People of the Thunder(122)

So many warriors in town, and more to come. Morning Dew watched some of the young men pitching a ball back and forth with racquets. She turned back to the basket she was working on, slipping long thin splits of cane down over the willow twig stems that gave it form. She followed a pattern her mother had taught her. Two over, two under. With more time, she could have made something a bit more intricate, but she had never had the predisposition for such exacting work. Her grandmother’s creations, however, had always amazed her. Old Woman Fox made baskets with such a tight weave they’d hold water.

“Watch this,” Grandmother had said once when Morning Dew was a little girl. Then Grandmother had proceeded to pour water into the basket, and set it in the middle of the fire.

“Won’t it burn through?”

“Not a good one,” the old woman had said. “You put the right Power into the making of a basket, and it’ll boil water.”

Morning Dew had watched in awe as exactly that had happened.

“Can’t do it too often, though. Fire, that close to water, the Powers conflict: It’s the anger of both spirits that kills the basket. Makes it lose its resilience.”

What of my resilience? She considered that. What had become of that girl of so long ago? Shaking her head, she remembered passing her first moon in the Women’s House, listening to Grandmother’s skepticism about Screaming Falcon’s raid: “How would you save our people?”

She frowned at the partially completed basket, remembering how she’d arrogantly told her grandmother that a new day was coming. That Screaming Falcon would make sure of it.

“And if he didn’t, I would.”

“So you will accept responsibility for your people, no matter what?”

“On my blood.”

When she looked out at the warriors running with swift surety as they feinted, dodged, and threw the ball back and forth, she wondered just how she could ever fulfill that promise.

“Morning Dew?” Stone emerged from the house.

“Here, Stone.”

“Mother’s still asleep.”

She glanced at the door, then up at the sun, nearing midday.

“She was up late.”

“Doing what?”

“Clan business. Your mother is a very important woman.”

“She counsels people on marriages.”

“That’s right.”

“Marriages are really important,” he stated firmly. “Yes, they are.”

Stone reached down, picking up a clay figurine of a dog. “Can I have a dog someday?”

“Sure.”

“Can I have Swimmer?”

“I think he already belongs to Trader.” She smiled warmly at him.

“I like Trader. He plays with me.”

Which was a wonder, given who the boy’s father was. Morning Dew arched an eyebrow. The boy might be Panther Clan, but he’d still been sired from Smoke Shield’s loins. She placed a hand to her own abdomen, forever thankful the man hadn’t planted his seed in her.

“He could marry Mother.”

“She’s married. To the war chief.”

“But he’s never here.”

“I know.” Thankfully.

“Maybe Mother was helping to plan a wedding last night. That takes a lot of work.”

“Yes, it does.”

“Everyone has to be invited. There are feasts and presents,” he insisted with a solemn nod.

“I remember. A lot of work.”

“Everything stops. Lots of people come for the feast. Even people who don’t like each other. For that one day, they all get along.”

“So, when you’re Panther Clan chief, are you going to make sure there are plenty of marriages?”

“I am.”

She laughed. “You’ll be a good chief.”

Then she glanced at the doorway. Up most of the night? Would Heron Wing marry Trader? In a heartbeat, if she were free. The longing in Heron Wing’s eyes when she looked at Green Snake was almost like a scream.

Something was nagging at Morning Dew’s souls, more than just the unsettling notion that Heron Wing might have sneaked off to be with Green Snake. Gods, had she?

She glanced around. The Chikosi weren’t Chahta. They had different beliefs about adultery. It was the woman who paid the price for spreading her legs.

Heron Wing, you’re playing with disaster.

She slipped another piece of split cane down between the willow stems. Compared with Smoke Shield, Green Snake might well be worth it. She had caught herself looking into his eyes, listening raptly as he talked about the Copper Lands, the Caddo, and the Oneota. In his presence, she had found herself smiling, her souls at ease. By Breath Maker, she could listen to the man talk all day.

Stone was playing with his clay dog, trotting it across the ramada matting, making barking sounds as he tossed a little twig. “Get it, Swimmer.”