People of the River(181)

Locust took a breath and gazed around at her new world. Fire-blackened wall poles thrust up everywhere, like jagged, rotting teeth. People swarmed across the rubble, crying, cursing, searching for the few belongings that might have survived the blazes, calling out the names of missing family members.

A very old man stood beside a mound of charred debris. He shouted, "Petaga says he didn't mean to bum the village beyond the palisades, but look at this! This was my home! What will I do now? Where can an old man go?"

Primrose's face saddened as he threw the end of the log into the fire a dozen hands from Locust. Sparks spiraled upward into the late afternoon sky. In another finger of time, he would remove the log and give it to her to sink into the trench. Who would have thought things could get so bad that they would be reusing wood? But the log would finish one wall of their new house. Their old house, like so many others, had been demolished in the fighting. Early that morning they had sifted through the wreckage and collected what little they could find of their precious life together.

Locust turned back to her work. Picking up a stalk of cane, she wove it between the logs to add strength to the wall. Freshly cut saplings would have worked better, but there weren't any. Dressed only in a blue-and-tan kilt, she had been working tirelessly to suppress the futility that weighted her soul. She could have stood losing the battle for Cahokia, agonizing though it might be. But just over there, beyond the walls of the palisade, Badgertail was tied up, surrounded by guards—and she had been unable to do anything to help him.

Primrose gave Locust a soft glance as he knelt and turned the log, making certain that it charred evenly. Flames licked up in a crackling serenade.

"I saw him ... in the plaza," Primrose said. "I think he's all right."

"When is the torture ceremony scheduled to begin?"

"No one has heard. I asked all of the guards around the palisades. 1 don't think Petaga has decided."

For a moment. Locust couldn't move. Memories of Badgertail rose within her like morning mist off Marsh Elder Lake, weaving images from the past in her head. Her soul overlaid the bittersweet memories with those of the present: Badgertail striding confidently through a village at her side . . . Badgertail smiling at her across a camp fire . . . Badgertail strung up like a dead animal waiting to be gutted. Alone, all alone. Locust squeezed her eyes closed.

"Locust?"

"I . . .I can't talk about it. Not yet. Primrose." He saved you from Hailctoud's warriors, and here you are, doing nothing to help him. Guilt smothered her, its power so great that she felt that if she didn't do something, her soul would die.

She lurched to her feet, pulled her war club from her belt, and slammed it into the new wall. Mustering all of her strength, she hit the wall again and again, swinging her club from side to side as though cutting a swath through a wave of enemy warriors. Each of them had hurt Badgertail at some time; she knew their faces, their scars, the look in their eyes. Her sobs began as muffled grunts but quickly rose to suffocating cries. She swung harder, pounding the wall like a madwoman. The hot tears flooding her cheeks made her hate herself—for being so weak, for not being able to save Badgertail.

"Locust," Primrose pleaded. He ran up and stood behind her. "Please. Please don't do this to yourself! There's nothing you could have done."

Finally the despair drained her strength. She let the club fall to the ground, then sank against the wall and leaned her forehead against the cool logs. "I—I'm going to organize the warriors. There are some who'll follow me. We'll get him out. I just have to figure a way of distracting—"

"Locust ..." Primrose put a hand on her hair. "Petaga has a thousand warriors. Four hundred are walking the shooting platforms, watching everyone who comes or goes through the palisades. You could gather maybe a handful of warriors. None of you would live long enough to get near Badgertail." He stroked her hair gently. "Badgertail made peace. He knew what he was doing."

"No!" she cried. "Offering himself in exchange for us was crazy! I would have rather died at his side than live through this." Locust turned, and Primrose hugged her desperately. For a blessed, timeless moment, Locust let herself drown in the comfort of his arms, the smooth, steady rhythm of his breathing, the feel of his hand stroking her hair. "I can't let him die, Primrose."

"He'd be terrified, you know, if he suspected that you might try to rescue him. He offered himself so that those men and women who've been loyal to him could live. And he loves you, Locust. He always has. He would want to know that his life bought your safety."