Wing Heart watched as Clay Fat continued amiably on his way across the plaza. His belly protruded over his loincloth, his knobby navel like the stem on a brown melon. A half-lazy smile traced Clay Fat’s thick lips, his expression dreamy, as if he had not a care in the world.
Wing Heart considered him. Clay Fat wasn’t an acutely smart man. Rather he was wedded to stability the way a fisherman enjoyed a deep-keeled canoe. He liked balance and was happiest when he knew exactly what was coming with the next sunrise. The passing of the last six moons—in the shadow of Speaker Cloud Heron’s impending death—had been hard on Clay Fat’s nerves. The uncertainty over young White Bird’s whereabouts upriver—let alone whether or not he was still alive—had been excruciating. Now, with the world set back to rights, he looked much like a fat toad full of bugs.
She owed him. Of them all, he had stood by her, steadfastly believing her promise that her son would return from the north, and that when he did, it would be with a stunning coup that would assure Owl Clan’s hegemony.
No, Clay Fat might not be the brightest of the Clan Speakers. Had he been someone other than himself, he would have taken that opportunity to try to propel Rattlesnake Clan into leadership. At least she, or any of the other Clan Elders, would have struck like a hungry snake when she sensed the slightest vulnerability in her rivals.
But is he so dumb? Wing Heart turned the notion over in her mind, trying to see it from Clay Fat’s perspective. Was it not better to place Rattlesnake Clan in a perpetual secondary role rather than risk falling into even more pressing debt to the others?
“Greetings, Wing Heart,” Clay Fat called, waving as he trooped across the muddy shallows of the borrow pit and climbed the earthen ridge upon which the Owl Clan houses were built. As Clan Elder, Wing Heart had the most prestigious location, on the eastern edge of the berm overlooking Morning Lake. Here she could greet the sunrise, and best of all, monitor the comings and goings at the Turtle’s Back.
“A pleasant day to you, Speaker. How is your Elder, Graywood Snake, today?”
“She is well, Wing Heart. She sends her fondest greetings.” He strode up, breath coming in labored gasps. She could see the sweat beginning to bead on his swollen brown skin. “I must say, things are happening. So much talk.”
“Talk?” She pointed to the cane mat across from her. “Sit, old friend. Enjoy the shade. Would you like a cup of black drink? As you can see, the bowl is still steaming.”
“Bless you, but no. It’s too hot,” he muttered. “Here we are but a half-moon past spring equinox and it already feels like midsummer.” He grunted as he eased himself onto the matting. “Is it me, or are the passing summers getting hotter and hotter?”
“It is you,” she told him, her fingers spinning the cord along her thigh. “The summers are no hotter. It’s just that your belly gets larger and larger. It holds your heat in like a giant cooking clay.”
He laughed at that, slapping a callused hand against his stomach.
“So, there is talk you say? Anything of interest or are they just scrambling to cover themselves, saying, ‘Oh, I knew all along that White Bird would return!’”
He shot her a knowing glance, his dark brown eyes measuring. “Hardly. Envy and venom are whispered behind the hand while smiles and nectar drape public speech. At least that’s the way of the leaders’ lineages. For those who have no stake in the squabbles among the Council’s leaders, interest centers on what lies hidden under those packs in White Bird’s canoes. Most people, as you well know, Wing Heart, could care less who holds the ropes to the fish traps so long as they can share in the catch.”
“Runners have gone out?”
He nodded, reaching down to finger the end of the cane matting he sat on. “People are beginning to trickle in from the outlying camps. Everyone is expecting a feast and dancing, and an excuse to get together and gossip. For the people who are in need, it is a chance to refit, to replace what is broken or worn-out.” He glanced out across the lake, fixing his gaze on the Turtle’s Back and the figures that hunched out there in a line next to the sweat lodge. “Is everything all right?”
“My son is going through a nasty cleansing. For a while yesterday he couldn’t stop throwing up. I believe that the Serpent is being particularly thorough this time. He wasn’t happy about a three-day cleansing. At White Bird’s suggestion, I requested it rather forcefully. It seems that his Wolf companions, as he calls them, are leery about what it will do to the health of their barbarian souls.”