Authors: Kathleen O'Neal Gear

It Wakes in Me (4 page)

BOOK: It Wakes in Me

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“Yes. Too old, maybe. I’m not sure he’s strong enough to handle her. She is a Powerful personality.” Flint stared into his bowl, but his gaze was far away, perhaps roaming the past.

“Then why did you choose Long Lance?”

“I didn’t choose him. Matron Wink did.”

Feather Dancer frowned, and he could feel the scars that wormed across his forehead pull tight. “Did she have any other choice?”

Flint chewed his last bite of stew before continuing, “Yes. She did. Teal and I both told her we believed Sora’s only hope was Priest Strongheart. He is the greatest Healer in our country. I think he may even be more Powerful than Long Lance. He’s certainly younger. He’s seen only twenty-three winters.”

Wind Woman whimpered as she meandered through the dead trees, and Feather Dancer thought he heard a twig crack. A sandal carelessly placed in the darkness? He turned slowly and examined the blackened trunks.

He said, “Strongheart was an idiotic suggestion. The man is a high priest of the Loon Nation. After he receives word that Chieftess Sora murdered Blue Bow, Strongheart is far more likely to harm her than to Heal her.”

Flint shook his head. “I don’t think so. From what I’ve heard, he’s a good man. Strange, but good. I think he would do his best to Heal her.”

Feather Dancer ate three more bites of stew before he said, “Last winter a Trader told me that Strongheart was a madman. He said Strongheart had called down one of the meteorite people
to crush a village elder he didn’t like. They found a grand total of six pieces of the poor man.”

“Then he’s exactly the priest that Sora needs. He may actually be Powerful enough to find her lost soul and fix it in her body.”

The chieftess must have heard her name; she murmured and rolled to her back.

“Sora?” Flint set his bowl down and walked over. “Are you all right?”

She dreamily smiled up at him, as though happy to see him.

Feather Dancer’s gut roiled.

In a bare whisper, she said, “Thirsty.”

Flint knelt and kissed her lips. “I’ll get you a cup of tea.”

As he rose, he briefly glanced out at the blackened grove, then walked to his pack, pulled out a cup, and filled it for the chieftess.

While Flint carried it back, Feather Dancer, again, studied the grove. The wind had picked up, blowing veils of sand across the shore. In Sister Moon’s light, the grains twinkled as they tumbled through the air.

“Here, Sora,” Flint said, and Feather Dancer turned to see him lift the chieftess’ shoulders and tip the cup to her lips. She drank greedily. Streamers poured down her throat.

Feather Dancer called, “Would you like me to fill a stew bowl for her? She must be very—” His head snapped around.

Two cracks in rapid succession
.

“What’s the matter?” Flint asked.

“I heard …”

“What?”

Softly, he replied, “Something’s out there.”

“You probably heard those raccoons,” Flint said, and gestured with his chin.

Feather Dancer pulled his gaze away from the trees and
looked up the shoreline to where three raccoons waddled through the driftwood at the edge of the water. Moonlight reflected from their long tails.

“You’re just jumpy, Feather Dancer. You should try to relax or you’ll—”

“You’re surrounded!”
someone shouted from the dark grove. “Throw out your weapons!”

In one fluid motion, Feather Dancer pulled his war ax from his belt and spun in the direction of the voice. Black shapes trotted from the grove and rushed toward them. As an arrow cracked and bounced off the log in front of Feather Dancer, he dove, grabbed his bow and quiver, and rolled behind the wall.

The shore came alive with war cries. Through the slits between the logs, he saw warriors sprinting toward them, shooting as they ran. Their ululating shrieks made his blood turn to ice.

“Flint!” he ordered. “Protect the chieftess! I’ll hold them off for as long as I—”

The blow made a hollow thunk, and lights flashed before Feather Dancer’s eyes. As he toppled to the sand, his weapons slipped from his fingers. He lay still, listening to the whooping voices. There had to be fifteen or twenty of them. If he could just play opossum long enough, maybe …

Flint bent over him with a war club in his fist. “You’ll understand in a few days. I swear it,” he whispered, then lifted his club and waved it at the enemy warriors coming up the shore.

“He’s unconscious!” Flint shouted. “Lower your bows!”

“Are you sure?” a man cried. “Check him again. He’s a crafty one.”

Flint stabbed a toe into Feather Dancer’s ribs. When he didn’t move, Flint cupped a hand to his mouth and called, “He’s meek as a clubbed fish, Grown Bear. Now tell me where you’ve been? We’ve been here for two hands of time!”

Grown Bear. Blue Bow’s war chief
.

Rage spun white-hot through Feather Dancer’s waning senses.

Grown Bear shouted back, “You told us you’d be camped on the spit, my friend. We surrounded it and waited for you. By the time we figured out you’d already been there and left, it was pitch black. We just saw your fire a short time ago! Did you bring her?”

“Of course I did. I keep my promises. Now make sure you keep yours. You promised me sanctuary.”

Grown Bear laughed as he climbed over the log wall and embraced Flint like an ally of many battles. Feather Dancer struggled to keep his slitted eyes focused; a gray haze was rapidly crowding out the world.

In a voice too low for his warriors to hear, Grown Bear hissed, “My warriors know only that you agreed to help us capture Chief Blue Bow’s murderer. Say nothing else. Do you understand?”

All pretenses to friendship gone, Flint coldly responded, “Oh, yes, I do.”

SORA JERKED AWAKE WITH HER HEART POUNDING.

She’d heard footsteps. She was sure of it.

“Flint? … Feather Dancer?”

She blinked at the unfamiliar house. Round, and four body lengths across, it was a domelike structure. The builder had set poles into the ground, then bent them over and tied them together at the top. Thatched grass and palmetto fronds created the walls and roof. A fire burned in a shallow hearth in the middle of the floor. Beside it, two drying racks covered with thin strips of venison were soaking up the sycamore smoke that curled from the flames.

Sora inhaled a deep breath. The air was sweet with the scents of long-dried herbs and boiling clams. A low bench, for sitting or sleeping, curved around the walls. Baskets and pots crowded beneath it. She could see inside a few of the pots, which contained corn, hickory nuts, dried palm berries, and acorns.

“Gods,” she whispered. “Where am I?”

She craned her neck to peer at the rawhide shield hanging on the wall to her left. It was painted with the image of Spearfinger, the man-killer. The Loon People had many stories about the ancient witch. It was said that she could take any shape she wanted. She could appear as your dearest friend or dead lover, but the painting showed her as a hunchbacked old woman with dirty white hair straggling around her wrinkled face. When the Loon clans went out in the autumn to set their ritual fires so that they might collect the chestnuts that had fallen on the ground, they were always wary, for Spearfinger, also known as “the Liver Eater,” was never far away. If anyone grew sick, the Loon elders were certain Spearfinger had used her awl-like finger to skewer his liver for her supper.

“Feather Dancer?” she called again.

A pot sat in the ashes at the edge of the fire. By the standards of her people, it was crude pottery. It hadn’t been incised or painted. Instead, dried corn cobs had been pressed into the wet clay to create the decoration.

As the smell of boiling clams grew stronger, her empty stomach knotted. But when she struggled to sit up, her vision faded, as though she might faint. She eased back down to the blankets.

“Blessed Black Falcon,” she whispered. “I’m as weak as a newborn pup.”

Fabric rustled behind her.

Sora tried to turn around, but didn’t have the strength. “Who’s there?”

A man responded, “They tell me you are a murderer. Is it true?”

She twisted, but still couldn’t see him. “Who are you? Where am I?”

Light steps.

“I’m a priest. You’re in my house. It’s the only place you are
safe. Unfortunately I’m not certain how long I can keep you here.” His voice was deep and soft.

Frightened, she asked, “What village is this? I’m in the Loon Nation, aren’t I?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he said, “Your people have asked me to Heal you. Do you know that?”

Sora swallowed down a dust-dry throat. “Am I ill?”

He seemed to appear out of nothingness standing in the firelight in front of her. Tall and muscular, he wore a painted deerhide cloak decorated with bright yellow starbursts. Beneath the cape, his heavily tattooed chest blazed with strange azure, red, and black designs.

She studied his tattoos admiringly. The intricate geometric images made it appear that a dozen red and blue swallow wings had been sewn together into a necklace and draped around his throat. More wings appeared to flutter down his chest to his woven palm frond loincloth. Beneath it, bands of connected red-and-black human eyes ringed his long muscular legs. She saw none of the jewelry that would have marked him as a member of the elite clans: no pounded copper, or rare shells, no exquisitely woven fabrics. He was a priest? He looked like little more than a well-treated slave. He had seen perhaps twenty-two or twenty-three winters. Short black hair clung to his head. It had been recently cut, as though in mourning, and he had a round flat face with a hooked nose. But his eyes … his eyes bulged slightly from their sockets. She couldn’t stop looking at them. The color of polished walnut, all the despair in the world seemed to be concentrated there.

“You carry a wound inside,” she said with a tired sigh.

He stared at her. “Your count is off.”

“What?”

“Your count. You said
a
wound.”

Sora rolled to her side to see him more clearly. “Don’t try
to impress me. You’re too young to have seen many of life’s horrors.”

He crouched beside her. “Is it true?”

Sora frowned at him for several instants before it occurred to her that he had returned to his first question. “No, I am not a murderer.”

“You don’t remember any of the killings?”

“I didn’t kill anyone.”

He seemed to be examining her more closely. “Why do you think they say you are a murderer?”

“Who is ‘they’?”

“Your people.”

“
Which
people?”

“Your old friend, Matron Wink, for one.”

Sora felt like she’d just been stabbed in the heart; her entire body ached. He had to be lying. Wink would never betray her.

Though she had a vague memory that she’d heard Wink say … what?

“And your former husband, Flint, for another.”

“Whoever says I am a murderer is trying to destroy me. To bring about my downfall.”

He seemed to be studying her long hair, as though taking note of every twig and blade of grass. “What about your war chief, Feather Dancer?”

“He
never
would have told you I was a murderer.”

The priest reached out to touch her blankets and rolled the exquisite fabric between his fingers. The Loon People had nothing like it; he must find the weave extraordinarily soft. “No. He didn’t.”

“Where is Feather Dancer? I would like to speak with him.”

“Do you trust him?”

She hesitated before saying, “I don’t trust anyone.”

“Do you trust yourself?”

She exhaled hard in irritation. “Yes. I’m the one person in the entire world that I do trust. Now answer some questions for me. I—”

“But I’ve been told that as recently as a few days ago you doubted your own sanity. Did they lie to me about that, as well?”

Fragments of memories drifted through her souls. She
did
remember being worried that her reflection-soul might be out wandering the forest. Was that just a few days ago? Why had she been worried about that? Faces swam before her. Teal. Priest Teal told her that her reflection-soul was loose.

“I have dreams of … r-running,” she stammered, “of being lost in the forest. I’ve had them since I was a child. I wrestle with myself over this, but I don’t think my soul is loose.”

“You wrestle with yourself?”

“Yes, it’s only natural. Don’t you wrestle with yourself when you can’t make a clear decision?”

His smile warmed. “The person who said we wrestle with ourselves obviously didn’t understand the number of ‘wrestlers’ inside us. Which ‘wrestler’ is the one you trust?”

“You’re speaking nonsense. Stop it. Do you wish people to think you’re an imbecile?”

He rose to his feet. “I am an imbecile. All priests are. There’s no sense trying to hide it.”

She frowned at him. How curious that he would agree with her. Most priests, if he was a priest, considered themselves quite superior to the average person. “You truly are a priest?”

“Until someone manages to assassinate me, yes.”

“Only very Powerful priests are worth assassinating. Are you worth that much?”

He bowed his head and smiled. “Apparently, since there were seven attempts on my life this past winter.”

“What’s your name?”

As silent as a hawk’s shadow, he leaned forward to stare straight into her eyes. “My name is Strongheart.”

Fear tickled the back of her throat. “You—you are Blue Bow’s high priest.”

“I was, yes.”

“Was?”

“Yes. He’s dead.” He cocked his head and studied her for what seemed a long time. “They say you killed him. In fact, Matron Wink assures me that you’ve killed at least seven people, including one of your dearest friends, War Chief Skinner from Oak Leaf Village. She sent a runner to ask me if I would be willing to Heal you. She said many had tried and failed. When you arrived, I thought you’d come because I’d said yes.”

“But … that’s not why I came?”

He reached down to brush away the sand that coated her cheek. His hand was large and gentle, the fingertips calloused. “I didn’t find out until after I’d ordered you brought to my chamber that Grown Bear had taken you captive because you murdered our chief, Blue Bow. Whether or not I will be able to keep my promise to your matron is now uncertain.”

Fear turned her breathing shallow. “Then I’m here for punishment.”

“Perhaps.”

If the situation were reversed and Feather Dancer had just delivered Wink’s murderer to her, Sora would not care what excuses the murderer gave. Her people would demand that the murderer be killed, and no matter what her personal feelings, she would obey the will of her people.

In a shaky voice, she asked, “Am I to be killed today or tomorrow?”

“The new chief, Blue Bow’s son, Horned Owl, will call a village council meeting tomorrow to decide.”

“When?”

“Dawn.”

She had maybe twelve hands of time to decide what she would say to defend herself, and the Spirit Plant Flint had been giving her still lived in her veins. Clear thought was impossible.

She massaged her forehead. “Tell me about Horned Owl. How old is he?”

“He has seen fourteen winters.”

“Barely a man, then. What’s he like?”

Strongheart clamped his jaw, as though trying to decide what to tell her. “He’s brash. I pray that ascending to the chieftainship will force him to grow up.”

“When you say ‘brash,’ do you mean he’s reckless? Cruel? Perhaps, stupid?”

“Of those choices, I think ‘cruel’ best describes him.”

The sensation of danger filtered through her numb bones, and she again asked, “Where is my war chief? I would like to speak with him.”

“He’s being held under heavy guard in the Captives’ House, where I’m sure you will be taken shortly.”

“I can’t stay here?”

“I don’t think Chief Horned Owl will allow it.”

“And my former husband? Where is he?”

Strongheart’s expression tensed. He propped his hands on his hips, and as his cape resettled about him, the fragrance of cypress bark rose. He must store his clothing in a cypress box. “At this very moment, Horned Owl is feasting Flint and showering him with wealth. By betraying you, he has assured himself a place of honor among our people. He is a hero. Already our most beautiful maidens are parading before him, hoping to be selected as his new wives.”

A log exploded in the fire, and the sudden burst of light fluttered the air like a hundred luminous scarves.

“Flint betrayed me?”

“Yes, in exchange for a great deal of wealth and a promise of sanctuary.”

He walked across the floor and dipped a cup into the boiling pot. As he carried it back to her, he said, “They’ll be coming soon. You must eat. I don’t know when they will feed you again—or if they’ll feed you again.”

Flint’s voice seeped up from a locked chamber deep inside her:
Trust me. Trust me as you have never trusted me, and I’ll make certain you are safe
.

“I don’t believe Flint betrayed me.”

Strongheart gave her a sad smile, as though he pitied her. “And you called me a fool.”

BOOK: It Wakes in Me

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