People of the Longhouse(72)

Towa shook his head as though he had no idea, but after a few moments, he blinked, and said, “Well, I—I suppose I’d tell my warriors to fan out—to get as far from each other as they could—and to pick the most difficult paths through the forest. Both strategies would slow the pursuers down to a crawl and give me more time to get away.”

“But …” A thoughtful expression lined Sindak’s beaked face. “As the day wears on, as each person gets closer to the meeting place, the trails will start to converge.”

“Yes.” Gonda nodded. “And that’s the first thing we should look for. Patterns like that. If we can figure out even the most basic pattern it will cut our search time in half.”

Koracoo gazed up into the oak tree to study the interlacing branches again. Sunlight sheathed every twig. “If we assume that this is one of the trails, and they are headed east, there should be other trails to the north and south of this one. We just have to find them.”

Cloud People drifted through the sky high above, and their shadows roamed the trees like silent Spirits, plunging them into a suddenly dimmer world. Wind murmured through the branches, rising and falling in an ominous cadence. Gonda waited until the shadows had passed and Elder Brother Sun’s gleam again sparkled through the trees.

“All right,” Gonda said. “Where are we going to meet?”

Koracoo answered, “The main trail forks just south of Hawk Moth Village. I say we meet there.”

Gonda turned to Sindak and Towa. “Do you know where that is?”

“Yes,” Sindak said. “We’ve been there several times, on raids. Frankly, I don’t think the Flint People like us very much. If they catch us, they’re liable to cut us into tiny pieces and feed us to their dogs.”

“The same is true for us. That means we need to stay out of their way,” Gonda said.

Koracoo gestured to the oak tree. “Sindak, you found the scars on the tree. Why don’t you start with this trail?”

“Yes, War Chief.” Sindak grabbed a branch and started climbing up into the oak.

While she watched him, Koracoo said, “The rest of us will spread out along an east-west line and start walking north, cutting for sign. I’ll start from here—the base of this tree.”

Gonda looked at Towa. The youth still had a skeptical disheartened expression. “Towa, I’m going to trot east for two hundred paces, then cut north. Why don’t you trot west for two hundred paces, and cut north. If you find sign, follow it out. If not, don’t worry about it—just meet us at dusk south of Hawk Moth Village.”

Towa nodded. “I’ll be there.” He took off at a slow trot, heading west.

Gonda headed east. When he turned to look over his shoulder, he saw Koracoo walking due north into the jade-colored pines, and Sindak maneuvering through the bare oak branches, tracking his prey from tree to tree like an overgrown squirrel.





Twenty-nine

The pattering of acorns falling on the forest floor mixed with the pounding of Towa’s heart. Somewhere close by he heard movement. It might be an animal, but he was fairly certain it was a man.

Gently, so he made no sound, he grasped the scrub oak branch blocking his path and eased forward. When he’d stepped by, he returned the branch to its former position and scanned the deep forest shadows. Slippery elms and yellow birches were in the process of crowding out the oaks. As he tiptoed by a birch, he silently broke off a twig and chewed it. The flavor of mint filled his mouth. Birds watched him, their feathers fluffed out for warmth, but few dared to chirp. He lifted his nose and sniffed the air. A curious odor rode the breeze, like days-old blood, and he thought …

“Sondakwa?” a man called in a strained voice. “S-Sondakwa! Where are you?” Brush crashed and twigs snapped, as though he’d stumbled.

Towa nocked an arrow in his bow and forced a swallow down his dry throat. The wind gusted, and a wealth of acorns let loose. When they struck the brown leaf mat they made a faint drumlike cadence.

More stumbling … then a voice: “Sondakwa? Is that you?”

Something swayed ahead. Towa stood perfectly still, watching. The man thrashed through the brush, panting and whimpering. He had a war club in his fist.

Towa drew back his bowstring, just in case, and his shoulder wound ached with fiery intensity.

“Sondakwa, where are you? Stop hiding from me!”

As he came closer, Towa could see the man better. He was big, stocky. Black geometric tattoos covered his face. To create the designs, warriors pricked their flesh with bone awls, then rubbed the tattoos with charcoal to darken them. The sides of his head had been shaved in the manner of the Flint People, leaving a central roach of hair on top. A few limp, soaked feathers decorated the style.