Wakdanek is staring at me again. I turn, and he instantly looks away.
“Why do you keep looking at me?”
Wakdanek’s heavy brow pinches. “I’m worried about you.”
“It’s all right. I’m better.”
Wakdanek doesn’t answer for a long time. Finally, he says, “Are you? I suspect you’ve endured many terrible things since the attack on Yellowtail Village.”
I scratch Gitchi behind the ears. I don’t know what Wakdanek wants. Does he expect me to tell him what I’ve seen? I don’t even want to remember, let alone speak of these things. I swear I will never tell anyone what I’ve been through. If I can, I will forget it myself.
I silently stare back at him.
The crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes deepen. His voice is kind when he says, “It might help to talk about it.”
Sindak orders, “Leave him alone.”
Wakdanek swivels around. “I don’t think you understand, my friend. We all need to talk about—”
“No,” Sindak says firmly. “We don’t.”
“Maybe you don’t, but children are more fragile. They need—”
“The moment you tell anyone about a traumatic event they never let you forget. Every time you look into their eyes, you see it. Oh, they may just squint slightly, or perhaps their smile is just a little more sympathetic than it used to be, but you know they’re thinking about it, and so you have to, too.” He glares at Wakdanek. “Believe me, there are things a man needs to forget. Leave Odion alone.”
Wakdanek returns to paddling. Deep swirls flow away from his oar and drift through the cool green water behind us. We enter a section of the river where giant hickories and maples lean over us. Birdsong fills the air. I see finches fluttering in the branches. Gitchi sees them too. A low growl rumbles in this throat.
“They’re just birds, Gitchi. They can’t hurt you.”
Gitchi props his nose on my leg and wags his tail.
But my gaze clings to Sindak. What has he seen that he needs to forget? He is a warrior; perhaps that is answer enough.
I say, “I’m going to be a warrior when I grow up.”
Sindak nods approvingly. “Good. We need more men to help protect our peoples.”
A smile creeps over my face, and my heart feels lighter. “I have a bow at home. Father made it for me.”
“Are you good with it?”
Shame makes my shoulders hunch up. “No. My friend Wrass can shoot a bird in the head at fifty paces. He’s the best shot of all the boys in our village. But I’m going to get better.”
“I know you will. Just practice, Odion. That’s all it takes. If you spend two hands of time every day—”
“Yes, practice,” Wakdanek interrupts, “but please remember that the best preparation for battle is a heart at peace.”
A heart at peace. Somehow, deep inside me, I know I need to remember this. Silently, I mouth the words.
Sindak gives Wakdanek an askance look. “That’s ridiculous. The best preparation for battle is an enormous quiver of really sharp arrows, and even sharper wits.”
“But … my mother is a peacemaker,” I say. “At least that’s what Father calls her.”
“Yes,” Sindak replies with exaggerated politeness. “I’ve heard him. I never knew any word could carry such loathing until I heard Gonda call Koracoo a ‘peacemaker.’”
Wakdanek frowns. For a long time, he just paddles. I can’t decide whether he looks annoyed or disheartened.
Bravely, I say, “I want peace.”
“That’s wise,” Sindak responds. “But to get it and keep it, you have to be willing to fight for it. You—”
“Why do you say such things?” Wakdanek asks in a plaintive voice. “Don’t you know that everything in the world is related? People, animals, trees, stones, the Faces of the Forest, the Cloud People? We are all One.” He ships his paddle and extends his hands to Sindak. “Every time I lay my fingers upon a branch, the tree recognizes me. If I listen, I can hear her calling my name, trying to reach across the gulf that separates us and gently touch my heart so that I will know she is my grandmother and means me no harm.”
Sindak says, “That’s usually when the first ax blow lands.”
Wakdanek stares at him.
Sindak appears lazily amused, as though he’s failed some test of intelligence and is proud of it. Wakdanek, however, has a sober worried expression.
I say, “Grandmother Jigonsaseh gave me a milkweed seed once. She told me that if I blew the seed from my palm, my breath would never stop. She said it would carry across the world to touch the cheek of a deer, and then rise into the sky to sail with the Cloud People. That’s what you mean, isn’t it, Wakdanek?”