People of the River(32)

"Of course. First Woman prescribed them for union  s between Sunbom and Commonbom as a way of mixing their strengths."

"My Chief ..." Hailcloud shifted his gaze uneasily. "My mother ..."

"Claimed Jenos as your father. Yes, 1 know."

Hailcloud took a deep breath, and his voice lowered to a whisper. "I saw your expression today. Your mother . . . well, the thought has unnerved you. Tomorrow the entire world will be watching."

"Hailcloud, I—"

"I would ask the honor, my Chief." His voice hardened. "Do you understand?"

Petaga gave him an uncertain glance. "You would achieve a great deal of status. You would become as good as Sunbom." But not quite. Hailcloud's membership in a Commonbom clan would never be erased unless he were officially adopted. Nevertheless, Hailcloud's words after the ritual performance would carry increased weight with the other chiefs and war leaders.

"Very well, my friend. Tomorrow you may perform the ritual duties." A cool breeze of relief blew through Petaga. Hailcloud had freed him from the horror. It was one less torment for his excoriated soul. He clenched his fists and walked down the line of firebowls toward the door.

Behind him, speculative whispers broke out among the Starbom.





Six


Listen to them, Nightshade. Do you hear their words? They killed the only family you've ever known"

The voice of Sister Datura gusted like a dark wind from the depths of Nightshade's soul. She fought to ignore her, to break the stranglehold they had on each other, but her Sister fought harder.

''They destroyed your village. First Bulrush dies, then this. Whose blood is that on their warshirts? Listen to them! They boast of it!"

Raucous laughter, like a foul miasma, surrounded her as warriors called back and forth from the brightly painted war canoes that glided close to the mint-bearded shores of Cahokia Creek. The air had become tainted by a bluish tint of smoke from cook fires and heating smudges. Word had already spread, and hundreds had come running from the outlying cornfields to line the bank and watch the return of Badgertail.

"Ha!" one of the warriors crowed behind her. "I killed seven men and took three women! I'll have sons there next winter!"

Nightshade knelt in the middle of the lead canoe, her bound hands dangling numbly behind her back. The stench of the warriors packed around her made her stomach roil. Odors of blood, urine, and torn guts bombarded her. She tried to hold her breath, but the effort only heightened the presence of Sister Datura in her body. The colors of the river began to swirl together, blue melting into brown in curling stringers, then going green and pale yellow before leaping up again to coalesce into sky, plants, or earth. Against Nightshade's will, Sister Datura plucked the hues of sunset from the clouds and cast them down like liquid jewels on the waves eddying around the boat.

Her stomach heaved suddenly. She shoved her way to the lip of the canoe, shouldering aside two warriors so she could vomit into the churning river. She hung there, weakly suspended between water and sky like a banished god, her body trembling. She vomited until her empty belly could only contort in dry agony.

"Now you pay the price for our sacred Dance. Feel the pain, Nightshade? r m still here . . . still here ..."

The warriors around her were silent, watching with strained eyes. Though Nightshade tried to pull herself up, to bring her head back into the boat, her muscles refused to obey her commands. She braced her knees against the hull, feuding with her body; but she only succeeded in tumbling half out of the canoe. Her long hair spilled into the water, swirling just below her face in writhing, serpentine patterns. With her hands tied behind her back, she did not have the leverage necessary to rescue herself.

"Help. Help me. Someone ..."

Warriors frantically pushed each other to get away, eager to avoid having to touch her Spirit-possessed flesh. So many of them crowded against the opposite side of the canoe that the boat listed sharply. A hushed murmuring broke out. Up and down the river, men stared, waiting to see whether Nightshade could save herself by calling out to the Water Spirits who haunted these muddy banks, or whether the river would swallow her whole.

Sister Datura laughed.

Nightshade's red dress had tangled around her legs, making it difficult for her to move. In sheer exhaustion and futility, she wept. The curtain of her hair shielded her face, but her shoulders shook, revealing her shame.

Whispers pulsed behind her, and she felt the canoe rock with a man's unsteady gait. Someone bravely slipped his arms around her and lifted her back into the boat. She stared up into Badgertail's pensive eyes. He studied her for a moment through the frame of his shell-heavy forelocks. "Are you all right? Is it the Spirit of Sister Datura?"