People of the Masks(46)
They Danced in a circle around the fire. Their moccasins, covered with shell bells, stamped the earth, the rhythm simple, perfect. Wren could feel it rise through her legs and eddy all the way to the hairs on top of her head. Their pounded copper, shell, and stone eyes flickered in the firelight. Silent, they Danced round and round, their motion hypnotic.
Their presence sanctified the gathering, assuring that only the truth would be spoken.
The Spirit of Red-Dew-Eagle Danced by Wren, and she felt her blood tingle. His sacred mask was enormous, three times the size of a human face. Carved from walnut, and polished with sunflower oil, it gleamed blackly. The hideously twisted face had a long beak and large glistening shell eyes. The mouth curved up the right cheek so that the corner of the lips touched the corner of the eye. The Spirit leaned down and peered directly at Wren, and she instinctively slid backward, her heart pounding.
The Dew Eagles soared in the clouds beyond human sight. They collected pools of dew in the hollows between their shoulders, and when the Thunderbirds failed in their duty to water Grandmother Earth, the Dew Eagles tilted their wings and mist fell. They also snatched bad children in their talons and carried them off to be eaten by the Ice Monsters who lived in the far north.
Red-Dew-Eagle Danced on, and Wren let out a relieved breath, and looked at Rumbler.
He knelt at Uncle Blue Raven’s side, inside the ring of Dancers, near the fire. A brightly painted elkhide draped his shoulders. Small and misshapen, he had chin-length black hair which framed his round face. He stared unblinking into the flames, obviously aware of the whispers demanding vengeance, and the fear in people’s eyes. He had his bound hands propped in his lap, and twisted them anxiously. He looked scared.
Three freshly washed bodies lay atop buffalohides to Wren’s left, next to Starflower, but Rumbler never looked at them. Offerings encircled the dead: stone knives, seed bead necklaces, precious seashells, and a variety of blankets and hides.
Elk Ivory sat cross-legged on the ground to Wren’s right, her buffalohide coat darkly splotched with old bloodstains, her expression dour. She kept glancing sideways at Jumping Badger.
Jumping Badger stood at the edge of the firelight, his shoulder braced against a huge birch tree. Dressed in a hide shirt covered with bone beads, he looked like one of the sky gods come to earth. He’d left his long hair loose; it shone a deep black against the white bark.
All day long Jumping Badger had been parading around the village like an elder. Stealing the child and killing Lamedeer had improved Jumping Badger’s reputation. Everyone who passed him bowed reverently. Women kept bringing him fresh cups of hot pine-needle tea to drink, or more venison stew to eat. He seemed to be enjoying the attention.
Beside Jumping Badger stood the ugly Trader, Cornhusk. He wore a smile, as if greatly entertained by this spectacle. From what Wren had heard, Cornhusk had better enjoy life all he could. Though Cornhusk had a wife in Grand Banks Village, there had been rumors going round that he’d violated the honor of a woman in the south, and the village chieftain had dispatched a war party to hunt Cornhusk down.
Warriors lounged on hides in front of Jumping Badger, telling jokes, and poking each other. Every now and then one of them would point to the bloody head on the staff planted to Jumping Badger’s right, and whoop.
Wren hated it. Crows had pecked out the eyes. The black and gray hair hung in blood-clotted strands, and a strange expression creased the face. She wondered at that. What had the Paint Rock war leader been thinking in his last moments?
For some reason, the severed head made her think of the bloody little boy in the forest. Wren glanced around the council, afraid she might see him grinning at her over someone’s shoulders. The boy’s voice had chased her all the way home, his ghostly laughter echoing through her like a glacial wind. She kept dreaming about him, and had the uncomfortable feeling that this might be the beginning of a long and terrible trial.
Matron Starflower lifted her withered arms and Wren tried to pay attention again. Starflower’s white hair fluttered in the cold night-scented breeze. She shouted. “The Dew Eagles stand as my witnesses that I have spoken truth this night!” The Dancers stopped as if frozen in time, some with feet lifted, others with arms up.
Starflower’s frightened gaze lowered to the False Face Child. “This evil Spirit in a human child’s body has killed three of our people, two of our greatest warriors, and our beloved White Kit. I cannot say what its fate should be. That decision will rest within each of your hearts. But I advise you to think wisely. The False Face Child does not even need to see or touch to kill. It was staked out beneath the Sunshine Boy when Mossybill and Skullcap perished.” Murmurs swept the gathering. “How can any of us sleep at night with it living and breathing close by? I do not think I shall ever sleep again.” She lifted a hand to the crowd, and closed her eyes. “I have spoken,” she said. “Let others rise.”