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Authors: Kathleen O'Neal Gear,W. Michael Gear

People of the Owl: A Novel of Prehistoric North America (North America's Forgotten Past) (24 page)

BOOK: People of the Owl: A Novel of Prehistoric North America (North America's Forgotten Past)
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The Serpent rocked on his heels, chanting the familiar Death Song that reassured the Dead that they were still cherished members of the lineage and clan. In the rear, Wing Heart was racked in sobs. She lay on her bed, cramped on her side, prostrate in a way that Mud Puppy had never seen before. Water Petal sat beside her, holding one hand, her face streaked by tears. Outside, voices could be heard periodically as kinspeople, friends, and well-wishers dropped by to leave gifts of food, or express their shock and grief at the young Speaker’s sudden death.
It can’t be true!
The words kept repeating in a Dream-like resonance inside Mud Puppy’s head. But all he had to do was look at the body an arm’s length from his nose, and there was the terrible reality. White Bird was dead. In one instant he was alive, levering soil from the ground, and in the next, his blasted body lay straightlimbed in death.
Mud Puppy swallowed hard.
I told him not to plant the seeds
.
He could sense the Serpent’s wary hesitance to work on White Bird. Yes, Power lay all over the body like a glittering spiderweb, shimmering and bright one moment, invisible the next. It radiated like heat from glowing cooking clays.
His mother broke into another violent fit of sobbing, her body writhing on the bedding. Water Petal tried to soothe her, failing miserably.
“My son,” his mother’s voice rose in a reedy wail.
“Shshsh!” Water Petal smoothed Wing Heart’s damp hair. “He’s gone, Elder. It just happened. It’s no one’s fault.”
But Mud Puppy knew that it was.
“He’s all I had left!” the Elder moaned, her voice breaking as she choked. “
All
…
I had
…
left!
”
The wound in Mud Puppy’s breast lay open and jagged. He had loved White Bird, had admired him as the most marvelous of big brothers. It was all right that his mother cried. He wished he could, too, but instead he just sat there, empty-gutted, unable to do more than stare at the ruined body in disbelief.
The Serpent turned, his eyes intent, knowing, as he studied Mud Puppy. That look by itself was more frightening than death.
The unbidden voice inside said,
You are the Speaker now!
The Serpent smiled absently, as if he, too, had heard.
T
he fire burned hot and yellow, Mud Stalker adding branches anytime it seemed to slow. It was extravagant to burn a fire this hot and large, but it was a night to celebrate.
To Mud Stalker’s right sat Red Finger, to his left, on the sleeping bench, Elder Back Scratch hunched, a shawl around her age-bowed shoulders. Young Pine Drop and her sister, Night Rain, sat across from him, their backs to the door as they glanced uneasily back and forth. They looked, and no doubt felt, out of place. Alas, given the status of their birth, the frail innocence of youth had been pulled back to reveal their future in clan leadership and responsibility.
“You are thinking you should be with your husband’s body,” Mud Stalker said as he fixed them one by one. “Well, he’s over in Wing Heart’s house. Let them care for him. I’ve taken the liberty of having White Bird’s possessions sent there, with the offer that we will support whatever decision Wing Heart makes about the treatment and disposal of the body.”
“Let her burn her house down.” Red Finger jerked his head in a nod. “We just built the one Pine Drop and Night Rain are living in.” He smiled. “And, it seems that we have to begin the search for new husbands. It isn’t often that fortune casts as wide a net for us as it has this day.”
“They have a husband lined up,” Back Scratch said in her thin and reedy voice.
Red Finger stopped short, a puzzled look on his face. “Who? Surely you’re not thinking …” He couldn’t finish.
Mud Stalker suffered a moment of sadness as Pine Drop’s eyes fastened on his. Yes, she understood.
She cried, “You don’t really mean for us to marry that
boy
!”
“What?” Night Rain chimed in. “You mean,
Mud Puppy
!”
“That was the arrangement,” Mud Stalker replied firmly. “Though we couldn’t have guessed the rapidity with which the event might befall us.”
“Why?” Red Finger demanded. “Tell me, what is the point of following through with this mad plan? Right here are two young women, in line to be Clan Elder. We could use them to create obligation with Deep Hunter or Cane Frog? Snakes, if you don’t want to go there, if it has to be someone in Owl Clan, marry them into Moccasin Leaf’s lineage. That would really cut the ground out from under Wing Heart.”
“And strengthen another lineage in Owl Clan in the process,” Mud Stalker reminded. “You are making the assumption that the enemy we know is worse than the one we don’t.”
“Mud Puppy is still a boy!” Pine Drop insisted. “Not just a boy—a
peculiar
one at that!”
“Do I have to?” Night Rain asked in a timid voice.
Mud Stalker steepled his hands, glanced at Back Scratch, and nodded. “Nieces, there is more at stake here than either of you knows. For three generations we have watched Owl Clan’s authority and prestige grow. Wing Heart and her brother made a formidable team. Given the way young White Bird was developing, it made a great deal of sense to marry the two of you to him. It gave us a way of controlling him, using his talent for our advantage.”
“Name a single advantage we would gain by marrying my two cousins, here, to that idiot, Mud Puppy!” Red Finger snorted, his jaw cocked.
“Cousin,” Back Scratch said from her place on the bed, “we want Mud Puppy to become the new Speaker. The one thing we can count on for the future is that Wing Heart will do anything to maintain her position on the Council. To do that, she must remain the Owl Clan Elder. If Moccasin Leaf is able to remove her, she has many heirs. It will be a smooth transition. Imagine, if you will, that Wing Heart remains the Elder and, with our help, is able to name this half-wit, Mud Puppy, as Speaker. Now, put the two of them in the Council, say in a debate with Deep Hunter about the redistribution of disputed resources?”
Red Finger made a face. “That boy would be ludicrous.”
“Exactly.” Mud Stalker ran gentle fingers over the ridges of scar tissue on his forearm. “You see, Wing Heart made a bargain. We intend to honor it.”
“At the price of our freedom,” Pine Drop muttered, looking away angrily.
Mud Stalker raised an eyebrow. “Oh, come now. He’s just a boy.”
“I would rather have a man,” Pine Drop retorted.
“There are plenty available,” Back Scratch said reasonably. “It doesn’t matter where you father a child. It still belongs to the clan. Just be discreet for the first year or so. After Wing Heart and the Owl Clan are broken down to size, a divorce will be an easy thing to negotiate. Better yet, it will add to Owl Clan’s disgrace.”
Pine Drop considered that. Night Rain looked horrified.
“In ten years, Pine Drop, when you finally become Clan Elder,” Mud Stalker added, “it will be as the most prestigious Elder in the Council. Not, as it is now, with us in second place.”
Night Rain might have been unconvinced, but Pine Drop nodded, saying, “Very well, but you’re going to have to run that brat through the Men’s House first. I’ll not be made a laughingstock by taking a boy into my bed.”
“That can be arranged.” Red Finger seemed to have seen the logic. “And, who knows?” He fixed his eyes on Pine Drop. “He is young, and not very bright.”
“That is supposed to make me feel better?” Pine Drop asked hesitantly.
“I was just thinking.” Red Finger’s pensive look did little to relieve her. “Could you make him love you? Pine Drop, do you and Night Rain see where I’m going with this? If you could seduce his souls as well as his body, he could grow dependent upon you. He might be induced to rely on your advice in matters of clan politics. It would take finesse and dedication on your part, but little Mud Puppy might just be young enough and dumb enough to grow into a real asset for us.”
Pine Drop sat lost in thought, her expression one of distaste. “In other words, you want me to find a way to use him against his own clan.”
“He’s young, impressionable. You are older than he is, smarter. Handled correctly, an inexperienced boy can be twisted like a length of twine.”
“Treat him well in your bed,” Mud Stalker suggested. “The rushing of his loins might be your greatest ally.”
Night Rain’s silent expression tightened. She continued to sit with her hands in her lap, looking glum.
Back Scratch growled. “What’s the matter with you young women? What makes you think that lying with a man has anything to do with your own pleasure? I know that a lot of these young people slip off and couple just because they
like
each other. It’s a waste, that’s what. Breeding is meant to be done for the benefit of the clan, not just so that you can feel pleasure burn through your hips.” She smacked her lips in disgust, adding, “The only reason the Sky Beings made it feel good was to compensate for its being a person’s duty, that’s all.”
Mud Stalker’s eyebrow cocked as he studied his mother, but he said nothing.
Red Finger, however, blurted, “What is this, Back Scratch? Have the seasons dulled and blunted your memories? Have you completely forgotten all the trouble you caused as a young girl when you slipped away for three moons, supposedly to go Trade with the Ring Villages on the coast? Wasn’t the man’s name Black Legs?”
“Yes,” Mud Stalker nodded, remembering. “Black Legs.”
Back Scratch scowled at him. “You weren’t even born then.”
“No, but the stories persisted for years. I was only a boy, but I recall the opposition to naming you Clan Elder. People still recalled your transgressions, and how you returned pregnant with my older brother.” He ignored his mother’s hiss of irritation as he looked at Pine Drop and Night Rain. “The Elder may have forgotten what it is like to be young, with your body bursting with desire for a certain man. She is, however, correct with regard to your duty to our clan. You will marry Mud Puppy, and, as Cousin Red Finger points out, you must win him to us.” He smiled. “Your elders understand the difficulties. We hope that you will understand the advantages to both yourselves and the clan in making this happen.” He glanced back and forth, trying to read behind the young women’s dark eyes. “If you must find relief in some other man’s bed, come to me, and I will arrange it so that no one grows suspicious.”
Pine Drop lowered her eyes. “Yes, Uncle.”
He nodded to Red Finger and Back Scratch. “Now that that’s settled, I suppose I had best make myself presentable and go deliver our sympathy and support to Wing Heart.” As he rose, he turned his attention to the young women once more. “Remember, we are
counting on you. That boy is the key to the Snapping Turtle Clan’s future. With him, we can break Wing Heart and Owl Clan once and for all.”
T
he afternoon sun sent shining bars of light through gaps in the milky white clouds as they drifted out of the southwest. Moist air hung heavily on the land, barely stirred by a lazy breeze. Moccasin Leaf helped Elder Wing Heart as they tackled the task of preparing a funeral feast. They were in the work area between the burnt-out ruins of Speaker Cloud Heron’s house and the Elder’s nowabandoned structure.
Moccasin Leaf couldn’t make up her mind about Wing Heart. The Clan Elder hunched over a soapstone bowl filled with sticky dough while Moccasin Leaf used a stick to prod at a heating fire burning beside the empty earth oven.
Her son is dead.
That would affect anyone.
Dead so quickly after her brother.
But did that explain the woman’s complete listlessness?
Moccasin Leaf jabbed pointedly at the cooking clays as she carefully studied Wing Heart from under lowered brows. Wing Heart looked as if a great hollow gaped between her souls. She might have been a husk, her spirit flown away like cottonwood down in the breeze. She worked mechanically, as if to do anything else was too painful.
Dough clung to Wing Heart’s fingers, white and sticky. She continued kneading the mixture of little barley, cattail root, dried squash, and smilax root. Earlier that day she had used the pestle and mortar—a fire-hollowed tree stump—to pound the ingredients into mush. The mashed roots had been transferred to the soapstone bowl she now bent over. Adding water and white shooting star blossoms for seasoning, she had reached the right consistency.
Wing Heart hadn’t spoken a word all day. Moccasin Leaf shot a glance at the shadowed doorway.
Her son is dead. His bones are just there, on a rick of dry wood. Is this the end of her lineage at last?
Wing Heart’s automatic hands formed the final shape of the rootbread loaf.
“Is it ready?” Moccasin Leaf kept her voice light.
Wing Heart stared with empty eyes. She might not have heard.
Moccasin Leaf used a forked stick to stir the cooking clays. The size of green-husked walnuts, they glowed a dull red among the gray-white coals. A combination of shapes had been placed in the shallowbasined
heating fire: Some were biconical, others square and pocked by round indentations made with cane ends. By mixing shapes and sizes of cooking clays, the earth oven’s temperature and cooking time could be regulated and tailored to the kind of food being cooked.
“These clays are plenty hot.” Moccasin Leaf waited for a reply that did not come. “Wrap your dough, Wing Heart.”
The Clan Elder lifted a loaf of dough and placed it in the middle of a large green catalpa leaf. This she curled into a roll before picking up the next and woodenly continuing the process. It was eerie to watch her work that way.
Moccasin Leaf scooped a third of the cooking clays into the curve of a broken ceramic pot before dumping them into the excavated pit of the earth oven. Wing Heart knelt to one side as she finished wrapping the dough. The vacancy in her eyes never wavered as she went through the motions.
The oven had been dug arm deep into the ground and about the width of a forearm across. Moccasin Leaf quickly placed the rolled loaves side by side in the pit, jerking her hands back after each one. “Hot in there.”
Wing Heart remained mute.
“Good.” Moccasin Leaf was ready with another scoop of coals, which she deposited around the sides of the loaf, retreating as the heat came boiling out of the pit. She scooped the last of the clays onto the piece of broken pot and sifted them over the loaf. “Cover it.”
Wing Heart laid a flat section of bark over the hole and sat back, a slight frown on her face.
BOOK: People of the Owl: A Novel of Prehistoric North America (North America's Forgotten Past)
9.2Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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