People of the Owl(8)

“Things are well,” Clay Fat, the Rattlesnake Clan Speaker returned. His round stomach stuck out like a pot, his navel a protruding knob. “We have sent for your mother.”

“And my uncle?” White Bird asked cautiously across the water.

Yes, there it was. The dilemma they all faced. Cloud Heron was little more than a breathing corpse. He could die at any moment. Why hadn’t he had the grace to do so before this foolish youth floated back from the dead?

“Not so well,” Clay Fat replied. “Your return has come at a very opportune moment for your clan.”

That, Mud Stalker thought, was just the problem. He turned, aware that his cousin, Red Finger, had stridden up. The old man held a flickering cane torch in his bony hand. He raised it high to look out over the black water at the canoes riding so peacefully.

“So, it is true? White Bird is back?” Red Finger kept his voice low, fully aware of the continuing flood of people who were descending to the landing.

Mud Stalker lifted a foot and planted it on the gunwale of a beached canoe. “He is back.” He tried to keep his voice from communicating his displeasure. “Back, indeed—and with three upcountry canoes full of barbarians. Not only is he not dead—as we had hoped—but he returns at just the right moment. With canoes packed full of Trade.”

“Look at them,” Red Finger muttered, as more people crowded the shore and raised their cane torches to stare across the water. In the yellow light they could better see the new arrivals. “If those piled bundles are Trade, and for as low as those canoes ride in the water, he has brought back great wealth.”

Yes, if he has, his status will soar. Aloud, Mud Stalker said, “Let us wait and see, Cousin.”

“Why, in the name of the Sky Beings, couldn’t he be long dead with worms crawling in and out of his skull?” Red Finger growled under his breath, looking around. “Where’s Wing Heart? I would have thought she would have been one of the first people down here. Is she missing the opportunity to prance up and down while telling of Owl Clan’s Power, courage, and skill?”

“Oh, she’ll be here.” Mud Stalker wet his lips. “But only when the timing is right. As always, she will want to make a grand entrance.”

“Wretched bitch. What I’d give to—”

“Patience, old friend. A great many things may yet go wrong for our young hero.”

“White Bird!” The shrill yell carried over the growing babble of voices. Mud Stalker turned in time to see Spring Cypress running down the slope, pushing through the growing throng of people. Having passed fifteen summers, she was a tall girl, thin and lithe. Her dress consisted of a virgin’s skirt loosely woven from bass-bark thread. It had been tied in the back with two beaded tassels. Cord fringe that attached to the hem dangled down past her knees. Each had been tipped with a stone bead so that it clattered and swayed with her steps. Born of the Rattlesnake Clan, Spring Cypress was Elder Graywood Snake’s granddaughter. The girl had pinned her hair for White Bird long ago. As the seasons passed, and rumors circulated that her young swain had died upriver, she had grown despondent. Now, despite the fact that she carried no torch, she seemed to glow. But that might just have been the reflection of the light on her oiled skin.

“Spring Cypress?” White Bird craned his head, the canoe bobbing at his action. Despite the youth’s exceptional balance, a careless move could capsize the boat.

“Yes! It’s me! They said you were dead!” She was jumping up and down on charged legs, her immature breasts bouncing in time to the necklace on her chest. The weighted fringes jerked and jangled on her skirt.

“Dead?” White Bird threw his head back and laughed. “Anything but! I’m more full of life now that I’ve come home.”

“What have you brought?” someone called.

“Where have you been?” cried another.

“What took you so long?”

“White Bird, who are these people with you?”

“Yellow Spider? What did they do? Marry you off to one of their grease-smelling hags up there?”

“How was the river? Is the water high?”

A thousand questions came boiling out of the crowd, each trying to outshout the others.

Mud Stalker struggled to hear the answers White Bird and Yellow Spider hollered back, but the roar of voices drowned them out. Instead, he turned his attention to the six young barbarians who stood uneasily on their canoes, watching with wide eyes. He couldn’t make out much about them, other than their hair was pinned to the backs of their heads in tight buns. They were muscular, naked to the waist, where hide breechcloths had been secured by thick white cords. Someone, probably White Bird and Yellow Spider, had given them grease and taught them how to smear it over their bodies to thwart the plagues of mosquitoes and biting flies that filled the swamps.