People of the Owl(10)
To the left, amidst a knot of his kinspeople, Thunder Tail, Speaker of the Eagle Clan, stood with crossed arms, his face like a mask. She inclined her head politely in his direction, thrilled by the smoldering emotion in his eyes. You would love to cut my throat, wouldn’t you, old lover?
To the rear, just back from the beached canoes, old Cane Frog stood. The Frog Clan Elder’s left eye gleamed like a white stone in the firelight; the empty socket of her missing right eye made a black hole in her face. She was propped up by her daughter, Three Moss. As always, Three Moss was whispering in the old blind woman’s ears, acting as her eyes. Several of the Frog Clan’s young hunters had gathered behind her, as if for moral support. Their gazes darted back and forth like a school of shiners in shallow water. The two plotters, Hanging Branch and Takes Food, hovered to one side, whispering to each other. But Frog Clan, for all their bluster and strutting, had never really been in contention for leadership of the Council. Cane Frog hadn’t the wits, and given Three Moss’s dull head, the future didn’t bode well for them either. Frog Clan would only be trouble if they aligned themselves with a rival.
Then she saw Deep Hunter. He stood back from the rest, illuminated by a single torch. His sister, Colored Paint, was the Alligator Clan Elder. Colored Paint had recently named her brother Speaker after the death of their uncle. Deep Hunter had his arms crossed, the thick muscles bunched and shining in the firelight. She met his dark eyes, seeing a hard gleam that didn’t match his formal smile. Deep Hunter didn’t look happy. No, indeed, she thought he looked like a man who had just suffered a disturbing upset. Throughout this last turning of seasons, Deep Hunter—with Colored Paint’s approval—had promised Owl Clan their support. Deep Hunter would do anything to keep Mud Stalker and Alligator Clan in a subservient and obligatory position. Even if it meant supporting Wing Heart and Owl Clan.
Why do I feel that I’ve been betrayed? She nodded a greeting to Deep Hunter and bent her lips into a facile smile—just in case she needed to keep the fiction alive.
Eagle Clan’s Elder, Stone Talon, perched on her wooden crutches, her gnarly hands gripping the smooth wood of the polished branches that kept her crooked legs from collapsing. Toothless, her face looked like a desiccated gourd; Stone Talon worked her gums and wrinkled her fleshy nose as though smelling something foul. Her faded vision seemed to be wavering, as though searching for something. A group of her young hunters—no doubt the ones who had borne her down to the landing—looked as if it was all they could do to keep from crowding at the water’s edge and shouting questions at White Bird.
Deep Hunter strode down to face his sister. Gesturing for emphasis, he asked Colored Paint a question, then turned at the answer to frown out at the water where the canoes floated. Deep Hunter was a brash man, given to impulse. He had no halfway in his souls, but being a hothead and unpredictable made him dangerous in his own right.
Yes, they were all worried. That brought Wing Heart a twist of amusement she wouldn’t have felt earlier in the day. Cloud Heron wasn’t even dead yet, and they had already buried him? Had the fools considered Owl Clan to be defanged? Without any Power at all? She allowed herself to smile with an oily satisfaction. After a turning of seasons filled with worry and fear, her heart felt as though it might burst. This moment was worth savoring. She let the glory of victory fill her, felt it throbbing in her nerves, pulsing in her veins. She might have been a youth again, charged with the sheer joy of being alive.
People parted for her as she neared the shore. In the halo of torchlight, she walked imperiously between the hulls of beached canoes and out into the murky black water. Slippery, clinging mud slipped between her toes. Water lapped against her ankles like a lover’s tongue.
The surface lay smooth and glassy before her, blackness lit by dancing yellow ribbons of light that reflected from the rings thrown by the bobbing canoes. Slim arrows of the night, the craft drifted at the edge of the torchlight: four of them, just as had been reported. She gave a cursory inspection to the barbarians, not that they mattered much, and turned her attention to the tall young man who balanced so perfectly on the stern of the canoe floating off to the right.
What a hero he made! Firelight reflected off the grease that he had smeared over his rippling skin, accenting the swell of his thick muscles. He stood like one of the warriors in the stories about the first days. A foreign-looking breechcloth hung from the leather belt at his slim hips; a bright yellow wolf’s face was painted on the front flap. His hair, too, was in a bun pinned up at the side like the barbarians wore theirs. She could see his white teeth as he smiled in her direction.