Sun Conch’s stomach churned. She had to fight to keep the contents from rising into her mouth. What her aunt said was true. She had turned against everything she’d ever been taught. Yet the more they belittled and humiliated her, the more determined she became. She felt as if some unknown person had been living, hidden, in her bones, and had just started to climb out.
She turned to Sawtooth. “Uncle, if you are finished with me, I have duties to perform for The Panther.”
Threadleaf stood up, and her lips twisted into a cruel smile. “Let her go,” she said to Sawtooth. “I do not know her. This child is unworthy of being Star Crab. She is no longer a member of my clan.” And she started to duck into the house.
“Wait!” her mother called. “Threadleaf, you didn’t mean that. Did you? Oh, Sun Conch, how could you do this to us? To me? If Threadleaf casts you out… oh, Okeus, pity me, I will not even be able to speak with you!”
Sawtooth rubbed his hands over his face. “Please, Sun Conch, apologize to your aunt. Pledge to—”
“It’s too late,” Threadleaf said. “I did mean it. Sun Conch is now outcast from our clan. As of this instant, both of you are forbidden to speak with her. Your eyes cannot look upon her. Your hands cannot touch her.” Threadleaf’s fist sliced the air. “It is finished.”
Sawtooth rose and left the fire, walking across the plaza with his head down, elderly shoulders slumped. People rushed to him before he reached his own house, hissing questions, grabbing his arms.
Sun Conch stared at her mother. She was holding her stomach and rocking back and forth before the fire, weeping silently.
Sun Conch marched across the plaza toward The Panther, forcing her weak knees to hold her. When she reached his side, she dropped to the ground and concentrated on the dull, nauseating thud of her heart.
The Panther said, “Nine Killer, might I speak more with you later?”
The stocky War Chief rose, glanced at Sun Conch’s face, and said, “Of course, Elder. I will be around.”
When Nine Killer had gone, Panther reached out and placed his fingers lightly on Sun Conch’s forearm. “You only think you have lost everything,” he said. “You haven’t.”
“I am outcast, Elder.” Her voice was bleak.
“My dear girl,” he said softly, his faded old eyes gleaming as if from some inner fire. “Listen to me. People spend most of their lives weaving cocoons inside their souls. Cocoons called ‘clan,” ‘family,” or ‘self.” Most people clutch those cocoons to their hearts as if their very lives depended upon them. They won’t let the cocoons hatch. They’re too terrified of what might emerge. You have just been given a chance to see what will hatch. Don’t throw it away. Wings are beautiful things.”
Sun Conch wanted to open her mouth to respond, to ask him questions about what he meant, but opening her mouth would have meant screaming.
She just closed her eyes and nodded.
Thirteen
At sunrise, the men, women, and children of Three Myrtle trooped out of the village bearing their statue of Okeus on poles, singing songs of welcome, and escorted Nine Killer and his warriors into the palisade, where the lingering odor of a cooking feast hung heavily in the chilly air.
Nine Killer stood in the plaza, smiling uneasily, and wondering what had convinced Black Spike to do this. Giving a feast in honor of an enemy War Chief and his warriors wasn’t the sort of thing Black Spike would initiate on his own—not that the Weroance wasn’t at heart a good sort, but such clever political maneuvering just wouldn’t occur naturally to him.
Black Spike stood up before the great crackling bond fire, his arm in a bulky wrapping, and called out:
“Okeus, hear my words! Divert your wrath around us. We, your people, honor your name and presence among us. Look into our hearts, and see the worth reflected there. Turn your wrath upon our enemies, and, if you must do harm, do it to those who are unworthy.”
“Great lord, may you harm the unworthy,” the people chimed in the ritual prayer.
Black Spike raised his good arm. “I welcome all of our friends and longtime allies to share our bounty. A mistake has been made, and now, with good will and understanding, we, of Three Myrtle Village, offer this feast in hopes that these last days will be forgotten.”
A young woman stepped out of the House of the Dead, bearing a large conch shell, its contents steaming in the cold air.
Black Spike took the shell awkwardly, raised the rim to his lips, and drank deeply of the bitter brew. “I offer the sacred black drink to my friend, Nine Killer.” He looked Nine Killer in the eyes, and extended the shell cup, balanced in his good hand.