“Wakdanek?” Mother turns to face the big raw-boned Dawnland Healer.
Wakdanek hesitates for a moment. “I will do my best to explain our presence before they kill us, but I make no guarantees.”
Silence descends like a granite blanket. The only sound is the river rushing by.
Worry carves lines at the corners of Mother’s eyes. She pulls CorpseEye from her shoulder and stares hard at the war club. CorpseEye frequently warns Mother and guides her steps. I’ve heard her tell magnificent stories about it when she returns from war walks. Mother’s head cocks, and she swivels to face the landing.
War Chief Cord follows her gaze; then he glances back at CorpseEye. “You keep looking at your club, then at the landing. Why?”
Mother says only, “I cast my voice for the river.”
“Mine, also,” Cord says.
Wakdanek nods in agreement. “It’s our best chance.”
Father, Sindak, and Towa shake their heads almost in unison.
Father is the first to speak: “I think it’s a bad idea, but I follow my war chief.”
Sindak and Towa shift uneasily.
At last, Sindak says, “It’s suicide.”
Towa expels a breath. “Yes. So, let’s go.”
All eyes turn to Wakdanek. His voice is soft, as if he fears to tip some fragile balance. “Come. I’ll show you where the canoes are hidden.”
Twenty-one
By late afternoon, the mist vanished. A soft blanket of sunlight dappled the passing aspens and striped maples. Wrass squinted against the squares of light that struck his eyes like fists. The two girls in the canoe stared out at the forest with taut expressions, probably hoping with all their hearts that around the next bend, they’d see Dawnland warriors bursting from the forest with their bows drawn.
The dream—he knew from experience—kept despair at bay.
Auma sat next to Wrass with her hands balled in her lap.
Wrass asked, “Are you all right?”
The girl turned. Her chin-length black hair had sleeked down around her face, making her broad nose appear even wider. “I’m hungry, Wrass. When will they stop to feed us?”
Wrass eased into a sitting position. The day was cold and bracing, but he felt a little better. His headache was almost bearable. “The warriors have been paddling for ten hands of time. They’ll stop to rest soon.”
“And then they’ll feed us?” The girl’s voice choked, as though she was on the verge of crying.
Wrass reached out and squeezed her shoulder. “They may feed us, but probably not. You need to be strong. Never let your enemy see weakness. They will use it against you.”
Auma glanced at the warriors paddling behind them; then her gaze drifted to the bow, where Gannajero and Kotin huddled together. They spoke in low ominous tones. As the canoe passed beneath overhanging willows, cold blue shadows darkened their faces.
She whispered, “Wrass, I thought I saw a canoe following us.”
Wrass stiffened. The possibility was more painful than his headache. Hope could be a knife in the belly—and she had probably imagined it. “What kind of canoe?”
“I didn’t get a very good look at it. It might have been birch bark. Do you think—?”
“How long ago did you see it?”
“Two hands of time, maybe a little longer.”
Wrass considered that. It might be more of the warriors heading home from the big camp last night. “Did you see any markings on the canoe?”
Auma shook her head. “I only caught a glimpse of it as we cut around a bend. When the man saw me looking at him, he immediately dragged his oar and disappeared. I think he was trying to stay hidden.”
“Man? One man?”
Auma spread her hands uncertainly. “I only saw one.”
Wrass let his gaze drift to where Conkesema slept on the packs. Old leaves had swirled into the boat and stuck in her black hair. He prayed her souls were walking in serene meadows far away from here.
“Do you think it’s a war party?” Auma whispered.
“One man is not a war party.”
“But he could be a scout. Maybe once he knows for sure that we’re here, he’ll turn around and go get a war party? My parents may be with them.”
Auma’s gaze bored into Wrass, silently begging him to say yes, that they were moments away.
He couldn’t.
As the day warmed, the scent of the river grew stronger. It had a bitter tang, a mixture of rotting leaves and frost-killed plants. Wrass leaned over the gunwale to look past the bow to the canoe ahead of them. Zateri’s boat was now in the lead, with Waswan sitting in the bow. Zateri knelt in the middle next to the Flint girl. Her mouth was moving, probably speaking gently, trying to ease the girl’s fears.