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

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

People of the Owl: A Novel of Prehistoric North America (North America's Forgotten Past) (27 page)

BOOK: People of the Owl: A Novel of Prehistoric North America (North America's Forgotten Past)
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“I’ll do anything if you’ll go with me.” Her words were spoken softly, and he could sense her presence as she stepped to him. The faint odor of her carried on the warm moist air. His heart began to quicken.
“What?” He looked right up into her large brown eyes. He might have been paralyzed, pinned in place by the mixture of longing and desperation there.
“Anything.” Her fingers were plucking at the knots that held her kirtle in place, and before Salamander could understand, the pale fabric loosened and slipped down the round curve of her hips. “I’m a woman, now. You are a man.”
He caught the falling of his jaw in time to keep from gaping like an idiot, his gaze stopped short on the black triangle of her pubic hair. It glistened, cupped in that Y of soft brown flesh. He found himself unaccountably short of breath.
She began gently stroking the sides of his face, her fingertips dancing lightly on his skin. Had anything ever stoked such a fire within him before? Dream-like, she bent until her face was but a handbreadth from his. His souls were falling into her, drawn into that brown magical stare. Tremors ran down his arms and legs.
“Lie with me, Salamander.” She was pulling him down onto the
folds of the kirtle. An excitement, half fear, half anticipation had begun to pound with each beat of his heart. He shivered as her strong fingers pulled the restraining breechcloth away from his hardened penis. A gasp escaped his lips as she wrapped her fingers around his tingling shaft.
She was drawing him onto her as she lay back on the crumpled kirtle and the cushion of leaf mat. A flood of energy bore him along.
He would never know whether it was the sting in his abused chest or the pain deep within her eyes that stopped him. He winced as he pulled back and shook his head. “No.”
She propped herself on her elbows, staring at him like he’d just lost every wit in his body. “What do you mean, no? Do you know how many men would give anything to lie with me?”
Salamander scrambled backward, awkwardly shoving his throbbing penis behind his breechcloth. “It’s not that. I mean, you’re beautiful.”
Her expression collapsed, soft sobs causing her breasts to heave in a way that completely unsettled Salamander. “Then you’ll tell on me?”
“No.” In defeat he rose and walked in an aimless circle, shaking out his arms and hands the way a runner did when he needed to shed excess energy. “Go on, run away. I’ll tell no one where you’re going.”
“Why?” Even wounded she remained suspicious.
“Because I wish I could go with you.”
“Then why don’t you?” she demanded. “That way I wouldn’t have to go alone.”
He closed his eyes, a terrible longing growing inside him. “I can’t.”
“Why?”
He looked at her, still achingly aware of her gorgeous body, so young and bursting with charms. She had been forever beyond him, the woman his brother would marry. “I cannot explain it. I just can’t go with you, that’s all.”
“Afraid?” She cocked her head, those glistening dark eyes trying to read behind his souls.
He shrugged. “Maybe. Yes, that’s it.” But he dare not tell just what he was afraid of. “And besides, you don’t want me, Cypress. Not really.”
“Then why am I lying here on my back?” She spread her hands in frustration and sat up, irritation replaced with exhaustion. “I would have taken you, Mud—Salamander. I’ve never lain with a man before.”
“You’re not thinking well.”
“And you are? They say that you giggled and saw things during your initiation. They say you’re a half-wit. Given what just happened here, I’m not so sure they aren’t right.”
“You didn’t want me just now.”
“Then what did I want?” She was glaring at him.
“A dream, Spring Cypress. You were desperate for a dream. The trouble is, dreams don’t come that easy.”
She was frowning at him the way she might if his words made no sense to her. “So, what? Are you going back to tell Uncle Clay Fat that I’m running?”
He shook his head, an unexplained sadness rising to replace the desire his manhood had pumped through his body. “No. I’m giving you this.” He bent down and picked up the partially carved owl from the moss-spotted log. “I wasn’t finished with it yet, but you can tell what it is.”
She took the stone figure and held it between thumb and forefinger as she inspected it. “An owl,” she noted. “Yes, I can see that. What is it for?”
“For you.” He tried to shrug off the confusion that clouded his ability to think. “Unfinished. Just like you are.” He waved. “Go on, Spring Cypress. If anyone asks—which they won’t—I’ll tell them I haven’t seen you since the night my brother was married.”
She stood, reached down, and whipped her kirtle up with a fluid motion. He watched as she wrapped it about her hips and cinched the cords that held it in place. With slender hands she rearranged her hair, flicking bits of leaf from the glossy black braid before repinning it with the blue jay feather. “You’re a strange one, Mud Puppy.”
“Salamander.”
A smile bent her full lips. “Salamander. Odd that they’d name you that.”
“People underestimate salamanders.”
She considered that as she walked back and picked up her pack. Before slinging it onto her back and fixing the tump line, she placed the little red owl carving into a pocket. “I’ve heard that some salamanders can change their colors.”
“I’ve heard that, too.”
She smiled wearily at him. “Good luck with your colors, Salamander. I thank you for this thing you’re going to do for me. If you ever need me, I’ll be in the mountains up in the northwest. When you find your way, come looking for me.”
“I will.”
He watched as she recovered her stick and started off again. She never turned, never looked back, just walked onward until her form was hidden by the endless trees.
“Watch over her, Masked Owl.” He fought the terrible desire to pick up his weapons and run after her.
Maybe I just don’t have that kind of courage.
C
ourage?
Why is it that humans think bravery is either leaping into a fight or running away from everything that comforts them? The most courageous act a human being can perform is to truly love another person.
There are those who would have us believe that love is easy, that it comes childlike from our hearts and floods out as effortlessly as rain falls from the fingers of the Sky Beings.
That is just foolishness.
Love is standing guard all the time. It is becoming a world to yourself for another’s sake, and learning to share its most intimate corners. There is nothing more courageous than that. And nothing more achingly beautiful.
But I am an old man. I have failed at truly loving another person so many times that I know the misery of cowardice.
This boy is just about to find out.
P
ine Drop watched the gentle rain fall and tried not to think about what was happening. People stood in a ring just across the borrow pit from her house. Most wore flat bark hats that shed the rain. In her damp hands she held the offerings of food and turned toward Salamander. His gaze was fixed on the people as though they were a writhing den of water moccasins instead of his kin and hers. A swamp rabbit caught in a snare might look like that. Panic bulged behind his round brown eyes as he took the wooden platter from her hands. He raised the plate that carried the first meal he would eat as a married man. “By accepting this meal … I tie my life … with that of Pine Drop … and … and …”
“Night Rain,” Pine Drop growled.
“Night Rain,” he agreed, “daughters of Sweet Root, who is the daughter of … of the great Clan Elder, Back Scratch. My clan is now their clan, their clan is now mine. I accept these women …”—he seemed to pause forever—“ … as my wives, to share with equally, to comfort and care for.”
In the now-familiar ritual, Pine Drop and Night Rain held their hands demurely before their kirtles, and cried out in unison, “We accept this man, Salamander, of the Owl Clan, as our husband. In doing this, we bind ourselves to him and to his clan. Let it be known among all people that we are married.”
“Let it be known!” Mud Stalker called from his place. He carried a war club for the occasion, and Pine Drop wasn’t sure if it was for
ceremony or to whack Salamander should he suddenly bolt from the proceedings.
“Let it be known!” Wing Heart mumbled absently from her place on the east. The Clan Elder’s eyes were oddly glazed, her expression remote, as if lost in other memories. Something about her sent a shiver down Pine Drop’s spine.
Salamander’s cousin, Water Petal, stood to Wing Heart’s right. The woman looked worried, her stare darting back and forth between Salamander and Wing Heart. She had worn a small hat against the rain. It barely shielded her face, let alone her protruding pregnant belly, which was now rain-streaked over her kirtle. The woman’s time was close, her belly button protruding.
How long until I look like that?
Pine Drop glanced sidelong at Salamander and used all of her will to keep from showing her disgust. Not only was he scrawny, but he still looked like the foolish boy he had been but a week ago.
Him? Sharing my bed? After the likes of Blue Feather—and even his brother? Never!
But she knew it was a lie.
“Let it be known!” the gathered people shouted. This time there was no smiling and slapping each other on the back. Despite the promise of food, people seemed to slip away like stringers of mist.
Wing Heart, her face still a mask, simply strode off, heading northward across the clan grounds for her own territory. To Pine Drop’s surprise, it was the cousin, Water Petal, who leaned over to Salamander, and said, “If you need to talk, Cousin, come see me.” And with that she gave him a sympathetic pat and started after Wing Heart, her gait more of a waddle to compensate for that enormous belly.
Pine Drop shot her uncle a hard look, but his expression urged caution in return.
“Come,” Pine Drop said, as the last of the observers turned for their own dry homes or the protection of ramadas. “That food is getting soaked.”
“Let it,” Night Rain muttered, sharing her unease as her glance stole back and forth between Pine Drop and Mud Stalker. Salamander stood as if roots had grown out of his feet. She took the tray from his hands and ducked into the house she had shared with White Bird for only one night. Now the form of his little brother darkened the doorway. A moment later Night Rain ducked in and made irritated sounds as she wrung the water from her hair. “You’d think we could have waited until the sun came out.”
“Uncle wanted this done,” Pine Drop retorted as she seated herself behind the fire and dropped two pieces of wood into it. As the flames rose and cast yellow light over the interior, she studied her
new husband. He was standing like a bulge on a pot, hands nervously twisting above his breechcloth.
“Sit.” Pine Drop pointed to her right. “You, too, Night Rain. Come sit here beside me.”
Night Rain at least did as she was told. Salamander seemed not to have heard, his eyes fixed on the fire. She caught his horrified look as he shot a glimpse at the pole beds behind her.
“Will you sit,
Husband!
” she chided, and slapped the floor to her right. “We have things to discuss.”
He swallowed hard and lowered himself the way he might if a nest of red ants were near.
“What things?” he asked.
She could see his pulse jumping at the base of his thin neck. The oddly cut cross on his chest looked infected, swollen and angry.
“First, there are rules to be followed in this household.” She took the tray from behind her and handed it to him. “Eat. Or do you want to mock the marriage ritual the way you mock everything else?”
“I don’t mock everything.”
“Oh?” she arched a brow, aware that Night Rain was watching silently, her lips twitching. “You didn’t giggle during your initiation?”
“What happens in the Men’s House is not to be spoken of to women.” He looked sullen.
“Don’t be a fool.” She reached back for a buffalo-horn spoon and used it to scoop up some of the mashed squash. This she handed to Night Rain, indicating that she eat. “I suppose that men never hear the gossip from the Women’s House, either.”
Salamander said nothing, but did manage to at least plop a soggy bit of cattail-root bread into his mouth.
“As to the rules,” Pine Drop continued, “they are as follows: First, you will not speak of the things that happen inside this house. Second, what you hear of Snapping Turtle Clan dealings are not to be shared with your relatives from Owl Clan. Third, neither I nor my sister will be made into fools. Do you understand?”
He shook his head, looking clearly uncomfortable.
“People are already talking out there.” She gestured with her hand toward Sun Town. “Night Rain and I are laughingstocks. They are saying, ‘Married to that half-wit, can you imagine?’ Well, I won’t have that. My sister and I will not be singled out for their pity or their ridicule.”
Salamander swallowed his bit of bread.
“When you are asked about our marriage, you will simply answer that things are fine, do you understand?”
He nodded again.
“I want to remind you that you married into Snapping Turtle Clan. You have come here, to our territory, to live in
our
house. While you are here you will obey my instructions, is that clear? If not, well, it won’t be a pleasant thing. Do you understand?”
What was it about his innocent face? He looked like a child with his hand caught in the stewpot. “Well, can you speak, except to spout nonsense?”
He nodded again.
Pine Drop rolled her eyes and glanced at Night Rain. Her sister looked absolutely miserable.
“One last rule, Salamander.” She gave him a hard squint. “I understand that you have obligations to your clan. I don’t expect you to sit around here, lazy as a bead on a necklace. Go off and do what you need to do. We would appreciate it if you could bring back some fish, game, or roots on occasion. It would make things look normal here. But you come home every night, do you understand?”
He frowned at her, obviously confused.
Snakes! Did she have to sound everything out for him? “One of us will always be here. So you come home. We would not like to find out that you were slipping off and spending the night at some other woman’s house.” She steepled her fingers and smiled. “Like I said, we will not be humiliated by you, so hear this, and remember it: If we find out that you’ve been slipping your hard little worm into some other woman, we’ll use a serrated stone knife to cut it off. Are we understood?”
He gulped and nodded, looking as if he’d grown gills.
She sighed in resignation then. “Very well, Night Rain, hand me that cloth. Those wounds on his chest are oozing, and I will not have him dripping all over my breasts while we finish this marriage business.”
At his increasing panic, she added, “You can carry out that part of your obligations, can’t you?”
He was looking longingly at the door. Sweat, or was it old raindrops, beaded on his forehead.
T
he air was hot and muggy, one of those early-summer days when the sun burns down out of a white-hot cloudless sky. Heat rolled
across the grassy plaza to the east of the Council ramada, where Salamander stood next to his mother. He didn’t want to be here, listening to Mud Stalker singing his praises to the Council. He wished he were far away, deep in the swamp, floating with the alligators.
He stared thoughtfully out past the crowded people beyond the Council House. They had come to watch his appointment as Speaker for Owl Clan. The crowd was huge, many of them from distant camps who had come for the solstice ceremonies and heard the amazing news that a mere boy was being made Speaker for the influential Owl Clan. They hadn’t come out of respect for him or his clan. They were here for the spectacle.
By turning his head he could catch occasional glimpses of the ball game practice through the press of spectators. The Northern Moiety team practiced pitching in their half of the plaza.
On the last day of the solstice ceremonies, after the masked processions, the Dances, and feasts, the ritual game would be played. To win, one side had to score four goals. A deerskin ball was flipped or batted back and forth between the players by means of a long stick, flattened on one end. The object was to fling the ball across the borrow pit and onto the first ridge of the opposing moiety.
The stakes were high. Clans, lineages, and families bet huge piles of food and possessions against the outcome. Losing could leave entire clans destitute. It was such a loss that had first led Frog Clan into their slow spiral of decay. During the last two years the Southern Moiety had achieved victory, and, given the looks of the Northern team’s practice, it would happen again this year.
The games were the culmination of the annual summer solstice ceremony, which in turn was one of the most important observances of the year. People came from all of the dispersed camps as far away as the gulf coast. They brought canoe-loads of food and locally manufactured goods to be wagered on the great ball game. It was a time of gift giving, fulfilling obligations, feasting, and socializing. Marriages were brokered between widely scattered clanspeople, and news was dispensed.
Salamander thought of the influx of people who came to solstice like a wave that washed into Sun Town, swirled around in the ceremonies, then washed back out again, renewed and revitalized. It not only reminded the People who they were, but invigorated them with the knowledge that Sun Town was indeed the center of their world. So long as Sun Town remained, the People could return to their roots.
The crowd closed in, blocking his view of the players. The last glimpse had been of Yellow Spider sprinting up to battle with a young woman from Alligator Clan for possession of the ball. Across the distance Salamander thought he heard the clacking of their sticks as they struck and parried.
“Pay attention!” Water Petal hissed.
Salamander blinked, shook himself, and looked back to the open center of the Council House. There, under the brutal sun, Mud Stalker had his good hand raised. He was turning slowly, meeting the gaze of the Council members one by one as he looked at them.
Salamander followed his gaze around the circle, past Frog Clan, Alligator Clan, into his own eyes, and then beyond the entrance to Snapping Turtle Clan, where Pine Drop and Night Rain sat behind old Back Scratch, looking both hot and embarrassed. Then Thunder Tail from Eagle Clan and Clay Fat from Rattlesnake Clan rounded out the circle.
“We face an unusual circumstance,” Mud Stalker stated matter-of-factly. “Young Salamander has my confidence. He is, after all, brother to the dead Speaker, White Bird. Nephew to Cloud Heron. He is the son of Clan Elder Wing Heart.”
Salamander glanced up, but his mother, standing a step to his left, was staring off into the high distance. The slight frown on her forehead made Salamander follow her gaze up past the open roof and into the white sky. The only thing he could see were two far-off vultures wheeling around in circles in the hot air.
BOOK: People of the Owl: A Novel of Prehistoric North America (North America's Forgotten Past)
3.84Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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