People of the River(47)

"You can try. But sometimes when you're swinmiing in the Silence looking for a soul, one comes to you that you didn't expect."

"You mean like the weasel that's been trying to take over yours?"

"Yes, just hke that."

Lichen ran a hand under her itchy nose. What would it be like to have to fight a weasel for her soul? She had seen weasels attack animals ten times their size, pull them down and chew their throats out. They were so fast, so ferocious and deadly. She wondered if it worked the same way with souls.



They reached the foot of the trail and walked out through the cornfields that led to the village and its central plaza. In the fading beams of sunlight, the straw roofs of the houses glittered as though coated with honey. Lichen sniffed at the tangy fi-agrances of clover and smartweed. They passed the raised storage hut where Raccoon had been struggling earlier in the day, and Lichen detoured for a moment to examine the claw marks in the bear grease. Bear grease was expensive. They found so few bears now that they had to buy grease from the traders who went north to the Great Lakes.

As they walked on, Lichen asked, "Wanderer? What do you think the rocks meant when they said that Bird-Man had never left me? I saw him fly away through my window."

He glanced up at the people who had begun to gather around the edge of the plaza, surveying the magnificent colors and shapes of their sacred masks. Voices had dropped to murmurs, though a dog barked, breaking the spell of quiet. War Jerer's eyes narrowed in thought. "Oh, I think they were trying to tell you that Bird-Man lives inside you as well as outside. When he flew away, he also flew into you,**

"I don't understand. What does that mean? Where is he inside me?"

"Ah," Wanderer breathed and shook his finger right in her face as though the action imparted a great truth. "If we knew that, we wouldn't have to go looking for him by changing ourselves into Snake and Hawk."

"What if we don't find him? No matter how hard we try."

"I wouldn't worry about that," he said mildly. "It's usually when you give up searching for your Spirit Helper that he pounces on you like Grandfather Wolf—with his teeth bared."

Lichen hung her head to watch the slanting sunlight play in the blades of new grass. She decided not to ask him the next question, but it repeated in her soul anyway. And chews you up? Does he chew you up. Wanderer? Is that how he kills your human soul?





Eight


Hailcloud stood rigidly by the door. The council lodge of Hickory Mounds had suffered in the recent fighting. Poles dangled from the wounded roof, letting thatches of cattail slump precariously into the room. Five-hands-wide gaps gashed the walls. Badgertail's attack had devastated the village. Over seventy percent of the population had been killed, and all of the food reserves had been plundered. Hailcloud anxiously fiddled with his war club, running his fingers over the deadly chert studs. Will they never come to any decisions? What is there to discuss? If we don't fight, we'll surely die. Why can't these elders see that?

Moonlight streamed through the fissures, falling in veils of silver over the men and women who sat in a circle on the floor. From one hand to another, they passed a large steatite effigy pipe, carved in the form of a warrior decapitating an enemy. The scent of tobacco rose pungently on the air. In the shed behind the council, four women tended a fire, brewing strong white drink, straining it as they poured it into conch shells, each shell decorated with fancy designs.

A woman, one of the clan leaders, walked into the circle. She cupped the drinking shell in reverent old hands as she Sang the Song of First Woman's gift. First she handed the vessel to Petaga, then to Hailcloud. The hot black liquid nearly burned the war leader's mouth and settled firmly in his stomach. His limbs began to tingle. As this bowl was drained, another of the old women entered, Singing, ensuring that no participant wanted for sacred white drink and the Power it brought to minds, and to words.

"So," Naskap, chief of Hickory Mounds, finally said. A short man, he had a bulbous nose beneath bushy brows that met in a line over his eyes. For this council session, he had braided his silver-shot black hair into two long ropes and had worn a blue-and-red-striped kilt. A thick necklace of marine shells hung down over his bare chest. "My young cousin, Petaga, wants a hundred warriors to add to his ragged group. Tell me, how many do you think it will take to face Badgertail? Hmm? A thousand? Two?"

Hailcloud saw a swallow go down his chief's throat. He wanted to jump to Petaga's aid, but that would humiliate the young leader. The youth had been pushed too far already. Petaga had mustered courage from somewhere, watching with a stoic expression that only Hailcloud had been able to pierce, as the sacrifices were made for Jenos. Petaga had not been ready to assume the mantle of Moon Chief, but he had done it anyway. Knowing what this visit cost the young man, Hailcloud's fingers tightened around his war club. He watched intently as Petaga smoothed clammy hands over his golden robe, summoning his best argument.