Time began to drag as he worked his way through the throng. It seemed that the entirety of Sun Town had poured out to greet him. Everyone was curious as to what he had brought, and just as anxious to see the barbarians and to invite them to visit, eat, and tell their tales of the far north. It took but a suggestion from White Bird to the gathered young men, and they surged to the beach and muscled the muddy damp canoes onto their broad shoulders. He smiled at the clans vying for the honor of carrying the Trade up to Owl Clan’s territory.
As they started up the slippery slope, people crowded around Hazel Fire and his companions, shouting questions and invitations.
Not that Traders didn’t come from distant places, but these were young warriors, not the professional rivermen with wild tales that were meant to awe their audience into a lucrative Trade.
White Bird did enjoy a moment of satisfaction as the crowd surged up the slope from the landing. He was watching the Wolf Traders, noting their expressions the moment that they stepped out onto the expanse of the great southern plaza. They stopped short, stunned at the sight of the huge curving ridges topped with lines of houses. Even with the drizzle that masked the Bird’s Head to the west, they stood stunned, speechless at the majesty of Sun Town’s earthworks and the geometric perfection with which it was laid out.
“There is no place like this on Earth!” Gray Fox finally gasped. “Do the gods live here?”
“No,” Yellow Spider assured him. “They are in the sky above and under the earth beneath your feet, where they should be. No, my friend, you have just entered the center of the world. We are the Sun People, and there are no others like us anywhere.”
White Bird led the procession, striding with the same presence and posture he had seen his uncle adopt for formal occasions. Behind him the crowd lined out, a gaudy procession who marched and clapped their hands, Singing and laughing, the canoes bobbing on a buoyancy of shoulders.
He had forgotten the immensity of Sun Town. In respect, he touched his forehead as he crossed the town’s center line, the low beaten path in the grass that delineated the Southern Moiety from the Northern. As he entered Owl Clan territory, his heart seemed fit to burst. A swirl of emotions—joy at success, sadness at the news about his uncle, and pride in his clan—swirled within him like mixing floodwaters.
As he came striding up to the first ridge, he stared through the rain, feeling water trickle down his face to soak his already wet breechcloth. “Greetings, Elder Wing Heart,” he called as he stopped short of the borrow ditch below his house. “Your son has returned. He has been cleansed and brings Trade for the People.”
As if on cue, his mother stepped out from behind the hanging, stately, looking every inch the influential Elder that she was. “Welcome home, White Bird. My heart is filled with gladness to see you.” She paused. “More so given the sorrow that has filled us after your uncle’s death.”
“I grieve for the Speaker,” he answered, voice ringing.
It was at that moment that the Serpent stepped out behind Wing Heart, his face streaked with charcoal as was appropriate when dealing with the dead. A black face didn’t frighten the freshly dead souls.
The crowd had flowed around his party in a semicircle, watching the greatest of spectacles. He could feel the anticipation, the rising excitement. People hung on every word, wondering if Wing Heart would declare him to be the new Speaker. Or would she wait? Did she have the kind of influence to make such a declaration, knowing full well that her clan would be forced to support her? Would she take that kind of risk, knowing that to have to withdraw it later would amount to a terrible loss of face?
White Bird straightened, his heart hammering with anticipation. Yellow Spider was standing by his side, spine stiff, shoulders back, head proud. The four heavy canoes were lined up behind them, evidence of his ability to provide for the People.
Wing Heart stood as if frozen, staring across the divide created by the borrow pit. In its boggy bottom, cattail and cane had sprouted, the first green shoots of spring. Water lilies were coming back to life, the emerald leaves floating on the black water.
“White Bird,” she called out imperiously, “nephew of Cloud Heron, who was once Speaker of the Owl Clan, I would …”
A muttering ripple ran through the western end of the crowd, people parting as if they were water. White Bird cocked his head at the interruption and the rising babble of excited talk. Unease tightened in his chest, his muscles charged the way they would for combat. He realized he was breathing hard, as if he’d just run for several hands of time.
When the crowed parted, it took White Bird a moment to recognize the boy. He looked like a drowned urchin, black hair plastered to his head. Smears of watery soil blotched his cheeks, shoulders, and scrawny chest. What had originally been a white breechcloth looked gray, stained with clay and ash. But what affected White Bird the most was the look in those large, haunted eyes. Power seemed to radiate from them like heat from a glowing cooking clay.