Old White ducked into the Council House. The large room was illuminated by a crackling fire. He caught a quick glimpse of deer horns; the splayed hides of birds, foxes, and raccoons; and lines of animal skulls hanging from the walls. War shields, weapons, and a line of scalps also could be seen. He hurried past Two Petals, who was staring around at the walls, and pointed to a place on the rush matting beside the hearth. “Do not sit on this spot.”
Two Petals obediently sat there, her eyes still on the stuffed birds, shields, bows, arrows, and buffalo and deer skulls that lined the walls. “Listen to the noise they make.” She pointed at a flattened cougar hide pegged to the wall. “He says he can’t hunt that way. Anything he eats has to be flat, too.”
Behind him, people were crowded at the door, watching with wide eyes. High Buffalo had managed to squeeze through the pack and stepped forward. All the time he was issuing instructions to his people. Many slipped away, leaving room for Three Bucks and his warriors to enter.
High Buffalo recovered quickly, bearing his long-stemmed pipe and taking a place on the bear rug behind the fire. He took a moment to drape his knee-length shirt, glanced thoughtfully at the pipe he held, and said, “Food is being prepared. We must attend to our victorious warriors, and then, Trader, we must hear the story you have to tell.”
Old White settled himself beside Two Petals. Her eyes were shining, a rapt smile on her face. She giggled as she watched the flat cougar hide, hearing some inaudible voice as the creature’s Spirit spoke to her. Her hands were fluttering, and she bubbled with an excitement beyond his comprehension. A sudden burst of laughter passed her lips.
So far, so good. But he fervently hoped that when the time came, no one would tell Two Petals to go outside to relieve herself.
Split Sky City had to be close. That morning the warriors had opened their packs and donned their finest regalia. They took time to paint their faces in red and black, to fix feathers and clean their weapons. Using grease, they glued swan’s down to their heads. Only when each was satisfied had they started the march.
Morning Dew had stumbled through most of the long miserable trip in shock. Her tumbling souls might have come adrift from her body. She had lost herself. Become some elemental animal. Each step she took was without thought, goaded on by the guards. From some distant place, she wondered how a human body could shiver so hard and still have the energy to continue. Her feet had lost feeling, so cold she could have been walking on clay.
Nothing seemed eternal but suffering—and the endless winding forest trails. Images, disjointed, like flashes in nothingness, popped into focus, then as quickly were gone. She remembered scenes from her childhood: a cornshuck doll; a delicious odor rising from a warm bowl of food; glimpses of her comfortable house, firelight flickering; snatches of Song from a faceless elder. Each was nothing more than a fragment of a life that might have been a fevered Dream.
No matter how much she hurt, nothing could compare to what Screaming Falcon endured with his broken jaw, yet he stumbled on with stoicism that she was forced to emulate. When she would have given up, he sensed it, looking back with his hard eyes, slurring past his broken jaw, “We are Chahta. Remember that. We can only be better than these dogs by showing them how real men and women behave.”
And then, when she would have thrown herself down, weeping, waiting for the blow that killed her, his words had summoned courage from some unknown well.
Other times, like forest birds, fantasies had flitted through her head: White Arrow warriors were even now setting an ambush that would free them. Because of her status as a future matron, the Sky Hand would release her. Emissaries from her people would arrive moments after the war party reached Split Sky City with ransom. Some daring warrior would sneak into the city to rescue her.
Then the reality of her situation would come crashing down. Tears would streak her cheeks, and the rope would chafe where it rubbed raw flesh on her neck. Only Screaming Falcon’s whispered encouragement gave her the will to proceed.
As Morning Dew’s uncertain feet followed the trail, she forced herself to believe that Mother was only wounded, playing dead to avoid capture. Her spinning hopes fastened on the idea that Mother was already planning how best to effect her release. Then, in the cold wet night, when she shivered and curled into a ball for warmth, Mother was really dead. In those darkest hours, while rain soaked her beautiful dress and trickled down her icy skin, her mother’s death couldn’t be denied.
I just want to die.
She blinked, coming back to herself. The forest was endless. The world had funneled down to the back of Screaming Falcon’s head; her link to it was the bobbing rope running from his neck to hers. She needed but to glance down to see her bound wrists. As she looked to the side, the line of warriors paralleling her was impossibly real.