People of the Owl(110)

Cane Frog demanded, “What is happening? What do you see? Tell me, Daughter! Who is doing what?”

Salamander turned his pleading eyes to Mud Stalker, only to encounter a burning intensity, a hard smile on the man’s thin lips. He stood behind Sweet Root, cradling his ruined right arm. Long white heron feathers had been inserted into bands on his upper arms so that they stuck out like snowy wings. Where she stood, a pace in front of him, Sweet Root might have been tasting something delicious, her eyes half-lidded and blissful.

“The Elder is sick!” Salamander cried. “Just leave her alone. Let her rest. She’ll get better. She will.”

He hated himself, embarrassment growing hotter with each beat of his heart. They could see the sweat breaking out on his face now. See his losing battle as his muscles began to tremble.

Sweet Root asked loudly, “Do I speak for the Council when I say that no ‘sick’ Clan Elder should be dealing with Jaguar Hide within the limits of Sun Town? What has Wing Heart done? Asked the leader of the dreaded Swamp Panthers to come here? A foreigner, allowed to walk unpurified into our midst? And bringing what with him? A black cloud of curses? Witchcraft? Will he unleash disease and misery among us?”

A roar of agreement went up, members of the Council nodding and bobbing their heads.

“Then we will meet him on the Turtle’s Back!” Salamander shouted, hoping at least to mollify some of the sentiment against his mother. Snakes and lightning, what had happened to her?

“Why meet him at all?” Deep Hunter asked from where he sat.

“To find out what he wants,” Salamander answered, his stomach curling and twisting inside him. He had fastened his eyes on Pine Drop and Night Rain. Their expressions jolted him: a mixture of pity, embarrassment, and loathing.

“Why did he send a runner to Wing Heart?” Mud Stalker demanded as he stepped forward to stand beside his sister. “What is his business with Owl Clan? Why didn’t he ask to speak with the Council?”

“I don’t know.” Salamander tried to swallow the knot in his throat. Their eyes were boring through him, seeing his quaking souls. Why had Mud Stalker insisted he take his brother’s place? Surely anyone could have known he wasn’t supposed to be a Speaker.

“Perhaps,” Mud Stalker said evenly, “there should be some representation from the Council at this meeting? What do you say?” He took another step forward, where he could meet the eyes of the others. “An old enemy comes, and we should allow him to meet only with Owl Clan? To broker what sort of deal? Something that leaves the rest of us out? Or something which, for our own safety, we should know about?”

“Alligator Clan agrees,” Deep Hunter remarked. “We will send our delegates to this meeting to see for ourselves.”

“As will Frog Clan,” Elder Cane Frog called, her sightless eyes alone blind to Owl Clan’s humiliation.

“Eagle Clan will be there, too,” Stone Talon called. “Speaker Thunder Tail will represent our interests.”

“So will Rattlesnake Clan,” Clay Fat agreed, his voice less strident than the others.

“Owl Clan votes no,” Salamander said in a futile and small voice. Atop everything else came the sting of defeat. He had just spoken for his clan for the first time, and been party to its worst defeat. “It is our business.”

“Not anymore,” Mud Stalker replied coolly.

When Salamander turned and walked back to his seat, Moccasin Leaf’s face was livid, her jaw grinding as white rage mottled her features. Had she a club at hand, he didn’t doubt that she would have crushed his skull on the spot.





The canoe slipped silently along the channel, its wake spreading in a long V over the brown water. A muggy heat hung in the still air, heavy and deadening on the lungs. Overhead branches of sweetgum, bald cypress, tupelo, and water oak wove into an impenetrable mat of green draped with vines, flowers, and hanging moss. On either side, ferns, brambles, and tangled vegetation carpeted the banks.

Turtles plopped off logs and dived for the depths as the canoe passed. Birdsong accompanied them, as did the whining of the insects. The smell of vegetation, mud, and stagnant water cloyed in the nostrils.

Anhinga dipped her paddle resolutely as she propelled them forward. She could feel her uncle’s piercing stare as it ate into her back. The knowledge that he doubted her sent a flame of anger through her.

Anticipating her, he said, “Remember, this must be done slowly, thoughtfully, and with great skill.”

“I know, Uncle.”

“The gravest danger is time. It will lull you, soften your resolve. You will look around you and begin to see these people as not so different from us.”