People of the Mist(23)
The towering winter-bare trees seemed to lean over her, limbs swaying back and forth, rustling and murmuring with the night wind. She took the damp, leaf-clotted trail to the inlet. The faint howls of wolves sounded in the distance, calling to each other across the rolling hills.
She forced herself to slow down. Roots and rocks thrust up in the trail. If she fell and hurt herself, she would have to call for help, and she would rather plunge a deer bone dagger into her own heart.
All her life, she had wanted nothing more than to be a warrior and to marry High Fox. She had dreamed of taking the war trail with him, of their protecting each other during the day, and twining their bodies at night. Now none of that would be. High Fox was gone, and her aunt would insure that her clan never allowed her to take up weapons.
You should go down to the inlet, steal a canoe, and leave. If it weren‘t for Mother… A mournful sound worked its way up Sun Conch’s throat. She clapped a hand to her mouth to stifle it. She had been born a weak child. Until two Comings of the Leaves ago, her mother had spent half of every day tending to Sun Conch’s illnesses and moods, making excuses for her ineptness at games, or her inability to work hard, protecting her from the torments of the other children-and now this.
And you thought you could be a warrior? You can’t even leave your mother! the voice inside her mocked.
The moon’s pale gleam penetrated the branches, and silver triangles danced across the trail at Sun Conch’s feet. She broke into a headlong run.
This was her fault. All of it. If she had become a woman, perhaps High Fox wouldn’t have been forced to look elsewhere for companionship, or if she’d been more beautiful and exotic, like Red Knot, maybe he would have loved her instead. But, no, the forever plodding and practical Sun Conch did not know how to flirt or flaunt. For that matter, she didn’t know how to do anything without thinking about it extensively first. At least not until two days ago.
And that one act might have ruined her life.
She sprinted onto the beach, stopped, and bent over to catch her breath. The cold air smelled of frozen mud and fish. The water shone like rippled slate in the moonlight, patterned by the breeze. To her left, seven canoes rested, drawn up on shore, their painted hulls reflecting silver.
And now you‘ve run away from Aunt Threadleaf. You know what’s waiting for you when you go home, don’t you? The worst beating you’ve ever had in your whole life. Everyone in Three Myrtle Village would hear it, and by the end of the moon, everyone in the Independent villages from Duck Creek to Oyster Inlet would have talked about it.
And you wanted to be a warrior? Sun Conch straightened. The irregular inlet stretched about ten tens of body lengths across. Trees whiskered the dark banks. Her gaze followed the moonlit waves rolling in to lap softly at the shore, and she wondered about High Fox. Had he and Red Knot escaped? Were they even now on their way to the Father Water and the legendary cities of the Serpent Chiefs? For many Comings of the Leaves Sun Conch had listened to the Traders’ stories of the Father Water country. They described glorious man-made mountains, and houses the size of her entire village. She had smiled at them at first, but she’d heard so many Traders tell the same stories that she’d started to half-believe them. And they’d brought things back. Copper ornaments, and magnificent shell gorgets etched with the frightening and wondrous image of a Bird Man, his wings spread, his man’s eyes staring out at her as if to melt her soul. She remembered High Fox turning one particularly intricate gorget over and over in his hands, his mouth open in awe.
“Blessed gods, I miss him. If only I had …”
Movement caught her eye. She whirled in time to see someone rise up from the belly of a canoe. Like a silhouette cut from windblown shadows, it wavered; then she saw a hand grab unsteadily for the hull.
“Sun Conch?” a wavering voice called. “Is that you?”
Stunned, she stood like a wooden statue. It could not be … She took a step toward him, and her pulse pounded in her ears. “High Fox?”
“Oh, thank Okeus.” He scrambled from the canoe and started toward her. “Sun Conch, the dark god himself must have sent you here. I’ve been hiding since late afternoon, waiting for Night Woman to smother the light. I was coming to you. You were the only one I could think of. The only one I could trust.”
He threw his arms around her and drew her against him in a grip that drove the air from her lungs. He had seen eight and ten Comings of the Leaves, and stood two heads taller than Sun Conch. Her face rested in the middle of his greased chest. She could smell the musty tang of his sweat, and something else, something fetid, like the stench of old blood.