People of the Owl(78)
Pine Drop sat lost in thought, her expression one of distaste. “In other words, you want me to find a way to use him against his own clan.”
“He’s young, impressionable. You are older than he is, smarter. Handled correctly, an inexperienced boy can be twisted like a length of twine.”
“Treat him well in your bed,” Mud Stalker suggested. “The rushing of his loins might be your greatest ally.”
Night Rain’s silent expression tightened. She continued to sit with her hands in her lap, looking glum.
Back Scratch growled. “What’s the matter with you young women? What makes you think that lying with a man has anything to do with your own pleasure? I know that a lot of these young people slip off and couple just because they like each other. It’s a waste, that’s what. Breeding is meant to be done for the benefit of the clan, not just so that you can feel pleasure burn through your hips.” She smacked her lips in disgust, adding, “The only reason the Sky Beings made it feel good was to compensate for its being a person’s duty, that’s all.”
Mud Stalker’s eyebrow cocked as he studied his mother, but he said nothing.
Red Finger, however, blurted, “What is this, Back Scratch? Have the seasons dulled and blunted your memories? Have you completely forgotten all the trouble you caused as a young girl when you slipped away for three moons, supposedly to go Trade with the Ring Villages on the coast? Wasn’t the man’s name Black Legs?”
“Yes,” Mud Stalker nodded, remembering. “Black Legs.”
Back Scratch scowled at him. “You weren’t even born then.”
“No, but the stories persisted for years. I was only a boy, but I recall the opposition to naming you Clan Elder. People still recalled your transgressions, and how you returned pregnant with my older brother.” He ignored his mother’s hiss of irritation as he looked at Pine Drop and Night Rain. “The Elder may have forgotten what it is like to be young, with your body bursting with desire for a certain man. She is, however, correct with regard to your duty to our clan. You will marry Mud Puppy, and, as Cousin Red Finger points out, you must win him to us.” He smiled. “Your elders understand the difficulties. We hope that you will understand the advantages to both yourselves and the clan in making this happen.” He glanced back and forth, trying to read behind the young women’s dark eyes. “If you must find relief in some other man’s bed, come to me, and I will arrange it so that no one grows suspicious.”
Pine Drop lowered her eyes. “Yes, Uncle.”
He nodded to Red Finger and Back Scratch. “Now that that’s settled, I suppose I had best make myself presentable and go deliver our sympathy and support to Wing Heart.” As he rose, he turned his attention to the young women once more. “Remember, we are counting on you. That boy is the key to the Snapping Turtle Clan’s future. With him, we can break Wing Heart and Owl Clan once and for all.”
The afternoon sun sent shining bars of light through gaps in the milky white clouds as they drifted out of the southwest. Moist air hung heavily on the land, barely stirred by a lazy breeze. Moccasin Leaf helped Elder Wing Heart as they tackled the task of preparing a funeral feast. They were in the work area between the burnt-out ruins of Speaker Cloud Heron’s house and the Elder’s nowabandoned structure.
Moccasin Leaf couldn’t make up her mind about Wing Heart. The Clan Elder hunched over a soapstone bowl filled with sticky dough while Moccasin Leaf used a stick to prod at a heating fire burning beside the empty earth oven.
Her son is dead. That would affect anyone. Dead so quickly after her brother. But did that explain the woman’s complete listlessness?
Moccasin Leaf jabbed pointedly at the cooking clays as she carefully studied Wing Heart from under lowered brows. Wing Heart looked as if a great hollow gaped between her souls. She might have been a husk, her spirit flown away like cottonwood down in the breeze. She worked mechanically, as if to do anything else was too painful.
Dough clung to Wing Heart’s fingers, white and sticky. She continued kneading the mixture of little barley, cattail root, dried squash, and smilax root. Earlier that day she had used the pestle and mortar—a fire-hollowed tree stump—to pound the ingredients into mush. The mashed roots had been transferred to the soapstone bowl she now bent over. Adding water and white shooting star blossoms for seasoning, she had reached the right consistency.
Wing Heart hadn’t spoken a word all day. Moccasin Leaf shot a glance at the shadowed doorway. Her son is dead. His bones are just there, on a rick of dry wood. Is this the end of her lineage at last?