People of the Owl(51)

Thunder Tail had watched her carefully, searching for some reaction as he added, “As Speaker for Eagle Clan, I can tell you that we are happy to extend this offer. Elder Stone Talon was most impressed by your young man and his quick wit He is well-spoken and astute. Our Elder enjoyed the gifts of carved stone that he presented to us from upriver. He has prevailed at countering the Swamp Panthers’ raid. Our Elder has asked if you would be amenable to considering both Green Beetle and our support for your young man’s rapid confirmation to the Council.”

“How could you ensure this?” she had asked in an offhand manner. “Snapping Turtle Clan might object.”

He had smiled warily. “I think I can assure you that Frog Clan would side with us. I assume that you still have Clay Fat’s ear, and the Elder, Graywood Snake, would back you. That leaves Snapping Turtle Clan alone to complain. Together we have a five-to-one vote in the Council.”

There it was. Everything she could have wanted. Her influence and authority were ensured through the foreseeable future. Cloud Heron, may the spirits embrace his souls, would have approved.

Just the thought of him brought a spear of grief to her heart. She couldn’t help but glance back at her brother’s silent and brooding house. Had it really been six moons ago when she had used her influence to move her brother into the dwelling next door to her own? His wife, Laced Fern, had indicated that she could no longer keep a husband who didn’t provide for her children. Not that any great love had been lost between the two of them. Cloud Heron had done his duty, siring four children for her clan. The alignment had been politically dictated at the time. Laced Fern had been Cloud Heron’s second wife, a woman ten and four turning of seasons his junior.

Cloud Heron’s illness had robbed him of his manhood. Laced Fern, given her age, couldn’t be blamed for wanting a younger man, one who could still plant his seed in her womb and contribute his support to Eagle Clan through his hunting and fishing skills. That was, after all, what men were for.

And now Eagle Clan, once ready to strip her of her position and cast her away like a broken clay pot, wished to renew their alliance.

Wing Heart rubbed her shins, her callused hands sliding on the nightshade-scented bear grease she had spread over herself to thwart the humming cloud of mosquitoes. She glanced off across the large plaza to where people still crowded around the Men’s House. The Swamp Panthers’ corpses had provided great entertainment during the day. Bit by bit they had been cut apart, burned, kicked, urinated upon, and otherwise abused. The camp dogs had gorged themselves on the bits of human flesh that had been scattered far and wide. While their horrified ghosts couldn’t cross the mounds, or lines of ash, they could still see what befell their abandoned bodies from the trees just west of the Bird’s Head. It was hoped that they would be so appalled that they would return home to haunt the dreams of the living Swamp Panthers. During nightmares they would tell their kinsmen never to repeat such a foolish thing as attempting to raid the Sun People.

But did it ever happen that way? Wing Heart sighed, raising her eyes to stare at the fading light in the clouds. They had darkened now, purpling into a bruised color. As if it were the sunset of her own life, she had grown cynical. She knew the Swamp Panthers, had even traded with their leader, Jaguar Hide. In all of her years she had never heard of an enemy war party being turned back because of pleading ghosts.

Warfare was a thing that people did. That was all. Over the years she had come to the conclusion that abusing the dead was done for the surviving victors’ self-satisfaction. It gave them a way to savor the triumph, prolonging the time until they had to return to the ordinary and await the news someday in the inevitable future that some kinsperson of their own was being cut apart and defecated upon in the enemy’s village.

“Lost in thought?” a low voice asked from the shadows behind her.

She turned and recognized Mud Stalker as he stepped out from behind her house. “I would have thought you would have been in the middle of the festivities.” She indicated the Men’s House. “One of your young warriors killed an enemy this morning.”

Mud Stalker walked over and lowered himself beside her, his mangled arm cradled in his left hand. “I think such doings are more for the young.”

Did he mean that, or was it a way of building a rapport with her? “Were we ever that young?”

He gave her a curious appraisal, the lines of his face deepened by the shadows. “Once. I think.” He chuckled. “I have been told that your brother is taken care of.” He glanced over his shoulder at the silent house. “I assume the final rites are to be soon?”