People of the Owl(207)

Night Rain stared wide-eyed at the oblong hole in the top of Eats Wood’s skull. “You think Eats Wood would have let her drive an ax into his head? He knew what happened to Saw Back. I heard him say he’d never be that stupid.”

“Look at him, Cousin. Look hard, then you tell me what you think.” Red Finger crossed his arms.

“There is a way to prove what we suspect,” Uncle replied stiffly. “That is, assuming you still have any loyalty to your clan.” He pinned her with his eyes. “How is it with you, Night Rain? Are you still Snapping Turtle Clan, or are you someone else? Someone who betrays her blood and kin. Someone without relatives?”

Her throat tightened, and she wished she were anywhere but here, looking down on these pitiful remains. “How can we be sure? I mean, how can we know that Anhinga did this? Only bones are left.”

Red Finger bent down, picking up the globe of the skull. Muddy water drained from the big hole where the spine had been. It spattered off the damp wood and pattered onto her bare legs. She cringed at the feel of it on her warm skin.

Mud Stalker frowned, pained, as he studied the skull. “It doesn’t take long for the crawfish, minnows, and bugs to clean up a body, does it?” He indicated the oblong wound in the top. “Here, Night Rain. This will tell us.”

“How?”

“I want you to bring me Anhinga’s ax.” Mud Stalker gave her a blunt stare. “You can do that, can’t you? Borrow it? Sometime when she isn’t looking?”

“I … Uncle, don’t ask me to do this.”

“You owe us!” Mud Stalker thrust his face into hers. “We are your kin!”

She stepped back, desperate to get away from him.

“Or do you serve someone besides your own flesh and blood?” Sweet Root asked. “Is it Deep Hunter? Salamander? Or perhaps that witch, Anhinga?”

“Have you forgotten your ancestors?” Red Finger asked, a sneer on his lips. “Would you rather serve strangers than your clan? Would you leave your cousin’s, Eats Wood’s, souls to wail over the injustice of his murder while you laugh with his killers?”

Night Rain couldn’t catch her breath. She glanced from face to face. Water Stinger had stood to the rear, his expression brooding and angry.

“Do this thing,” Uncle added in a softer tone, “and all will be forgiven between us. You and I will begin again on a new footing … as if the problem with Deep Hunter, and your betrayal, never happened.” He paused. “Night Rain, do you understand the opportunity we are giving you?”

She bit her lip and nodded, feeling her heart thudding in her chest. “Yes, Uncle.”

“Good.” Mud Stalker took a deep breath, stepping back to look down into the canoe. “In the meantime, I think we should tell Pine Drop. Have her—”

“No,” Night Rain whispered. “Don’t tell her yet. Salamander will find out. She will demand an answer from him. Anhinga will find out, and her ax will be gone long before I can get to it.”

“What makes you think Night Rain can manage this?” Sweet Root asked Uncle in a caustic voice. “She couldn’t even manage a meeting with her young lover without getting wound up in another’s snare.”

“I can do this!” Night Rain stamped her foot. “If it means fixing the damage I have done, I can.” She took a breath of the muggy air and waved at a pesky fly that came to buzz around her ear. “I will get Anhinga’s ax. No one will know. Not even Pine Drop.”





Fifty-five

Salamander saw morning come from his perch atop the Bird’s Head. As he watched Sun Town in the hazy yellow light, he saw it as Many Colored Crow had shown him in the vision: abandoned, burned, and littered with rotting corpses and wreckage. That scene had filled his nightmares, now it intruded into his waking thoughts.

The full moon hanging over the western horizon had depressed him further. When it came full again, it would coincide with the summer solstice. If his vision was correct, he had that long to find a solution. The tendrils of his souls could feel the strands of Power pulling tight.

After breakfast with Anhinga he walked to the canoe landing where Yellow Spider worked on a new canoe. The sky that day had a hazy white cast, and the sun’s heat beat down unmercifully. On Morning Lake the milky brown waters shot beams of light from sluggish waves. They lapped at the muddy shore in irregular and weak splashes.

Salamander squinted his eyes at the acrid smoke that boiled out of the hollow cypress log. Yellow Spider had towed it in from the heart of the swamp several days ago. He had had his eye on this particular bald cypress for several turnings of the seasons. The trunk was straight, fine-grained, and just the right diameter for a good Trade canoe. Last summer, after his return from upriver, he had ringed the tree by cutting through the bark. After killing it, he had allowed the wood to cure over the long fall and winter.