People of the Mist(6)
She ducked into the House of the Dead. The perpetual fire had burned down to a bed of glowing coals. The only additional light came from the gray shafts entering through the doorway and smoke hole overhead. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the anteroom’s darkness. This was the central building in her town, ten paces across, and forty-five long. High walls rose four times the height of a man to the rounded roof. Mat walls divided the building into three large rooms.
Hunting Hawk hobbled across the anteroom, mumbling the ritual greeting to the fire as she went, and stopped long enough to bathe her body in its cleansing heat. Along the south wall Green Serpent— Kwiokos, or High Priest—lay curled in his nest of deer hides A large gourd rattle and several deer hide bags lay close at hand. His face was tipped up to the light, eyes closed, and his slack mouth was open. That hooked nose jutted arrogantly from patterns of wrinkles. His eyebrows might have been rabbit tails stuck to his brow, so white and fluffy were they.
Along the north wall, two other bundles of bedding were occupied by Lightning Cat and Streaked Bear. Lightning Cat was the long and lanky apprentice, always keen to please, and ready to undertake any task. Streaked
Bear, in turn, had a short stocky frame more suited to hard physical work than to the pursuit of the sacred.
Hunting Hawk considered kicking them awake, but relented. The celebration had lasted most of the night, and the priests had led the singing and dancing. Even a priest deserved rest now and then.
Her hips sent twinges up her back as she entered the long hallway with its carved images of the Guardians, wind spirits, and the spirit animals. Skilled hands using stone and shell tools had laboriously carved each bust from thick pieces of wood. Finally the images were painted with bright colors, and eyes of polished shell, or copper, had been added to allow the spirits to see.
Behind the Guardians rested stacks of tribute, offered to Hunting Hawk as was a Weroansqua’s due: baskets of corn, nuts, squash, and seeds; smoked meat, fish, shellfish, and fowl; net bags filled with puccoon root, tobacco, shell beads, copper, and small sacks of antimony; piles of tanned deer hides colorful feathers, exquisitely woven fabrics, and pots of dyes. Not all of the items were tribute. Greenstone Clan also kept their war trophies in the House of the Dead. Scalps, dried human hands, severed fingers, necklaces of human teeth, and trophy skulls-each carefully polished and painted—lined the walls. Beneath them, bows and bundles of arrows were neatly stacked next to a pile of wooden shields: materials for her warriors during times of conflict.
Hunting Hawk touched each of the Guardians with a finger as she passed. Normally the touch reassured her, but this time, her unease grew, as if the Guardians had seen into the dark labyrinth of her soul.
She stopped at the entrance to the. sanctum. Another fire—also burned to coals—glowed in the central fire pit. A head-high scaffold stood out from the back wall, and upon it, in careful rows, lay the bodies of her ancestors.
Each corpse was wrapped in matting to protect the desiccated bones and skin.
In the shadows beneath sat the statue of Okeus, his shrine surrounded on three sides by corn husk matting. His long black hair had been pulled into a tight knot on his head. The expression on his carved face always perplexed Hunting Hawk. Did that curved mouth mock her, or leer at her? Okeus’ chest was painted white, and heavy necklaces of copper and shell beads hung from his neck. Around his waist he wore a finely tanned deer hide girdle decorated by paintings and shell beads. The god’s outstretched arms were painted in lightning bolts. The right hand propped up a beautiful war club; two stone celts had been set into the intricately carved wood. A shock of corn hung from the left hand. His thighs were stained black with white spots running down their length. Now he watched her from the gloom, white-shell eyes gleaming. Hunting Hawk slipped her age-gnarled fingers into the pouch at her side and withdrew a handful of corn flour and mashed walnuts. This she sprinkled onto the red eyes of the coals. The meal blackened and burst to flame. As quickly as the fire flared, the offering was consumed. Hunting Hawk could sense Okeus’ satisfaction.
“I have unleashed the storm. Terrible things are coming, aren’t they?” she asked the squatting god. “Whose fault was this, Okeus? Was the mistake mine?”
A shiver played down her back as she stared into those shining eyes. For the briefest instant, she thought she heard laughter, and then silence.
“Don’t scorn me, wicked god. I’ve served you well enough over the years.”
She raised her eyes to the scaffold, and the mat wrapped bundles that lay there. “Greetings, old friends,” she whispered, and stared thoughtfully at the dried corpses.