People of the Longhouse(5)

Two warriors trot down the line swinging war clubs, forcing us to drop to the damp oak leaves. Tutelo tucks her hand into mine. Her fingers are icy cold. I lift them to blow on them, and she shivers at the sudden warmth.

“We’re going to be all right. Just be quiet, Tutelo.”

“Where’s … ?” She stops herself from asking, and I clutch her hand and nod.

Only when I start looking around do I see that this small clearing has been used before. Holes have been scooped out of the leaves, as though many children slept here and covered themselves with the leaves for warmth. Fragments of a broken clay cup scatter the ground to my left. Beneath a fallen log, I see the top half of a girl’s cornhusk doll.

Has Big Man brought other captive children here? Why?

Big Man gathers his warriors around him, and they whisper to each other, but I can’t make out any of their words.

I look at the leaves, and my thoughts turn to those other children. I swear I can smell their last moments here. Fear sweat drifts on the air, and I pick up the faint coppery odor of blood. What happened to you?

Wrass seems to smell these things, as well. He lifts his hooked nose, scents the wind, and his mouth tightens.

Tutelo bites her lip, looks back and forth between us, and asks, “Where’s Mother?”

The words are like spear thrusts to my belly. “Coming,” I whisper. “She’s coming.”

“When?”

“Soon. She and Father are tracking us. It will take some time.”

Tutelo heaves a deep sigh and leans her head against my shoulder.

At the head of the group, the three new girls start talking to each other.

Big Man says, “Quiet.”

One of the girls says a last word to her friend, and Big Man shouts, “I said, quiet!”

Two of the girls sit as if frozen, staring wide-eyed at him, but the talkative girl says, “I just wanted to finish—”

Big Man stalks toward her, and the expression on his face makes my blood go cold. The blow is swift and fierce. The girl shrieks and topples backward. When she rolls onto her side, blood pours from her mouth and spatters the bright autumn leaves.

Big Man glares at the rest of us. “Do you understand now? See what happens if you make me angry? If you do not obey me instantly? Be quiet!”

The only sounds are the wind through the trees and the soft sobbing of the baby.

We seem to sit forever, staring at each other, staring at our captors. I am certain that every child is thinking the same thing I am: Someone is coming for us. That’s why we’re here. This is a meeting place. Who is coming?

In less than one hand of time, nine strangers appear. They are like ghosts floating out of the forest. One is a boy about my age. Seven of them are lean, hungry men with mean eyes. The tallest man moves like a gangly stork and carries a heavy hide pack slung over his shoulder. The last person is a woman. She is old, maybe forty summers. Graying black hair hangs in greasy twists around her wrinkled face, and her eyes … her eyes are black bottomless pits. She seems to have no souls. Her toothless mouth is puckered and hard, and her nose resembles a sun-withered plum. When she speaks it is as though sandstone boulders are rubbing together. Each word is a scratchy blow: “Get them up. Let me look at them.”

“Get up,” Big Man orders. “All of you. Stand up. The great Gannajero wants to see you.”

We stand. All of us are trembling. I have never heard of Gannajero, but it terrifies me that Big Man does not care if I know her name. It is as though he believes she is so powerful nothing can harm her.

Gannajero drags over the boy who came with her, shoves him into our group, then slowly walks down the line, scowling at each of us. When she looks at me, my legs go weak. Evil lives in her eyes. I can feel it coiling around my heart, squeezing the life from it. I can’t breathe. When she moves on to the next child, I stagger and lock my knees to keep standing.

Wrass tries to be brave. He has his jaw clenched and stares back at her without blinking. This makes Gannajero smile at him. It is not a pleasant smile, but a promise of pain to come.

Crows squawk, and Gannajero looks up to watch them soar through the sky. It is a small flock, ten or twelve jet-black birds. In a hoarse voice, she cries, “Caw! Caw, caw!” The crows seem startled. As though curious, many of them cock their heads and began to circle above her, angling their wings, watching, thocking inquisitively to each other.

Gannajero’s mouth opens in a toothless smile, and she says, “Are any of you children related?”

The oldest of the three Flint girls answers, “We are sisters.”

Agres says, “So are we.”

I hesitate, not sure whether I should give her this information. Before I can respond, Tutelo says, “We are brother and sister.”