People of the Owl(184)

“You can’t blame that on Salamander.”

“Who stood between him and the Speakership?”

“White Bird.”

“He is dead.”

“Salamander can’t throw lightning, Speaker.”

“What did Wing Heart think of her youngest son? Did she like him? Was she proud of him?”

“No.” Clay Fat didn’t sound so sure of himself anymore.

“And what happened to your old friend, Wing Heart? What kind of person can drive his own mother’s souls away?”

“I can’t believe that Salamander is a witch! He doesn’t look like one, doesn’t act like one. He’s not that smart.”

“Perhaps he isn’t,” Mud Stalker said offhandedly, knowing full well the seed had been planted. “What about his Swamp Panther wife? Eats Wood had been spying on Anhinga. He came to me, telling me that he suspected she was here to harm us. Do you remember that she went away every moon, even when her belly was swollen with Salamander’s child?”

“Yes.”

“She was meeting with Jaguar Hide. Eats Wood was sure.”

“Did he ever see her meet with him?”

“He did. From a distance. The thing is, the last time he left to spy on her, he never came back. I have no proof, but, as I said before, I just want you to think about these things. Especially about what happens to people who are close to Salamander.”

“You have two nieces married to him. What do they say?” Clay Fat’s voice had taken on a pensive tone.

“They say nothing, Speaker. If you were married to a witch, to someone who could drive his own mother’s souls away, would you say anything?”

A deep frown lined Clay Fat’s forehead.

“Oh, forget it. It’s probably nothing.” Mud Stalker smiled.





Pine Drop rinsed her cloth in a bowlful of water before she bent over and sponged Anhinga’s brow. Outside a wind whispered and moaned, driven by a spring storm. Had she ever known such a wet winter and spring? No sooner did one storm blow itself out than another rolled in.

Anhinga lay on a bison hide that padded the dirt floor. To her side the fire crackled and popped, its flame illuminating the inside of Salamander’s house. Over the winter, soot had blacked the roof and laid velvet fingers on the hanging bags of squash, smoked fish, jerked venison, and the desiccated carcasses of geese, ducks, and turkeys that hung from the rafters.

Anhinga gasped as another contraction tightened in her belly. Pine Drop smiled down at her in reassurance and took one of her hands, squeezing it. She glanced at Water Petal. Steady as a stone, Salamander’s cousin had seen them through the long watch.

“Aiiahhh!” the cry broke through Anhinga’s clenched teeth. Her pretty face contorted; water beaded on her skin before trickling down the lines of pain.

“You must push now,” Water Petal said as she squatted between Anhinga’s bent knees.

Night Rain watched from the side, a wad of dried hanging moss in her hands ready to soak up fluids. She had sponged up the Swamp Panther woman’s water several hands of time ago.

Pine Drop continued to hold Anhinga’s hand, squeezing firmly. “Don’t fight it. When the time is right, when your womb is ready, the little one will come.”

Anhinga’s expression relaxed, and she gasped for air. “By the Panther’s bones, nothing prepared me for this.”

“It is a first child,” Water Petal reminded. “Your body has never done this before. That infant has to push your hipbones apart.”

“Crack them in two, you mean.” Anhinga gasped as another contraction tightened inside of her.

“Push,” Pine Drop told her. “Push.”

The realization that she herself was only two moons from this same ordeal brought a trickle of fear into Pine Drop’s guts. She absently reached down with her free hand to feel the swell of her pregnancy.

“I’m … ah …” Anhinga didn’t finish but gasped a full breath, chest swelling, her heavy breasts taut as she bit down hard and grimaced with the effort.

Water Petal looked up, met Pine Drop’s eyes, and said, “It is soon. She is opening.”

“By Panther’s blood!” Anhinga gasped, her head flopping weakly to the side as she gulped breath. “My insides are tearing apart!”

“If they were, I would be seeing a lot of blood,” Water Petal answered matter-of-factly. She patted one of Anhinga’s brown knees, her critical eyes monitoring.

“And there isn’t?” Anhinga asked.

“A bit. Watery. Just what’s normal.”

The next contraction brought Anhinga’s head up. Strong thigh muscles slid under her smooth brown skin as she strained. Her hand tightened on Pine Drop’s in a grip the likes of which would slip the skin from her finger bones.