People of the Mist(157)

Panther stopped short. “Not yet, War Chief. What I suspect will upset a great many people. I’d like to prove it to myself before I decide how I will act on the knowledge.”

“You’re not making sense!”

“But I am.” Panther’s kind smile and wounded eyes belied the worst of Nine Killer’s fears.

“Elder, I know everything you know. If it’s so clear, why don’t I see it?”

“Because, my friend, you are blinded by your own truth.” Panther resumed his journey toward the palisade. “People see the world as they were taught to see. You have been taught one way, and when you look another, all you see is the patterns as you expect to see them. Like a man looking into the mist. You expect the world to be the same when the mist lifts. Perhaps, War Chief, I don’t want to jerk that mist away. I still might be wrong about what’s on the other side.” “That doesn’t reassure me.”

“It wasn’t supposed to, War Chief.”

They stepped through the palisade and crossed the plaza. The Guardian posts cast long shadows while the sunlight shone on the carved faces. People had already begun placing offerings at their bases in anticipation of the solstice. Solstice was the second most important ceremony the people had, after the greening of the corn in late summer. This was the time when they demonstrated their thanks to First Man for the year past, and implored him to begin his journey northward to bring warmth and life to the world again.

The House of the Dead looked gray today, the bark siding weathered. Nine Killer could almost feel Red Knot’s presence through the walls. He could imagine Okeus sitting there in his dark niche, his eyes malignant in the firelight. A shiver traced up his back.

“If this turns out wrong, Elder, what will it mean for the Independent villages? What am I to prepare myself for?”

Panther fingered his sagging chin, his thoughtful gaze on the ground before them. “The worst.”

“War with the Great Tayac?” Nine Killer’s glance strayed to where some of the young warriors stood to one side, talking to Flat Willow, eyeing his roached hair.

“Don’t forget the Mamanatowick. Water Snake is always coiled in his lair, waiting, ready to strike at a moment’s notice. And, even if he ignores a sudden opportunity, Stone Frog and his Conoy warriors are lurking in the north.”

“Of them all, I’d rather deal with him. He has a longer way to go, and water to cross.”

“Unless the fog rolls in—or he moves on a moonlit night.”

“There is always that.” Nine Killer pulled at the feather cloak that warmed his shoulders. Old man Mockingbird stood before his daughter’s long house “Elder, if you will excuse me, there is a man I must talk to. I will join you in Rosebud’s house in a bit.”

“Go, War Chief. But, be warned, if that squash is as good as last time, you may not find much remaining.”

Nine Killer nodded over his shoulder, striding across the plaza. He reached out to touch the Guardian posts as he passed. They watched him with expressionless wooden eyes, as if judging his soul.

Old man Mockingbird was almost as old as Hunting Hawk, his back bowed with age, and his skin like a walnut husk left too long in the sun. In his younger days, he’d been a noted warrior, but now his eyes had gone dim. His thick knees grated so loudly when he walked that people could hear them. Because of the pain, he rarely walked far. “Greetings, FJder,” Nine Killer said as he approached. The old man tilted his wrinkled head, bending a fleshy ear to hear better. His wispy white hair gleamed in the sunlight. A single bluebird feather pierced the thin knot he continued to wear on the left side of his head.

“Who comes?” The old voice was scratchy. “Nine Killer, Elder. The War Chief.”

“Come to call me to battle, did you?” Mockingbird barked a hoarse laugh. “Let me get my bow. But, you know”—he smiled, exposing toothless gums—“I’ll be more dangerous to our warriors than the enemy!” He wiped a gnarly finger under his age-swollen nose.

Nine Killer shared the laugh, and said, “I imagine you’ll do just fine, Elder. You’ll do damage enough.”

“Yes, indeed, War Chief.” He extended a withered arm. “So long as they are this close, eh?” He patted his sunken biceps. “They’d have to be. I can’t shoot much farther than my toes these days.”

“Ah, but you did once.” Nine Killer crossed his arms as he smiled at the old man. “It is said that in your youth you could draw a more powerful bow than I. I would have liked to shoot against you in those days—just to learn a little humility when you beat me.”