People of the Owl(48)

Eleven

The way the Swamp Panthers’ slim canoe lanced into the bank filled White Bird with admiration. The wake came from behind, rippling the smooth brown water as it rushed up onto the grimy black shore. People were shouting and waving as they spilled down the long slope from Sun Town to the canoe landing.

White Bird laid his paddle to one side. Ahead of his feet the dead warrior lay limp and beginning to bloat. He had been laid in the canoe bottom, facedown, limbs akimbo. Ahead of the corpse, just behind Yellow Spider, lay the girl, her arms and legs trussed as though she were a captured alligator.

White Bird had studied her all the way back from Ground Cherry Camp. She hadn’t regained consciousness; her breathing was labored. The way her head was turned he had been able to see her eyes jerking under the lids, as though she were locked in frantic dreams. Despite the way her face was mashed against the curving side of the canoe, he could see that she was a pretty thing. Thick black hair had been pulled into a braid that now lay curled like a blood-encrusted snake behind her head. The smooth lines of her muscular brown back slimmed into a narrow waist before the full swell of her hips. Her kirtle had been displaced, revealing a rounded curve of buttock above a long and firm thigh. Sleek calves ended in delicate if mud-stained feet. In all, his masculine self had been delightfully distracted by that enticing young body.

And, best of all, she is mine! He had captured her fairly. Not only that, but he had killed an opponent in hand-to-hand combat. Of all of his party, White Bird was the one who had fought toe-to-toe. He glanced happily at the dead warrior lying naked and supine behind the girl’s feet. The young warrior’s broken arms rested at unnatural angles. A dribble of urine leaked from the limp penis. Bright midday sunlight gleamed on the blackened wounds on his head. The eyes had dried, graying and vacant. A swarm of flies already droned in a wavering column when they weren’t crawling across the dead flesh. From where he sat, White Bird could see pale knots of eggs the flies had laid in the dead man’s eyes.

White Bird’s companions might have killed the others—those who had driven darts into the raiders had been singing ecstatically on the trip and waved their bloody darts when they weren’t paddling. He, however, had faced the enemy alone. Power lay in that. His exploits would be talked of among the clans. Pride, like a flood, rose within him as he stepped out of the canoe and helped Yellow Spider pull it onto the shore.

The crowd engulfed him like a wave; people were looking into the canoe, the more adventurous reaching in and prodding the bodies with a foot or hand. The flies rose in an angry buzz.

“Tell us! Tell us!” the cries came. Someone near the rear said, “The boy’s vision was true!”

White Bird lifted his hands, stilling the throng. “My people, yes, my brother’s vision was true. It was as he said. We found them where he said they would be, at Ground Cherry Camp. This dawn, in a thick mist, we ambushed them. This girl, I have taken on my own.”

The other canoes slid onto the beach, warriors laughing as they shipped their paddles and leaped ashore. The victors lifted their bloody darts and shook them as they hooted and pranced in their joy. The trophy corpses were lifted—bloody and leaking fluids—before being borne up the long incline to be displayed on the western side of the Men’s House atop the Father Mound.

“White Bird killed one bare-handed and took the girl! He took two!” the story circulated from lip to lip, eyes drifting his way.

Aware of their sudden awe, White Bird acted with the humility expected of a warrior, saying, “I was lucky. That’s all. Someone had to cover their escape route. It was the others who laid the trap and broke their attack.”

“But it was White Bird’s planning,” Yellow Spider insisted. He and Eats Wood, a man from Snapping Turtle Clan, reached down to lift the girl from the canoe bottom. “Because of his cunning not one of us was even injured!”

“Carry her correctly,” White Bird reminded, fully aware that Eats Wood—who already had an unsavory reputation when it came to young girls—held the captive in such a way that his hand was cupped suggestively around one of her breasts. “You be careful, Eats Wood! Hear? The Snakes alone know, I hit her hard enough to drive the souls loose from her body. I don’t want her dead.”

“We know how you want her!” old Red Finger barked wryly. “And for that, she doesn’t need any souls!”

A round of laughter came in response. White Bird waved it down. “Yes, yes, but let’s just get these corpses up to the Men’s House, shall we? On the way, please, thank these warriors who have demonstrated their courage and skill. They have placed their lives at risk for your safety. While these were young and inexperienced raiders, they might just as well have been more cunning and dangerous. So treat my companions with the respect they deserve. We are all obligated.” In appreciation of the moment, he faced his fellow warriors and touched his forehead in respect. To his surprise, so did the rest of the gathered people.