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People of the Longhouse(25)

By:W. Michael Gear


We’re prisoners. Why did I agree to come here when our own children are in danger?

He clenched his teeth to hold back the tidal wave of emotion that overwhelmed him. He’d been trying to take each moment as it came, trying not to see ahead. It did no good to imagine what was happening to Odion and Tutelo. The images only sapped his strength, leaving him quivering and useless.

Koracoo must be enduring the same agony, and perhaps with even more intensity than he did.

Gonda opened his eyes. “Tomorrow. We’ll pick up the trail, and it will lead us right to them.”

Koracoo did not answer. She stared at the square of moonlight that outlined the door. Occasionally, shadows crossed in front of it, and the house momentarily went black.

Gonda added, “They can’t be that far ahead of us. The tracks were only one day old, and it looked like the warriors were herding eight or nine children. That many captives slow men down.”

Koracoo leaned her head back against the wall and looked at the roof. Tiny points of light sparkled. Holes. If it rained, by morning they would be drenched.

“Koracoo, what will we do if Atotarho does not release us in the morning? Have you considered that? It would be a great boon for him to capture War Chief Koracoo and her deputy.” He paused, watching her. “We must get back on the children’s trail as soon as possible.”

He waited.

Her silence was like an enormous black bubble swelling in Gonda’s chest, cutting off his air. It was an accusation: This is all your fault. The destruction of our village. The loss of our children. The deaths of hundreds.

He tried to calm himself by taking deep, even breaths.

“Please, Koracoo,” he begged. “Talk to me. I can’t bear your silence.”

She exhaled softly and turned to look at him. Her eyes reflected the moonlight like perfectly still ponds. “Gonda, I will talk strategy with you. You are my deputy. But I will not discuss our children. If I do, you will not feel better. Do you understand?”

He jerked a nod. “Then let’s talk strategy. If they do not release us tomorrow, I’ve been thinking we may be able to gather more warriors to help us. Atotarho said there are many people who have lost children. If we can recruit a large-enough force—”

“More warriors mean arguments, politics, and intrigue. You and I are enough.”

Koracoo shifted her back against the wall and laced her hands over one drawn-up knee. Her short moonlit hair shimmered with her movements. “Besides, Atotarho is going to release us. He must.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Something in his voice. He wants us out there on the trail. I do not know why, but it’s important to him.”

“His daughter?”

She took a breath and let it out. “He may think she is with the others.”

She had carefully avoided saying, with our children.

Gonda proceeded cautiously. “What would make him think that? They were all taken at different times by different warriors.”

“Hope often draws connections where there are none. Perhaps he—”

The hissing of warriors’ voices silenced her. Her gaze riveted on the door.

Outside, a warrior said, “He’s coming this way.”

“No, he’s not. He’s just out for a walk. Probably worried about his daughter.”

“He is so coming here! Why would he—”

The warriors hushed. Feet shuffled, and shadows passed back and forth, blotting out the silver gleam that rimmed the door.

“Open the door,” Chief Atotarho ordered.

“Yes, my chief.”

Wood clattered as the locking plank was lifted and the door swung open.

Gonda studied the five men standing outside. Atotarho carried a small oil lamp. Behind him, moonlight streamed across the village, turning the longhouses into enormous black walls. A few dogs trotted through the night, their tails wagging. Ordinary village sounds echoed: people snoring, children crying, a few coughs.

Koracoo softly said, “Chief? How may we assist you?”

Atotarho moved painfully, rocking and swaying as he entered the house with his lamp. To the warriors, he said, “Close the door behind me.”

“But … my chief, you can’t go in alone. There are two of them. What if they attack you?”

“I will risk it. Close the door.”

The warriors hissed to each other, but obeyed.

As the door swung closed, the lamplight seemed to grow brighter, reflecting from the plank walls like gigantic amber wings. Atotarho wore a beautiful black ritual cape covered with circlets of bone cut from human skulls. When the lamplight touched them, they flashed. A halo of gray-streaked black hair braided with rattlesnake skins encircled his bony face. “War Chief Koracoo, Deputy Gonda, I must speak with you in confidence. Is that possible between us?”