People of the River(10)

Badgertail didn't understand it. Perhaps when a man had a female soul, he had no semen. Who knew?

He had almost overcome his attraction to Locust. The old fire returned to haunt him only on rare occasions now. Sometimes, when they had the leisure to lounge around camp, laughing and talking, he fell in love with her all over again, though he rarely admitted it to himself. She loved Primrose, and Badgertail would not disturb her happiness by intruding his ov/n selfish desires.

Despite his hidden longing, over the years Locust had become his best friend. Being close to her soothed something deep inside him.

Badgertail dipped his paddle to keep the canoe skimming close to the bank. Glistening curls of black water trailed in the wake of his stroke. Warriors whispered behind him, their voices low, twining with the lapping waves until he could decipher only a few of their words. Someone boasted of how good it would be to sink a knife into Jenos' gut and feel the Moon Chief's life drain away. Another man laughed and uttered a brutal threat of what he would do to the women they captured.

Fools. Do they think that Nightshade will stand by and watch us destroy her home? . . . And later, will she follow Thar on's orders and return to Cahokia with us? - And if Nightshade knew of their plans, she would have told Hailcloud, Jenos' cunning and dangerous war leader. Once, in a kinder day, Hailcloud had saved Badgertail from a ten'ible defeat. They had shared the rigors of the battle-walk, and a friendship based on mutual respect had flowered. That, too, would die on this day.

Badgertail grimaced at the fading Star Ogres. Hanged Woman's face dimmed with each moment—like his sense of self-respect.

How many villages had he attacked in the past cycle? The killing and kidnapping sickened his soul, though he knew the reasons for them. The tribute system served as the sinew that bound their society. But it had been established hundreds of cycles ago, before drought and famine had stricken the land. In the old days, when First Woman guided them, villages could afford to contribute half of their com and squash crops to sustain the trade and redistribution programs administered by Cahokia's Sun Chief. But not in these hard times. How could Tharon expect the lesser villages to keep tendering the same amount they always had? Especially when "redistribution" had ceased, because Tharon needed the crops to feed his own burgeoning populace of ten thousand at Cahokia.

First Woman has truly turned her face from us.

Badgertail had stood on the shooting platforms of the palisade during the dark days when Winter Boy breathed snow over the land and thousands came to slam their food bowls against the walls, begging for com to feed their children.

"Tribute!" Bobcat hissed, as though reading the tracks of Badgertail's soul. "How can Tharon keep calling it that?"

"It's what it's always been called."

"Yes, and in the days when the Sun Chief's power protected the people, it had a meaning. But now? It's become a bribe. A ransom paid to stave ofiour attacks, brother. Have you forgotten the days when we defended our sister villages from outsiders? Have you? Keran's dream is dead. They are no longer our sisters, and we are snakes!"

Up on the banks, a lone owl hooted, and Badgertail caught sight of dark wings flapping over the water. For a moment, his soul ached at the bird's freedom.

He wanted to escape. But the chiefdom needed him. Thousands of people depended upon his ability to maintain order. And anyway, where could he go? He toyed with his paddle, rowing halfheartedly as he listened to the sweet notes of the flute in the growing light. He had sat around a hundred camp fires telling stories about his experiences far to the southwest in the Forbidden Land, where people grew com on the bluffs and lived in stone palaces. He had even heard Nightshade herself spin legends about the gods who roamed the cactus-and-sage-covered deserts there. Sometimes, in his dreams, he lived there with them—as free as the eagles who soared over the red buttes.

Nightshade. Her enigmatic image haunted him. Beautiful Nightshade—eerie, frightening. Brave men lowered their voices when they spoke her name. And once I carried her over my shoulder. Why are our paths always threaded together like a weaver's pattern in a fabric?

He forced the unsettling thought from his head. "I'm far more worried about Tharon's obsession with Power objects than I am about tribute, Bobcat. What does he think he's doing by stealing every Power Bundle and coveting every ear-spool that's ever been proclaimed to have Power? It doesn't make any sense."

Bobcat gave him a disbelieving look. "It does to me. He's trying to gather all the Power in the world to himself."

"But why? Does he feel threatened if such objects belong to the shamans or the priests? What does he want with such a wealth of Power?"