People of the Longhouse(4)

I lean down to whisper, “She’s coming, Tutelo, but we have to stop talking about it, or the bad men will hear us. You don’t want them to know Mother’s coming, do you? If they know she’s coming, they will ambush her. We must be quiet.”

Tutelo looks up with big, tear-filled eyes. In sudden understanding, she whispers, “All right.”

As we march deeper into the trees, the scents of rotting wood and damp autumn leaves fill the air. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly.

I keep praying that Big Man told us the truth: We will all be adopted into new families. We will have lots to eat, and though the work will be hard, our new families will come to love us. In time, Big Man says, we will forget our Standing Stone families and be happy in the Mountain People’s villages. I will become a great hunter, and Tutelo will marry a good man and give the nation healthy sons and daughters.

Usually, that’s how it works. I have seen many children, taken in warfare, brought to Yellowtail Village and adopted into families. Each is miserable at first, but within a few summers he or she seems genuinely happy. I myself was captured in a war raid. Father says I had seen six or seven moons. He pulled me from the burning wreckage of a longhouse and carried me home to Yellowtail Village. I know no other home, and I love my adopted parents with all my heart. Mother says that no people can create an empire, they must become one, and the best way to do that is to adopt conquered peoples into Standing Stone families and educate them as their own children, without distinction.

Unfortunately, I am beginning to think that Big Man’s promises of happiness are worthless.

These are not ordinary warriors. Even I can see that. They wear no clan sashes, and have no visible tattoos. In fact, I can spot places where they have cut off tattoos, or obliterated them. They never call each other by name, which makes me think they are afraid that one of us will later speak that name in the wrong company.

Broken Teeth trots toward Agres and her sister. All morning long his eyes have sought out Agres, and I do not like the way he looks at her. Agres wears beautiful polished copper earspools, and shell bracelets that click when she walks. She turns away and tries not to notice Broken Teeth’s attention. Instead, she occupies herself with caring for her infant sister. The hungry baby mews constantly. Though Agres keeps placing a wet twist of hide in the infant’s mouth to suck on, the baby just spits it out, wails, and tugs at Agres’ long hair with frantic hands. None of us has had anything to eat, and water only eases the cramps for so long.

As we walk, the endless mountains pass by. In the afternoon, we enter a stand of enormous oaks. Big Man forces us to climb over bare exposed rock. Stones are the bones of Great Grandmother Earth, and like the bones of animals, they are alive. They deserve to be treated with respect. I try to walk gently.

I push Tutelo in front of me where I can watch her. Just ahead of her walks Wrass. He has also seen eleven summers, but he’s four moons older than I am—maybe the oldest boy here—and he’s brave. My father says that Wrass is destined to be a great warrior. Tall for his age, he has a face like an eagle’s, with sharp dark eyes and a hooked nose. Wrass can track better and shoot farther than any other boy in our village. I have always been jealous of Wrass. As the war chief’s only son, much is expected of me, but I have always been afraid. I am the boy who runs when the bear approaches. The boy who hurries home when darkness falls. And I’ve never been very good with a bow. Not like Wrass, who can shoot a bird out of the sky at fifty paces. For the first time in my life, I am grateful for his skills. My deepest hope is that he is waiting his chance to grab a war club and start a fight that will allow a few of us to escape.

When he turns his head, and I see his profile, my hopes evaporate.

Wrass looks as lost and terrified as the rest of us. Every time one of the warriors glares at him, Wrass starts shaking.

Sunlight pierces the rain clouds and slants across the forest, casting geometric patterns upon the rocks. I let my head fall forward to stare at them, and my shoulder-length black hair hangs over the front of my buckskin shirt. Some of the children have capes, but Tutelo and I scrambled from our beds so fast we didn’t have the chance to grab ours. Last night, when Big Man let us sleep for two hands of time, I curled my body around Tutelo to keep her warm, and dreamed of Mother leading a war party into the camp and killing Big Man and all of his warriors.

If I live to see one thousand summers, that dream will still be the best of my life.

Big Man leads us off the rocks and down a steep trail into a small clearing where he calls, “Make the children sit down.”