The boy is smiling to himself.
I watch him.
Does he know?
At his tender age, can he possibly understand that a person has to be shoved off the bridge by the one he trusts most before he can look up, see no one standing above to help him, and grasp that being alone is not the curse, it is the task?
Six
Wing Heart sat in the afternoon shade of the thatched ramada beside her house. With a facility that came from many seasons of practice she used her thigh and one hand to spin basswood fibers into cordage. She had stripped the fibers from the tree’s bark by first soaking, then pounding it with a stone-headed mallet. That loosened the fibers so that they could be pulled free, then combed, and assembled into the flaxen pile on her right. As she spun the fibers she looped the finished cord into a coil to her left.
Her house stood at the eastern end of the first northern ridge. From her ramada she could look out over the wind-patterned waters of Morning Lake. Waves lapped at the bank four body lengths below the sheer drop-off. Three glossy white herons sailed soundlessly southward, their wide wings catching the updraft along the bank before her.
Looking out onto the lake, her view included the Turtle’s Back: a low hump of earth topped by three sweetgum trees and trampled grass. She could make out the Serpent’s thin figure as he walked from one young man to another, tapping each of them lightly on the shoulders with an eagle-feather wand.
White Bird sat with his back to the gum tree’s trunk. If his posture was any indication, he looked absolutely miserable. It brought a smile to her lips. That was the point, wasn’t it? The people didn’t want evil spirits from distant places being carried into their midst. By making the host body uncomfortable, those same malicious forces would drift away in search of a more pleasant body to inhabit while they worked their dark and sorcerous deeds.
“Bless you, my son,” she said with satisfaction, her gaze lingering on the four long canoes that had been pulled onto the small island’s muddy shores. Even from her vantage point she could see the piled packs and reflect on the salvation it meant for her lineage and Owl Clan in general.
She added more fibers from the pile to her right, twisting them into the center of the cord. Fibers had to be added as others were exhausted so that the cordage remained uniform in strength and thickness. The manufacture of cordage was important to her people. Not only did it bind things together like houses, drying racks, and roof thatch, but it was the essential ingredient in their fishnets and small-game snares. From it they braided strong ropes. On their looms it became a coarse fabric for burden bags and storage containers. Cordage allowed them to measure out the uniform earthworks that defined the limits of Sun Town and the holdings of the clans. Cordage was always in demand for Trade, as were the fine fabrics they wove and the wooden products they carved. Small loops of cord even provided for days of entertainment as the children played the finger-string game, creating patterns and designs as they plucked the loop back and forth from hand to hand.
She saw Clay Fat as he approached, walking across the open plaza from the line of houses dotting the ridges to the southeast. Rattlesnake Clan had its holdings there. The moment she saw him she knew he was coming to see her. No doubt the single unifying feeling among the members of Rattlesnake Clan was relief. White Bird had arrived despite their dire predictions. Their political situation, especially their relationship to Owl Clan, had been not only justified but was about to be solidified.
Whereas last week her very existence might have been suspect—given the lack of attention she had been receiving—her circumstances had changed with White Bird’s arrival. One after another she had been entertaining Clan Elders and Speakers. Indeed, the world might have flipped from end to end since her son’s flotilla had nosed into Sun Town’s placid Morning Lake. Even old Back Scratch, the Snapping Turtle Clan Elder, had been forced to swallow her pride and toddle her creaking bones across the plaza to make pleasant talk. Sweet Root, her daughter, had accompanied her, slinking like the predatory cat she was. One day—and not so far away—Sweet Root would inherit her clan’s mantle. Spirits help them all.
Back Scratch kept a lid on most of Mud Stalker’s poison. Sweet Root, however, wouldn’t have the sense to keep her brother on a short string. She had always been in awe of him, and after her mother’s death she would be a cunning and willing accomplice, ready and anxious to add her own machinations to those of her bitter, alligator-bitten brother.
As the day had passed Wing Heart had entertained them all. Smiling, gracious, she had played the game with all the skill that her turnings of seasons and innate ability had given her. Calling on her clan she had provided smoked fish and bread made from smilax root. A stone bowl continued to steam by the fire, sweetening the air with the pungent odor of black drink. The foamy tea made from holly leaves was normally reserved for special occasions. Having a pot of it on hand provided that extra bit of elegance to reinforce the notion that Owl Clan remained preeminent.