People of the Owl(54)
“Indeed. If anything should happen to White Bird, Mud Puppy shall inherit his wives.” Mud Stalker gave her a challenging grin that the darkness couldn’t hide. “Tell me, Clan Elder, can anyone else offer so much? Back Scratch, Red Finger, Sweet Root, Falling Drop, and I have discussed this. My lineage is committed to making this alliance. Your son shall be Speaker. And your second son after him. With their support you shall be the leader of the Council.”
“Forgive me, but I still have trouble understanding why.”
He chuckled dryly. “Because in six days the world has turned itself upside down. We can’t help but believe that the spirits are on Owl Clan’s side. Who are we to fight the spirits? For the future of my clan, I will even allow you to maintain leadership of the Council.”
She felt like howling in triumph, but not yet. He knows me too well. She couldn’t help but narrow her eyes against the darkness. “We shall consider, old enemy. First, I have a funeral to conduct. And then, after I dissect this offer you have made, I shall give you my decision.”
He inclined his head before standing. “That is fine. In the meantime, as a gesture of our goodwill, we would like to provide a feast in honor of your dead brother. He served the People well.”
“We would be obliged.”
Mud Stalker waved it off. “It is simply a gift, a gesture of our goodwill.”
As he walked away into the night, she couldn’t help but wonder: What kind of trap have you laid for me, old enemy?
The Serpent
The Truth is in the error.
That’s the problem.
It is the deep-throated rumble of buffalo calling to each other in the wintertime. The flash of the firefly on pitch-black nights. It is the far-off call of the blue heron on her way to the sunset.
Don’t you see?
Meaning is not in words, but in between them.
Do you think the buffalo hears Truth when she is calling out to another buffalo? Or when someone answers her? No. She hears Truth in the space between.
When she is listening.
Just listening.
Twelve
Anhinga clenched her teeth, desperate to keep the vomit that burned the back of her throat from passing her clamped lips. Should they see that, it would shame her, as if she were not already more than shamed. Enough of the accursed Sun People had come by to kick her and urinate on her that she could no longer feign unconsciousness. She had surrendered that fiction the first time one of them touched a smoldering stick to her naked side.
She glared around her like a trapped raccoon, snarling and hissing her hatred as her tormentors heaped physical and symbolic abuse upon her. Her legs and arms had been wrapped in tightly bound cords. Even her ability to flop like a beached fish had been curtailed by the rope that tied her to an upright log set into the dark earth. Her skin stung where they had seared it with hot brands. The odors of urine and feces plugged her nose. Most of it had dried. She didn’t need their waste spattered upon her to be shamed or broken. They could do nothing to her that she hadn’t done to herself.
By craning her neck she could see the remains of her companions. Blood-and-offal-stained earth marked the spot where the bodies had been dismembered. She had watched with horror as little boys gleefully pulled the intestines out of a long slit cut into Mist Finger’s abdomen. The horror had been so great that she couldn’t help but weep as a young man used a bloody strip of flesh flayed from Cooter’s leg to beat her. She’d flinched, more from the feel of Cooter’s cold black blood than from the pain.
Her souls numb, she blinked and watched the last of the dancing men. Their bodies flickered in the firelight, greased and shining yellow and black as the flames licked up from a central fire pit. Night had fallen cool and moist; her skin prickled with gooseflesh.
A great shout broke the silence as the men leaped and raised their arms to the night. Then they stood frozen, watching the door where her assailant stepped out into the open. She could see the young man, naked, his muscular body bathed in firelight. The wash of fresh blood might have been painted on the skin of his chest. Her staggering thoughts couldn’t quite place it—then she remembered where she had seen the like before: He had been freshly tattooed, the designs pricked into his skin with a copper needle.
Her gut heaved and bile rushed into her mouth. Tattooed: the realization stuck in her head. A victorious warrior celebrating some great accomplishment underwent tattooing to mark the occasion. In this case, her captor was being marked for his actions in capturing her alive and killing Mist Finger face-to-face.
If only I could die! She tensed against the binding cords, finding no looseness. Die, she would, but not yet. Soon though, when they had taken the time to sever the thick tendons that ran behind her heels and finally untied her, then she would take the first opportunity to scavenge a sharp piece of stone and open her veins.