People of the Owl(201)
Mud Stalker lifted the bowl and sipped black drink. Handing it to Deep Hunter, he said, “Salamander doesn’t behave the way a young man of his age should, don’t you agree?”
Deep Hunter drank, wiped his lips, and shrugged. “How should he behave?”
“A normal young man doesn’t work with the Dead. He doesn’t spend every morning atop the Bird’s Head where he can look out into the Land of the Dead. He doesn’t ally himself with Jaguar Hide for purposes that we can only guess at. And, most of all, have you noticed how those who stand in his way have been removed?”
“What?”
“You saw him when the Serpent’s house was burned.”
Deep Hunter gave a thoughtful nod. “Do you have any real proof that he’s a witch?”
“We need only the accusation. People will do the rest. He has only a handful of allies.”
“If I support the accusation of witchcraft, what do I get in return?”
“Warriors from Snapping Turtle Clan, and perhaps even Rattlesnake Clan, will accompany yours on the raid against the Swamp Panthers. We will break Owl Clan’s peace and destroy their access to sandstone. Who knows, if we use Anhinga as bait, perhaps you might finally manage to lure Jaguar Hide into your reach. Whether you do or not, with Snapping Turtle Clan involved, no one in the Council will vote against you.”
Deep Hunter sat silently, lost in thought. Then he nodded. “I agree, as long as I can kill Jaguar Hide, and Saw Back gets Anhinga—at least for a while.”
“I think we can arrange that.”
“What about afterward?”
“Owl Clan is discredited for as long as either of us is alive. Then you and I can go our separate ways. There will be no remaining obligation as we seek to replace Thunder Tail.”
“If Salamander is declared a witch?” Deep Hunter asked, apparently satisfied. “What then?”
“A witch who belongs to Owl Clan becomes their problem, not ours. I have spoken to Half Thorn. He will be happy to attend to it. After all, he has everything to gain.”
Fifty-three
In the light of a half-moon, Anhinga drove her canoe onto the muddy landing below Sun Town. Her stealthy arrival frightened a raccoon that searched in and among the beached canoes for bits of fish guts or other edibles left by the fishermen. The beast hurried away in its rolling waddle, lucky to have escaped. Raccoon had a succulent and sweet meat.
The night pressed warmly against the land, a blessing after the cold and drizzly winter. The presence of the raccoon made it doubtful that anyone was close enough to witness her return. For a long moment, Anhinga remained still and listened to the sounds of the night: Insect wings whirred around her head. Frogs croaked. Somewhere in the distance a bull alligator roared.
Nothing moved along the line of canoes; many had been flipped over to keep water from collecting inside. The vessels reminded her of a school of sleeping fish.
She carefully stood, stepped out of the canoe, and dragged her slim boat onto the muddy bank. She bent and slung the loop of her daughter’s cradleboard onto her shoulder. Then she reached for the fabric-wrapped bundle that lay in the bow. She handled it with great care. As she started up the slope she made doubly sure that her daughter’s cradleboard hung as far as possible from the fabric bundle. She dare not even let them touch.
She slowed as she neared the top of the slope, hearing music coming from the Men’s House. The clacking rhythm of hardwood sticks, rattles, and the thump of drums almost covered the sound of bare feet shuffling on cane matting. A heron-bone flute piped a delicate melody. Male voices rose and fell as they sang in accompaniment.
Light reflected in soft yellow from the building’s roof openings. The east-facing window made a glowing square in the dark wall. Figures darted back and forth inside. She could see that they wore masks. Some had deer antlers, others birdlike heads. Still others looked to be redheaded woodpecker, alligator, and dragonfly, all totems of war.
Let them Sing and Dance while they can.
War, like the dancers, wore many different masks.
A grim smile crossed her lips. Women weren’t supposed to see any part of the men’s secret rituals. She considered that as she turned her steps north toward the house she and Salamander had built. The mysteries of the Men’s House had always intrigued her. They had more fun than the women did, the latter sitting around weaving baskets, making pigments, and gossiping while they changed absorbent and passed their moons.
I should have been born a man. But no, had she been, she would never have had the opportunity that now presented itself. A Swamp Panther warrior would never have been allowed—as she had—to walk freely among the Sun People.