People of the Owl(232)
“Alligator Clan would win anyway,” Deep Hunter cried, smacking a hand to his thigh. He dipped a handful of pasty root from one of the jars and sucked it from his fingers, heedless of the hot stares of the others.
“What future did you choose?” Three Moss asked, glancing meaningfully at Mud Stalker.
“I chose a third way. I stopped at the Serpent’s last night and obtained a bit of mushroom. Just enough to open the tunnel. Old Heron answered my call, and we Dreamed. Peculiar, isn’t it? So many lines of Power, so many paths to the future ran through me. With one decision I would have been the greatest Speaker ever, uniting the People under Owl Clan. With another, I could have Danced and Dreamed the One. This place, and our People, would have evaporated in a few turnings of the seasons. They hadn’t counted on my finding a third way.”
“You?” Deep Hunter laughed. “The greatest Speaker ever?”
Salamander ignored him. “Tomorrow a new Council will be chosen. The lesson that we have taught them will survive for another five or ten generations, and then, as Morning Lake fills with mud, and the beliefs that we learned here spread, the people will slowly move away. In the end, Sun Town will be left to the forest, and the center of our world will move to other places, other peoples. Clans, peoples, and leaders will rise and fall. The meaning of our earthworks will change. Great Dreamers will carry the words of Masked Owl and Many Colored Crow across the land. Old Heron will sit in her cave, and watch the Tree of Life grow as she Dreams the One.”
“So,” Mud Stalker asked, “tell me, Seer, which clan will be preeminent in the next turning of the seasons?”
“Until Thunder Tail dies, Eagle Clan will be preeminent. Following that Clay Fat will lead the Council until his death. Only then, after many turnings of seasons, will he be followed by Clan Elder Pine Drop.”
Both Mud Stalker and Deep Hunter erupted into guffaws, slapping their legs, as they eyed each like kestrels over a grasshopper.
Of them all, only Cane Frog, perhaps seeing more through her blind eye, remained serious. “Why, Salamander? Why would any of us in this room vote Clay Fat into the leadership?”
“You won’t. Tomorrow you will all be dead.” Salamander smiled ironically. “That is the lesson that we will teach this day. Harmony between the clans must be maintained. Fortunately, there are young leaders ready to fill our positions.”
“Our positions?” Half Thorn asked. “I am already Speaker in yours.”
“Yes.” Salamander nodded pleasantly. “Enjoy it while you can.” He indicated the pot before him. “May I share your bounty, Speaker?”
“By all means.” Mud Stalker gestured with his good hand before he scooped more from the pot. “You know, Salamander, that despite your announcement today, we can’t just let you go. It isn’t just the matter of Eats Wood, but, as we were discussing before your arrival, we cannot allow you just to wander about.”
“We would be uncomfortable,” Deep Hunter added, “knowing that you were out there, talking to people, giving them ideas.”
“We are afraid you might find allies,” Cane Frog explained. “Bring them back to challenge the authority of the clans.”
Moccasin Leaf gave him a humorless smile. “We are sorry, Salamander, but you are too dangerous. Of course, the people, Water Petal, and Yellow Spider, will think that you left in secret. Water Stinger and Saw Back will make sure that no one discovers your body.”
He nodded, feeling a stone-heaviness in his heart. “Well, I shall hope that this last meal will be as good as it looks.”
Mud Stalker smiled past hard eyes. “It is excellent! A solstice gift. I found it here upon my return. And then Deep Hunter brings a pot just like the first. Yellow lotus, our traditional feast, but seasoned heavily with mint, honeysuckle, and some strange tang that I cannot identify.”
“Water hemlock,” Salamander supplied with a numbness in his souls.
“Hemlock? The poison?” Moccasin Leaf cried, then burst into peals of laughter. “I see, you made a joke, Salamander. A grand joke indeed.”
“Yes. A joke worthy of Masked Owl himself,” he answered, and used his fingers to dip into the rich mixture of roots Anhinga had baked. Before the first debilitating cramps, he would make sure that he took an ample serving out to share with Saw Back and Water Stinger.
A hard day’s paddle to the south, Anhinga bent over a handful of flickering fire that guttered in the ceramic pot she carried. Moths continued fluttering out of the darkness to circle her fire until the heat and flames engulfed them.