People of the Longhouse(31)

Yanesh didn’t say it, but Koracoo finished the sentence for her. “He’s probably dead.”

“Yes, and where were you, War Chief? You were supposed to be back by nightfall!” Her voice broke, and she sobbed.

Guilt ravaged Koracoo. “We were attacked, Yanesh. The battle was fierce. I lost one-third of my warriors. The rest of us barely got away—”

“Koracoo!” Deru shouted, and leaped forward swinging his war club as four Mountain warriors appeared out of the firelit smoke and charged them.

“Yanesh, get down!”

Koracoo lunged forward. When CorpseEye collided with the enemy’s war club, a stinging wave flashed up her arms … .





And woke her.

She stared at the roof over her head, where shadows danced in the flickering light of the oil lamp.

Gonda rolled over and stared at her. “Are you all right?”

A terrifying brew of rage and despair was running hot in her veins.

“Koracoo?” Gonda whispered.

She fought down the shout that climbed into her throat, said, “Yes,” and closed her eyes.





Twelve

Odion





As Grandmother Moon climbs high into the night sky, a ghostly sparkle filters through the trees and coats the autumn leaves with a liquid silver sheen. The yips of wolves carry on the cold breeze sweeping up the trails, and I have the chilling feeling that the night is filled with wandering forest Spirits. Sometimes I see them, flitting between the trunks like white scraps of cloth.

“I need more corn brew!” a man shouts. “Come over here, boy.”

I peer out at the warriors who perch like vultures on logs around the fire, using their teeth to rip hunks of meat from roasted grouse. The fire’s orange gleam reflects from their greasy mouths and hands. Hehaka wanders through the gathering, carrying a gourd filled with a brew made from fermented corn, pouring it into cups. I watch him. He moves as though he’s done this many times, and I wonder how long he’s been a slave.

I think about the corn brew, and my throat aches. I tasted it once. Our people pound corn kernels to mush, then leave it until it turns sour. Finally, they pour off the liquid to create the bitter brew. I don’t know how anyone can drink it. It scorched my throat like fire.

Gannajero crouches on the far side of the circle with a clay cup of tea in her hands. All night long, she has been staring into the fire, or talking quietly with her deputy, Kotin. He smiles a lot, and his yellow broken teeth glint in the firelight.

I roll to my side and find Tutelo wide awake, staring at me.

I smooth her hair with my hand. “You should be asleep, little sister.”

Tutelo sucks her lower lip for a while, then says, “Where’s Grandfather?”

“Grandfather?” I find it curious that she did not ask for Mother.

“Yes. Where is he?”

“Oh, let me see, he’s been dead for four summers. Don’t you remember singing his afterlife soul to the Land of the Dead in the Sky World?”

Tutelo seems to be trying to remember. “There were new green leaves on the trees. It must have been spring.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

Tutelo slides closer to me and nuzzles her cheek against my shoulder. “When is he coming home?”

“Who?”

“Grandfather.”

Icy wind gusts through the forest and creeps spiderlike through my clothing to taunt my skin. I feel slightly sick to my stomach. I look down at her. Has her afterlife soul left her body?

“He can’t come home, Tutelo. Someday we will go and find him in the Land of the Dead, but I hope that will not be for a long time.”

“I miss him.”

“I miss him, too.”

Tutelo’s teeth flash as she flops onto her side and props her head on her hand. Her brow is furrowed, concentrating very hard on what I will say next. “Sometimes the dead come back, but if he can’t, we should go see him.”

“I don’t want to go to the Land of the Dead. Not yet.”

“Can I go by myself?”

My heart aches. Is she serious? Does she want to die? “But what would I do without you? You are my only sister. I need you.” I adjust Tutelo’s collar, pulling it up around her throat.

“Did you see that man in the forest a little while ago?”

I frown. Two men guard us, and warriors are always walking around in the forest, but she seems to mean something else. “What man?”

“I don’t know his name. He just stood out there and stared at us. He picked up one of my copper ornaments.” She touched the sleeve of her dress. “I keep losing them.”

I glance at the place where the tiny ornaments were sewn. Several are gone, probably torn off by the brush. “Was he one of the warriors?”