“Has War Chief Sindak decided what he’s going to do yet?” I ask Taya.
“I don’t think so. After he deserted Atotarho’s forces, Gonda offered to adopt him into the Standing Stone nation, but so far Sindak has declined. The last I heard, he said he might go off and become a Trader with his old friend, Towa.”
Warmth seeps up around my souls. “I hope so. He deserves—”
“Sky Messenger,” she interrupts. “Look at me.”
I frown down at her.
She swallows hard, obviously preparing herself. “I … I’ve grown up some. I don’t know if you noticed—”
“I noticed.”
“Well …” She nervously licks her lips. “Among our people, marriages are matters of status and duty, not love. I know—as I did not when we started this journey—that my responsibility is to my clan, and to your vision. I will help you as much as I can, and I expect the same from you.” Her expression is serious, somber. “But that is all I expect.”
Above us, a great horned owl calls, hoo, hoo-oo, hoo, hoo. We both look up to watch it sail over the battlefield with its wings tucked.
I am so hollow I can hear my heartbeat echoing. I put my arm around her again, and as we walk, I say, “Let’s take it one day at a time, Taya.”
Our moccasins crunch the frost as we climb the hill. Ahead, there is firelight. I look at Zateri and Hiyawento. My muscles relax. My breathing is easier. I am not alone. Trust is no longer in exile.
Taya says, “Before we get to the fire, you need to know several people. The tiny woman sitting beside Zateri is Matron Gwinodje of Canassatego Village. On the opposite side of the fire, the woman with gray hair is Matron Kwahseti of Riverbank Village, and beside her, the elderly man is Chief Canassatego. Kwahseti’s war chief, Thona, is the heavily scarred man with the scowl on his face. He—”
“You’ve become quite the politician,” I praise. “Thank you for helping me.”
She tightens her arm around my waist. “I’ve been listening to Grandmother speaking with the other matrons. You’re going to need a good politician. Keeping this alliance together is going to take a miracle. And I am going to make sure it happens.”
I stop for a moment. Her eyes are filled with determination. I run my hand over her soft hair. “I believe you.”
Sixty-six
Sky Messenger
Around midnight the Cloud People part and the campfires of the dead become a conflagration. The light is so brilliant every branch casts a shadow.
As I walk the battlefield, I unconsciously stroke Gitchi’s gray muzzle. He licks my palm. Across the meadow bright lights bob and sway. Many cluster near the villages, moving in and out of the palisades, perhaps saying good-bye to loved ones. Others roam aimlessly, confused, waiting for the deer.
There is a sound on a battlefield that’s hard to define. The dead are not silent. As muscles go rigid there are thumps, whispers. Teeth grind in tightening jaws. Wings. Wings flap as night birds feed.
I study the wide cold eyes on the ground. I will keep them in the space between my souls, the place I keep all terrible things, to be taken out and contemplated when I think I cannot go on, because it’s too hard, or I’m too tired, or the loneliness has become too much to bear. These men and women will remind me that the nearness of death is grace on fire, and I must learn to live the flames. I, at last, understand Bahna’s words.
A warning growl rumbles Gitchi’s throat.
I turn. In the trees to my right, the moonlight seems to shudder. A man stands out there, in the cold darkness, all alone.
There is a low insidious laugh. “It’s Odion, the boy who was always afraid.”
His feathered cape whispers. I can’t tell if he is coming toward me, or just shifting positions. When I dropped my war club today, it was truly for good. I have only my words to protect me now. Words and an old wolf whose life I will not risk, not even to save my own.
“I’m still afraid, Hehaka.”
“But why? You are the great man now. Elder Brother Sun obeys Sky Messenger’s commands.” His laughter is mocking, filled with disbelief. “Isn’t that enough?”
I tilt my head. Enough? All night long—in glimpses—I’ve been reliving the horror of War Chief Manidos. I’m grieving, feeling wounded; it clouds the thoughts. What is enough? I pause to consider. In a man’s lifetime, is it enough to forgive just once when one did not have to? Or perhaps “enough” is only reached when a person makes forgiveness his Road of Light, and spends every day walking to the Land of the Dead, expecting nothing more.
I say, “I know where it is.”