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Authors: W. Michael Gear

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

People of the Longhouse (29 page)

BOOK: People of the Longhouse
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When she spied a pile of deadfall in a copse of sourgum trees, she dove behind it. The scent of damp, rotting wood filled her nostrils. A few scarlet leaves still clung to the branches and rattled in the breeze. From here, she could watch the trails in both directions and see across the clearing to where Gonda was hiding. And he, in turn, would be watching her.
I
t didn’t take long.
Less than one thousand heartbeats later, two men trotted up the trail, coming from the east. They had their heads down, tracking. They would have passed the ramada where Koracoo’s party had made camp last night. The enemy warriors knew their prey was close.
Koracoo studied their plain buckskin capes and rabbit-fur leggings. They bore no clan symbols and had no distinctive designs that she could clearly identify as coming from any of the five Peoples south of Skanodario Lake. An old knife scar cut a white ridge across the tall man’s ugly face. He was big, with meaty shoulders, and would be a formidable opponent if she had to face him. The other man, shorter and skinny to the point of looking starved, would be easier.
When they trotted to the place where she’d tried to obscure the trail, they stopped. They were less than twenty paces away.
The big man said, “The tracks go in both directions here.”
“Yes, someone started running back and forth, as though panicked.”
Skinny’s gaze moved around the clearing, searching for hidden threats. He had a strangely narrow face, as though the bones had been pressed between boards when he’d been a baby. “Do you think
these were made by people from Hawk Moth Village? Or is the old witch right and we’re being followed?”
Hot blood surged through Koracoo’s veins. The old witch? She clutched CorpseEye in a hard fist.
“I don’t like this, Galan. If it weren’t so lucrative, I’d say we just sell all the children and run home to our families.”
Galan nodded. “Well, go, if you want to. But I’m staying. This war is making me rich. In another moon, I’ll have enough goods to provide for my wife and children for the rest of my life.” His gaze scanned the pile of deadfall where Koracoo hid. He seemed to sense something amiss in the shapes and colors. “Not only that, I can do whatever I want to, and my clan can never find out. How often does a man have such freedom?”
“Don’t you worry that someday you’ll meet one of the children, and she’ll be able to identify you? I do.” Hanu tapped the scar on his face. “Even twenty summers from now, I’ll still have this.”
Galan laughed. “Gannajero never sells children without a guarantee that they’ll be bashed in the head when the buyers are finished with them. By the time she lets them go, they’ve seen too much to be allowed to live. Just make sure you do what you want with them before she sells them.”
The desire to kill consumed Koracoo’s flesh at the same time that grief drowned her heart.
These men were scouts. They must have been dispatched to search out Gannajero’s back trail. That meant the children were not far ahead of them. Her odds of rescuing them would substantially improve if Gannajero had two fewer warriors.
All I have to do is follow their tracks right back to her lair.
…
Probably. But they’d lost the trails many times before. Which meant she couldn’t just kill them. A pity.
She was shaking with rage when she laid CorpseEye aside and nocked an arrow. Shifting slightly, she aimed at the big man’s chest, and let fly. Before it had even struck his heart, she’d grabbed CorpseEye, leaped the log, and was pounding toward Galan.
The man saw her, cried, “No!” and raised his war club. His feet kicked frost into the air as he charged her, screaming.
Koracoo lifted CorpseEye just as the man swung at her head. When their clubs met it sounded like lightning cracking. He shoved her away, and Koracoo ducked, spun, and bashed him in the kidney.
“You bitch in heat!” he cried, and swung his war club blindly. “I’m going to kill you!”
Koracoo ducked the blow intended to crush her skull, and danced back. As she lifted CorpseEye again, the man shrieked a war cry and charged. She spun in low, cracking him across the kneecap. He staggered. Koracoo twirled and broke his right arm. Galan’s war club dropped to the ground, but he didn’t give up.
He shouted, “Gannajero will avenge my death!” and lunged for her, one hand shooting for her throat.
She didn’t dodge fast enough. He body-slammed her to the ground and got his hand around her windpipe. As he squeezed, he said, “Does she have your children, bitch?”
Gasping for breath, Koracoo dropped CorpseEye, pulled a stiletto from her belt, and stabbed him repeatedly in the side and back. All the while, he howled and kept the pressure on her throat, strangling her.
Sindak and Towa raced toward her. Sindak cried, “Make sure the big man is dead! I’ll take care of the other one.”
Sindak clubbed Galan in the head and pulled him off Koracoo.
Koracoo sat up, rubbing her injured throat.
Blood poured from Galan’s head wound, but he managed to smile at Sindak. Sindak lifted his war club to kill him.
“No!” Koracoo shouted hoarsely. “Don’t kill him, Sindak!”
Sindak whirled to stare at her in confusion, and she said, “They were … Gannajero’s scouts … . Make him … tell you … the meeting place.”
Sindak’s eyes flared. “Where are you supposed to meet Gannajero tonight, you piece of filth?”
Gonda ran by her, heading straight for the dying warrior, and fell to the ground at his side. He shouted in Galan’s face, “Tell us! You have nothing to lose now! Tell me and I’ll make sure your family knows where your body is!”
Blood poured down Galan’s face. He stared up at Gonda as though he couldn’t quite see him. “Too late,” he said. “You’re … too late.”
“Too late for what?”
Galan chuckled. “Children … all dead.”
Gonda seemed to go weak. He straightened for a few instants; then he balled his fist and slammed it into Galan’s face, shouting, “Liar! You’re lying! Tell me you’re lying!” Gonda kept hitting him.
Sindak didn’t seem to know what to do. He stepped away, then glanced uneasily at Towa and Koracoo.
Koracoo got to her feet and, holding her throat, staggered toward Gonda. The dead warrior’s face was bloody pulp, and Gonda was still slamming his fists into his face. She put a hand on Gonda’s shoulder. “Stop. Gonda … stop! If we hurry, we should b-be able to track them right back to her camp.”
Gonda swung around to look at her; then his gaze shifted to the clear tracks they’d left in the frost. “Blessed Spirits. Sindak? Towa? Take their weapons and their packs. We’re leaving immediately!”
Sindak and Towa obeyed, ripping the men’s packs from their shoulders and emptying their quivers.
Koracoo mustered her strength and walked over to pick up CorpseEye. After she tied the club to her belt, she wiped her sweating face on her cape. Her throat ached.
“Sindak,” she ordered, “take the lead. If the trail forks, Gonda and I will follow one path; you and Towa will follow the other.”
“Yes, Koracoo.”
Sindak took off at a slow lope with Towa behind him.
She started to follow, but Gonda said, “Koracoo?” She turned.
“Forgive me.” He unthinkingly threw his arms around her in a hard embrace, as he’d done a hundred times. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was almost too late.”
Somewhere deep inside her she heard Odion cry out, “
Mother!”
and she went rigid in Gonda’s arms. He seemed to understand. Slowly, reluctantly, he released her and moved back.
They stared at each other. In Gonda’s eyes, she saw barely endurable pain, and enough guilt to smother a nation. From the excruciating expression on his face, he must see in her eyes exactly what she was feeling:
nothing.
There was only emptiness in her heart. It wasn’t natural. It was monstrous, and he did not understand it.
“Koracoo?” he said barely above a whisper. “Are you all right?”
“The frost is melting quickly, Gonda.” She held a hand out to the trail. “Please, hurry.”
O
dion
 
Ash from the burning longhouses floats through the air like black snowflakes.
I shove food into my mouth as fast as I can. We sit on the shore of a river lined by white cedars and scrubby bladdernut trees. I’ve heard the warriors call it Quill River. The water is covered with ash and reflects the lurid light of dozens of campfires. There must be three or four hundred men here. For the first time ever, Gannajero gave us each a wooden bowl heaped with food: roasted dog meat, freshwater clams and mussels, boiled corn gruel, squash, and dried plums. She must have Traded for it. Every warrior here swaggers around with a stuffed pack, smiling. More than a dozen games are in progress. Shouts and jeers fill the night. And there are many new children. Too many to count. Gannajero walks through them, selecting the ones she will keep. I try not to look. To feel.
The old woman ordered us not to say her name, told us she’d slit our throats if we did. For tonight, she is “Lupan.” A man. I study her bloodstained war shirt and ratty buckskin cape. Her toothless mouth is sunken in over her gums, but she frequently utters throaty laughs—just like the warriors. Her disguise includes a headdress made of long black hair and
decorated with bright feathers. If I didn’t know better, I’d be certain she was a man.
Wrass sits beside me, picking at his food. He places a single mussel in his mouth and chews slowly, as though it hurts to move his swollen jaw. His face looks even worse tonight than it did at dawn. The bruises have turned black. In the flickering firelight, his face almost seems to be covered with short-tailed weasel fur.
I say, “Bog Willow Village must have had plenty of food stored for winter.”
He answers, “They won’t need it any longer. Eat as much as you can hold.”
I shove an entire handful of roast venison into my mouth and chew. The meat is rich and tangy. My shrunken belly knots around it.
Tutelo leans her head against my shoulder and sighs as she sucks roast squash from her fingers.
Baji and Zateri have been sitting with their heads together, eating while they whisper. Zateri has removed her bag of Spirit plants and tucked it beneath her leg. She keeps scanning the many cooking pots around the campfires. When she sees me looking at her, she silently picks up the bag and crawls over. “Hehaka is out serving the warriors. Maybe if I can get this bag to him, he can—”
“No,” Wrass whispers. “We can’t trust him. He’s been here too long. He may think some of them are his friends.”
I nod. “Wrass is right. One of us has to do it.”
“Which one? How do we g-get close?” Zateri stutters, and her two front teeth seem to stick out farther.
I look around our small circle. All of us are terrified. No one wants to volunteer. Least of all me.
Wrass puts a hand to his head and closes his eyes as he weakly says, “Whoever does it will probably be killed. All of you need to understand. Tomorrow morning, they will start asking who was close to the pot. They’ll figure it out, and they’ll come looking for the person responsible.”
“But Wrass,” I say, “there are so many warriors here. There must be a thousand blood feuds between them. Why would they suspect us? I don’t—”
“They will, Odion.” Wrass slits his eyes and looks at me. “They will. Just accept it.” He takes a breath and lets it out slowly. “The poison will only be in Gannajero’s pot. They … they’ll come after us first.”
I doubt this, thinking she must have too many enemies to count, but I do not say it—because suddenly, clearly, I understand why Wrass insists
the person who does it will die. That is the price. Whoever volunteers must be willing to sacrifice his or her life for the rest of us.
I shrink into myself. My shoulders hunch forward, and I stare at the ground.
Not me, gods. Please, not me.
From my left, Tutelo rises. I jerk around to stare at her. She is standing tall, with her chin up and her tiny fists clenched at her sides. Half the copper ornaments are now gone from the sleeves and hem of her tan dress. Frayed threads hang loose. “I’ll do it,” she says. “I’m little. No one will be afraid of me.”
I start to object, but Wrass cuts me off. “Tutelo, you are very brave. But I don’t think—”
“Wrass, I’m just young, I’m not stupid. I can do it. But … but will you promise me something?”
“What, Tutelo?”
A strange glow lights her dark eyes. “I don’t care what happens to me, but I want Odion to be safe. And Baji and Zateri. When the bad men start getting sick, can you get them away?”
“You would give yourself up? For them?” He has one eye closed, and slits the other.
Tears glisten on her lashes. “Yes, if you promise me you’ll get them away. And get yourself away, too.”
Wrass sucks in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. As of tonight, he is our undisputed leader. Whatever he says, we will do. But he is very sick. He can barely hold his head up. “Why would you do that, Tutelo? You have only seen eight summers. Why would you give up the rest of your life for us?”
She squares her thin shoulders. “My mother is a war chief. She would give up her life for any of her warriors. I always wanted to be like her, to be a war chief someday.” She looks around the circle. “I can do it, Wrass. I want to do it.”
My heart aches. But I do not say a word. Fear is gnawing its way through my belly.
Zateri tucks the bag of Spirit plants into her legging, edges forward, and puts a hand on my sister’s arm. “Tutelo is brave, Wrass, but … I’m the one. I know how many Spirit plants to add, and I may be able to poison more than one pot. If I can do that, they won’t automatically suspect us.” She gazes out at the laughing warriors, and a mixture of fear and hatred tense her face. “The more of these men we can kill the better. Maybe some of the new children can escape. And maybe all of you can escape.”
Wrass asks, “Do you know what they’ll do to you if they catch you?”
She lowers her eyes, and her face flushes. “I’m not going to lie to you. I’m scared to death of what they’ll do … mostly scared of what they’ll do before they kill me. But I can stand it, Wrass. If I know you’re all safe, I can stand anything.”
A faint smile touches Wrass’ lips. “What if one of us gets injured escaping? He will need you and your Healing knowledge. I think you’re the only one of us who is not expendable, Zateri.”
Zateri’s mouth quivers. “But I—”
“You’re too valuable. Not you, Zateri.”
He does not look my way, but I feel Wrass thinking about me. Waiting for me to speak.
Baji sits up straighter, girding herself, and smooths long black hair away from her face. She knows from firsthand experience what the warriors will do to her before they kill her. How can she volunteer?
Baji says, “Me. I’m the one, Wrass. I’ll do it.”
“You?” I say. “Why—”
Wrass grasps my arm to stop me from continuing. He nods at Baji. “Baji may be the only one of us who can get close enough.”
“Why do you think that?” I demand to know.
With tears in her eyes, Baji answers, “Because, silly boy, I’m beautiful. I can make the men want me enough that they’ll carry me right into their camp and sit me down by the stew pot. No matter what happens, by the end of the night, I
will
have dumped the Spirit plants in that pot.” Her eyes are stony, resolved to do what must be done.
Wrass studies her for a long time before he asks, “Are you sure about this, Baji?”
“Yes, it’s … it’s for my sisters. If I die, you’ll carry my bones home, won’t you? So I can travel to the afterlife to be with them?”
Wrass’ eyes glitter. “If I have breath in my body, I will find and carry your bones back to your people. I give you my oath.”
A trembling smile comes to Baji’s lips. She holds out her hand. “Give me the Spirit plants, Zateri.”
Zateri pulls the bag from her legging and hesitantly hands it over. “Baji, if you can, only use half the bag in Gannajero’s pot, then—”
“No.” Baji shakes her head. “I want her dead. I’m going to dump it all in. I can’t wait to see her writhing on the ground clutching at her throat and vomiting her guts out.”
Zateri swallows hard. “All right.”
Wrass’ head doesn’t move, but his gaze shifts. He looks at me with haunted eyes.
Pain constricts my heart like strips of wet rawhide drying in the heat of Elder Brother Sun. He’s already chosen Baji, hasn’t he? What could it hurt to tell him I’ll go? He wouldn’t pick me. He’s already said that she’s the only one who can get close enough. He wouldn’t pick me … would he?
I sit as though made of ice.
Wrass lowers his gaze and looks away. The firelight casts the long shadow of his hooked nose across his cheek. “All right, Baji. You’re the one. But you can’t do it until later. After the warriors have been drinking corn brew and fighting for half the night, their guards will be down. I’ll tell you when. Agreed?”
Baji nods. “Yes.”
Wrass hangs his injured head. “Let’s all finish eating and get as much rest as we—”
Kotin appears out of the crowd and walks toward us with two men. All are swaying on their feet, laughing and shoving each other. Having a good time.
When he stops before us, Kotin bares his broken yellow teeth and says, “You, Chipmunk Teeth, go with Pestis. He’ll take good care of you.”
Zateri starts shaking.
Pestis staggers forward. He is short and squat. His eyes are rolling in his head, as though he can’t keep them still. “Come here, girl!”
Zateri seems to have petrified. She just stares at him with her jaw clenched.
Kotin lunges for her, grabs her arm, and hauls her to her feet. “I said go with Pestis!” He shoves her into Pestis’ arms.
Her legs are trembling when Pestis drags her out into the forest, far away from the camp.
Not even victorious warriors would couple with a child. Gannajero must have sent out advance scouts to move through the war party and find the men with dangerous appetites. Or, perhaps these men do not know Zateri and Baji are still girls? Has Gannajero told them they are women? Baji could be mistaken for a woman, but Zateri …
“You, Standing Stone boy,” Kotin says, and I jerk around to stare at him. “Go with War Chief Manidos.”
The muscular giant squints at me and says, “He’s a skeleton. Don’t
you ever feed them? I don’t want him. What about the other boy? At least he has some muscles on his body.”
Kotin eyes Wrass. Wrass glares defiantly at him and braces his hands on the ground to stand.
Kotin says, “You only think you want him. We beat him half to death last night. He’ll throw up all over you.”
“Oh, well …” The giant’s lips pucker. “All right, I’ll take the skeleton.”
I do not move.
“Get up, boy,” Kotin orders.
“No!” Tutelo cries and runs forward. She throws herself at Kotin, slamming her fists into his legs. “Leave my brother alone! Leave him alone!”
“You little wildcat.” Kotin puts a hand on her head and shoves her hard to the ground.
Tutelo starts wailing in a high-pitched voice I’ve never heard before.
“Tutelo!” I cry and leap to my feet to run to her.
But Kotin catches me by the back of the shirt and swings me around and right into the giant’s arms. Kotin smiles. “We’ve been saving him for you, Manidos. He’s fresh. You’ll like him. If you don’t, I’ll refund half the price.”
Manidos crushes my hand in his and drags me away into the forest. My heart is thundering. He’s in a hurry, walking fast, trying to get far away from the camp. I can’t keep up and keep tripping over rocks and roots. Each time, he hauls me to my feet without a word.
BOOK: People of the Longhouse
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