One
Sky Messenger
Darkness is coming.
I halt at the edge of the birches and steady myself by placing a hand against a massive granite boulder, concentrating on the bright yellow leaves that whirl through the cold air. The scent of snow suffuses Wind Mother’s breath. While my fingers gouge the rock, I gaze up at the deep blue thunderheads standing like fortresses above the chestnuts and sycamores that ring the meadow. Dusk’s purple halo has faded to nothingness, leaving the white tree trunks steel gray, the dry grasses silver.
The old wolf who always strides at my side lifts his gray muzzle and scents the air, returning me to the acrid odor of burning longhouses. The scent is strong, mixing eerily with the cries of the wounded who scatter the battlefield. I sink against the boulder, hoping that, for the moment, shadows hide me from my warriors.
The other members of the war party have retreated to the nearby meadow to cook supper and tell stories, each trying—as I am—to forget the horror that surrounds him. My thoughts drift and, as always, return to her.
… long naked legs whispering through the spring grass … pearl-colored Cloud People scudding overhead. Struggling for air, for more of her. Floating weightlessly through the deep wildflower-scented afternoons, her lips upon my body like fire.
I’m shaking. I cast a glance over my shoulder to make certain no one is watching me. I am a deputy war chief. I cannot afford weakness. Dozens of campfires glitter. Here and there, men laugh, and their breath condenses in the cold air and glides across the fire-dyed meadow.
Beyond the warriors, near the river, the captives sit roped together, shivering, gazing around with wide, stunned eyes. Four women and eleven children. I have counted the children over and over. In the morning they will be marched off to alien villages, adopted into strange new clans, or killed, as suits the whims of the matrons. The sight always sickens me. As a boy, my village was attacked and I was captured. I know from the inside what it feels like … and the utter despair still haunts me. To this day, I refuse to take captives, which does not endear me to the clan matrons of the Standing Stone People. Many times my warriors have voted me war chief, but the matrons refuse to allow it. They say I am not ready.
They are right.
I clench my fists and turn my gaze to the burning village, where flames still leap through the charred husks of twelve longhouses. We arrived this afternoon. Well thought out, every possible permutation calculated and planned for by War Chief Deru, our victory required only three hands of time. Most of the villagers were still in their bedding hides, sick with the unknown fever that ravages the land. They barely put up a fight.
On the canvas of my souls I see it all again: the assault, pouring the pine pitch at the base of the palisade, setting the fires, people fleeing in all directions, arrows cutting them down like blades of grass beneath finely flaked chert scythes.
This is a Flint People village. Blessed gods, if they ever find out I was among the war party—if she ever finds out—my life will not be worth the price of a wooden bead. Even if the Flint matrons do not believe hunting me down is worth the lives it would cost—for I am a formidable warrior—she will be coming. She can’t let me live, not after his. Not after the promises I made.
… I requicken in you the great soul of Dekanawida … .
The dread emptiness that often assaults warriors when the battle is done filters through me. I lean more heavily against the boulder and concentrate on breathing, just breathing. Empty cadences of the river babbling over rocks penetrate the night.
Only three moons ago, the Flint People were our allies. We fought together, lived together, protected each other’s villages from the marauding Mountain People who sought to kill us all and take our lands. When the matrons ordered this attack, I was stunned, as were many, including War Chief Deru. Our people have suffered many losses in the ongoing war, and each has to be replaced. Every warrior understands that this is accomplished through adoption. Captives are taken and marched home, the best selected, and put in line for the Requickening Ceremony. During the ritual, the souls of lost loved ones are raised up and transferred to the living body of the captive, along with the name of the deceased. When relatives have their families back, it eases their grief, and restores the spiritual strength of the clan.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. When I lower it, I stop to stare at the blood that cakes my fingers. Some of the people who lived in this village were her relatives. Her clan.
… Sunlight filtered through the scent of her hair. Flesh coming alive, the open lips that touch mine like an unslaked summer, the heart-wrenching safety of her arms enough to convince me to forsake my own people.