People of the Masks(35)

Wren wondered at that. Uncle Blue Raven had been a renowned warrior, but he spoke little about his exploits, preferring, he said, to keep the terrors locked in his own souls. Yet many warriors swelled with pride during such discussions, as though the killings had been the greatest accomplishments of their lives. Her people valued bravery and battle skills, but they also cherished humility. Wren did not understand why someone would wish to boast about slaying another human being, or to recount the manners in which the enemies had died. It seemed somehow cruel to her.

“Well, I think the boy is wicked,” Dark Wind said as she lowered her bowl. “When the instant comes to cast my voice, that is what I will say.”

Tall and skinny, Dark Wind had her hair greased into a bun on the crown of her head. She was the prettiest girl in the village, with an oval face, broad cheekbones, and eyes the color of a golden eagle’s feathers. Though in her thirteenth winter, and not yet a woman, she smiled at every boy who passed.

Wren said, “You mean you have already decided your voice, sister? Before you have heard the telling of the stories?”

In the Bear Nation, all women in a longhouse were called “mother,” or “grandmother,” and they might address any child as “my son,” or “my daughter.” In the same way, boys and girls often affectionately called each other “brother” or “sister.”

“I already know the stories, Wren. I have listened to the things said by the families. They live in my longhouse.”

Vine, Dark Wind’s best friend, snickered. She did not see very well, and was forever running into people. Pudgy, squinting, and round-faced, with two big front teeth, she resembled a fat squirrel. Her black hair hung to just below her ears. “Your uncle is not the only one with ears, Little Wren. I have heard the tales, too.”

Wren held her tongue. Her uncle had taught her not to speak at all if anger touched her heart. She set her wooden bowl on the ground, next to her tools: a granite hammerstone, an antler punch, and a large gray chert scraper. Aspens rotted from the inside out, leaving a layer of hard wood around the punky decay. Once cleaned and fire-hardened, the pale wood made a beautiful container.

“Did your ears die last night, Wren?” Dark Wind taunted. “Everyone has been discussing the murders. How could you not have heard the whispers in your longhouse?”

“Oh, I heard them, sister,” Wren answered as she picked up her antler punch and hammerstone. Positioning the sharp antler tip against the rotten wood, as Bogbean had shown her, she pounded the top of the punch with her hammerstone. The punky wood chipped loose, and Wren dumped it onto the fire. Flames leaped and crackled. “I just do not listen to fools.”

Dark Wind stiffened. “Are you calling me a fool!”

“Only if you listened.”

Vine’s slitted eyes went back and forth between her best friend and Little Wren, as if waiting for them to waste their words on each other before leaping. She was such a coward.

Dark Wind said, “You act just like a man, Little Wren. You appreciate neither words nor emotions. The death of your mother has stunted your growth.”

Wren couldn’t help it. Her eyes flooded.

Her interests were different. Even her mother had said so. Where other children dreamed of marriage and gaining status within the clan, Wren longed to run off adventuring. Last moon she had actually spoken with Uncle Blue Raven about studying the ways of the Trader. Her mother had suggested the profession to her, though few girls wanted to become Traders. The occupation held many dangers, but the smells and sights of distant places called to Wren. Uncle Blue Raven had given her his tentative approval, but told her that she would have to discuss it with her grandmother. Wren hadn’t worked up the courage yet, but would.

Dark Wind smiled. “Why don’t you try acting like a woman, even if it does not come naturally to you? It would certainly make you more acceptable to the other girls in the village.”

Vine nodded, and said, “That’s true, Wren. I don’t see why you can’t—”

“Of course not, Vine. You can’t see more than two paces in front of your nose.” Wren wiped her tears with the back of her hand. “As for acting like a woman, I am not a woman, and neither are you, Dark Wind.”

“Well,” Dark Wind said with finality, “nobody likes you.”

The words stung, mostly because Wren knew them to be true. She had never been good at making friends. The only real friends she’d ever had were dead: her little brother, Skybow, and Trickster.

Her brother’s round smiling face formed on the fabric of her souls, and Wren’s throat ached.