People of the Owl(74)

Jaguar Hide sat in front of his house and watched the last of the storm fading into the northern horizon. Sunlight slanted through the treetops, sparkling in wet leaves. Blue fingers of smoke rose from damp fires in the open, or through the gap between the rafter poles and supporting walls. He could smell fish broiling in the earth ovens. Two women were taking turns pounding cattail roots in a wooden mortar. The rhythmic thump-thump of the tall pestles might have been the heartbeat of the village.

He glanced at the dark doorway behind him when he heard his niece stir on the bedding within. How many times had he waited thus? How many times had one of his relatives or friends lain in misery as their bodies or souls struggled to recover from some wound inflicted by the Sun People?

He tried to remember any single turning of the seasons when his people hadn’t been mourning some injury. One by one, a seemingly endless litany of faces passed through his souls’ memory. So much pain, so much tragedy. All of his life he had tried to harm them, pay them back. His raids, the constant warfare, had done nothing. Sting them too hard, and they struck back, violently, their greater numbers blunting any advantage the Swamp Panthers had in their endless swamps.

If only there was a way to really hurt them!

He heard Anhinga as she flopped on her bed, then groaned. She might have been a grub the way she clung to the darkness inside the house.

“It’s a beautiful evening. Why don’t you come out and help me eat some of this fish? It is smoked and seasoned with freshly picked mint leaves.”

No answer.

“Are you going to lie around in there like a mushroom? Just feeding on the dark?”

Still no answer.

He grunted to himself, knowing full well what her trouble was. His knees cracked as he rose and ducked through the small doorway into the dim interior. She lay on her side, knees up, arms tucked against her breasts. He could see the scabs on her smooth young flesh. Like the old man he was, he settled himself on the bed’s pole frame and reached out to stroke her hair. “No one is blaming you, Anhinga. The other clans understand war. They understand that when young men go on raids, sometimes they don’t come back.”

Her body tensed under his touch, a suffering sound caught in her throat.

“If I could have just one wish, I would have you talk to me again.” He gently patted her head. “I would have you tell me what you are carrying between your souls. I would not care what you said, if only you would talk again.”

He lost count of his heartbeats as he carefully stroked her long black hair. He had washed it for her, and during the process, she hadn’t said a word, enduring, expression vacant as if carved of wood. Her eyes had been fastened on something far away, some terrible memory.

She whispered hollowly, “I want to kill them, all of them. I will dedicate my life to it. I swear.”

“Ah, you are set to lead another war party?”

“No,” came the weak reply.

“How will you do this thing, then?”

“Go alone.” She swallowed hard. “Just me. I’ll hunt them one by one, find them alone out in the swamp and kill them until they kill me.”

He grunted noncommittally. “Are you sure that you don’t want to stay here, live with me, help to keep your silly brother from pitching us headfirst into lunacy?”

She turned then, staring at him for the first time with impassioned eyes. “They killed me, Uncle! Not my body. My souls. I am not the young woman you knew. I am someone, something else. When I close my eyes, I see them, ripping pieces out of my friends, slinging their intestines around in the air. I see them throw a human liver into the air to watch it spatter when it hits the ground. I watch them urinate into Mist Finger’s eye sockets over and over and over again. Those things fill my souls. Knowing that, do you really think I can just step out of here, marry some young man, and be the woman I once was?”

He pursed his lips, allowing the sting in her words to chill his souls. “No, Niece. Of all people, I understand.” He paused, waiting, knowing that she was watching him, trying to read his pensive expression.

“But you don’t agree with me,” she said bitterly.

“I agree with your goal, yes.”

“But?”

“I don’t think you will accomplish much.” He cast her a sidelong look. An old, often discarded plan surfacing between his souls. Is she the one? Could she do it?

“Why is that, Uncle?”

“Because in the end you may kill one or two, maybe even three or four before they find you and kill you. It has been tried before. Your actions are those of a mosquito. You draw only a little blood before they swat you and go on about their business.”