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Authors: W. Michael Gear

Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Native American & Aboriginal

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BOOK: People of the Longhouse
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Trancelike, Koracoo sat perfectly still, but she said, “Please, go on with what you were saying. You said that twenty summers ago, you thought you understood how she worked. How?”
“We kept watch on her meeting places. She hired men to leave children’s toys at specific locations. For example, if she would be at that location to purchase children in five days, the hired men left five toys. Each day that passed, one toy would disappear, until the final day when the man cut the last toy in half, indicating that she would be there that day.”
Koracoo straightened. It was a subtle movement. Gonda doubted the chief even noticed, but Gonda understood. Koracoo was remembering
the clearing where they’d found the baby. The cornhusk doll had been torn in half.
A coincidence. Our children were taken by Mountain People warriors.
…
“It would help me”—Koracoo’s voice was slow and precise—“if you told me everything you know about Gannajero. Who is she? Where is she from? I know only old stories that make her sound more like a Spirit than a human being.”
A gust of wind penetrated around the door, and the golden lamplight cast their shadows like leaping animals upon the walls.
Atotarho clasped his hands in his lap. “I don’t know much. No one does. They say she was born among the Flint or Hills Peoples. Her grandmother was supposedly a clan elder, a powerful woman. But during a raid when Gannajero was eight, she was stolen and sold into slavery to the Mountain People. Then sold again, and again. She was apparently a violent child. Several times, she was beaten almost to death by her owners.”
“And now she does the same thing to other children?” The hatred in Gonda’s voice made Atotarho and Koracoo turn. “What sort of men would help her? How does she find them?”
“I wish I knew. Twenty summers ago, we thought they were all outcasts, men who had no families or villages. Then we discovered one of her men among our own. He was my sister’s son, Jonil. A man of status and reputation. He’d been sending her information about planned raids, then capturing enemy children and selling them to her.”
Gonda clenched his fists. Warfare provided opportunities for greedy men that were not available in times of peace. Since many slaves were taken during attacks, it was easy to siphon off a few and sell them to men who no longer saw them as human. War did that. It turned people into
things.
It gave men an opportunity to vent their rage and hatred in perverted ways that their home villages would never have allowed.
“Why?” Gonda blurted. “Why did he do it?”
Atotarho bowed his head, and the shadows of his eyelashes darkened his cheeks. “She rewards her servants well. When we searched Jonil’s place in the longhouse, we found unbelievable riches—exotic trade goods like obsidian and buffalo wool from the far west. Conch shells from the southern ocean. An entire basket of pounded copper sheets covered with strings of pearls and magnificently etched shell gorgets.”
Koracoo sat quietly for a time, thinking, before she said, “That means it will be difficult to buy the children back.”
“Virtually impossible. She profits enormously from her captives. With all the stealing and raiding going on, there are too many evil men with great wealth.”
Koracoo toyed with the hem of her cape, smoothing it between her fingers. Gonda frowned. Had she been hoping they could simply buy the children back and be on their way? Where had she planned to get the wealth? They were carrying almost nothing with them—just their capes, canteens, small belt pouches, and a few weapons.
“But …” Atotarho broke the silence. “If my daughter is being held captive with your children, I will give you whatever I have to get all of them back.”
Koracoo held his gaze, judging the truthfulness of his words. Atotarho looked her straight in the eyes without blinking. Finally, Koracoo asked, “Why would you buy our children? We are your enemies.”
“If you are willing to risk your lives to save my daughter, you are not my enemy.”
Gonda sat stunned. The night had gone utterly quiet. The guards must be holding their breaths, listening. Very softly Koracoo asked, “Why haven’t you already mounted a search party and sent them out with this same offer? Surely you can trust your own handpicked warriors more than you can us.”
Atotarho looked over his shoulder, glanced at the door behind him, and whispered, “No. The attack on my trading party was well organized, and they went straight for my beautiful daughter.” His knobby hand clenched to a fist. “As there was many summers ago, I fear there is a traitor here. So, you see, I would rather trust an enemy who shares my interests … than a friend who may not.”
Koracoo’s gaze roamed the firelit shadows for thirty heartbeats—long enough that Atotarho began to fidget. When she looked back, she said, “Tell me more about your trading mission. It’s autumn. Many villages have had poor harvests. Raiders are on every trail, Chief, stealing what they can. Especially stealing women and children to replace the family members they’ve lost. Why would you risk going out at such a time? What were you trading for?”
His long face slackened, making his eyes seem larger. “Ocean pearls and salted seafood. Why?”
“Just curious,” Koracoo answered calmly, then added, “We will need to discuss your offer.”
“I understand.” The chief groaned as he rose to his feet, and the circlets of skull that covered his cape flashed. I’ll leave you the lamp; it will provide a little warmth until the oil runs out.” The effort of rising seemed to have cost him all of his strength.
He stood panting for a time before he said, “Many of my people believe I am the human False Face prophesied in our legends. The Spirit-Man who will save the world. It has never been an easy title to bear. Especially now when I cannot even save my own daughter.” Without making a sound, he turned and started for the door. “Let me know your decision as soon as you’ve made it, and I—”
“One last thing.”
He turned. “Yes?”
“What assurances do we have that you will keep your part of this bargain? Gannajero will not believe me if I tell her you will pay her later.”
Atotarho braced his hand against the door to steady himself. “I will send a man with you who can verify my offer. Now sleep for as long as you can. If you choose to accept, the next few days will not be pleasant for you.” He pounded on the door. “Guards? I’m ready to leave.”
The door opened, and he stepped into the night.
Gonda watched him walk away with his personal guards. The remaining guards whispered to each other, then turned to stare in at Koracoo and Gonda.
Koracoo asked, “How much did you hear, Sindak?”
The shorter man replied, “Not nearly enough, War Chief.”
The door swung closed. After the locking plank fell into place, Koracoo said, “I feel the same way.”
“As do I,” Gonda whispered.
An excited conversation erupted outside.
Sindak hissed, “By the Spirits, I would hate to be the warrior he sends with Koracoo. He’ll be asking for a stiletto between the ribs.”
“She won’t kill him. She can’t. He’s her lifeline to saving her own children. Besides, that would be the least of my worries.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I’d be far more afraid of what Atotarho would do to me if I failed to bring his daughter home safe and sound.”
“Oh,” Sindak said. “That is terrifying. I’ve always worried that someday my own people would turn me into a feast.”
Gonda looked at Koracoo. She hadn’t moved. “Are you all right?”
“As well as I can be after a discussion about Gannajero.”
“Forget about her. Our children were captured by Mountain warriors. Not Gannajero. She died long ago.” He grunted. “If she ever actually lived.”
For a long time, Koracoo stared at the lamp’s flame, as though deep in thought; then she stretched out on her side.
Gonda curled up on the other side of the lamp. The faint warmth was a balm on his face.
The warriors continued talking outside.
Sindak asked, “Have you ever heard of Gannajero?”
“She’s a myth.”
“How do you know? We hadn’t even been born the last time she was in this country.”
“True. But if she’s as bad as Atotarho said, there would be many stories about her evil deeds.”
“Maybe there are stories, but we haven’t heard her name because our people are forbidden to speak it—as we are forbidden to speak the names of outcasts.”
There was a pause, then Sindak said, “Well, one thing is for certain—if she exists, someone needs to kill her.”
“Yes, she …” His voice went too low to hear.
A breath of wind penetrated around the door, fluttering the lamp’s flame and filling the house with the scent of mildew.
“Gannajero. The crow,” Koracoo whispered.
“What?”
“Gannajero the crow. Black. Black as coal. It was a song we sang as children. My father used to threaten me when I was bad, tell me that he was going to sell me to Gannajero.”
Gonda opened one eye to stare at her. “Your father was a stiff-necked old villain. I never liked him.”
After a long pause, Koracoo said, “Not many did.”
A
s she slid deeper into sleep, the dream swept over Koracoo … . She led her war party up the trail toward Yellowtail Village at a dead run. Ahead, a gaudy orange halo gleamed against the velvet darkness. Veils of snow gusted by. The pines and oaks drooped mournfully beneath the weight, creaking and groaning in the wind. And in the depths of the trees, she saw the silver-silk flash of people moving. Quiet. Deathly quiet. As though they feared being seen.
Heartbeats behind them, enemy warriors filed out of the darkness, clutching bags or bows, smiling as they trotted right for Koracoo’s war party.
“Mountain People!”
she cried, and her fatigued warriors charged out to meet them. The sounds of clubs striking flesh, grunts, and shrieks tore the night.
Koracoo leaped upon the closest man … .
 
 
 
H
er hands jerked. She woke and glimpsed the plank walls of the prisoners’ house, smelled the sweet walnut oil in the lamp.
A dream … just a dream.
But when her eyes fell closed again, the fragrance of the oil became the pungent odor of smoke, and blind terror stalked her as she again charged headlong up the trail with her heart beating in her throat. The sound of one man’s feet pounded behind her.
“Koracoo! This is foolish!” her deputy, Deru, called. “We should stay with our war party!”
As she rounded a bend in the trail, he caught up with her. He was a big, muscular man with massive shoulders. He gripped his war club in a tight fist.
“Go back, Deru!” she yelled as two Mountain warriors leaped onto the trail in front of her. Koracoo danced in with CorpseEye. She slammed the first man in the face, and spun to catch the second man behind the knees. When he hit the ground, she was on top of him, hammering his brains out. Her warriors flooded around her, shrieking war cries as they charged for home.
And ran straight into a group of enemy warriors herding freshly captured women and children before them. All of the children were crying, and several of the women clutched babies in their arms.
“Those are my children!” a man cried.
Another yelled, “That’s my wife!”
The sharp cracking of war clubs filled the night. Women and children scattered. Koracoo waded in with her war club swinging. In the darkness, she couldn’t tell the identities of the children who ran past, but she kept searching, searching for her own family. Asleep, dead, or reborn in another body, she would know her children. She knew the way they moved. Even in darkness she would recognize them, wouldn’t she?
A mother with four children rushed down the trail toward her, one little boy gripping the woman’s torn dress and sobbing. As the boy ran closer, Koracoo could see his blood-soaked shirt.
Koracoo broke free of the battle and ran hard for the village. Deru was right beside her.
“Gonda must have been overrun.”
“Clearly,” Deru answered.
How had she so miscalculated the number of warriors he would need to defend the village? She’d missed something. Something critical. He should have been able to hold off a force three times his size.
Gonda, where are you?
Koracoo leaped a fallen log and sprinted for the rear palisade, her heart jamming against her ribs. Enemy warriors still surrounded
the burning village. Twenty or more stood laughing near the front gates. Were they totally unafraid? Was there no one left to fight?
Forgive me, Gonda.
…
Tears of desperation burned her eyes. She reached the wall—found a charred section that had been mostly burned through—and used CorpseEye to bash a hole in it. Then she hit the ground and slithered through on her belly.
When she got to her feet, the air was so thick with smoke she could barely see across the plaza, but the vision stunned her. Every longhouse burned, the flames leaping fifty hands into the sky, and the dead scattered the ground. Cries and screams laced the air. Many people wandered the plaza, turning over bodies, obviously searching for loved ones.
“Koracoo!” Deru scrambled through the hole and stood at her shoulder. “This is dangerous. What do you think you can do here? We should at least wait until our war party catches up before we—”
“I must find out what happened.”
And find Gonda and my children.
Koracoo trotted through the smoke. As she veered around a smoldering section of wall, she caught sight of a little boy crouching in the shadows. Five or six summers, his soot-coated face was streaked with tears. He stared up at Koracoo and clenched his jaw.
“Oh. No.” Koracoo headed toward him.
“Koracoo, we don’t have time. If we’re going to do this, we—”
“I can’t just leave him here. He’s alone and scared.”
She hurried to the boy. Blood clotted his cape. The child stared up at her as she stroked his filthy cheek.
“What’s your name?”
“Saga.” He fell into a coughing fit. Blood coated his hand when he lowered it.
“Are you hurt, Saga?” Koracoo reached for the cape.
“Not so bad,” Saga said. He lifted his arms and allowed Koracoo to look beneath at his chest.
Something in her soul cried out. An arrow must have gone straight through his thin body. Every time Saga inhaled the hole blew bubbles. But the wound was at the very top of his lung. There was a chance …
“Deru, there must be a place where the medicine elders have been treating the wounded. We need to find it.”
Deru gave her a disbelieving look. That was the first thing the enemy did, kill the elders, but he said, “Yes, War Chief.”
“It’s … it’s over there.” Saga pointed. “Near the Bear Clan longhouse.”
“Deru, you lead. I’ll carry Saga.”
Deru scanned the smoke as Koracoo slipped her arms beneath Saga and gently lifted him. “Saga, I’m going to carry you over to the medicine elders.”
Deru stepped out, leading the way with his war club at the ready.
As they walked, Saga stared up at her with glowing eyes. “I know stories about you. My … my mother … tells me stories at night.” His breathing grew more labored. Koracoo could feel the rattling in her arms. She walked faster.
“Good stories or bad stories?”
Saga smiled. “Good. They’re stories about our village heroes. Mother says …” He started coughing again, and blood gushed from his mouth. When it was over, he gasped for air.
“Hold on, Saga. We’re almost there. The elders will Heal you.”
“Do you … remember? Remember … that fight where fifty Flint warriors had you trapped … just you and Gonda … and you killed all of them … before you escaped? Where did that happen? I’m too … tired to remember.”
Saga looked up at her with such love and admiration that Koracoo’s heart ached. There had only been seven warriors, but Saga didn’t need to hear that now. “That was over on the shores of Skanodario Lake.”
Saga feebly reached out to touch Koracoo’s red cape. He caressed it reverently. “Sometimes … when I play with my brother … I pretend I’m you.”
“Well, I hope you also pretend you have another couple of thousand warriors. I need them. Especially tonight.”
Weakly, Saga whispered, “It’s all right. You’ll win.”
A wave of futility went through her. “Someday, when you grow up, I’m going to make you one of my deputies.”
Saga’s eyes went wide. “I’ll be a good … deputy.”
“I know you will.”
Deru was moving quickly, hugging the western palisade wall where the smoke was the thickest. After fifty paces, he stopped and said, “There’s someone ahead. I think it’s Yanesh. The Speaker for the Women.”
The Three Old Women, the clan matrons, announced their decisions through their Speaker. Yanesh was tall and thin, with graying black hair. As Koracoo approached, the woman turned. It was indeed
Yanesh. She moved through a sea of wounded people. There had to be hundreds, lying in rows, their faces covered with gray ash from the fires.
Koracoo carried the boy over to where Yanesh stood among the wounded.
“Saga?” Yanesh said. “Put him here. Gently!”
Koracoo eased the boy to the hides spread out over the ground and said, “Get well, Saga. I’m counting on you.”
Saga just smiled and closed his eyes as though the walk had taken all of his strength.
“Yanesh, what happened?” Koracoo asked.
Yanesh expelled a breath. She had a catlike face, a broad nose, and long lashes. She had seen forty summers pass.
“The enemy attacked with overwhelming force, Koracoo.”
While Koracoo talked with Yanesh, Deru stood guard, his intent gaze scanning the smoke.
“But I left you with enough warriors to hold off—”
“Gonda split his forces.”
She stared at Yanesh as though the woman was mad. “That’s not possible. I ordered him to keep all of his warriors inside the palisade. He would never—”
“He disobeyed you.” Yanesh’s mouth quivered as she clamped her teeth. “The council told him not to, told him to keep fighting, but he sent half our warriors outside, and as soon as they were gone, we were overrun. We didn’t have enough warriors left to defend the village.”
Koracoo gripped CorpseEye in a hard fist. She didn’t believe it. “Where is Gonda?”
Yanesh shook her head. “No one knows. He led the group of warriors who ran outside. We haven’t seen him since. He’s probably …”
Yanesh didn’t say it, but Koracoo finished the sentence for her. “He’s probably dead.”
“Yes, and where were you, War Chief? You were supposed to be back by nightfall!” Her voice broke, and she sobbed.
Guilt ravaged Koracoo. “We were attacked, Yanesh. The battle was fierce. I lost one-third of my warriors. The rest of us barely got away—”
“Koracoo!” Deru shouted, and leaped forward swinging his war club as four Mountain warriors appeared out of the firelit smoke and charged them.
“Yanesh, get down!”
Koracoo lunged forward. When CorpseEye collided with the enemy’s war club, a stinging wave flashed up her arms … .
 
 
 
A
nd woke her.
She stared at the roof over her head, where shadows danced in the flickering light of the oil lamp.
Gonda rolled over and stared at her. “Are you all right?”
A terrifying brew of rage and despair was running hot in her veins.
“Koracoo?” Gonda whispered.
She fought down the shout that climbed into her throat, said, “Yes,” and closed her eyes.
BOOK: People of the Longhouse
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