People of the Weeping Eye(38)

The man called Wooden Cougar was the head of Crawfish Clan, known as the finest weavers within Split Sky City. While for the most part a congenial sort, Wooden Cougar could on occasion become obstinate and surly. For reasons of his own, he’d take an uncompromising stand over the silliest of causes. A weak leader, perhaps he just needed to dig his feet in on occasion to prove his mettle.

Beyond his sometimes obstinate nature, no one understood Trade better than Wooden Cougar, unless it was his nephew, Cleft Skull. Cleft Skull, too, deceived. As a child he had been struck in the head with a thrown rock that had left a dent in the left side of his head. While he sometimes stuttered, and had trouble finding words, his skill at keeping track of goods was unexcelled. When it came to calculating the benefits of war, Cleft Skull would be one to win over.

Old Camp Moiety was seated to Smoke Shield’s right. First came Vinegarroon. Named for the dark creature that lived under logs, he was as ugly as his namesake. Nearly as wide as he was tall, with a pockmarked face, broad froglike mouth, and protruding eyes, he wore an alligator cape over his shoulders, the skinned head sewn on backward to hang down over his spine. He said the Spirit of the slain beast told him when anyone tried to slip up unannounced behind him. Long scars ran up and down his right leg, received in a battle with the bull gator whose hide he now wore.

But as formidable as Vinegarroon looked, he liked to spend his time with children and elders. His laughter could shake trees when he heard a bawdy joke, and his appetite was the thing of legend. It was said he once ate an entire deer during a solstice feast, and the doing of it took him but a single night. Some thought he stored extra food in his oversize genitals. Perhaps that was the secret of his large brood. His five wives had borne him twenty-four children so far, and three more were on the way.

His brother, Fire Wing, had been sired by a different father after Vinegarroon’s was drowned in an accident. While he shared some of Vinegarroon’s features, he was a great deal easier on the eye. With a high forehead, his hair slicked with grease, and sporting an eagle-tail hairpiece, he had deep-set but unfocused eyes. His sharp cheekbones gave his face a triangular effect that emphasized his pursed mouth. He was the quiet one, slow but methodical in his approach to problems.

Hawk Clan sat in the next position, and Black Tail, the Hopaye, was an old man, white haired and frail looking. His eyes had gone gray and milky, but his mind remained sharp. No one, it was said, knew so many of the rituals. From the time he was a boy, he had studied the arts of Healing. Even Pale Cat deferred to the Old Camp Moiety’s Hopaye. On this day he wore a simple tunic woven from undyed hemp. His right hand had developed a wobble over the years, and Smoke Shield had never seen it still.

More an attendant than anything else, Pearl Hand acted as the old Hopaye’s guide, eyes, and assistant. Pearl Hand was young, having not quite passed twenty winters, but he had taken on the duties and trappings of Black Tail’s authority. Everyone believed that after the old man’s passing, the clan would confirm Pearl Hand’s status as their new leader. He was a quiet but firm man, not taken to boasting or to misusing his authority or position.

The final seat belonged to Deer Clan. There, Two Poisons watched Smoke Shield and Flying Hawk with probing eyes. He was nearing fifty now, and his reputation as a speaker and leader was justly earned. His voice in Council carried more weight than his low clan should have merited. For this meeting, he had painted his face in alternate lines of red and white, signifying that he would require a potent argument to switch from one side to the other.

His sister’s son, Smells-His-Death, sat beside him, chewing on his lower lip. He was new to the Council, having replaced his older brother when the man died from an infected leg. Of them all, he was at once the newest and the most unknown.

Finally, in the back stood the two Albaamaha elders, Amber Bead and Red Awl. While they had no actual voice in the Council, prudence had often necessitated hearing their opinions, especially when policy might affect relations with the Albaamaha. They might be a subject people, but not even the blindly foolish would chance igniting their passions.

Amber Bead’s old face sported star tattoos on his sunken cheeks. He had his white hair pulled back into a ponytail and wore a simple light blue tunic. Most thought him a mouthpiece for Sky Hand policies. The old Albaamo wasn’t prone to disagree with anything. Smoke Shield dismissed him as nothing more than a hand-licking lackey.

Red Awl, however, was another matter. He was younger, his hair thick and black. Noted for calm judgment, he had come from a small farmstead upriver near the fall line. His wise council had not only kept the peace among his own people, but had led him to moderate several serious differences of opinion with the Sky Hand conquerors.