People of the Lakes(87)
Traded for in the south. From White Shell he had included fine fabrics for Trade, and sealed jars of goosefoot, marsh elder, sunflower seeds, and squash for supplies.
He lowered his bag as he stepped between the offering poles and knelt at the foot of the humped burial mound. Only the greatest leaders were placed in the mounds. The tomb was cut into the ground, lined with logs, and the mound of soil placed above. This Way, the leader rested at the symbolic heart of the earth, there to continue to work for the people, to plead their case to the Earth Mother, and to converse with the Guardian Spirits.
Lifting his arms, he wet his lips and Sang, “Ancestors? It is I, Otter, son of Blue Jar. I ask you, please help keep my people safe. Protect them from illness and trouble. Allow no evil to enter the clan grounds. Keep my family and friends healthy, prosperous, and happy.” He bowed his head. “I’m going far away. While I’m gone, I will honor your memory. I hope you will ask the Spirit World to watch over me.”
From the pouch at his belt, he took a thin blade of sacred chert from the distant Starsky quarries. Pulling back his left sleeve, he exposed the bronze skin of his wrist. There, beside a parallel series of barely visible scars, he made a quick incision.
Replacing the sacred chert, he squeezed his forearm until several drops of rich, red blood beaded and dripped onto the dark soil.
Was it the wind, or did he hear the ghosts rustling as they scented the blood he’d offered?
He turned then, and picked up his pack before striding purposefully toward the western break in the earthworks. The vague murmurings of the dead still haunted him—a sensing rather than the barely audible whispers he strained to hear.
He approached the gap in the earthen perimeter wall and cast one last look at the enclosure. Here he’d grown from boyhood into a man. Ever since that first farewell with Uncle, he had sensed that one day he would leave—and never come back.
Had that day come?
Catcher bounded and jumped about, knowing instinctively that the dreary days of guarding the storehouse had ended. The time had come to venture forth again—onto the river, with its smells and the lazy days of sleep, curled on the packs.
A Trader’s dog didn’t always live a life of drudgery.
For Otter, the sense of excitement had been building, overcoming the low point he’d suffered last night in Red Moccasins’ arms. The river called, and with it, the most prestigious expedition he’d ever undertaken.
“Come on, Catcher. Let’s go.”
The dog snorted happily as it bounded forward. Otter placed his moccasined feet on the worn trail.
The sky didn’t look promising; high layers of cloud had an ugly look, that of a storm pushing up from the ocean. The diffused light gave the river a look like tarnished and smudged silver.
Hardly an auspicious day. By tomorrow they’d be lucky if they weren’t soaked to the bone and miserable.
Perhaps Green Spider had been granted his control over the weather. It would be a small bit of blessing. Wouldn’t Power want its Contrary to travel in ease?
Otter shook his head. According to the stories, Power never made anything easy on people. Maybe the Spirits took some perverted joy in inflicting every conceivable misery on those it chose to. do its bidding.
Like including Black Skull as part of the package.
Otter stilled a shiver, the image of the warrior’s violent gaze frozen in his mind. Even now, fingers of time after the morning confrontation, he couldn’t imagine how he’d met that deadly, single-minded stare. He’d looked into those black eyes, and the effect had been horrifying.
Yet, I faced him down. I’m either braver than I thought I was, or five times more the fool!
The shiver broke free and sent spasms through his muscles.
Blame it on the biting wind. That was it. 4
I’m stuck between Black Skull, a man whose sole purpose is wielding death, and Green Spider, a Contrary who can’t even give a straight answer.
Power had a rotten sense of humor.
The canoe landing swarmed with people, both White Shell and Tall Cane. He could see the Clan Elders waiting patiently in the crowd. Spotting Green Spider proved even easier. People had granted him a wide berth, clearly not caring to get too close to a man of such Power. One never knew what might rub off.
The Contrary seemed oblivious. He stood smiling benignly at the trees. The white bones painted on his black clothing looked startlingly real, down to the tiniest of toe joints on his moccasins.
Otter located the warrior. Black Skull stood to one side, his muscular arms crossed. Even from this distance, Otter could see the arrogance reflected in that erect stance. How was he going to manage such a long journey with the overbearing man?
Four Kills noted Otter’s approach and broke away, followed by Blue Jar. Four Kills, too, had dressed in his best; his buckskins were tanned to a honeyed glow. He wore his hair in a knot over his forehead, pale marginella beads gleamed against his black locks. A thick blanket, interwoven with strips of soft beaver and goose down, was folded over his left arm, and a thick coil of rope filled his right.