People of the Weeping Eye(119)
“I said, where did you learn that Song? Your people are Oneota.”
Her expression grew confused. “It’s her voice. Clear as silence … and so beautiful. She Sings as he marches off to war, knowing all the while that she has driven him to this.”
Trader shivered again, eyes fixed on the box. Old White’s pipe lay forgotten in his hands, a look of horror on his face, as though terrible memories were creeping out from dark places in his souls.
Buffalo Mankiller glanced uneasily away from the box, a new comprehension in his calculating gaze. “I think,” he said softly, “that I shall accompany you upriver to the boundaries of our lands.” He paused. “Just to be sure that there are no … complications.”
“Your company would be a pleasure,” Trader said absently. Now Old White was gaping at Two Petals, oblivious of everything else.
Buffalo Mankiller recovered his composure, turning to Old White. “I also asked around. You are the one they call the Seeker?”
“I … What did you say?”
“I asked if you were the Seeker.” Buffalo Mankiller smiled as if to chide himself. “Are even half of the stories they tell about you true?”
“What?” Old White shook himself as if from a chill. His hands were still trembling as he lit the pipe, drew, and exhaled the blue smoke. His eyes were closed, lips moving as if offering a prayer with the smoke. “Oh.” Then he sighed. “The stories about me? It depends entirely on the tale. But the short version is that I have traveled most of our earth. No, I do not fly, or shape-shift into animals or birds. I do not consort with the dead. I have no mystical Powers, though I am skilled at the magician’s craft and the arts of illusion. I know the use of herbs. And, no, I cannot kill with just a glance. Mostly, I have gone from place to place, searching.” He stared hollowly at the box. “And now, I wonder for what?”
“And you, Trader?” Buffalo Mankiller asked. “Somehow I don’t think you’re as simple as you pretend, either.”
Trader smiled sadly, running his fingers through Swimmer’s fur now that he’d resettled on his blanket. “Are any of us simple, clan leader?”
“I am,” Two Petals said into the silence. “There is no one as simple as me.”
Buffalo Mankiller studied her through the smoke rising from his pipe. “In my old age, I expect that I shall look back on these next few days with disbelief and wonder. My grandchildren will either look up at me with awe, or terror.”
“Oh,” Two Petals answered, “no one will speak of us … or this journey. We will vanish like the breeze in the morning, only to be heard in the distant trees.”
Why don’t I believe a word of that? Trader let the fingers of his other hand trace the carefully carved wood of the medicine box. He would have sworn it vibrated under his touch.
Twenty-three
Morning Dew endured. Her universe had contracted to Smoke Shield’s room. She finally had some respite when the high minko called his war chief to conference with one of the clan leaders. Smoke Shield had washed himself, dressed, and ordered her to clean up the room.
Dutifully she wiped up the spilled food, collected the bowls, and placed them outside the door. She supposed it was Thin Branch who removed them. The same thing happened with the chamber pot when she set it out.
She prized each second that he was gone. During that time, she set her souls loose, allowing them to travel to fantasy places where she and Screaming Falcon lived alone beside a broad river. They had a snug house, and walked hand in hand through the forest, collecting berries, grapes, and fallen nuts.
But Screaming Falcon would never go to those places. He hung from a square, just beyond the base of the great mound. Pinching her eyes shut, she forced her imagination away from what he was enduring.
If only I could … But no option remained. Only endurance. Heron Wing’s words echoed hollowly within her. The only thing she could cling to.
She lost track of time, and sleep crept up on her with stealthy feet. She and Screaming Falcon stepped out of the forest and passed the houses and fields to enter White Arrow Town. Mother was waiting for her, two stickball racquets in her hand. “About time you returned. A matron owes more to her people than you’ve been showing them.”
“I’m married, Mother. I have my own life now.”
“You always were a selfish girl,” Sweet Smoke said sadly. “Only you can save yourself, your husband, and your people.” Mother cocked her head in that old familiar appraisal. “Are you up to it? Are you strong enough? Can you defeat the Sky Hand, and win them at the same time?”