She could feel Bowfin and her dead friends, watching her from the darkness, their eyes burning as they studied her. She could sense their frustration and swelling anger.
Will you act? The words seemed to linger on the night.
She steeled herself and stood. To her surprise her fingers hurt, and something firm filled her palm. She opened her hand, wondering when she had clawed the soil from ground.
He sat in the doorway of the Men’s House, his form obscured by the deep shadow. He had barely seen her coming as she walked across the plaza. Hadn’t recognized her until she stopped at the pole and bent down to feel the ground.
Now he watched as she hurried away, her gait halfway between a run and a walk.
Saw Back reached up and fingered the side of his crushed face. It would have been so easy. He could have sneaked up on the balls of his feet. She’d have never known he was there until the snapping of her skull as he drove his ax through it.
“Someday, woman.”
It would not be in the darkness. Not in the quiet night. No, he wanted her to know he was going to kill her. He wanted to look into her eyes, see her fear, as he choked the life out of her body.
Forty-nine
Salamander had spent the last week since the birth of Pine Drop’s daughter alternating back and forth between his two houses. On this night he lay in Night Rain’s arms. Their coupling had been like an intimate dance that led to a pulsing ecstasy that Night Rain shared as she absorbed his seed. Wrapped in each other’s arms they had fallen into an exhausted sleep.
Salamander didn’t hear the rasp of black feathers in the night. Above the house, midnight spirit wings enfolded his Dream Soul in downy softness.
The Dream, so vivid, captivated him: He was climbing the Bird’s Head. The day was one of those that came in late spring: bright, sunny, with a scattering of clouds in a light blue sky. Humidity had softened the air, its moist touch on the verdant growth.
Grass waved at his feet as Salamander climbed. Around him, the world seemed to glow with an emerald heartbeat. He could feel the earth, alive, breathing. Even the air seemed to swell in his nose and lungs.
His climb was effortless. He almost floated upward—a leaf borne upon the breeze.
At the top, a lone figure made a dark silhouette against the sky.
Salamander squinted against the glorious light, trying to identify the person. But no, not a person at all. Rather, it looked more birdlike, or was that just a black-feathered cape that hung from the figure’s shoulders? The head, when it turned, was indeed a giant bird’s. A straight black beak protruded, shining like polished jet.
Salamander slowed, suddenly uncertain.
“Come, my friend!” the being called, waving a feather-laced arm. “It is time that we finally talked.”
Salamander trod the last couple of body lengths, studying the apparition. Long black feathers hung down from a cloak that covered the man’s arms. From behind a raven’s mask, two sharp brown eyes could be seen. A short tunic made of snakeskin ran down between the man’s legs to end in a rattlesnake’s tail.
“Bird Man?” Salamander gasped.
“I have come to see you, Salamander. Come to see who and what you are. There are things you have not been told. It wasn’t easy to reach you as it is. Masked Owl guards you well.”
“Why? What is he afraid of?”
“He fears that you might find all the pieces of your scattered visions. He fears that when you fit them together, you may choose a different path than the one he has been so carefully planning for you.”
“I don’t want to be in the middle of this!”
Bird Man extended a feathered finger to indicate the crossshaped scar on his chest. “You have been marked with it, young Dreamer. Whatever you wished, Power has found itself at the center of those intersecting lines over your heart. Do you feel it?”
When Salamander lifted his fingers he detected the throbbing under the hard knot of scar tissue. Looking down, he could see a yellow glow at the center of his breastbone.
“Yes, there,” the gentle voice told him. “What an unlikely sort of hero you are. I can understand Masked Owl’s interest in you. He always seems drawn to the odd ones, to the deformed, or the naive.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I. He seems taken with that silly notion of looking for strength in weakness. You are his type, but what I really don’t understand is how you could have managed to involve the old woman. Mostly she huddles in her cave like an infant wrapped tight in the womb. She seems content to watch from afar.”
“What old woman? Do you mean one of the Clan Elders? Cane Frog, or …”
“No, young fool. I mean old Heron. For some reason—and it’s beyond me—she has taken a liking to you. It upsets things, you know. Any hint of predictability vanished the moment she saved you from dying from your stupidity.”