Four old women sat weaving baskets on the northern edge of the village. They had their knees drawn up, their feet spread wide and their shoulders bent to the task. A bowl of water nestled at each woman’s knee. They dipped their fingers frequently and moistened the basketry materials to keep them supple while they worked them. An array of tools lay scattered about: shell knives for cutting twine and splitting wood; bone awls sanded to fine points for puncturing holes, or pressing home the weft; cups of sticky pine rosin to cement the frame.
Tannin recognized the loose weave as belonging to a family of baskets called “nut” baskets, though people used them for many other seed crops as well. The weft consisted of very strong twine made from the inner bark of nettle plants. The warp extended from a rigid top hoop, made of split willow, to the bottom, where the weaving twine knotted. The basket gained its sturdiness from two bowed rods that crossed at right angles at the bottom and were lashed with sinew and cemented to the top hoop. Lambkill traded extensively for them. The wide spacing in the weave allowed nuts and other large seeds to breathe, so they wouldn’t mildew.
When the village dogs spotted the two oncoming men, a series of barks and sharp yips went up as a pack raced toward them, ears pricked, tails wagging. People stood and pointed, calling to one another.
“Let me do the talking,” Lambkill said.
“Yes, big brother.”
They trotted past the old women, through a passel of squirming, shouting children and into the plaza. Young women had gathered around a big cook fire where five boiling bags hung from tripods. Silver wreaths of steam whirled around the women. Over the flames, racks of fish sizzled. From every direction, men walked toward the newcomers and surrounded them. One man, a medium-sized youth with a lean face, pushed through all the others and trotted forward with his arms spread wide. He wore a furry-brimmed beaver hat pulled down over his ears.
“Lambkill?” he called.
Lambkill cocked his head suspiciously. “Who are you?”
The man lowered his arms. His smile faded. “It’s Nighthawk! I’m the Big Horn Village Trader.”
“Oh, of course! Forgive me, Nighthawk. We met at the Pure Water Renewal, didn’t we?”
Nighthawk nodded, and the smile came back to his face. “What are you doing here? Trying to steal my trading partners?” “Bah! I have enough trouble keeping up with my own partners, I don’t need yours.” He strode forward to embrace Nighthawk. They patted each other’s back heartily. The surrounding villagers smiled. “Well, come over here and meet Chief Staghorn. This is Moss Rock Village. These people are my third cousins. They will treat you well. Staghorn, come and meet my good friend, Lambkill,” he called to an old man who stood beside the village’s central and largest lodge. “Come! Lambkill is the great Trader from the marsh country.”
The elder hobbled forward. He wore a heavily painted shirt made from the hide of an old dire wolf. He’d turned the fur inside out to warm his body, and gray fur spiked up around his throat. He nodded politely to Lambkill, and Lambkill gave him a deep, respectful bow.
“I am honored, Staghorn. Your reputation as a great and wise chief spans the country.”
The hostile look in Staghorn’s eyes abated only a little. His
mouth puckered as though he wanted to spit. “I have heard of you, too, Lambkill. You’re the man who’s searching for his wife, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Lambkill said softly, “I am, great Staghorn. As a matter of fact, we were hoping you might be able to help us.”
“Why are we, standing Nighthawk asked. “Come, sit down by my fire. I have a bag of fir-needle tea already made.”
He led the way. Staghorn and Lambkill walked side by side, while Tannin brought up the rear. Lambkill’s voice sounded almost reverent as he spoke to Staghorn. Tannin marveled at that. Could this be the same man who only a week ago had been tearing himself apart with rage?
Thank Above-Old-Man that Lambkill had returned to normal.
The villagers scrutinized them as they passed. People’s smiles had vanished with the rough tone in Staghorn’s voice; now women whispered behind their handstand children clung to their mothers’ skirts, peering up through fearful eyes. The skin between Tannin’s shoulder blades crawled as if an atlatl were centered on his back.
Blessed Marsh Hare Above, what stories have these people heard about us? He glanced around uncomfortably. The sooner they left Moss Rock Village, the happier he would be.
Tannin took his place at Lambkill’s side, dropping to the sand in front of the low fire, his back to the lodge, but his eyes roved the village vigilantly. Nighthawk sat to Tannin’s right and Staghorn to Nighthawk’s right. But Staghorn left a noticeable gap between himself and Lambkill, as if he thought he might be tainted if he sat any closer. Tannin glanced sideways at Lambkill. His brother smiled pleasantly, seemingly ignorant of Staghorn’s slight. “Here, have some tea!” Nighthawk offered with too much eagerness. He dipped four abalone-shell cups full and handed them around the circle. “So, Lambkill, tell us how your