Hodigo laughs, and shouts, “Your heart is next, Cattara!” and charges forward for the kill.
“Guards!” Gannajero shouts.
Kotin tackles Hodigo and wrestles him to the ground, growling in fury. “Stimon? Grab his legs!” Another warrior rushes over and throws his body over Hodigo’s flailing legs, holding them.
Hodigo’s wounded opponent sits down hard in the frozen grass. His friends gather around him, speculating on his wound. They keep giving Hodigo murderous glances.
“This is just beginning,” Wrass whispers. “Look at that blood. He’s going to die for sure, and his friends will have to avenge his death.”
I say, “Good. So long as they leave us alone, I—”
Gannajero throws her head back and lets out a bloodcurdling shriek that silences every person in camp. She spreads her arms like a huge bird and hops around in a bizarre dance that resembles Crow hunting mice in a field. As she dances closer to Hodigo and Kotin, men scatter, shoving each other backward to get away.
She stops beside Hodigo with her arms still out. Her black eyes shine and flicker as she cocks her head, looking at him first through one eye, then the other, like a curious bird. Then, with agonizing slowness, she lowers the black feather in her hand toward Hodigo.
Hodigo goes pale when Gannajero leans over him. “What are you going to do with that, old woman?” he shouts, and tries to fight his way free. “Get away from me!”
In an eerie singsong voice, Gannajero chants, “You broke the rules. Hodigo broke the rules.”
“You crazy old witch! Let me go!”
She jerks Hodigo’s shirt away from his chest and uses the shiny black feather to paint a series of interweaving lines on his flesh. “Hodigo, Hodigo, empty soul, wants the girl, can’t let go.”
When Hodigo laughs, Gannajero uses the quill to stab a hole in his chest. He lets out a sharp cry of surprise. Blood wells. Gannajero dips the quill in the blood and continues drawing designs while she sings softly. The men standing around seem fascinated. They must be very afraid of her, or else they would jump her, grab their friend, and leave. Instead, they mutter ominously to each other and watch with huge dark eyes.
Gannajero removes a small black bag from her belt pouch. As she tugs open the laces, she says, “You’re safe now,” and sprinkles a white powder over the bloody designs, then drags out what looks like a freshly dug root. “Open his mouth.”
Kotin cranks open Hodigo’s jaws, and Gannajero shoves the root so far down his throat, he has no choice but to swallow it.
Hodigo’s face contorts, and he spits in Gannajero’s face and chuckles, “You can’t scare me! I am Hodigo, the greatest warrior among the Mountain People!”
Gannajero smiles as she wipes off his spittle on her cape.
Within moments, Hodigo starts to pant and writhe. Finally he screams as though being eaten alive by wolves. All of his friends back away.
When Gannajero tucks the bag into her belt pouch and rises, Hodigo lets out one last bellow and goes limp.
“There, there,” she gently says. “No more bad dreams.”
She grins at his friends and walks away. None of them try to stop her.
Holding the bloody feather to her breast as though she cherishes it, she walks out into the meadow to stare up at the sky. The afternoon is shading toward evening. Long shadows fill the forest. She pets the feather while she whispers to herself, or perhaps to the feather.
Kotin releases Hodigo and calls, “All right, get up, Hodigo.” He pauses. “I said, get up, you worthless …”
The man doesn’t move. Wrass and I stand up to see better. Our guards do not seem to care. They are all breathlessly watching Hodigo.
“What’s happening?” I ask Wrass, who is taller than me.
He shakes his head. “I don’t know. He’s just lying there.”
Hodigo’s friends bravely move in closer. One man crouches and places a hand to Hodigo’s throat. “Blessed Spirits,” he says softly. “He has no heartbeat. Is he breathing?” He quickly places his ear over the bloody designs on Hodigo’s chest and listens. “I don’t … I don’t believe it! He’s dead.”
Gannajero chuckles, and my legs go weak.
Tutelo looks from Wrass, to the guards, and back to me, and sobs, “Odion? What happened to that man?”
I cannot look at her.
The other girl in our group silently rolls to her back. I do not even know her name. She is the quiet one. The child no one seems to notice. Short and skinny, with irregularly cut mourning-hair, she has a face like a chipmunk’s: round, with small dark eyes, and two front teeth that stick out slightly. She hasn’t spoken a word to anyone … until now. “Don’t be s-scared. It wasn’t the feather,” she stutters. “Sh-she probably used helleb-bore. If you gather the roots this time of year, it—it’s deadly.”