People of the Owl(129)

She could see him now, his thin form barely outlined in the building gray. His skinny arms were raised, his head tilted up at the fading stars in the night sky. Her skin began to prickle as if bobcat fur were being rubbed across it. She swallowed hard, heart racing. Snakes and lightning, he was talking to the Sky Being!

“Is Water Petal’s baby going to die?” he asked and cocked his head, listening. He must have heard an answer because he said, “I’m sorry, too. It will bruise her souls. Haven’t my people suffered enough?”

He nodded, his eyes still fixed on the sky. “Yes, I understand. I just hurt for her, that’s all.”

Another pause. The light had grown enough that she could see his face: rapturous, and, unless her eyes tricked her, glowing of an unearthly light. His eyes were pools of spinning darkness. She could feel her souls knotting and twining around themselves, frightened, frozen in place. Pus and blood, she wasn’t supposed to be seeing this!

Her mouth had gone dry; her muscles tensed, ready to leap to her feet. Frantic fingers wound into the blue feathers, crushing them, pulling some loose. Where she had cherished them for the beauty and warmth they provided, now she was thankful that their dark coloring helped to hide her shivering form.

“When they arrive I shall take very good care of them,” Salamander said quietly. “Yes, I know.” A pause. “In time, Masked Owl.” He closed his eyes. “Just for the moment, can we Dance with the One. Just until the sun breaks the horizon? Take me on your wings, fly me up into the sky one more time.”

In moments, the light would be bright enough that he couldn’t help but see her when he opened his eyes. Pine Drop screwed a bit of courage from her terrified souls. Glancing up to be sure his eyes were still closed, she slipped over the rounded summit of the Bird’s Head. Obscured by the brow of the great mound, she hurried away, placing each foot with care lest she slip on the dew-slick grass.

She sprinted down the final incline on the mound’s southern shoulder and reached the level grass. Only then did she realize that the little stone owl was still clasped in her sweaty palm.





Thirty-two

The wind had changed, blowing down from the north and bringing uncharacteristically cold air with it. Bits of branches, flower petals, nearly ripe seedpods, and occasional leaves torn from distant trees went flying past.

Salamander walked with his back hunched against the blow as he tried to sort his churning emotions. The session in the Council that day had been particularly bitter. Moccasin Leaf had been given recognition and had asked if the Council would recognize a new Elder should Owl Clan present one. The vote had been unanimous: yes. When it came to Owl Clan’s vote, he had stood and quietly added his yes to the vote.

Now his stomach ached at the memory. Was it disrespectful? Did I betray Mother? He had no answers, nothing that would help this feeling. The vacancy had to be filled, and it would not be with Water Petal. Not enough support existed for her among Owl Clan’s lineages. Moccasin Leaf had done her job well. People were ready for a change.

Then, during other discussions, had come the periodic gibes and barbs concerning people who married barbarians. About their lack of respect, about their shiftlessness. He had watched Pine Drop’s expression as the remarks were made. His wife had sat calmly in the rear of the Snapping Turtle delegation, her face reflecting nothing. She had refused to meet his eyes, even once.

So now he walked past the Southern Moiety’s pole, its top decorated by streamers of colored cloth, feathers, and painted bones that dangled from leather thongs. He walked down the gap separating Alligator Clan from Snapping Turtle. Only a blind man would have been unaware of Elder Stone Talon as she sat at her ramada on the first ridge. She might have skewered him with a dart, so piercing was her glare.

He climbed onto the third ridge, walking eastward past the line of houses. When people spoke to him, he answered politely. He could almost taste their curiosity as they watched him pass; and he dared not look back as he approached his wives’ house for fear that they were following in a parade to see what happened.

Salamander hadn’t been here since Anhinga’s arrival. For most of the time, both Pine Drop and Night Rain had been in the Women’s House. Since then, well, he had been putting this off.

He rounded the last house. Night Rain was crouched under the ramada, grabbing up spilled cordage where the loom had been blown flat by the restless wind. She had laid a stone on a small ceramic jar full of red feathers, probably from a cardinal, that she had been weaving into the warp and weft.

“Can I help you with that?” Salamander asked, bending over beside her.