People of the Owl(202)

What is it about them that they do not consider a woman to be dangerous? Arrogance? Stupidity? Or just a lack of respect for her and her kind? Certainly their Clan Elders, also female, should have had the intelligence and resources to appreciate the threat she posed.

Then she recalled her uncle’s insistence that she bide her time, endure the passing seasons among the Sun People. How she had hated the wait. How smart her uncle had been; she now passed where she would, hardly garnering a second glance. She would have been faceless but for her reputation for breaking Saw Back’s face.

Thinking back, she didn’t regret it. Of course, she would have been faceless, even more invisible than she was now. Over the moons, however, that act had brought her a curious sort of recognition. People made way for her, sometimes giving her a curt nod. Not friendly, just respectful. She decided she liked that, liked it a lot.

One day soon, she would be returning home. She would see that same look in the eyes of her people. If she managed to do this thing, if it unfolded the way she planned, it would stun the Sun People to the roots of their souls. Indeed, her descendants would speak her name with awe for generations.

All it would take was courage, and the hope that she didn’t get caught before she could remove herself well beyond the Sun People’s wrath.

As she walked past it, the Women’s House was silent and dark, although the faint smell of cooking cattail and smoke hung on the heavy air. A lone dog stood up in the doorway, shook, and growled at her. She made a soft cooing noise and the cur trotted down the incline of the Mother Mound, its tail wagging. The animal appeared happy that she hadn’t thrown an old cooking clay at it.

“How are you tonight?” she asked softly.

If she could trust her night-veiled eyes, the dog was a young bitch. She bounced and whined as she followed along behind. Like most dogs in Sun Town, she didn’t receive kind words very often.

“Shsht! Don’t do that!” She raised the bundle high as the dog grabbed it with its teeth and tugged. “That’s poison! Not for you to be playing with!”

The bitch whined again, and backed off at the harsh tone. Tail wagging expectantly, she stared up at Anhinga in the faint light of the half-moon.

“Go on!” She waved her away. “Go back to whoever was feeding you back there. You don’t want any part of me.”

Cowed, the bitch dropped behind, trailing by a short distance.

Anhinga walked past the borrow pit to her dark house. Swallowing hard, she removed the door and ducked inside. On stealthy feet she crossed to Salamander’s bed, feeling his empty buffalo robe.

Good. He’s at Pine Drop’s.

She carefully laid her sleeping daughter on the bench, felt for the small ceramic pot she knew was by the bed leg, and walked back to the square of light that marked the doorway. There she found her fire-hardened digging stick where she had left it. With the pot in one hand, and the digging stick and her bundle in the other, she stepped out into the night. Haze softened the half-moon’s face, dimming the brighter stars. From Wing Heart’s house Anhinga could hear the burr of the woman’s snoring.

Anhinga laid the pot and fabric bundle on the ground. Pressing her breastbone against the end of the digging stick, she drove the sharp point into the soft earth and levered it up. It took her less than two fingers of time to dig a hole large enough to take the pot. Using only her fingertips, she placed the fabric bundle inside the pot and then capped it with a wooden plate that lay beside Wing Heart’s loom. Lowering the pot into the hole, she scooped earth over it. The excess dirt she scattered around here and there. Finally, she laid a section of cane matting over the hump of earth and pressed it down to hide her handiwork.

In that instant, the image of Salamander’s face flashed between her souls. Panther’s blood, this was going to hurt him so. Only at that thought did her souls ache.





The crow caught Red Finger’s attention when it swooped down out of the overhanging forest and clutched a lock of his graying hair in its feet.

Shocked and surprised, Red Finger ducked, then yipped at the pain as the gleaming bird pulled the length of hair out by the roots.

In anger, he almost capsized his canoe as he scrambled for his atlatl and darts. He sent a long dart flying after the bird, clawing for balance as his canoe wobbled with the force of his release.

The crow dodged artfully to one side, the dart sailing between the branches of a tupelo before arcing down to cut cleanly into the water.

Red Finger rubbed the top of his head, glaring at the circling crow.

“What do you want?”

The bird answered with a raucous call and dived at him again. Red Finger flattened himself into the bottom of his rocking craft and glanced up warily.