People of the Owl(206)

“What is it?” Night Rain placed a hand on her belly, wondering what a run like this would do to her queasy stomach.

“Uncle will tell you.”

“Where are we going?”

“The landing just below Raspberry Camp.”

She knew the place: the first camp south of Sun Town where the south channel looped back against a break in the high terrace. Not more than a half hand’s run away, people often camped there when they came from the outlying settlements. Close enough to allow easy access to Sun Town, it was far enough away to avoid the noise and confusion. Not all of the Sun People liked the bustling of Sun Town. She had relatives—people in her own lineage—who lived in the outlying camps, preferring the solitude of the swamps and forest to the city of ridges.

For her turn, Night Rain couldn’t stand the slow pace of life in the camps and outlying settlements. After several days, the monotony, the limited companionship, and boredom set in. She swore she would pull her hair out if she couldn’t return to Sun Town with its constant activity, games, feasts, and visiting.

Water Stinger surprised her when he directed her off the beaten route just outside of Raspberry Camp. Following a faint trail in the grass, he led her over the sloping embankment and down the steep incline. The way wound around roots of walnut, oak, and sweetgum. A spongy leaf mat muffled their steps as the path leveled into a brushy bottom.

Pushing through the willows and cane, Water Stinger led her into a small clearing. There the willows had been pushed flat and several canoes dragged up onto the crushed vegetation.

To one side, Red Finger had his arms crossed. Uncle and Mother stood over a mud-stained canoe, faces grim in the morning light. Sweet Root’s face reflected anger, grief, and frustration. Uncle just seemed to brood as he fingered the elbow of his ruined arm. Of them all, Red Finger had a look of satisfaction.

“What is this?” Night Rain asked as she stepped forward to stare down at the canoe. At first she didn’t recognize what she saw: A large yellow gourd with holes in it, bits of sticks and … “Snakes!” She placed a hand over her pounding heart. “Who is it?”

“Do you recognize the canoe?” Uncle asked softly.

She studied the craft, seeing the familiar lines. “It looks like Eats Wood’s.” She swallowed hard, leaning forward, fingers pressed to her breastbone. What she had first taken as sticks and a gourd were long bones and a skull. What might have been collapsed willow stays from a fish trap could only be the remains of a rib cage.

Looking more closely she could see that the body had been laid out, supine, the arms and legs straight. Muddy water had yellowed the remains. Waterlogged brown fabric about the waist had been a breechcloth. She could see the familiar turtle motif woven into the cloth. Eats Wood’s mother was quite a weaver. While Night Rain couldn’t be absolutely positive, she was pretty sure that that cloth had come from the old woman’s loom.

“Where did you find him?” The fingers at her breast had closed into a knotted fist.

“Deep in the Swamp Panther’s territory.” Red Finger shifted. “Believe it or not, a crow led me to him.”

“A crow?”

“But for the bird, no one would have ever found Eats Wood. His killers sank the canoe with his body in it. Once it was submerged, they wedged it under the roots of a cypress, where it wouldn’t come loose.” Red Finger shook his head.

“We were meant to find him,” Uncle said as he massaged the scar tissue on his arm. “Your crow was a messenger. Power leading us to justice.”

“You think the Swamp Panthers did this?” Night Rain asked incredulously. “Why would they hide the body?”

“They wouldn’t,” Sweet Root answered. “This isn’t war, silly child.”

“I don’t understand.” She was shaking her head, staring at the oblong hole in the top of Eats Wood’s round skull.

Mud Stalker leaned forward, his hard brown eyes burning into hers. “We’re talking murder!”

Murder? “Why would the Swamp Panthers murder Eats Wood?”

“They didn’t,” Sweet Root hissed. “If they had killed him, they would have taken his body to the Panther’s Bones and strewn the pieces around like the animals they are.”

“Think, Night Rain!” Uncle leaned closer, his eyes boring through her. “Who travels to the Swamp Panthers every moon? Who would have had a reason to hide the body instead of abusing it? Who would have done anything to avoid having to face us with our kinsman’s death?”

“Snakes, you think Anhinga did this?”

“She’s very good with an ax,” Sweet Root reminded. “If you will recall, daughter.”