“But they are free,” she countered, “to follow the longings of their hearts. Why did First Man create us with longings and desires? Why did he give us such hungers of the soul, and then establish the clans?”
“Is that how you see life? A conflict of desire against responsibility?”
They passed through the palisade gate. She nodded to Crab Spine, who stood guard, and noted the reserve in his eyes as he stepped back to let The Panther pass. Once they had entered the plaza, she said, “The way I see it is meaningless. That’s how it is. Follow the urgings of your soul, Elder, and sooner or later you will run afoul of the clan and its rules.” Unnerved, she quickly added, “That’s why you are dead to your people, isn’t it?”
His thin lips quirked. “I was young and foolish once.” He hesitated, studying her from the corner of his eye. “Have you ever been foolish, Shell Comb?”
“Everyone has been foolish at one time or another.”
He stopped short, apparently lost in thought as he studied the trampled dirt under his feet. The soil had been discolored by charcoal from the fires. Bits of broken pottery, bleached clam and oyster shells, and cracked nut shells dotted the surface. “I am sorry about your daughter, Shell Comb.”
“So am I,” she told him. When she met his gaze, her chest seemed suddenly starved of air. Her heart began to race. How could just looking into his eyes turn her stalwart control into such confusion? Against the rising grief, she smiled. “Enjoy your stay here, Elder.”
Get away, Shell Comb. Now, as quickly as possible. As she turned, he called, “I look forward to speaking with you again.”
Nine Killer sat cross-legged on the cattail matting before the fire in Rosebud’s long house and puffed on his clay pipe. His legs ached from the dancing, but a gentle satisfaction filled him. The dance had brought an ending to the Three Myrtle raid, a sort of healing for his wounded pride. He studied the blue smoke rising from his pipe. The tobacco crop this year had only been fair; before they could be picked off, worms had chewed holes in many of the leaves. Nevertheless, the weed had produced enough to satisfy his clan’s tribute requirements to the Weroansqua, and still leave them a year’s supply. The hominy had been devoured, and the main course of squash and pumpkin had been eaten. The last of the walnut milk had been drunk. Rosebud had finished stacking the wooden dishes after the dogs licked them clean. Now she rustled about the sleeping benches, rolling out soft deerskin robes.
Nine Killer looked at The Panther and Sun Conch. The old man had been thoughtful all evening. From the wrinkles on his forehead, his mind had been knotted around the problem of the girl’s death.
Sun Conch seemed moody, and withdrawn. Most of the evening she had stared absently at the fire, eating as if her food had no taste. White Otter had attempted several times to draw Sun Conch into a conversation, but something had changed between the girls. Once they had been close friends, but now Sun Conch seemed older, more a woman than a girl.
Noting that Rosebud was out of earshot, Nine Killer asked, “What did you discover today?”
“Oh, a great many things.” Panther rubbed his face with a leathery hand. “Tell me; War Chief, what is the penalty for a young man who is Caught sleeping with a girl?”
Nine Killer shrugged. “That would depend on who the girl was, how old, and which clan she belonged to. And, of course, it would depend on who the man was.”
Panther reached out and pinched tobacco from the small ceramic pot beside him. He packed the cut leaves into the bowl of his old stained clay pipe, glanced at Sun Conch, and indicated the fire. To Nine Killer’s surprise, it took a moment for the girl to realize what she was being asked. Sun Conch jumped, looking startled and somewhat guilty, and reached out with a twig to light the Elder’s pipe.
Only after The Panther puffed a blue cloud did he say in low tones, “Let us suppose the young woman was Red Knot.”
Nine Killer took a deep breath. “The Weroansqua’s granddaughter?” Nine Killer shook his head, imagining the hot anger that would have brewed in Hunting Hawk’s eyes. “That would have been bad indeed, Elder. Only a fool enrages an old sow bear as possessive of her cubs as Hunting Hawk is.”
“Granted, but say the youngster was High Fox, son of Black Spike. This wouldn’t be quite so impermissible as, say, Flat Willow?” Nine Killer’s pipe was forgotten in his hand. Panther could read the shock on his face. “This coupling was forced, or with her consent?”
“According to my sources, she wasn’t forced.”
“Good. If she had been, not even you could have stemmed the Weroansqua’s rage. Oh, Black Spike’s Bloodroot Clan might have been able to buy off some of Hunting Hawk’s anger—provided-suitable tribute was offered. High Fox would still have to be punished, of course, but he might have been spared his life. On the other hand, if someone like Flat Willow forced her, Hunting Hawk would most likely have tortured him until he died, or broken his arms and legs and thrown his body on the bonfire to burn to death.”