People of the Longhouse (16 page)

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Authors: W. Michael Gear

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

BOOK: People of the Longhouse
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“What do you mean?”
“I mean it makes no sense that a chief would risk the life of his daughter for a few bags of pearls and salted seafood. You live in rich lake country. A wise man would have stayed home, eaten lake trout, and worn freshwater pearls until the trails were safer. There must be another reason he undertook the Trade mission.”
Sindak could see the hot blood rushing to Towa’s face, and he understood it. She was either calling their chief a fool or a liar.
In a surprisingly calm voice, Towa answered, “We have more mouths to feed than you do, War Chief. Our people are hungry. Our harvests were poor this autumn. Any village with food is holding onto
it with a granite fist. Atotarho knew that the only way he might be able to acquire more food was if he went himself.”
“And he took sixty warriors to make sure the party was safe. Sixty of our
best
warriors,” Sindak added.
Gonda looked up. “Best? I thought you two were there?”
Sindak had the overwhelming urge to tear his heart out.
Koracoo swung CorpseEye suggestively, which kept Sindak from carrying out his urge.
She continued, “Atotarho could have hired the finest Traders in the land. He didn’t have to go himself.”
Dawn’s gleam had started to shade the forest, blushing color into the black branches and the autumn leaves that blanketed the ground. As the air warmed, the scents of wet bark and moldering leaf mat grew stronger.
Finally, Towa said, “Perhaps it would help if you understood some things about Chief Atotarho.”
Koracoo nodded. “Anything you can tell me will be helpful.”
“He was once a great warrior, but about ten summers ago his joints began to stiffen.”
“That’s why standing is so difficult for him? I thought it might have been a battle injury.”
“No. Evil Spirits have crept into his joints. When he could no longer serve as a warrior, he became a Trader, and he was very good at it. He loved Trading. I suspect he didn’t think anyone could do a better job. That’s why he didn’t hire Traders. Ever.”
Koracoo continued to eat at a leisurely pace, filling her buffalo horn spoon, putting it in her mouth, chewing. She appeared to be totally absorbed by her own thoughts.
Gonda, on the other hand, was watching them over the rim of his cup, and his eyes had an alert glitter.
Sindak lifted his cup and angrily sucked down the last few bites; then he grabbed up a handful of leaves, wiped out his cup, and stuffed it back in his belt pouch. Koracoo’s questions had him thinking, which he hated. He always got into trouble when he tried to think something out. But … there was something amiss here. Even if Atotarho loved to Trade, he did know how dangerous the trails were. Undertaking the expedition was very perilous. First of all, it left the village with sixty fewer warriors, which meant it was more vulnerable to attack. Second, Atotarho could have waited another moon to
undertake the journey. They had enough food for a moon, and raiding always died down in the winter, though the snow also grew deeper. What had been so important about the Trading mission that he felt obliged to risk his daughter’s life, and the lives of sixty warriors?
Towa set his half-finished cup of soup on the ground, as though no longer hungry, and laced his fingers over one knee. After several moments of hesitation, he said, “Let me see if I understand you, War Chief. Are you suggesting that Atotarho wanted his daughter to be captured?”
“That’s the only thing that makes sense to me, Towa.”
“He loved her. Why would he do that?”
Koracoo drank the last dregs from her cup, then turned it upside down on the frosty grass to drain and replied, “I don’t know.”
“When you spoke with him, did he seem genuinely concerned about his daughter?”
“He did. In fact, he seemed terrified for her safety.”
“Then her capture must have been an accident.”
Koracoo didn’t respond.
Gonda asked, “Where was War Chief Nesi when the girl was taken?”
Towa looked at Sindak. When Sindak shrugged and shook his head, Towa replied, “We were under heavy attack. We were trying to stay alive. I don’t know where he was.”
“Under heavy attack?” Gonda unlaced his belt pouch and tucked his cup inside. As he tugged the laces tight again, he frowned. “Who were they? How many warriors did they have?”
“I’m not sure.” Towa glanced at Sindak again, silently asking if he knew.
Sindak said, “Maybe eighty. Maybe one hundred. Some of them were Mountain People, I think. The rest, I don’t know. I didn’t recognize the designs they wore. Why?”
Gonda’s mouth pursed with disdain. He stood, lifted the boiling bag from the tripod, and walked around the fire to empty the final drops into Towa’s cup. “Who was assigned to protect the chief’s family?”
“Nesi and a hand-selected group of warriors.” He picked up his cup again and took another sip.
Gonda said, “How many hand-selected warriors were in Nesi’s group?”
“Five, I think.”
“You
think
?
”
Gonda’s brows plunged down over his flat nose. “You’re a warrior. You should know.”
“Well, I don’t,” Towa snapped.
Gonda stared down at him through slitted eyes. “Was the chief at the head of the expedition? Or was he walking in the middle, perhaps at the rear?”
“In the middle where he was surrounded by warriors.”
“And where were you and Sindak?”
“We were last in line.”
“So you didn’t really see much of what happened around the chief’s family?”
“Well … no.”
Gonda rolled up the boiling bag and tucked it into his pack. “Did the attack come from the rear?”
“The bulk of the warriors struck the center and stole the chief’s daughter, but at least thirty warriors attacked the rear. Both attacks happened simultaneously.”
Koracoo gracefully rose to her feet, and Gonda stood up beside her. Instinctively, Sindak gripped his club.
In a low voice, probably meant for Gonda’s ears alone, Koracoo said, “It
was
well organized. That’s why they were chosen.” Then she turned and headed across the clearing toward the place Gonda had indicated earlier, the place where they’d seen the children’s tracks.
Gonda started to follow her, but Towa lunged to his feet and caught Gonda’s arm as he passed. Gonda stopped and, eye-to-eye, they stared hard at each other.
“What did she mean?” Towa asked.
Gonda glanced at Koracoo, apparently to make sure she couldn’t overhear them, then softly replied, “You’re here because you were too far away to have played a role in the kidnapping. You are also young fools. You actually believe Atotarho sent you along with us to help rescue his daughter.”
“Why else would he have sent us?”
Gonda pulled loose from Towa’s grip. “I want you to think long and hard about that.”
He walked away, leaving Sindak and Towa standing by the fire.
Sindak propped his hands on his hips and glowered after Gonda. “You should have slit his throat. He’s an arrogant fool.”
Towa reached up to massage his wounded shoulder. It must have
hurt, because he squeezed his eyes closed. In a pained voice, he said, “Gonda is not a fool.”
“Of course he is. The chief sent us to help rescue his daughter. Nothing more.”
Towa adjusted the strap of his quiver and expelled a breath. “Sindak, how many warriors in Atotarho Village are better, more experienced fighters than we are?”
“What difference does it make? The chief chose us.”
“Yes, but why?”
He gestured lamely. “He trusts us.”
Towa murmured, “I don’t think so. I think he chose us because Chief Atotarho fears there’s a traitor in his midst—a very powerful man who has the loyalty of many warriors. But you and I are not among them.”
Sindak shifted his weight to his other foot. “What are you talking about?”
Towa smiled and bowed his head as though surprised it had taken him so long to figure it out. “I’m talking about two young fools who are not part of that ‘inner circle.’ Young fools who still believe what their chief tells them.”
“But if Atotarho doesn’t trust us, why would he give you his sacred gorget? He wouldn’t risk losing that!”
Towa placed his hand over the gorget and looked down. “I don’t understand that part yet.”
“Even if you and I are the only two warriors Atotarho doesn’t suspect of treachery, the gorget is too precious to risk on fools. He
must
trust us.”
Towa murmured, “It’s possible. But I doubt it,” and walked toward where Koracoo and Gonda knelt, scooping leaves from the trail and piling them to the side.
Sindak stood rigidly for a few moments. If there was a traitor, a man who commanded the loyalty of many warriors, the logical choice was Nesi. But Sindak did not believe Nesi capable of such treachery. He’d fought at Nesi’s side for five summers and seen only an honorable, if touchy, man striving to protect his people. Why would Nesi betray his chief?
“If not Nesi, then who?”
Sindak heaved a frustrated breath and walked toward Towa.
O
dion
 
In the dream, I wake to the sound of Father’s hushed voice … .
“
I’m going
,” he says. “Who will watch your back? There’s no one else—”
“I need you here, Gonda,” Mother answers softly. “I want you to be in charge of defending Yellowtail Village.”
I sleepily blink at the firelight reflecting from the bark walls of the longhouse. Almost everyone else is asleep. Someone close by is snoring softly, and I hear my little cousin, Ganahan, mewling as Aunt Tawi fusses to get her to nurse. Grandmother Jigonsaseh is muttering softly in her dreams. I smile. These are pleasant sounds, the sounds of early morning in the Bear Clan longhouse.
I yawn and roll to my back. Forty hands above me, tied to the roof poles, ears of corn, whole bean plants, pawpaws, squash, and net bags of puffballs and mushrooms hang. They were picked a moon ago and already have the black coating of soot that protects them from mold and insects. Through the smoke holes, I see a few of the campfires of the dead glittering.
When I inhale a deep breath of the smoky air, I smell corn pudding, and my heart sinks. This is the dish Mother makes for us when she’s
going away on a war walk. It’s my favorite. Made from parched corn mixed with chunks of maple sugar and roasted pumpkin, then boiled in hickory nut milk, it is a special sweet breakfast.
I turn my head to look at Mother and Father. They sit by the fire with their backs to me. While Father stirs the pudding with a wooden spoon, Mother quietly places food in her belt pouch: a bag of venison jerky, another of dried blueberries, two cornmeal biscuits, several dried lichens wrapped in bark. I heave a sigh of relief. She’s only going to be gone for the day—just a scouting mission close to the village. If she were going to be gone for longer, she’d be filling her pouch and her warrior’s pack. Her quiver of arrows and bow rest atop her red cape at her side. CorpseEye, her war club, lies diagonally across them.
Father whispers, “Who are you planning to dispatch as scouts?”
“Coter and Hagnon. They’re careful.”
Father expels a breath. “Please, reconsider? If we keep all six hundred of our warriors in the village, we can repel any attack that comes. Perhaps we should—”
“We have to know for certain, Gonda. It’s the end of harvest. Our people need to be in the fields gathering the last crops from the dead plants, not huddling behind the palisade in fear.”
“I know, but—”
“Gonda, if the trader was right, and he really did see Mountain People warriors skulking around our village, they were probably scouts assessing our harvest. If they discover that we had an excellent harvest, they’ll be back to take it. We need to capture them and find out who sent them. There could be a war party out there just waiting for those scouts to report back. I don’t want to give them the chance.”
Father hesitates for a long time. He stirs the pudding, then in a low disgusted voice, says, “It’s probably Yenda, that two-footed piece of filth.”
Mother’s long black braid saws up and down her back as she nods. “That is my guess, as well. His People are very hungry, and he’s a cunning war chief.”
“Cunning?” Father scoffs. “He’s a cowardly weasel. He’s bent on destroying us, and every other member of the Standing Stone nation. The Mountain People would starve us to death if they could. We should kill every one of them.”
Mother’s mouth tightens into a hard line. “You don’t mean that.”
“Oh, yes, I do. I want all of the Mountain People dead, as well as all of the Flint, Landing, and Hills Peoples.”
Mother’s voice is barely audible as she replies, “You’ve become a warmonger, Gonda.”
“Yes, and I wish you were, too. Once all of our enemies are dead, we can live peaceful lives.”
Mother draws up a knee and laces her fingers around it. She is very tall for a woman, twelve hands, and I’ve heard many of her warriors say she’s beautiful “in a frightening sort of way.” She has an oval face, with full lips and large black eyes. She doesn’t say anything, though Father seems to be waiting for her response.
Father irritably tosses another branch on the fire. The wood crackles and spits as the sap burns. He is a medium-sized slender man with a round face and long black hair. The folds of his plain buckskin cape catch the firelight.
Mother softly says, “The Hills People just attacked White Dog Village. Soon we’ll be flooded with starving refugees. Half of our harvest will be gone in less than a moon. Don’t you want this to end, Gonda? The warfare must end. Soon. Or we will all be dead.”
Father lightly shakes his head. “Instead of worrying about feeding refugees, you should be worried that we’re Chief Atotarho’s next target.”
Atotarho is an evil sorcerer from the People of the Hills. A cannibal who adorns himself with human bones.
Slowly, the images forming in my head begin to take on a horrifying reality. Atotarho could attack tomorrow. Even tonight. This is my greatest fear. I often have nightmares of our village being attacked, Mother and Father killed, and Tutelo and me being marched away as prisoners. Panic rises and overwhelms my heart. It begins to slam against my ribs.
Father is right! We have to kill them first. Before they can attack us!
“Gonda,” Mother says, “try to imagine what it would be like if all of our Peoples were united. If one village had a good harvest and another didn’t, we could pool our food, and share it. No child would ever have to be truly hungry again. Not only that, we would be the greatest power in the land. No one could defeat us.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. We’re too different to get along.”
“There can be brotherhood in diversity. Brothers can respect each other’s differences, even honor them.”
Father lets out a low disdainful laugh. “You’re a dreamer, Koracoo. We’d never be able to cooperate long enough to discover each other’s differences, let alone—”
“We must try, Gonda. It’s our only hope.”
Father looks unconvinced. He scowls at the fire. “I will tell you one thing for certain, my wife. I will
never
take food from my own children’s mouths to give to my enemy—not even if our elders order me to do it. I want the Hills, Flint, Landing, and especially the Mountain People to starve. And so does everyone else in this village.”
Sadness lines Mother’s face. She bows her head. Her gaze is faraway, as though she is seeing a peaceful world where everyone has enough to eat, and she knows it can never be. “It’s people like you who make our future precarious, Gonda.”
He snaps, “And people like you who make
today
precarious. Forget about the future! Start thinking about who we have to kill to keep our People alive for another moon!”
Mother pulls the laces on her belt pouch tight, then slips it around her waist and ties it. “I’m going to take three hundred warriors. We’ll be home by dusk. I’ll leave you the other three hundred. That should be enough warriors to allow you to hold off any attack Yenda can muster.”
Father doesn’t answer.
Mother says, “Keep every warrior inside the palisade until I return. Do you understand?”
Father turns to glare at her. “What makes you think I would disobey one of your orders? Have I ever disobeyed you?”
“No, but your tone of voice tells me that this morning you’d like to, just to spite me.”
Father opens his mouth to say something hostile, and I rise up in my hides and croak, “Mother? I—I’m scared. Are we going to be attacked?”
Father’s mouth purses. He gives me a glance that makes me long to run away and hide. He says I’m always scared, and that I’ll never be of any use as a warrior.
Mother comes over, sits down, and gathers me into her arms. After she kisses my forehead, she says, “Don’t be scared, Odion. Here, let’s play a game. I want you to try and imagine a world where all of our Peoples are united and there is peace. Can you imagine such a world?”
I lean against her and close my eyes, trying hard. On the fabric of my souls I see people moving about villages, smiling. Dogs and children running happily across plazas. “I want to,” I answer. “I don’t like being afraid.” I cast a glance at Father, who is shaking his head.
Mother strokes my black hair gently. “Someday there will be peace. I promise.”
A profound sense of relief washes through me, as if something has opened in my chest and all the fear has drained away. I believe her.
Perhaps her way is better? All of the agony, the indecision, the premonitions of disaster fade—vanishing amid the wave of peaceful firelight that now seems to fill the longhouse. The bark walls glitter as sparks float upward toward the smoke holes in the roof. People’s faces shine, and now I hear laughter and loving voices as people begin to wake.
All I want is to stay here forever in the warm circle of Mother’s arms, dreaming about a time when all the Peoples will be one, and no one will ever be hungry again.
“How do we make peace, Mother?” I whisper so that Father doesn’t hear, and look up into her dark eyes.
Mother smiles down at me and whispers back, “We hold our tongues and listen. We open our eyes to the tears of others. We act out of stillness, not out of anger or—”
In a low hiss, Father says, “War Chief Koracoo, the blessed
Peacemaker
.”
There is such loathing in the word that I freeze as though I’ve suddenly seen a snake.
Mother lifts her head to look at Father. They glower at each other.
I want to run away again. Instead, I bury my face in the folds of leather over Mother’s shoulder and just breathe. If I dream hard enough, I’m sure my soul will find a way to walk to that peaceful world Mother longs for.
When I close my eyes I can almost …
Mother pats my back, says, “I love you, Odion. I’ll be home for supper.”
I swallow hard. “Be careful, Mother.”
“I will.” She kisses my cheek, releases me, and rises to her feet.
As she goes over and slips on her red cape, Father says, “If I’m engaged in the middle of a pitched battle when you return, perhaps you should just trot up to Yenda and tell him you want to make peace? I’m sure he’ll be happy to sit right down and negotiate like a good boy.”
Mother slings her bow and quiver over her left shoulder, picks up CorpseEye, and walks from the longhouse without a word.
When she’s gone, Father drops his head into his hands and quietly curses himself: “
When did I turn into such a fool?
”
As I pull up my deer hide and stare at him over the silken rim of tan hair, I wonder if he is a fool. Or if he’s right that Mother is the fool for believing that peace is possible between the Peoples who live south of Skanodario Lake.
Father stirs the pudding again, and I let my gaze drift around the
longhouse. Along the walls, melon baskets make dark splotches. Before the frost, we dig up melon vines with unripe fruit, and replant them in baskets of sand. During the winter, the melons ripen. They are Healing plants. We keep them for the sick.
Father calls, “Are you still awake, Odion?”
“Yes, Father.”
He pulls a half-full ladle of pudding from the pot and blows on it. “Why don’t you come over and taste this for me? I think it needs more maple sugar. What do you think?”
I smile, throw off my hides, and run to taste the pudding. Father puts his arm around me and hugs me as he brings the ladle to my lips … .
 
 
 
S
omewhere in the depths of my souls, I hear warriors moving around a camp, and know I am freezing cold.
I struggle not to wake.

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