People of the Longhouse(19)

Sindak watched the people milling around inside the palisade. During the autumn most people spent every moment until total darkness down along rivers where the fields were, collecting the last green-corn cobs or picking late squash blossoms—but everyone knew this council meeting was critical.

Sindak climbed to a higher branch, where he could see better. Two of the clan matrons—both white-haired and skinny—waved their arms. Chief Atotarho, who had seen fifty-two summers, sat with his head down and his eyes closed, as though he could bear no more of this. He’d braided rattlesnake skins into his gray-streaked black hair, then coiled it into a bun at the base of his head and secured it with a tortoiseshell comb. The style gave his narrow face a starved look. On this cool day, he wore a smoked deerhide cape over his shoulders. Red paintings covered the golden hide, mostly images of men in battle, for he had once, a long time ago, been a great warrior. But now, the cape covered a crooked and misshapen body. Every summer, he seemed to grow thinner. The village Healers said he had the joint stiffening disease. His enemies, however, said Atotarho was a powerful sorcerer, a witch, and his evil deeds had come back to haunt him.

As evening settled over the land in a smoky veil, long purple shadows spread through the forest, filling in the hollows of Atotarho’s gaunt face. He had lost his only son in a raid seven summers ago; now his daughter was gone—probably being held hostage, maybe being tortured or worse. Atotarho must be frantic to get his daughter back.

Old Tila—matron of the Wolf Clan—leaped to her feet and shook her fist at Atotarho. More shouts rang out.

Sindak would love to be down there listening to the arguments, but his duty today was to keep watch on the western trails. Three other guards watched the northern, southern, and eastern trails. The boredom was excruciating. He often caught himself wishing Standing Stone warriors would attack just for the relief it would offer.

Kelek—matron of the Bear Clan—shouted at Atotarho, and the chief dropped his face into his hands as though totally defeated. His False Face pendant fell from his cape and swung in the dim light.

It was strange to see it around the neck of a man. Ordinarily the sacred pendant was passed from clan matron to clan matron, but Atotarho’s only sister had died as a child. Since his mother had no daughter to give it to, the clan had bestowed it upon Atotarho when he became chief.

Sindak stared at it in awe. The pendant was ancient and chronicled the most sacred story of all: the great battle between human beings and Horned Serpent. At the dawn of creation, Horned Serpent had crawled out of Skanodario Lake and attacked the People. His poisonous breath, like a black cloud, swept over the land, killing almost everyone.

In terror, the People had cried out to the Great Spirit, and he sent Thunder to help them. A vicious battle ensued, and Thunder threw the greatest lightning bolt ever seen. The flash was so bright many of the People were instantly blinded. Then the concussion struck. The mountains shook, and the stars broke loose from the skies. As they came hurtling down, they hissed right over the People. Thousands slammed into Great Grandmother Earth. The ferocious blasts and scorching heat caused raging forest fires. The biggest star fell right into the lake on top of Horned Serpent. There was a massive explosion of steam and—as Horned Serpent thrashed his enormous tail in pain—gigantic waves coursed down the river valleys and surged over the hills in a series of colossal floods that drowned most of the People. Of the entire tribe, only five families remained—the five families who would become the Peoples that today lived south of Skanodario Lake.

Sindak propped his hand on his belted war club and checked the western trails again, ensuring they were still empty. He looked toward Forks River, where a group of young women were bathing. Several splashed around in the water. Another group sat on the darkening shore, naked, combing each other’s hair while they dressed.

He smiled, letting erotic thoughts run through his mind. He …

“Are you watching the trails, or a woman?” a voice called from below.

Sindak looked down. His friend, Towa, stood below with another warrior named Pova. At twenty, Towa had waist-length black hair and a face women swooned over: oval, with a straight nose, perfect smile, and serious eyes. Unfortunately, Towa didn’t see very well, which meant he couldn’t hit a longhouse with an arrow at ten paces. But he was especially skilled at war strategy, which was probably why they were best friends. They balanced each other’s weaknesses. Towa had recently been wounded in battle and still wore his left arm in a sling.

“I must be watching the trails. We haven’t been attacked, have we?” he called back.