People of the Mist(29)

He had reached the oyster bed. Under his feet, the soft muck was broken by the hard, sharp outline of the oysters. He walked and the bottom rose until he was midcalf in depth. Here he peered down, prodding with his stick. Satisfied, he bent and levered up a cluster of oysters. He inspected them, grunted, and dropped them into his sack. The next cluster came with an oyster drill attached. He used a gnarled thumb to scrape the moss from the drill’s shell, decided the colors were good, and dropped it, too, into his bag. Within minutes, he’d filled his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and trudged back through the shallows. On the shore, he retraced his way northward to the small spit of dry land with its tufted trees. A narrow path—little more than a track through cord grass, spatterdock, and pickerelweed—marked the trail through the marsh. He stopped at a stand of wild rice, and inspected the empty awns he’d harvested earlier.

The narrow trail led to a slight rise, dry enough that the marsh gave way to grass, brush, and finally a copse of trees. He walked into the shadows of pine, sassafras, and then into an oak grove. There, at the highest point on the island, stood his rude house. He’d built it in a small clearing, partly overhung by the spreading branches of the mighty oaks. Home consisted of a dome-shaped framework thatched with shocks of cord grass To either side, one to the east, the other to the west, stood even smaller huts—shrines to the twin gods, the entrances closed off with ratty deer hide hangings.

The remains of a small fire lay smoldering in a pit before the doorway. He sighed as he lowered his sack next to a huge polished log half-sunk into the earth beside the fire.

“I’m not as spry as I used to be,” he told the empty air. He winced as he rotated his arm and massaged his bony shoulder. Ducking into his house, he surveyed his scant belongings. A wooden bedstead was covered by deer hides the majority of them shedding what little hair remained. A second fire pit glared up at him from the middle of the floor like a cold black eye. Net bags were tied from the roof, bulging with dried herbs, ears of corn, nuts, cord grass seed, and wild rice. A bow stood next to the bedstead, and across from it, a stack of arrows leaned against the wall. Panther’s eyes lit on the big, round-bottomed pot. The rim had cracked and chipped off, but its corrugated surface could be seen through the smudged soot. He picked up the pot, peered inside, and rubbed the crusty interior with a callused thumb.

Ducking outside into the slanting afternoon light, he settled his pot by the smoking ashes, located the leather bag he used for water, and headed east through the trees to a small freshwater seep less than two bow shots away. Here he lowered his bag and dipped it full before returning to his house.

One by one, he washed his clams, oysters, and crabs, placing each in the round-bottomed pot. The last of the water just covered his catch.

Growling to himself, Panther bent on crackling knees to blow the coals in the fire pit to life. When he absently inhaled the swirling ash, he went into a fit of coughing.

Choking, he rocked back on his haunches, cleared his throat, and barked a harsh laugh. “And they call me a sorcerer!”

When the fire blazed, he placed three rocks in it for a tripod, and trundled his pot onto the heat. Satisfied, he watched the flames lick around the sides. The corrugated surface served to conduct more of the fire’s heat to the stew.

Wistfully, he rose, reentered his house, and inspected his net bags, selecting corn from one, acorns from another, some beechnuts, and rose hips. He added these to the stew and settled himself on the log to watch dinner cook. If only he had squash to cook. He loved freshly baked squash more than anything on earth. At the thought of it, his mouth watered.

“The only thing worse than a fool is an old fool,” he muttered to himself. “No, even worse than that, a crazy old fool, and Panther, you’re that.” He scratched under his grizzled hair. “But, if I’m crazy, then what does a man make of the rest of the world?

“Even crazier! If it wasn’t what would I be doing here?

“Avoiding it all.

“Blood and dung! I’m here for the peace.”

He paused, remembering the pain, the voices inside his head, and the day he’d packed up and left the human world. “You’ve always been a fool.

“No, old man. Just crazy.” He chewed at his lip with stubby brown teeth. “Of course, you really know you’re crazy when you catch yourself answering your own questions.”

In the years since he’d come here, he’d watched the seasons come and go ten times.

A man should have answers in that amount of time. He made a face at the fire and rubbed his dry brown hands together. But did he?