People of the Weeping Eye(11)

“A what?”

“A Hopaye, a Healer. I have been many places, talked with a great many shamans, shared the secrets of the plants and cures. If I can cure her, and if she desires to return, you may yet see her fulfill her destiny.”

“I could come along, help you with—”

“No.”

The gruff voice behind the palisade insisted, “Get rid of her, Skaup. Or we will!”

“Sometimes,” Old White soothed, “the only way to help someone is to let them go.”

Skaup stared miserably into Old White’s eyes, the last of his hope snuffed like a spark beneath the weight of a war moccasin. He turned, calling, “Bring my daughter to this man.”

Old White leaned on his Trader’s staff, hands grasping the snakes carved in the wood as if to crush them. His heart began to pound, excitement pulsing with each jet of blood through his veins. Is this the one? Is she the girl in my Dreams ?

Bodies moved behind the gaps in the palisade. Sounds—like those made by a wounded bobcat—could be heard.

A middle-aged man emerged, followed by several anxious-looking young men. They carried her trussed body, swinging from a pole like the carcass of a slain deer. Her hair was an unkempt mass of raven black, the expression on her young face that of a barely controlled rage. The muffled squealing would have been ear-piercing shrieks but for the wad of cloth jammed between her jaws. They had wound rope around her arms and ankles before knotting it firmly to the pole. Another rope snaked about her waist and bit deeply into the dirt-smudged fabric of her coarsely woven dress.

Old White experienced a surge, like the electric crackle of rubbed fox fur, when her wide shining eyes met his. For a long moment he couldn’t breathe. He shook himself, smiling, his souls warmed by the raw emotion that seemed to glow around her struggling body. She flopped like a fish, straining the arms of the nervous young men who bore her beyond the narrow entry.

They weren’t kind as they dropped her onto the beaten earth. Old White saw pain in the father’s eyes as he bent down and said, “This man says he is Old White, the Seeker. He has offered to take you away, to keep you safe. I … I have agreed.” He gave her a weak smile. “Is that your wish?”

She glanced from her father to Old White, and again he felt the prickle run along his spine. Power shot like a thing alive from her frantic eyes as she looked from face to face. A desperation filled with love, fear, and resignation reflected from her panicked expression. She swallowed hard, mumbling against the cloth shoved into her mouth.

When the old man reached down and pulled it free, she spit, worked her lips, and declared, “I wish you would all twist and burn. Foul people, I detest you all. Go with him? Put up with his torture? Never. Stake me to the ground here. Bind me tight to this soil. No, never bear this body beyond the palisades of Spring Rock! Spill my blood and spit here, you foul whelps!”

The old man winced, pained, and in a quick move, thrust the rag into her mouth again as she drew another breath. Had he not noticed that the men surrounding her had been fixed on her as surely as a snake homed in on a bird? Did he not see the effect she had? Was he deaf to the love and desperation struggling behind her words?

“My little girl,” old Skaup said wearily. “Who would have thought?” He looked up at Old White. “We know your reputation. You, who have traveled the whole world, can you help her?”

“As much as she will help me,” Old White replied with a sense of relief. He could feel Power swelling, shifting around him. High above, an eagle screamed, and he raised his eyes, seeing the white head and tail as the sky hunter tucked, then rocketed away toward the south. Yes, this was right. A part of the puzzle. But what part? The vision hadn’t been clear.

That was more apparent as Two Petals flopped, and wailed against the gag. Her terrified eyes had fixed on her father, tears streaking down the sides of her smudged face.

So what is she? A true Contrary? Or just plain insane?

Aloud Old White said, “If you would bear her to my canoe, I would be most appreciative. The A’khota will no longer bother you.”

Turning, he raised his staff, walking straight away from Spring Rock Village, not even bothering to see if they followed his orders.

They would. They always did.





Three

Snow Otter had dozed. He hadn’t meant to, but the rain pattering against the bark-sided lodge had lulled him. Then, too, it was warmer than usual inside due to the large fires he had ordered stoked in celebration. Worse, he had eaten too much; a full stomach always predisposed a person to slumber. The soft robes sewn of martin, beaver, and otter on which he had lain hadn’t helped matters. Nor had a playful bout of coupling with his wife. Despite the fact it was an act to encourage the Trader, he’d nevertheless exhausted his loins. That sort of thing, too, drained a man’s ability to remain alert. Thus, he was grateful when an owl hooted in the night, bringing him awake and indicating that the worst of the rain had passed.