People of the Longhouse (26 page)

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Authors: W. Michael Gear

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

BOOK: People of the Longhouse
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“Of course I am. So, someone other than you killed them. Who?”
Towa made an airy gesture with his hand. “They may have been killed by a Hills warrior. I’m not sure, but I found about fifty tracks made by a Hills warrior near both of the bodies.”
“Really? How do you know he was one of our People?”
“His sandals had our distinctive herringbone weave—”
A cold tingle climbed Koracoo’s spine. She whirled around at
exactly the same instant that Gonda lurched to sit up. He had a panicked expression on his face. Drenched black hair stuck to his cheeks.
Towa’s voice died in his throat. He blinked at them. “What’s wrong?”
Gonda said, “Was he a—a big man? Did his tracks sink deeply into the mud?”
“Yes, that’s why it was easy to track him … at least for a short distance.”
Koracoo held Gonda’s gaze. “It may be just another Hills warrior.”
“Wearing sandals in the winter? I doubt it. He’s following us.”
As though a dark, cold feeling was forcing him to stand, Towa got up. “Who? Who is following us?”
Koracoo walked back and stepped beneath the ramada to face him. Towa stared at her like a suspicious animal. “The morning after the attack,” she explained, “Gonda found a similar track. Made by a big man wearing sandals with a distinctive herringbone weave.”
“Where?” Sindak asked.
“Far south of here,” she said. “Near Canassatego Village.”
“Canassatego Village? That’s Hills country. What were you doing there?”
“We were tracking the warriors who attacked our village and captured our children.”
Towa stood for a moment, not certain what to say. “I thought you said Mountain warriors attacked Yellowtail Village?”
“Most were.” Gonda drew up his knees. “I’m not sure they all were.”
In the long silence that followed, Koracoo heard a dog bark in the distance, and then the faint shout of a man. Both came from the direction of Hawk Moth Village. The sculpted curves of Towa’s face hardened as he clenched his jaw. For a time, she watched the thoughts churning behind his dark eyes and thought he might stalk away. Finally he said, “Where did the big man’s tracks lead?”
Gonda answered, “You know that enormous shell midden—”
“The one that sits on the border between our countries?”
“Yes. The man’s tracks led to the top of the midden.”
Towa shifted his weight to his other foot. “Why? What was he doing up there?”
“Carrying a body. A dead girl. And one of high status, too, given her jewelry.”
Astonished, Sindak said, “She was still wearing jewelry?”
“Yes. Strange, isn’t it? Any warrior worth his weapons would have stripped every piece and taken it home with him.”
Towa asked, “Why are you telling us this? Do you think the girl was one of Gannajero’s captives?”
“No. Gannajero is a Trader. Her warriors would definitely have taken the girl’s beautiful copper earspools and shell bracelets. And her shell gorget with the magnificent False Face surrounded by stars—”
“She was wearing a False Face pendant?” Towa asked as though shocked. “With stars?”
Gonda created a circle with his fingers and lowered it to his chest to show them the size. “Yes. A big one. And the False Face had a serpent’s eyes and buffalo horns … .” He stopped when both Towa and Sindak went rigid. They looked like surprised geese. “What’s the matter?”
Koracoo studied them as they whispered to each other. Towa had placed a hand over his heart, as though protecting something hidden beneath his cape.
“Is that Atotarho’s gorget you’re touching?” she said.
As the storm drifted eastward, starlight broke through the clouds and brightened the night. The rain-slick ground shone with a frosty radiance. Every twig and branch seemed to be coated with a thin layer of silver.
Koracoo said, “Why don’t you show it to us, Towa?”
Towa carefully pulled a huge gorget from his shirt and let it rest upon his cape. It covered half his chest.
Gonda leaped to his feet and extended his hand. “Let me see that?”
“No,” Towa said. “He ordered me to wear this at all times. It’s been in his clan for hundreds of generations. It’s been passed down from matron to matron since the creation of the world.”
“But it’s identical to the one we found at the midden,” Gonda charged.
Towa shrugged. “There are supposed to be two. Don’t you know our story of the battle between Horned Serpent and Thunder?”
Koracoo leaned her shoulder against the ramada pole, and the wet hem of her cape stuck to her leggings. “It’s very similar to our story, isn’t it? At the dawn of creation, Horned Serpent attacked People, and the Great Spirit sent Thunder to help them. In the battle that ensued, Thunder threw the greatest lightning bolt ever seen. The mountains shook, and the stars broke loose from the skies. One landed right on top of Horned Serpent.”
Towa continued, “Yes. This pendant chronicles that sacred story.”
Koracoo stared at the gorget that rested like a shining beacon on Towa’s cape. The carving was exceptional. The stars shooting around the head of Horned Serpent seemed to be coming right at her.
“Why have you kept it hidden from us?” Gonda asked.
“Because it’s none of your concern! It’s not a thing for ordinary eyes, especially not Standing Stone eyes. It’s ancient. Can’t you feel its Power?”
“I can,” Sindak said, and backed away. “It gives me a stomachache.”
A stray breath of wind stirred Koracoo’s hair, and she jumped as if at the touch of a hand. “Why would the dead girl have had an identical pendant?”
“It couldn’t have been identical,” Towa said. “It must have been a fake, a copy.”
Gonda shook his head. “I don’t think so. It was exactly like the one you’re wearing.”
Towa shook his head vehemently. “It can’t be.”
“Why?”
“Because the other belongs to the human False Face who will don a cape of white clouds and ride the winds of destruction across the face of the world. Obviously a dead girl can’t do that.” Towa stuffed the magnificent gorget back into his shirt. “It was a fake.”
Gonda’s gaze flitted to where his pack rested, as though he longed to go get it, but he didn’t.
Koracoo waited for a time longer, then said, “The end of the world will, I suspect, take care of itself. In the meantime, you suggested that the Hills warrior with the sandals might be following us. Why?”
Gonda’s brow furrowed. “He may just be tracking the children like we are, and so his path necessarily intersects ours.”
Koracoo said, “Towa? Sindak? Your thoughts?”
Towa scanned the darkness. “He is a Hills man, that’s certain, but—”
“Unless he stole the sandals.” Sindak folded his arms across his chest. “He could have taken them during an attack on a Hills village—which means he could be a Flint warrior, or Landing warrior, or anything else. Even a Standing Stone warrior.”
Koracoo gently smoothed her fingers over CorpseEye while she considered his words. The polished wood felt like silk. He was right. The sandals told them nothing certain about the man—if it was the same man. But … if he had followed them, there was a reason. Was
he a spy for Atotarho? Keeping track of them? If so, the man would have been dispatched with several other warriors—runners he could send home to keep the chief informed of their progress, or lack thereof. If he was not one of Atotarho’s spies, Gonda could be correct that he was just a desperate family member trying to track down his own captured children, and his path happened to coincide with theirs. In that case, he might be an ally, at least in this pursuit.
It was the last possibility that made her hands clench tightly around CorpseEye. The sandaled man could be a scout sent out by Gannajero to monitor her back trail to see if she was being followed. If so, right now, he could be running ahead to tell the old witch about them.
“It’s getting late. Let’s all think about this, and we’ll discuss it more tomorrow. Gonda, I will wake you at midnight.”
He nodded.
Koracoo walked out into the starlight and took up her guard position beneath a towering oak tree. In the dark rain-scented gloom, three deer trotted by, their pale antlers swaying in the ashen gleam. She watched them until they caught her scent and disappeared into the trees like silent ghosts.
The three men beneath the ramada stretched out and pulled their capes around them for warmth. It took less than a few hundred heartbeats for Sindak to start snoring softly. Gonda, lying close beside him, seemed to be staring up at the ramada roof. Towa had his back turned to both of them.
After a time, Koracoo’s thoughts returned to the gorget.
If the pendants were not identical, they were very nearly so. The only way an artist could have accomplished such a feat was if he’d been holding Atotarho’s pendant in his hand when he’d carved the second one.
And that led her to some wild speculation. What if—
Movement caught her eye. She straightened suddenly. It resembled a black spider, far out in the darkness, silently floating between the trees, paralleling the trail that headed north. Now and then starlight reflected from its body, revealing long legs and perhaps flashing eyes.
It’s probably just another deer.
But tomorrow at dawn she would check for tracks to make certain. It kept her alert and watching every wind-touched limb that swayed … while she contemplated the possibility that the sandaled man had given the dead girl the pendant to take with her to the afterlife. Even if
it was a superlative fake, it would have been a rare, precious gift. Why? Had she been a relative? Or was he trying to buy her goodwill? Perhaps to help him when he reached the bridge to the afterlife?
On the other hand, maybe he’d given it to her so that she could take it to the human False Face in the Sky World and set him on his journey, fulfilling prophecy.
Koracoo knelt at the base of the oak and wondered.
D
im bluish light filtered through gaps in the ramada’s roof and landed like a finely woven scarf across Gonda’s face. He rolled uncomfortably to his side and struggled to get back to sleep. Sometime during the night, Sindak and Towa had rolled closer to him, pinning him in. He could barely stretch his legs out. Worse, the constant low drone of the wind slashed through his dreams, becoming Tawi’s voice every time he drifted off.
After an eternity of restless shifting, he finally rolled to his hands and knees and crawled over near the tree trunk, where he stretched out in the soft sweet-smelling birch leaves and closed his eyes again.
Sweat drenched his face; it rolled down his neck to soak the collar of his hide shirt. He wiped his forehead on his sleeve and stared blankly at the patchwork patterns of light that decorated his closed eyelids. Weariness clung to his shoulders like a granite cape.
Gonda!
Tawi screamed.
“Stop it,” he whispered. “Stop dreaming. You can’t change it.”
Moments later, he felt himself sinking deeper into sleep. His breathing melted into soothing rhythms. The sounds of the wind faded. Darkness smothered the light … .
 
 
A
nd the snow fell around him in huge wet flakes.
“Where, Tawi?”
“Over there!” Her voice wavered in the icy gusts that lanced Yellowtail Village. Tawi pointed. “Near the giant oaks!”
Tawi looked so much like her sister, Koracoo, that sometimes it stopped Gonda in his tracks. She was beautiful, with an oval face and large dark eyes. Though tonight, fear twisted her features.
Gonda ran along the palisade catwalk, confidently slapping warriors on the shoulders as he passed, trying to get closer to the place Tawi swore she had seen movement in the forest. She ran behind him, her moccasins patting softly on the wood.
Warriors had been coming to him for over a hand of time, whispering that they’d seen movement out in the trees, reporting vast numbers of enemy warriors sneaking through the darkness. But there’d been no attack. No warriors had materialized. Everyone was so terrified, he wasn’t sure who or what to believe.
“When will Koracoo be back?” Tawi asked as they continued along the catwalk. “I thought she was supposed to be here before dusk.”
“She was. I’m worried about her.”
Gonda was more than worried. He was terrified that something had happened. Had she met the full force of the enemy out there? Was she even now fighting a desperate retreating action, trying to get back to the safety of Yellowtail Village? Or worse? He longed to dispatch a war party to go look for her, but she had ordered him to keep all of his three hundred warriors inside the palisade until she returned. It seemed foolish. If he could just send out five or six scouts, they might be able to bring him enough information about the enemy’s strength that he could prepare for the attack he felt sure was coming.
But he would not disobey her orders. He never had.
Besides, she’d dispatched two scouts at dawn. Neither had returned.
Tawi grabbed his shoulder hard. “Right there. See?”
She pointed, and Gonda stared out into the darkness.
“There, Gonda! In the center of the oaks.”
Gonda pulled an arrow from his quiver and nocked his bow while he scanned the trees. “Tawi, all I see is falling snow and branches blowing in the wind. What did you think you saw?”
“It wasn’t just me, Gonda. Four of us were standing here when we saw flashes in the oaks.”
“Flashes?”
“Yes, like chert arrow points winking. Or maybe shell beads.”
Gonda squinted at the oaks again. On occasion, as a limb flailed, the old autumn leaves flashed silver in the starlight that penetrated the clouds.
“There’s something out there, Gonda! I swear it.”
“I believe you, Tawi. I just don’t see it.” He turned and looked out at Yellowtail Village. Three longhouses encircled the plaza, one for each clan: Turtle, Bear, and Wolf. Unlike the Hills or Flint Peoples, they had small longhouses, barely two hundred hands long, but each stood over thirty hands tall. The elm-bark walls looked shaggy in the snow. The plaza was dark and empty, but the firelight seeping between gaps in the longhouse walls cast a pale amber glow over the forty-hand-tall palisade of upright pine poles. There was only way into the village—the massive front gates. He’d stationed fifty warriors inside to guard the gates. The rest of his warriors were on the catwalk, staring out at the darkness. He could hear them hissing to each other, and the fear in their voices made his stomach muscles knot. “Is the village prepared?”
“Yes, all of the children are in bed being watched by elders.”
“Good. I—”
“Gonda!” a woman shouted.
He spun and saw young Kiya, fifteen summers old, waving her bow at him. “Two runners! Coming from the west!”
Gonda sprinted toward Kiya and gazed out over the chest-high palisade wall. They’d just stepped out of the forest. One man was supporting the other. Both looked wounded. “It’s Coter and Hagnon. Quickly, climb down. Tell our men to open the gates.”
As Kiya ran to obey, Gonda tucked his arrow in his quiver, slung his bow, and trotted down the palisade repeating, “We’re going to open the gates. Prepare to be stormed. Keep your bows focused on the area just in front of the gates! … We’re going to open the gates. Get your bows up! Be ready! … This could be a ruse to get us to open the gates! Don’t be fooled!”
As he raced for a ladder and began to scramble down, his nerves were strung as tight as a rawhide drum. He hit the ground running.
Just before he arrived, two warriors pulled the gates open barely
the width of four hands, and the scouts slid through. “Close the gate!” he shouted. “Get the planks down!”
Men dropped the locking planks back into position, securing the gates.
Inside the village, noise rose, people asking questions, running along the palisade to look down at the wounded scouts, arrows clattering in quivers.
But outside … outside … Gonda heard nothing.
He lunged for Hagnon, who had Coter’s arm draped over his shoulder. “Marten? Take Coter to one of the medicine elders. See that he’s taken care of, then get right back here!”
“Yes, Gonda.”
Marten pulled Coter’s arm over his own shoulders and started dragging him toward the closest longhouse.
Hagnon looked like he was about to collapse. Streaks of blood covered his square-jawed face and splotched his war shirt. “Gonda, G-Gonda, I—”
“Hagnon, what happened?”
With terror-bright eyes, Hagnon grabbed Gonda by the shoulders and leaned forward to hiss, “They let us through, Gonda. They thought it was a big joke.”
“Who did?”
Hagnon shook his head. “Most are Mountain People warriors, but there may be Hills or Landing warriors out there, too. There are so many, I didn’t—”
Gonda grabbed his arms and shook him. “How many? Quickly!”
Hagnon swallowed hard and glanced at the nearby warriors. Softly he replied, “There must be, I—I don’t know, maybe over one thousand, Gonda. Or … more. I—I didn’t get a good look. They are spread out through the forest, aligned for waves of attacks.”
Gonda felt like he’d been kicked in the belly. He released Hagnon’s arms, stiffened his spine, and praised, “You are worth your weight in copper, my friend. Your bravery will be rewarded. Now get to the Wolf Clan longhouse and tell the matrons what we’re facing.”
“Yes, Gonda.” Hagnon tried to trot away, but ended up staggering.
When Gonda looked back he found himself surrounded by warriors. All eyes fixed on him, waiting for the bad news. In the faint firelight cast by the houses, their faces looked pale and drawn.
Gonda held out his hands and made a calming motion. “Now, remember, no one has ever breached these walls. So long as you each do
your duty, we’ll make it through this. Do you understand? Just do your duty.”
“But, Gonda …” Kiya wet her lips and stared at him with huge eyes. “Did he say thousands?”
“Hagnon couldn’t see very well, Kiya. He was wounded, scared, trying to protect his friend; he probably saw far more warriors than there were. I’m sure I would have.”
A small round of nervous laughter went through the crowd.
Gonda smiled and raised his voice for all to hear: “And it doesn’t matter how many there are! You are well trained. I’ve seen to it myself. I know you can fight off any attack. You’re the finest warriors in the land! Now, get to your posts!”
Warriors scattered.
Before Gonda had taken two steps, war cries tore the air and the people on the catwalk started shouting and running. The enemy hit the palisade like a hurricane, shaking the ground at his feet … .
 
 
 
G
onda woke. He glimpsed branches above him, heard rain falling. The colors melted together as images collided and spun wildly, carrying him back to …
 
 
 
T
he plaza throbbed with a sourceless pounding of sobs and angry shouts. Women moved among the wounded who had been dragged against the southern palisade wall behind the Wolf longhouse. They yelled to each other to make themselves heard over the roar of battle. Orphaned children huddled together between the longhouses, crying and reaching pleadingly for anyone who passed by, calling the names of family members who would never answer again. Scents of urine mixed nauseatingly with the coppery odor of blood.
“Blessed gods,” Hagnon murmured darkly. “How many have we lost?”
“Too many,” Gonda answered. “I need to know what the matrons think. Has Chief Yellowtail given any orders?”
“I can tell you what the matrons think; they say we must keep fighting. And Chief Yellowtail is too injured to say anything. I’m not sure he’s going to make it through this. Is there any hope that the surrounding Standing Stone villages may be sending warriors to our aid?”
“None. That’s why our enemies attacked at night. No one will see the smoke from the fires until dawn.”
“Gonda, everyone is asking the same question.” Hagnon lifted his arms. “Where’s Koracoo and her war party?”
A sinking feeling invaded Gonda’s belly. He balanced on a knife’s edge, waiting for the moment when he would know all was lost, and he had to give the order to run. “I don’t know, Hagnon. I—I don’t know.”
He couldn’t let himself think about her, or he’d crumble into a thousand pieces. At least their children were safe in the Bear Clan longhouse, warm in their hides, being watched over by Koracoo’s mother.
He ran a hand through his drenched black hair. What was going on out there? It was like the enemy was holding back, waiting for something. They kept attacking in short bursts, shooting arrows at the warriors on the catwalk while others ran up to the palisade with pots of oil and tossed them on the walls. The last wave would line up outside the trees and shoot flaming arrows into the oil and over the walls into the longhouses—or anyone who happened to be standing in the open.
“So far, we’ve been lucky,” Hagnon said. “We’ve been able to put out all the fires they’ve started.”
“The snow has helped. Things are too wet to burn easily.”
Those with the worst injuries had been laid out side by side in the middle of the plaza. There was no hope for them. If they happened to be struck by an arrow, it would be a quick way to die. Moans penetrated the melee. Gonda followed a winding path that led around them and looked upon the wounds with a horrified feeling of despair. Many had belly wounds. Others had heads or chests bandaged with blood-soaked rags. Most were dying, dying swiftly, their strength too drained by the loss of blood to survive.
Gonda trotted down the length of the house, past the five fires, to where the clan matrons huddled together. Standing beside the gray-haired elders was the Speaker for the Women, Yanesh, who announced the matrons’ decisions.

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