People of the Sea(25)
“Name one time that Sunchaser’s Dreams have been wrong.”
Catchstraw wet his lips and brushed damp, gray-streaked hair away from his narrow face. “Oxbalm, I know that you like Sunchaser. I didn’t come to fight with you about him. I had a Dream, and I wanted to tell you about it. I know too that you sent for Sunchaser to ask him what the drownings mean, but I already know! I was sleeping under that fir tree over there—”
“What Dream?”
Dramatically, Catchstraw spread his arms. “It came upon me in a roar like the wings of the greatest Thunderbeings!”
“The Dream, Catchstraw. What did you see?”
“Listen for once and you’ll find out!” he cried indignantly. “Mammoth Above came to me. She said that her children killed themselves out of anger. Anger at Sunchaser… because he refuses to talk to them anymore.” Catchstraw lifted his chin smugly. “She said the mammoths need a new Dreamer to talk to.”
“I see. And you think you’re the one?”
“Who else is there?”
Oxbalm’s lips pressed into a thin white line. For cycles, Catchstraw had been struggling to compete with Sunchaser for the spiritual leadership of the sea clans. Oxbalm had never taken him seriously. He suspected that if it ever did come to a contest, it would end like the cat fights—with Catchstraw sprawled across the sands in the morning. But Catchstraw did have a point. Sunchaser’s constant absences had diminished his status in the eyes of the people. If Sunchaser didn’t take some action soon to repair the damage, Catchstraw might win without any battle at all. There were no other Dreamers for the people to choose from. Good Plume kept to herself, Dreaming only for her family in Brushnut Village. That left Catchstraw and Sunchaser to vie for people’s souls.
“What is it you want from me, Catchstraw?”
The Dreamer crossed his arms, his back stiff. “I want you to call a council session so I can tell everyone about my Dream. That’s the only way they’ll believe me.”
Oxbalm shifted his weight to his other foot. How true. Without a council session, Catchstraw could recount his Dream all he wanted to, but he’d been wrong so often in the past that few people would pay attention.
“If I am the one to call the council for you, it will appear that I believe your Dream,” Oxbalm said. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
“I just need a short session, Oxbalm,” Catchstraw said, sidestepping the question. “I won’t take long. And in the end, my Power will win out.”
Oxbalm ground his gums in irritation. The request put him in an odd position. Some people actually believed in Catchstraw’s Power. Not many, but enough that if Oxbalm denied the request, it would make Catchstraw’s followers suspicious and cause a rift in the clan. It might be safer to give Catchstraw the chance to make a fool of himself publicly. It would be even better if he could arrange it so that Sunchaser were present to defend himself at the session. Yes, indeed.
“It is my right… as a member of this clan,” Catchstraw said.
Oxbalm nodded obligingly. “Yes, it is your clan right. Very well. But I can’t give you a day yet. There are things I must tend to, people I must consult with, before I can tell you when. And it will certainly have to be after the Mammoth Spirit Dance.”
Catchstraw stood as though stunned by the news. “But you will call the session?”
“As soon as I can,” Oxbalm answered.
“Perhaps I have judged you wrongly, elder.” But the voice didn’t sound convinced. Catchstraw turned and plodded away across the rocky terrace.
Premonition slipping through him like an eel in a net, Oxbalm studied the man’s narrow back as he walked away. Then he sighed and continued toward the knot of women and the crackling bonfire.
Mountain Lake saw him coming and shouted, “Grandfather! I got us two pieces each!” She held up four long strips of fried fat and charged toward him.
Catchstraw sat cross-legged on a thick pile of hides in his lodge. The structure stretched twenty hands long and fifteen hands wide. He’d constructed it by sinking ten whale-rib bones, five on each side, into holes he’d excavated with an oak digging stick. Then he’d lashed the ribs to a central ridgepole of fir with strips of raw wet leather that had shrunk as they dried. After that, he’d cajoled and bargained and bought twelve finely tanned short-faced bear hides to cover the frame with. These he had sewn together with tendons stripped from the bones of elk and deer.
The whole was large enough to house a wealthy man, his wives and family—had Catchstraw ever cared for such trivialities. He’d been married twice, each time as a result of his mother’s efforts to arrange a good alignment with another coastal clan. In both instances, the women had left him after several days because he had pointedly ignored them. Each marriage had cost his clan dearly. Wedding gifts, so carefully negotiated, had had to be returned, along with additional wealth to assuage any injured feelings.