The instincts of ten summers as a war chief kicked in. Koracoo reached for her war club: CorpseEye. Firelight gilded the copper inlay in club, giving it an edge of flame. She smoothed her fingers over the dark, dense wood. He was old, very old. He had been passed down through her family for generations, each new warrior entrusted with the task of caring for the club’s soul. Legend said that CorpseEye had once belonged to Sky Woman herself. Strange images were carved on the shaft: antlered wolves, winged tortoises, and prancing buffalo. A red quartzite cobble was tied to the top of the club, making it a very deadly weapon—one Koracoo wielded with great expertise.
She shoved to her feet just as her daughter, Tutelo, burst through the leather hanging and stood breathing hard, her eyes wide, as though with shock.
Koracoo said, “What is it? What’s happened?”
“Mother …” Tutelo wet her lips. She was a pretty young woman with an oval face and long black hair that hung to the middle of her back. Sweat beaded on her small nose. She’d run hard to get here. “He’s alive.”
“Who’s alive?
“Sky Messenger, he—”
Koracoo reached out, and her fingers sank into her daughter’s shoulder. “Where is he? Tell me quickly.” Blood roared in her ears.
“At the gates. He asked to speak with Grandmother and the Matron’s Council.”
“Blessed Spirits, he must not know that Kittle has—”
“Koracoo,” Jigonsaseh whispered.
Koracoo spun around to look at her mother. Jigonsaseh lifted a clawlike hand. “Send a runner to Kittle … . Ask her to give us … one day to …” Her words were cut short by a violent coughing fit that racked her body.
Koracoo turned back to Tutelo. “Go to Kittle, ask her to give us one day to hear Sky Messenger’s story before she carries out her execution order. Hurry.”
Tutelo threw back the entry curtain and ran, vanishing into the daylight. Koracoo swung her foxhide cape around her shoulders and ducked outside carrying CorpseEye. People crowded the plaza, most of them refugees from devastated villages. Many carried baskets. Others raced around collecting things: rocks, potsherds, anything they could throw.
Koracoo stalked toward the gates like a hunting lynx, her muscles rippling, ready to do battle if necessary. He might be a traitor. No one knew for certain, but even if he was, he was still her son. Tomorrow she may have to club him to death herself, but it would not happen today. Not if she could stop it.
When War Chief Deru saw her approaching, he shoved a man aside. “Make room for the Speaker for the Women.”
Like a school of fish at a thrown rock, people scattered, leaving a path for her. Ahead, she saw her son standing with his hands tied behind his back, surrounded by eight burly warriors. They looked as stunned as she probably did. Like everyone else, she’d assumed he was dead.
Koracoo strode up to stand less than six hands from him, and Sky Messenger clamped his jaw. “Mother, just give me one hand of time. You must hear what I have to say.”
Gitchi, who stood at his heels, let out a low growl and bared his fangs, warning her to come no closer. When a warrior lifted his club to kill the dog, Koracoo said, “No.” The man instantly lowered his weapon.
She stared at her son. Facing her was not easy for him, she could tell, but he did it unflinchingly. They gazed at each other eye to eye. The soot of many campfires streaked his round face. His breathing was shallow, his lips pressed into a tight line, but his brown eyes blazed with defiance.
In a powerful voice, he called to the crowd, “I know how the world dies! Do you care to know? Does anyone in this village want to hear my vision? Does anyone want to help me stop it?”
The crowd went silent, waiting for Koracoo’s response. But an eddy of awed whispers moved across the plaza.
She studied Sky Messenger’s blazing eyes. She’d seen that look for the first time twelve summers ago. He’d just become a man. The body of his enemy lay upon the snow-covered ground before him. That look was a kind of righteous terror. The look of a man who’d just accepted a mission that would lay waste to his world.
She said only, “Bring him.”
As she strode back for the Bear Clan longhouse, villagers lined up to shout curses and pelt Sky Messenger with potsherds, rocks, dog feces—anything they’d collected. He grunted when the largest stones struck him, but said nothing.
One hand of time later, I sit before the fire in the middle of the Bear Clan longhouse. My hands and feet are bound. Mother sits to my right, with her war club, CorpseEye, resting across her lap. The red chert cobble hafted to the tip has two black spots, glistening eyes that stare at me. If the council so decides, it will be Mother’s responsibility to kill me.