But in White Bird’s mind the most important thing he carried was the fabric sack of goosefoot seeds that rested between his feet. That was the journey’s greatest prize. And for that, he would gamble everything. What would the People do for a man who offered them the future?
“I thought we would be there by now,” Yellow Spider muttered, banking his paddle long enough to roll his muscular shoulders.
“The cut across from the crevasse is longer than you remember.” White Bird smiled. “Besides, if you will recall, we were fresh and excited when we left here last spring.”
“And the backswamp is deeper,” Yellow Spider added. “Look at this.” He gestured at the high water ringing the trees. “Fishing must be more difficult this spring with such deep water. People will be adding on to their nets. We should have gone northwest for ironstone. Given the depth of the water and the size of the nets needed to fish these currents, net sinkers will be in demand.”
“We did fine.” White Bird tapped the sack of goosefoot seed with his foot. “Besides, had we gone northwest, the mountain people wouldn’t have provided their women. Not like those Wolf People.” He paused thoughtfully as he stroked with his paddle. “I, for one, will miss Lark. She kept the robes more than warm.”
As Yellow Spider picked up his paddle, White Bird rested his across the gunwales and rolled his weary shoulders. Fatigue ran from his fingers, up his arms, and into the middle of his back. His belly had run empty long ago, as though nothing but hunger lay behind the corded muscles. An image of Lark flashed in his head. He remembered the sparkle in her eyes that first night when she had crawled into his bed. If he closed his eyes, he could almost feel her hands tracing the swell of his chest and the ripple of muscle that led down past his navel. Her gasp of delight as she reached down to grip his manhood lingered in his ears.
“Yes,” he whispered into the stillness of the swamp, “I shall miss you, Lark.” In his nineteen turning of seasons he had never had a full-time woman before. The notion that she had been waiting every time he returned to their cozy home had grown on him. She was a strange one, true, raised as she was by a different people with different gods and peculiar beliefs, but she had been pretty, devoted to him, and always there. Rot take it, a man could get used to living like that.
“I wouldn’t worry,” Yellow Spider said smugly as he ducked a clump of hanging moss. “Your mother probably has a whole string of women lined up for you. Not only are you worthy—as our return will prove—but you’re in line to replace your uncle.” He hesitated tactfully. “If you haven’t already.”
“Uncle Cloud Heron will be fine. Owl help me if he isn’t.”
Yellow Spider laughed. “Oh, stop it. You’ll be a better Speaker for the clan than anyone I know. You have a way about you, White Bird. A calm assurance that no one else has. People can’t help but like you. Look at how we did up north. Look at the return we got. How are you going to explain that you gave half of your Trade to these barbarians?”
“Watch your tongue.” White Bird shot a quick look back over his shoulder. “You never know if any of them have been learning our language. Lark and Robin were learning it quickly enough.”
“I was just thinking how much I miss that Robin.” Yellow Spider sighed. “Somehow I think the clan is going to marry me off quick as a snap. Who knows whom they’ll pick for me.” He paused. “Unlike you. Or are you sorry that Lark isn’t in your canoe instead of me?”
“Come on, Cousin. Think! Lark and Robin belong up there. That’s where their families are. They’d be strangers here, cast loose without kin of any kind. And, you’re right. The clan will have you married to at least one other woman, perhaps two, within the turning of seasons.”
Yellow Spider lowered his voice. “Do you think Spring Cypress is a woman yet?”
White Bird shrugged. “If she is, she may be married already.” Did his voice cloak the sudden sense of worry? She’d begun her fourteenth summer when he and Yellow Spider had left for the north. But for a late menstruation, she’d have been married—most girls were by that age.
“I talked to Spring Cypress before I left. It was a risk we had to take. Even if she passed her moon, her uncle, Speaker Clay Fat, could have been persuaded to wait.”
“Or not, as the case may be.”
“Are you always so gloomy?”
“No, I’m just connected to this world. You, my cousin, live in another. Take those seeds you’re so enamored of. Goosefoot is goosefoot. We have our own. Why invest in someone else’s?”