoned all of his strength and raced toward the shore in a flurry of powerful strokes. By the time the Trader reached his canoe, Black Skull’s feet dragged bottom. He emerged from the water—unable to stop his violent shivering, panting from the effort of the swim.
Under the Trader’s watchful gaze, Black Skull began wiping water from his numb body. The air burned the cold in deeper.
“The currents out there are dangerous,” the Trader told him evenly. “I’d have an older brother today if he hadn’t dived to the bottom looking for freshwater mussels and pearls.”
“I didn’t find him down there.” Black Skull shook himself and walked to his blanket, cape, and war shirt. With the blanket, he dried himself, then pulled his shirt on. He belted his waist and hung his atlatl there. Against the bitter chill, he swirled his turkey-feather cape over his shoulders.
The Trader had deposited his pack and was watching him, his head cocked.
Black Skull picked up his war club and walked over to the Trader. He paused, letting his gaze scan the seething waters. He took Otter’s measure, aware that the handsome young man didn’t spend as much time staring as most, wondering at Black Skull’s scars, or giving him that gushy look of adoration and embarrassed enthusiasm at being in his presence.
“So, Trader, we’ll go upriver together, you, me, and the fool.”
“So it would seem, warrior. You didn’t look very happy about it yesterday.”
Black Skull made the growling sound he used to warn people, then tilted his broken face to give it the most frightening angle.
“My duty should be here, with my people. Not sailing off into strange lands to battle with wild peoples. I have lived, fought, and killed to keep this land safe. This land here, wjjere our ancestors dwell. Not some far-off place.”
Otter didn’t react to his fierce visage. Instead, a faint smile traced his lips, a twinkle lit his eye. “They’re not wild up there, Black Skull. We’ll travel up to the Serpent River, then up to the Moonshell, which will take us to the Holy Road. From there, we’ll travel to Starsky City. After that, I don’t know the way.
But we’ll go a lot farther north. They aren’t wild, warrior. Like the Alligator Clans to the south, the Serpent peoples think of us as being half animal. Savage.”
Black Skull fingered the use-polished hilt on his war club. “I can’t believe such a thing. Their Traders come to us. They marvel, Otter. I’ve seen the wonder in their eyes when they visit the City of the Dead. They say they’d never expected to find such a place.”
“You are quite correct, Black Skull.” Otter propped a foot on one of the smaller canoes, leaning forward and lacing his fingers. “And when you see some of their incredible clan grounds, and meet their Elders, you will react in the same way. Who knows? If we time it correctly, you might be able to stand atop the Temple of the Sun and watch the stars on the solstice.”
“What of their warriors?”
Otter shrugged. “They have some very good ones. The Khota once squabbled with the Six Flutes, one of the Serpent Clans.