People of the Owl(226)

Little Needle, big-eyed, jerked another nod.

“Good. Salamander thinks very highly of you, you know.”

“I know.” His voice sounded small.

“If you could place those pots without being seen, it would make the surprise even bigger. Could you do that?”

“I think so.”

“Good.” She smiled at him, thought for a heartbeat, and reached for the little red chert owl that Salamander had been carving. Finished, but for the polishing, the little potbellied figure was cool in her hand. “In return for your service, I want you to have this. It’s to remember Salamander by.”

Little Needle studied the little owl she dropped into his hand, and tears welled in his eyes. “Thank you, Anhinga. I’ll do it.” He swallowed a sob. “For him. No one will see me, I promise.”





A terrible battle raged in Mud Stalker’s souls as he surveyed the huge crowd that had gathered around the Council House. He wanted to pace back and forth irritably, to release the rampant energy that powered his bones and muscles. But he dare not. He had waited all of his life for this moment, planned of it, Dreamed of it. If Snapping Turtle Clan was to be ascendant, he must show himself and Sweet Root as controlled, steady, confident, and worthy of leadership.

His souls screamed to be about this last great task. He nodded to people as he met their eyes, keeping his face calm and possessed. He kept his bad arm cradled, struggling to project the countenance of a serene Speaker faced with a difficult task. The mighty weight of the clans was poised, watching, waiting with him.

Where are Pine Drop and Night Rain? The question ate at him as he looked at Sweet Root. His sister stood to one side, her back resting against one of the poles. She had a sour look on her face, her darting eyes betraying her growing anxiety.

Mud Stalker turned, looking across at Owl Clan’s contingent. Moccasin Leaf’s face was pinched, her eyes glittering. Beside her, Half Thorn had a stupid smile on his lips. He was greased, dressed in a fine white breechcloth with a purple-dyed cape over his shoulders. He had stuck so many white heron feathers into his hair that he looked like a bristly flower.

That is the man I am going to make Speaker of Owl Clan. Not even the elevation of Salamander had filled him with such disgust. Ah, Wing Heart, if only your souls had stayed around to see this. But, perhaps it is better that they have fled. As great as you were, it is better that you have escaped the humiliation.

At Alligator Clan’s spot, Deep Hunter fretted. He reminded Mud Stalker of a male dog standing over a pile of scraps. He was anxious to growl and show his teeth, but he was unsure whom to snap at. Colored Paint was talking in low tones to Sour Mouth and Saw Back in the shaded rear where the rest of the lineage leaders were gathered.

Mud Stalker centered his attention on the young warrior with the misshapen face. Saw Back’s eyes might have been hot stones. He kept smiling in that lopsided manner he had adopted, and his gaze kept turning to Owl Clan, as if in anticipation of his enemy’s arrival.

In Frog Clan’s spot, Three Moss was leaning to speak into her mother’s ear, her hand on the old woman’s bare shoulder. It would speak volumes through the silent movement of fingers against the old woman’s skin on this day.

Clay Fat looked miserable, as if he’d eaten something for breakfast that disagreed with him. Clan Elder Turtle Mist’s head was tilted his way, her mouth moving as she spoke in obvious irritation. Clay Fat was the only unknown. He might vote either way. Not that it mattered, with Cane Frog in hand Mud Stalker had his majority.

Eagle Clan’s Thunder Tail sat beside Stone Talon, a brooding darkness behind his stiff face. He seemed not to see or hear anything but the plodding thoughts slipping between his souls.

Enjoy yourself today, Leader, it will not be many moons from now before I take your place.

A stir in the crowd was the only warning before Salamander pushed through the throng and walked into the eastern entrance. A sudden hush fell on the Council House as all eyes turned toward him.

Salamander seemed unreasonably calm, as if he had no idea what lay in store for him. He wore a simple brown breechcloth while a spectacularly dyed fabric draped from his shoulders. Wing Heart’s work, most definitely. Mud Stalker could almost feel the owl’s eyes staring back from the design.

To Mud Stalker’s surprise, Salamander called some sort of greeting to Saw Back. The latter just glared in return.

A half heartbeat later, Salamander nodded to Yellow Spider, and the warrior slipped away through the crowd.

What was that all about?

It was then that Water Stinger appeared at his elbow. “Speaker?”

“Yes, what is it? Where are Pine Drop and Night Rain?”