People of the Mist(3)

Shell Comb ducked through the low doorway and made her way across the mat-covered floor. Bedsteads, made of poles laced with a wicker of saplings and bark, lined the walls. Mats had been laid over the wicker, and then layers of deer hide added to form snug beds. As she passed, people rolled up their bedding and placed the matting and hides to the side to create sitting room.

No one so much as glanced at her. But surely they should have viewed her differently, or at least sensed the change in her life. Today, as never before, she had proven herself worthy to be her mother’s daughter. Any question of her ability to take over this building, and control of clan business, was now behind her. In the presence of the blessed ancestors, she had atoned for her lack of judgment. Black Spike might never have been. Life had come full circle. Balance had been restored.

The Great House, like all those in the lineage holding, belonged to old Hunting Hawk. Upon her death, since she had no brother to inherit, the lineage holdings-houses, land, fishing and hunting grounds, shell beds, slaves, and property—would pass to Shell Comb.

She looked around at the wealth that would be hers. Large baskets were hung from the walls, brimming with corn, dried squash, acorns, hickory nuts, chinquapins, chestnuts, and beans. The tightly tied bundles of hemp stacked to one side waited for women to process the silky fibers into cordage or soft fabrics. Flat Pearl Village controlled rich resources, and its people rarely went hungry.

Copper Thunder sat beside the central fire, watching Shell Comb with oddly luminous eyes. She glanced at the big, round-bottomed ceramic pot that rested over the glowing coals. It held a steaming stew of corn, oysters, squash, and diced fish. As second in line to Hunting Hawk, her first concern was to insure the well-being of her family’s guests.

This morning, Shell Comb would have gladly sidestepped that duty. She wanted nothing more than to be alone, to have the time to think and reflect. But as she looked around, she did not see her mother. Hunting Hawk was gone, and with such an important guest seated before her fire! Shell Comb marched forward. Facing these people, especially this powerful’ man, would be an ordeal, but it couldn’t be helped.

She tried to keep her hand from trembling as she stirred the fire. Fatigue weighted her bones. Would it betray her? How long had it been since she’d had a full night’s sleep? From the onset of Red Knot’s first cramps, Shell Comb had attended to the girl, sending messengers, supervising meals, coordinating the arrival of the guests, orchestrating the dances, and struggling to behave as a Weroansqua’ sdaughter should. Her own competence surprised her, hinting at reserves she had never known.

Responsibility—as befitted the future Weroansqua of Flat Pearl Village—bore a terrible price. Why hadn’t she understood before? She glanced down at her right hand, worked the muscles, and made a tight fist. What incredible power she would wield.

Shell Comb remained a beautiful woman despite the thirty-two Comings of the Leaves she had survived, and the six children she had passed from her womb. Some said her large dark eyes could snare a man’s soul and bend it to her will. The story had always amused her. She recognized her vanity, moderated it when necessary, and surrendered to it when circumstances permitted. And she had surrendered much too often. But when Ohona and Okeus had battled for the world after the Creation, they’d insured that, hadn’t they?

Trace your ancestry back, and there you “II find Okeus, staring at you with that malicious smile on his face. Face it, Shell Comb, your seed sprang from his loins. No matter how many generations removed, you are still his daughter.

She loosened her feather mantle from around her shoulders and let it slide down around the curve of her hips as the fire’s heat reached her. The chill was finally leaving her bones—as the sadness and confusion eventually might.

Of her six children the third had died at birth; five, two girls and three boys, had lived to be named. Her oldest son, White Bone, had drowned in his sixteenth summer when he was caught on open water by a terrible storm. His canoe had been found beached on the Western Shore, but his body had never been recovered. Her third son, Grebe, had been killed in his fifth year by lightning: his seared body had lain under a splintered black oak. The scar could still be seen, spiraling down the tree’s bark.

Fever had taken her eldest daughter barely a year after her birth. She had never been lucky with children. But then, as Hunting Hawk could confirm—provided she ever dared to—that trait ran all through the lineage. Do I dare to try and have another?

At times, she wondered if perhaps some evil had slithered inside her, impregnating her with a dark spirit that blighted the fruit of her loins. Where else had the insatiable craving come from? Why had she thrown caution to the winds so many times? Why had the wrong seed taken hold so often?