Old White dropped crushed mint into the stew. “During my years on the river I heard rumors. Your uncle, he killed his brother, too, didn’t he?”
Trader nodded, looking down where Swimmer lay on his folded blanket inside the door, happily asleep. Dogs didn’t bear the burdens of conscience.
With a peeled stick, Old White stirred the stew. “I think madness runs in the Chief Clan. That and dark violence. It passes from generation to generation.”
“I was going to stop that.”
Old White stared up from under lowered brows. “Power works on us for reasons of its own. Perhaps that is why the Contrary led us to you. The time for running may be over.”
“Is it?”
“When we return to Split Sky City, we will see. I have only heard bits and pieces of the doings there. According to the rumors, your uncle has expanded the territory over the years. That is when he’s not been obsessed with keeping his own prestige. You’re right. He has had to work hard to keep his position. I’ve heard that it took years before the Council accepted his leadership without reservation.”
“He and the Raccoon Clan almost went to war with each other when I was a child. The tishu minko argued that the time had come to spread leadership among the clans, to perhaps elect a member of the Council to lead.”
Old White—satisfied that the stew was bubbling—sat back, removed his pipe from its sack, loaded it with tobacco, and lit it from the fire. “Somehow, your uncle managed to keep things as they were.”
“Only because of attacks by the Yuchi. An outside enemy works wonders to salve internal strife.” Trader shrugged. “But for the timing of one of their raids, my brother might have won war honors before I did.” He sighed. “Had he, perhaps all of this might have been avoided. He would have been the center of attention; his marriage would have come first.”
A blue wreath of smoke puffed from Old White’s pipe. “You delude yourself. The confrontation between the two of you might have been delayed, but never avoided.” He pointed with the pipe stem. “Unless, that is, you had decided to forever let him win. Would you have given up everything for him?”
“Didn’t it work out that way in the end?”
“Giving up for something is very different than giving up because of something.”
Trader considered that. The old man might have a point. He chanced the rain to crane his head out, seeing that smoke still rose from Two Petals’ seclusion. “Why do you suppose the Contrary picked this time to find me?”
“I don’t know. But whatever the vision was that she had at Silver Loon’s I think it was most remarkable.”
Trader turned. “Very well, that’s my story. What about yours?”
The old man’s eyes hardened. “All in good time, I imagine. For now, for reasons of my own, I think I’ll keep my secrets.” To change the subject, he pointed at the stew. “One of us is going to have to take a bowl of this over to Two Petals.”
“One of us? Why do I suppose it isn’t going to be you?”
“My skin is made of old leather. It hardens and shrinks when it gets wet.”
“Maybe it will squeeze some of those secrets out of your reluctant souls.”
But the old man didn’t seem to hear. His eyes were fixed, as if seeing back into the past, to some terrible event. Bitterness had formed around his mouth, his brow pinched as if in pain.
No matter what he knows, when we finally reach Split Sky City, it will be the most unpleasant moment in my life.
Twenty
The delicious smell of food built a craving in Morning Dew’s souls like nothing she had ever known. Her first insistence was that she would refuse to eat. By dint of will she would starve herself to death rather than allow a single morsel of Sky Hand food to pass her lips. In the beginning she thought she could stand hunger, but thirst had been unbearable. The first mug of water pressed to her lips brought her arms up, and she gulped it ravenously.
As she sat on the cattail matting, however, saliva pooled around her tongue; the fragrant odors of sweet corn, acorn-and-hickory-nut bread, and roasting fish ate at her resistance. Then, too, the foul old slave, Wide Leaf, managed to needle her like poison ivy rubbed on raw skin.
The process of bathing hadn’t humiliated her as much as she had thought it would. Cleaned like the dead, the Sky Hand women had said. Most appropriate. Their warm cloths had massaged her, starting at the toes, working up her calves, thighs, and belly. They had soothed her breasts, chest, and shoulders. Then the warm relief continued down her arms to her hands.
She actually helped to roll herself before they placed their warm cloths to her backside. While she lay there, her souls remained as wilted as mayapple leaves in winter.