People of the Mist(133)

“What about your duty to your clan? They were the ones who took you in, fed you, gave you a place to live, and filled your belly. Don’t you owe your family something? That’s part of every warrior’s honor and duty.”

He narrowed an eye. “If you’re so intent on stirring the pot, Elder, why don’t you try stirring Greenstone Clan’s? If you’re so interested in honor and ‘right’ behavior, see what you dig up in the muck they hide behind all their forthright speeches.” k

“For example? Go on, I’d like to hear it from your mouth.”

“I’ll bet you would, wouldn’t you, witch? Well, then listen, like I did. You’re just as enamored with Hunting Hawk and Shell Comb as the rest of them. I’ll tell you what’s at the center of Greenstone Clan. Rot, that’s what.”

“And you wanted Red Knot? To marry into that clan?”

“She …” He hesitated. “I thought she was different.

At least in the beginning. But then T found out differently, and it was right before my eyes the whole time. Like mother, like daughter. I found that out the night I saw her rutting with High Fox. It’s in their blood, Elder. They can’t help it.”

“What’s in their blood? Just what are you trying to tell me?”

He gave Panther a bitter smile. “I’m not going to make it easy for you. You’re so smart, you figure it out. See, if you can, just why the Weroansqua was so interested in going to war with Three Myrtle. After all, if Black Spike was dead, the last traces of the crime could be buried. What better cover for last year’s tracks than a fresh layer of ash?” Flat Willow snorted his disgust and walked off.

Panther stood where he was, feeling the cold moisture on his face. “Sun Conch, what did that mean, about the ashes?”

She looked up at him, her eyes wide and perplexed. “I don’t know, Elder. But, I’ve heard about Flat Willow. It is said that he often creeps around at night, listening at the walls. There is no telling what he overheard, or where.”

Nine Killer studied the horizon as the canoe pitched on the gray waves of Fish River. He kept a careful watch in all directions. The midmorning breeze had blown the fog into patches, sending it inland to rise into ragged clouds. He and Flying Weir had taken the opportunity to paddle out to the center of the river. Beside them, Many Dogs and Crab Spine bobbed in their canoe, paddles flashing in the light as they maneuvered into position. They had located themselves by line of sight, navigating by points of land that jutted into the water. The canoes had to be at just the right spot.

In midwinter, the tides were the lowest of the year. Mudflats that were normally covered by water lay exposed for shellfish collecting. While the women and children attended to them, the men paddled out to fish the deep channels. Now, their canoes at just the right place, the men could lower their nets into the deep hole where the fish had retreated. The water was warmer down deep, and the white perch concentrated there. If they did this right, they could net a canoe load of fresh fish in a short time, but the nets had to be worked perfectly.

Flying Weir stood at the front of the pitching canoe, helping Nine Killer sort out the folds of net with its stone sinkers. As each fold dropped over the side, the two men kept the net from tangling. Across from them, Many Dogs and Crab Spine reeled in the ropes that pulled the large net between them.

The chore was complicated, for along with the intricacies of the net, a man had to keep his balance, and each canoe had to be headed into the waves. With each freshening of the breeze, Nine Killer glanced apprehensively out toward open water. If the swells grew too high, they would have no choice but to reel in their net and paddle madly for shore before the canoes were swamped.

“That should do it,” Flying Weir said as the last fold of hemp net slipped over the side. He caught up the guide rope as Nine Killer got a grip on his. Now he had to hold the rope, let it out coil by coil, and use the paddle to keep their course and the proper distance from the second canoe.

Bit by bit the long rope played out, and Nine Killer took his bearings from the point of land that marked the deep water. The breeze at their backs was taking them right over the deep hole with its winter-torpid fish. This had to be timed correctly. Precisely at low tide the currents were still. The net acted as big sea anchor, slowing their drift as it settled in the water. If the tide were running, the net would drag them along with the current.

Flying Weir had been monitoring the length of rope that played out, his practiced eye judging the angle at which it trailed into the water. “Back water!” he cried. And Nine Killer back-paddled, glancing across to measure his progress against that of Crab Spine in the rear of the second canoe.