People of the Owl(46)

Attention riveted, she stumbled over a morning glory vine, and her arms windmilled. But for Cooter’s quick reaction, she would have fallen.

“Thanks,” she whispered.

“You all right?” he asked, voice hushed.

“Fine.” She pointed up at the branch. “That owl …” The branch, half-vanished in a gray wreath of mist, vaguely reappeared, empty, the leaves hanging limp. Surely, had the owl flown, they should have been stirred.

Her party had stopped, staring up curiously. She shook her head. “Nothing,” she whispered. “Hurry. Let’s get this over with.”

Her mind on owls, ghosts, and death, she didn’t realize how far they had come. The land opened before she knew it. Thick fog masked the clearing, as she led her young men into it. She crouched. Ground Cherry Camp, that was right here, wasn’t it? In the clearing?

As she looked around she could see the characteristic plants rising from the patchy spring grass. The telltale triangular leaves were curled under the weight of the dew, cast in gray by the tiny droplets. The trail they followed continued, winding into the thickening fog.

Turn around and run! The words echoed hollowly between her souls. She could feel it, the wrongness, the sense of impending doom. Had everything gone deathly quiet? Her step faltered. It had been lunacy, bringing these young men here to try and do this thing. Someone would be killed as a result.

But you promised Bowfin. You can’t back out now. You are Jaguar Hide’s niece. His blood runs in your veins Your heart beats in time with his.

“Anhinga?” Right Talon asked under his breath. She could hear his worry.

“It’s all right … we’re close,” she almost mouthed the words. “Just being careful, that’s all.”

In swirling mist, she saw a house—just the gray shape like a blinked image that vanished as quickly into the murk. In that instant she realized it was all right, that they had arrived in secrecy, that the Sun People were caught unawares.

She motioned them close. “That is the camp. We charge in, kill all we can, and escape. Keep your wits about you. It’s easy to get lost in this fog. If we get separated, meet back at the canoe. If anyone gets cut off, he gets left behind.”

They all nodded, eyes wolfish and gleaming as they smiled their anticipation. She could see the fear, the anxiety bundled in their tense bodies. This day’s events would be sung about and retold for generations at the fires of her people. Reputations that would carry them for the rest of their lives would be forged here, today. She would be proven worthy of her uncle’s pride and respect. Perhaps this was even the first step on the long road to eventual clan leadership.

“Let’s go!” She gave Mist Finger a quick intimate smile, seeing his eyes warm as he caught her meaning. She promised herself that if they survived this, made it home, she would be spending time with him. Perhaps that was the Spirit World’s attempt at justice. Bowfin’s death would be compensated by providing her this perfect young man to love.

As she moved forward in a crouch, her nimble fingers fitted a dart into the nock of her atlatl. She had crafted the spear thrower herself. Made of osage orange imported from the northwest, the hard wood had been carefully shaped to fit her small hand. The length of her forearm, the wood was engraved with the design of a panther that could have been creeping its way around the shaft. A red jasper banner stone hung from the center to provide a counterbalance. The hook in the far end that cradled the cane dart butt had been laboriously carved into the wood itself. The handle she gripped was wrapped with panther sinew. Two loops had been fashioned to insert her fingers into to keep them from slipping.

Her darts were made of straight sections of cane a little longer than she was tall, each tipped with a sharp stone point flaked from red-orange chert pebbles recovered from the deposits in the hillsides of her homeland. She herself had grooved the cane shafts midway along their lengths. Into them she had tied split blue heron feathers for fletching to stabilize the long darts in flight. In her hand she carried five of the deadly darts. Three she would drive into some enemy’s body. Two she would keep in reserve in case they should have to fight their way out, or should she need them on the way home to kill an alligator or deer for the supper pot.

Her heart had begun to batter her breastbone with an unfamiliar energy. Her whole body felt charged with a bursting intensity. This was the war rush she had heard her elders mention, but never, until this moment, had she experienced it. Nothing she had ever done prepared her for the tingling, the excitement, the heady rush of euphoria, fear, and anticipation.