People of the Owl(55)

The young men were hooting and dancing, slapping the blood-smeared young man on the back as he passed through their ranks.

“Thank you, my friends,” he called out in a fine baritone. “Together we have done great things. We have shared black drink, undertaken the ceremonies to cleanse ourselves of the taint of war, and paid our enemies our highest compliments.”

They laughed at that. In the darkness, Anhinga spat the bile from her mouth.

“The middle of the night has come.” The young man pointed to the north, a bronzed god in the firelight. “The stars have nearly circled the heavens. Go home, my friends, and sleep. Tomorrow, I am told, my uncle’s house will be burned and his Dream Soul set free to find the ghosts of friends long dead.”

“And Snapping Turtle Clan will provide a huge feast,” the burly warrior on one side called as he shook his fist. Anhinga remembered him—the slimy weasel that had groped her as he carried her up from the canoes. Her nipple, the least of her hurts, was still sore from when he had pinched it.

“Until tomorrow,” the war leader cried.

“Tomorrow!” the rest shouted in unison. As they broke up and dispersed into the darkness, she could hear them chanting, “White Bird, White Bird, White Bird” over and over again.

The blood-streaked White Bird watched them go, a smile on his face as he stood illuminated in yellow firelight. Only when the last of them had stepped out of sight did his expression fall and his shoulders slump. He made a face as he reached up, prodding carefully at the drying blood on his chest. Where the tattoo had been pricked into his skin must have felt like fire.

Walking like an old man, he stopped long enough to stare down at her and say, “Tomorrow … I’ll cut you then.” She almost sighed as he walked past and into the darkness.

Left alone, she finally allowed herself to weep. Tears of rage and grief came welling from the hollow between her souls. One by one she saw the faces of her friends: Cooter, Slit Nose, Right Talon, Spider Fire, and, finally, Mist Finger.

Mist Finger’s eyes were sparkling as he looked into hers. If she but glanced over to where his body had been laid, she could still see the bloody arch of his ribs. His hollowed-out pelvis was a dark mound in the shadows. Two of the hungry brown dogs were growling, chewing on the edges of his hipbones as they tugged against each other. In another life, far away in the world of imagination, she would be holding him, sharing her body with him, planning a life with him as her husband.

Sobs choked in her raw throat. All she had left was death.

“Are you all right?” a voice asked softly from the darkness behind her.

She started, fear leaving her shaking as she blinked at the tears that clung to her damp lashes. She jumped at the feel of fingers on her calves, trembling as they moved down to her ankles.

“He didn’t cut you,” the soft voice continued. “Good. It would be harder if you had been maimed.”

“Who … who are you?” She struggled to keep her teeth from chattering.

“He said you have to live. He said you have to go back.”

“Who … who said?”

“He did.”

She felt the vibrations as something sawed at the ropes binding her. “What are you doing?” Fear leaped up like a thing alive to sing along her nerves and muscles.

“I’m cutting you free.”

Hope like a flame tingled within her.

“He said you had to live. To be free.”

“Who? White Bird?”

“No. I can’t tell you.” It sounded like a boy’s voice, and she flopped her head over, staring at the dark form that hunched above her. From the corner of her vision she could just make out his skinny body as he crouched over his work. The sawing was more vigorous, and she could feel cords parting.

“Can you walk?” he asked.

“Yes.” But could she? She hadn’t been able to feel her arms or legs for hours. And the headache, Snakes! That alone might double her over when she stood up.

“You stink,” he said vehemently.

“When they weren’t urinating or defecating on me they were pelting me with my friends’ guts.” How could she say that so matter-of-factly?

“You shouldn’t have come here.”

“It’s your people who shouldn’t come to my lands. As long as you come to take our stone and kill us, we will come to kill you!” The last cord around her middle parted, and her arms fell like severed meat to slap onto the ground. Her horror grew when she couldn’t move them. Tell me I’m not paralyzed!

Had it been the blow to the head? She had heard tales of warriors hit hard on the skull who hadn’t been able to move afterward. But then the painful prickling began as circulation ate its way into her upper arms.