People of the Owl(44)
“Mud Puppy?” the question popped unbidden from White Bird’s lips as the boy walked past, that eerie stare locked on a world beyond this one.
The boy didn’t hesitate but plodded down and splashed through the water and up the ridge toward Wing Heart.
“Mud Puppy?” she barked angrily. “What are you …”
But Mud Puppy walked past her, stopping instead before the Serpent. In the sudden silence, White Bird couldn’t hear what the boy said, just the mumbling of his low speech.
“That is ridiculous!” Wing Heart blurted.
White Bird couldn’t stand it. Snakes take the little imp, he’d just ruined everything! Before he could think, he was striding forward, enough aware to round the eastern edge of the borrow pit instead of slogging through the water so that he could stalk up to his mother’s house. No; he wouldn’t wring his brother’s scrawny neck, not here where the entire world could see, but he’d sure do it as soon as no one was watching.
The Serpent had straightened, his face oddly drawn by a frown. Wing Heart shot a hard hand out to grasp the boy’s arm. White Bird could see the muscles in her back tense and knot as she dragged the boy toward the doorway. Her body twisted as she pitched him unceremoniously into the shadowed depths of the house.
“People!” The Serpent raised his hands high. “Word has just come to me that the Swamp Panthers are sending a party to raid us. Five warriors will attack Ground Cherry Camp the day after tomorrow at dawn. Who will go to ward off this threat?”
The announcement stopped White Bird cold. Without looking, he could tell that the crowd hung upon a precipice of indecision. It was instinct that led White Bird to raise his hand, shouting, “I will!” only to wonder what he’d done, and what had happened in this moment that should have been his greatest triumph.
Ten
A low bank of clouds rolled up from the gulf. They drifted across the dense forests, following the valley of the Father Water northward.
In their inky shadow, Many Colored Crow dived and soared, riding the warm southern winds. On wings of night, he flipped and cavorted. High atop its ridge, Sun Town lay tucked away in sleep.
Many Colored Crow had waited for the last of the figures to leave the Men’s House. Had waited for the Dancing and Singing to conclude. He had let the young warriors preparing for battle purify themselves with sweat baths and liberal doses of black drink. He had let the dancers gyrate and pirouette as they wore their totem masks of redheaded woodpecker, bobcat, and snapping turtle. He had allowed the Power to flow into the warrior’s muscles and enervate their souls. This night it was to his benefit to allow Masked Owl’s vision to come true.
As he spiraled down through the humid air, he located the lone house in Snapping Turtle Clan grounds. It stood at the easternmost summit of the first ridge, not a dart’s cast from the Men’s House.
Inside, Mud Stalker had just fallen into a deep sleep, his body lying on a cane-pole bed against the back wall. The Speaker’s gray hair was tousled on a raccoon-skin pillow, his body covered with a tailored fox-hide blanket.
Many Colored Crow settled silently on the thatched roof and surveyed the surroundings. He could see the souls glowing in the night. These poor humans who were falling into the lines of Power being drawn by Masked Owl and himself.
For now, however, he had more urgent matters to attend to. The future had to be prepared just so. Perhaps his brother didn’t understand what was coming, how so much was going to be decided here.
You never spent enough time looking into the future, Brother. It is a fault which will cost you this time.
Satisfied, Many Colored Crow spread his wings and began to insert himself into Mud Stalker’s Dreams.
Anhinga disliked mist. As dawn broke it lay on the swampy land, cottony and thick, tendrils drifting through the trees and rising off the stale water. It obscured the grayish light that filtered through the trees, blurring her surroundings as she led her small party of young warriors up from their beached canoe. The air oppressed, cool, and damp. Moisture beaded on her hair like pearls and left the weapons—the atlatl and darts she clutched in her right hand—clammy in her grip.
She knew this place, had come here once in the company of her uncle. The Sun People called this Ground Cherry Camp: a clearing where the plants grew in the sandy soil of an abandoned levee a half day’s run south of Sun Town. Despite the mist that clung like torn ghosts to every branch and bole, she knew this was the way.
At the landing, several overturned canoes had been propped on sections of rotting log, awaiting their owners’ return. A well-beaten path led up through tangled vines that wove an impenetrable web through the mixed sweetgum and oak. Even in the dim light she could see footprints, still clear from the night before, unfaded by the heavy dew that settled on the green world; it beaded on silvered leaves and dripped stolidly onto the damp ground.