“Which is why I’m planting them.” A thought crossed White Bird’s souls. “Wait a minute. Who put you up to this? Yellow Spider? One of the Wolf Traders? They are the only ones who know the importance of the seeds.” He fit the pieces together. “No, they wouldn’t have an objection, but if they had told someone else, someone in the other clans who would do anything to keep us from gaining even more influence and position.” That could be anyone. He grasped Mud Puppy by the shoulder, spinning him so that he could stare into those large, haunted eyes. “Who, Mud Puppy? Tell me, or I’ll whip you to within an inch of your life.”
Mud Puppy swallowed hard, his eyes like glistening pools. “He did.”
“He? He who?”
“Masked Owl. In a Dream.”
White Bird shook the boy again, feeling his thin bones slipping under his skin. “Masked Owl … in a Dream. You’re telling me that because you had a nightmare, I am supposed to give up my seeds? Surrender the future of my people and clan?”
Mud Puppy nodded miserably, flinching at the pain caused by White Bird’s strong grip.
Snakes! The fool believes it! “It was a dream, Mud Puppy.” He shoved him away. “Go on. Get away from here. I have important things to see to. I’m getting married today. I have new obligations. I’m Speaker now. I can’t take up my time with your foolishness.” With those words he strode off, needing to relieve himself before he put the rest of his day in order.
The glance he cast back over his shoulder revealed Mud Puppy, fingers absently prodding his shoulder where White Bird had shaken him. His haunted eyes were fixed on the smoking house remains again, and he had his head cocked, as if listening to someone he could barely hear.
Nonsense, all of it.
So, what am I going to do with you? “Mud Puppy you are going to be a burden in my life until the day they burn my bones!”
Fifteen
A gentle shower fell as Mud Puppy and Little Needle stood in the crowd and watched White Bird move his possessions into the snug mud-walled house he would share with his new wives. The dwelling lay three houses down on the third ridge in Snapping Turtle’s Clan grounds. Unlike the others, it was new: the thatch still tawny, the walls freshly daubed with mud. A darker ring of charcoal-stained soil could be seen where Pine Drop’s old house had been burned after her husband, Blue Feather’s, death.
The two sisters, Pine Drop and Night Rain, looked like each other. Both were attractive, round-faced, with delicate noses, long glistening black hair, and uneasy white-toothed smiles. As a widow, Pine Drop had dressed in a matron’s kirtle. She wore all of her finery, layers of beaded necklaces and colored feathers. In contrast, Night Rain wore a virgin’s skirt with knotted fringes. She didn’t have as many necklaces, but as Elder Back Scratch’s granddaughter, she was still opulently turned out for the occasion. Their skin had been lightly slathered with a rose-scented bear grease. White magnolia flowers were pinned in their hair, and garlands of redbud had been placed around their necks.
Something about the Snapping Turtle Clan Speaker reminded Mud Puppy of a raccoon fishing in a shallow puddle full of crawfish. That smug assurance cast an uneasy shadow on his thoughts. Elder Back Scratch, looking incredibly ancient and frail, stood to one side, eyes gleaming with anticipation. But for what? Mud Puppy could swear that a glint of triumph lay behind Sweet Root’s eyes as she watched White Bird take his place before her daughters.
In front of them, Wing Heart held herself erect, her absent eyes on her son as he strode confidently forward. Mud Puppy kept shooting glances at her. Something about his mother worried him. Her posture, the tone of her muscles, that downcast expression, sent unease creeping along his bones.
The women ceremonially greeted White Bird at the doorway of their house. The traditional offerings of baked fish, sweet honeysuckle, and dried wild squash were borne before them on wooden platters. Neither of them looked happy as White Bird lowered his fabric bag of possessions and took the wooden platter in his muscular brown hands. Unlike the women he was calm, in possession of the moment, aware of the gathered crowd and the importance of the event.
“Two wives?” Little Needle asked. “Who has ever heard of such a thing for someone as young as White Bird? You must be very proud.”
“He has taken the path,” Mud Puppy said sadly. “I cannot call him back.”
“You sound as if he’s dying instead of becoming the most glorious Speaker in memory,” Little Needle muttered. “What’s wrong with you? Ever since you went up on the Bird’s Head, you’ve been flighty—like a duck hit too many times in the head. All you do is flap and quack.”