People of the Weeping Eye(125)

Heron Wing glanced at Morning Dew to see her reaction. The woman had a stunned, disbelieving expression on her blood-smeared face. No wonder. She’d been in Smoke Shield’s bed for days. That would be enough to stun anyone. On top of that she had just learned that her husband was dead. The wonder was that she could muster the energy to walk.

Heron Wing asked Thin Branch, “Why have you come?”

“The war chief has sent you this woman. He asks you to keep her for him.”

Wide Leaf made a hissing sound, her expression turning sour.

Heron Wing shot her slave a reproving look before asking, “And what am I supposed to do with her?”

“Whatever you need her to do. I will come for her whenever my master sends for her.”

“I take it the war chief will provide food for her from his stores? Or does he expect her meals to come out of Panther Clan granaries?”

“My master didn’t say, but were I his wife—the slave being his property—I would imagine the answer would be self-explanatory.”

“You assume a great deal.”

Thin Branch shrugged noncommittally. “If you have no other use for me I will be off to the tchkofa in case my master has need of me.” With that he bowed, and turned on his heel.

Heron Wing shot a dubious glance in Morning Dew’s direction, then turned back to Violet Bead. “With charges of witchcraft on the air, I would be most cautious.”

“Indeed, I will.” She gathered her daughters. “Come, let us be off. There’s no telling what might be flying around here.” She cast a glance at the fog, shuddered, and marched her girls toward home.

Heron Wing lifted an eyebrow. “Have you eaten today, Morning Dew?”

“No.” The woman kept her gaze fixed vacantly on the ground. She kept rubbing her hands together, as if subconsciously trying to clean them. Heron Wing usually had the same impulse after touching Smoke Shield.

“We have some of that pumpkin bread left over from this morning’s meal.” Heron Wing gave her son enough of a shove to start him toward the door. She watched Stone and then Wide Leaf step inside. To Morning Dew she said, “I’ll say this. You’re back in record time. And walking on your own two feet, too.” She studied the woman. “Your nose is still bleeding.”

“He threw me against the wall.”

“I don’t see any bruises or cuts.”

“He didn’t beat me.” She was scrubbing at her hands again.

Looking closely, Heron Wing could see blood in her cuticles. She gave the woman a sly smile. “That he has lost interest so quickly is most unusual, but then, perhaps he underestimated you. You should be proud.”

When Morning Dew looked up, tears were welling in her eyes, her jaw trembling. “After the things I …” In a broken voice she whispered, “I’ll never be proud again.”





Twenty-four

Two Petals stood, her feet on the sandy shore. Small waves from the Tenasee reached for her before sinking back into the river. She stared after the Kaskinampo. They were wasting no time on their journey home. Their paddles rising and falling, the Kaskinampo rounded a distant bend. When the last canoe vanished, she was alone with the river, aware of its Spirit winding back and forth across the muddy bottom. She could sense it fingering the rocks, moss, and mud as it slipped this way and that within the confines of its banks. Did it long for freedom from the imprisoning shores? Did it chafe as it rubbed against the banks?

The world slowed. The Kaskinampo were gone. She closed her eyes, breathing more easily, thankful for the respite.

I need to be alone.

The disembodied voices whispered around her, just beyond her hearing for the moment.

“The northern Yuchi outpost, a place called Cattail Town, is a half-day’s paddle upriver. You should reach it by high sun tomorrow,” Buffalo Mankiller had told them after landing at the sandy beach. The sun had been low in the west, casting the shadows of trees into the murky river water.

“You could camp with us,” Old White had offered. “I know your men are tired.” Fatigue had lain like a map on the old man’s face.

Two Petals understood. Their travel through the Kaskinampo lands had been like a flurry. Buffalo Mankiller had pushed his young men—marching like a war chief during the portages, timing their travel so that camp was made at a distance from the towns, and always in isolated locations.

Two Petals knew why: The Kaskinampo feared them.

What do they know of fear?

Images of the visions slipped through her souls. She closed her eyes. Her souls twisted inside her, struggling to be free. But they, like the rest of her, were bound as if by rawhide. She relived a vision of water closing over her, her body riding down into the depths. Around her, rainbow colors shone and blazed as sunlight played through the water.