People of the Owl(93)

Laughter broke out, adding to his misery. He shot a quick look over his shoulder, hearing Water Petal telling Wing Heart, “The Speaker dismissed the Council, Elder. It’s over now. Salamander is now Speaker.”

“Who?” Wing Heart asked faintly as she turned away.

Salamander didn’t hear Water Petal’s response.

“I feel like a fool,” Salamander muttered.

“You did fine.” Mud Stalker beamed down at him. “Just trust me, young man. I’ll see you through this.”

And then they came, each of the Elders and Speakers, each congratulating him. The hands, pats on the back, and smiling faces blurred as they crowded around him.

Only after the others stepped away did Deep Hunter and Colored Paint approach. Deep Hunter’s face reeked of disgust as he leaned forward, voice low. “So, you are now Snapping Turtle Clan’s tool? My old adversary planned that well, boy.”

“I am Owl Clan,” Salamander managed.

“Yes, well, we’ll see, won’t we?” Then Deep Hunter turned and stalked off, his muscular body betraying an unbending anger.

“We’ll see,” Colored Paint agreed, following her brother.

Thankful to be left alone, Salamander noticed that Mud Stalker seemed to be the center of attention as the remaining Council members wished him well.

Is that the plan? I am supposed to do as Mud Stalker wishes? Is that why he insisted on me?

The knowledge was sobering. Even more so when Mud Stalker turned to him, slapped him on the back, and said, “Come, Speaker Salamander. Your wives have made a great feast. We look forward to celebrating our good fortune!”

But when Salamander looked in Pine Drop and Night Rain’s direction, they glared back at him as though he were some sort of carrion-eating bug.

I could have gone with Spring Cypress. I should have.

Mud Stalker’s heavy hand propelled him forward toward his future.





Twenty-two

Two days after the solstice ceremonies, he had followed the Serpent to the house where Clan Elder Graywood Snake had lived. The oval-shaped house had been built on the first ridge, just to the left of the low causeway leading up to the Bird’s Head.

Graywood Snake had died suddenly. One moment she was hobbling across the plaza, the next, she cried out and fell over. Her souls had fled before she hit the ground. That had been last night.

Heat filled the house, heavy like a weight, and more stagnant, if possible, than the muggy afternoon beyond the door. In such hot weather a corpse had to be processed quickly, for in hot air corruption was drawn quickly to feed on a corpse. Salamander wasn’t sure why that was. Something about corruption’s ability to scent death? The Serpent had never given him a straight answer as to the reasons—which led Salamander to suspect that the old man didn’t really know.

Salamander squinted in the dim light, his hands working with smooth strokes as he severed the thin muscles inside the old woman’s thigh. He had to saw at the thick tendon that tied her thighbone to the mound of her pelvis. In the process, he tried not to touch the woman’s deeply wrinkled vulva. It reminded him of a shriveled gourd husk, whiskered with mold. Worse, it reminded him of his wives’.

Beside him, the Serpent’s raspy old voice rose and fell as he chanted the Death Song. The melody called to the Sky Beings and Earth Beings, asking them to come and see, to be witness to the passing of the great Elder’s souls. Next he Sang to reassure Graywood Snake that she was being cared for in the manner of her people, that her corpse was being treated with the proper respect.

The thick tendon parted, and Salamander was able to roll the leg back to expose the ball joint to his sharp stone knife. The Serpent turned his attention to the skin still left around the woman’s hips. With practiced strokes he peeled away the old woman’s vulva and severed the tissues inside to leave an arched hump of bone, raw and bloody. The bowels, vagina, and bladder that had once been cradled within had already been removed when they excised her organs.

Outside the door, Salamander could hear soft weeping as Speaker Clay Fat and his sister, Turtle Mist, mourned the death of their Elder.

What had been Graywood Snake’s leg came free in Salamander’s hand. He set it carefully to the side, picking bits of tissue from his fingers and wiping them on the inside of the wicker basket that held the old woman’s flesh and organs.

“You have become practiced at this.” The Serpent studied him with thoughtful eyes. His sagging face—like Salamander’s—had been streaked with black charcoal stripes to appease the Dead. “You are already better than Bobcat. Have you given thought to following me?”

“No, Elder. That is Bobcat’s place. He knows the songs. He did very well walking at your side for the summer solstice ceremonies.”