Authors: W. Michael Gear

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

People of the Longhouse (3 page)

BOOK: People of the Longhouse

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Two of the girls sit as if frozen, staring wide-eyed at him, but the talkative girl says, “I just wanted to finish—”

Big Man stalks toward her, and the expression on his face makes my blood go cold. The blow is swift and fierce. The girl shrieks and topples backward. When she rolls onto her side, blood pours from her mouth and spatters the bright autumn leaves.

Big Man glares at the rest of us. “Do you understand now? See what happens if you make me angry? If you do not obey me instantly? Be
quiet
!”

The only sounds are the wind through the trees and the soft sobbing of the baby.

We seem to sit forever, staring at each other, staring at our captors. I am certain that every child is thinking the same thing I am:
Someone is coming for us. That’s why we’re here. This is a meeting place. Who is coming?

In less than one hand of time, nine strangers appear. They are like ghosts floating out of the forest. One is a boy about my age. Seven of them are lean, hungry men with mean eyes. The tallest man moves like a gangly stork and carries a heavy hide pack slung over his shoulder. The last person is a woman. She is old, maybe forty summers. Graying black hair hangs in greasy twists around her wrinkled face, and her eyes … her eyes are black bottomless pits. She seems to have no souls. Her toothless mouth is puckered and hard, and her nose resembles a sun-withered plum. When she speaks it is as though sandstone boulders are rubbing together. Each word is a scratchy blow: “Get them up. Let me look at them.”

“Get up,” Big Man orders. “All of you. Stand up. The great Gannajero wants to see you.”

We stand. All of us are trembling. I have never heard of Gannajero, but it terrifies me that Big Man does not care if I know her name. It is as though he believes she is so powerful nothing can harm her.

Gannajero drags over the boy who came with her, shoves him into our group, then slowly walks down the line, scowling at each of us. When she looks at me, my legs go weak. Evil lives in her eyes. I can feel it coiling around my heart, squeezing the life from it. I can’t breathe. When she moves on to the next child, I stagger and lock my knees to keep standing.

Wrass tries to be brave. He has his jaw clenched and stares back at her without blinking. This makes Gannajero smile at him. It is not a pleasant smile, but a promise of pain to come.

Crows squawk, and Gannajero looks up to watch them soar through the sky. It is a small flock, ten or twelve jet-black birds. In a hoarse voice, she cries,
“Caw! Caw, caw!”
The crows seem startled. As though curious, many of them cock their heads and began to circle above her, angling their wings, watching,
thocking
inquisitively to each other.

Gannajero’s mouth opens in a toothless smile, and she says, “Are any of you children related?”

The oldest of the three Flint girls answers, “We are sisters.”

Agres says, “So are we.”

I hesitate, not sure whether I should give her this information. Before I can respond, Tutelo says, “We are brother and sister.”

Gannajero turns to Big Man and points at Agres. “Why did you bring that one? What use do I have for an infant?”

Big Man gestures awkwardly. “The girl refused to leave it. I thought it was easier to let her keep it for a while.”

Agres’ face goes white. She clutches her sister more tightly to her chest. Her gaze darts from Big Man to Gannajero. The terrible truth is dawning, but she doesn’t believe it yet.

None of us do.

Gannajero walks back toward her warriors. As she passes Big Man, she says, “The baby is yours. I will take the others. Kotin, pay him.”

The gangly warrior unslings his heavy pack, walks forward, and hands it to Big Man.

Big Man places the pack on the ground. When he opens it, awed whispers filter through the gathering. The pack is filled with exquisite strings of pearls, pounded sheets of copper, etched shell gorgets, and many things I cannot see. Enough wealth to ransom a village. Big Man chuckles and begins tossing shell gorgets and pendants to each of his friends. They grin and laugh. Broken Teeth does a little dance of joy.

Wrass glances at me, silently asking if I understand this. I shake my head.

I do not understand. Child slaves are not worth so much. A few strings of shell beads for each of us would be enough.

“I’ll meet you again next moon. But not here,” Gannajero says to Big Man. “I’ll send a messenger to tell you where.”

“Fine.”

Gannajero turns to her warriors. “Bring all of them except the baby.”

She trudges away into the forest, and her warriors circle us like a pack of hungry dogs. The tall gangly man, Kotin, holds out his hands to Agres. “Be a good girl. Give me the child.”

Agres bursts into tears. “No. She’s just a baby!”

“I don’t have time to play games. Give her to me.”

Agres starts to back away, and this enrages Kotin. He lunges for Agres, grabs her arm, and flings her to the ground. She loses hold of her sister, and the baby bounces into the leaves, shrieking. Agres madly crawls for her sister, but before she can reach her, Kotin brutally kicks Agres in the ribs and sends her sprawling.

“My father is a chief! He’s going to kill you!” Agres shouts.

Kotin picks up the bundled baby and tosses it to Big Man. “Gannajero said this was yours.”

Big Man catches it. “What am I going to do with it?”

Kotin shrugs, glances at the wailing child, and says, “The rest of you. Follow me.”

I grip Tutelo’s hand and walk. The world is blurry.

“Get up,” one of the warriors says to Agres.

She struggles to rise, but can’t. She’s crying too hard. “My father—” She chokes on the word. “He’ll find you!”

“Yes, yes, I can’t wait to meet him.” The man acts as though he has heard these same words from hundreds of children. He drags Agres to her feet and forces her into line just ahead of Tutelo. She is clutching her ribs and groaning as though they are broken.

As Agres passes Big Man, she lunges, grabs the baby, and runs into the forest. Spontaneous cheers rise from the children. We are all praying she escapes. If she can do it …

Gannajero shouts, “Kotin, teach a lesson!”

Kotin unslings his bow and nocks an arrow. He takes his time sighting down the shaft.

Agres is still running when the arrow pierces her back. She careens forward, trying to keep hold of her sister, but it is too difficult. Blood is drenching her dress, pulsing in time to her heartbeat. She has only enough strength to gently place the baby on the ground, then stagger over to an oak trunk and lean against it.

Big Man and his warriors don’t even seem to notice. They split up and trot away in different directions. No one looks back.

“Little fool,” Gannajero says, and glares at the rest of us. “Look and learn. If you run, you die.”

Gannajero tramps away. Her warriors force us to march up the trail behind her, but I keep looking back. For an eternity, Agres stands there. Finally, she sinks to her knees and collapses into the leaves without a sound.

For another finger of time, I hear the baby crying.

We turn onto a new trail and head down into a grove of pines. My heart is beating in my ears, slamming against my skull, growing louder and louder, until a stunned ringing shakes me.

Crows circle overhead, and I hear magpies in the distance. In a few days, there will be nothing left of Agres or her sister. Their bones will be picked clean, then covered by leaves, and finally melt into the forest floor. No one will know what happened to them.

I can’t stop myself from wondering when the same thing is going to happen to Tutelo and me.

Our People believe that the dead must be buried properly or their afterlife soul cannot reach the Land of the Dead. Instead, it becomes a homeless ghost, wandering the forests alone, forever.

Don’t think about it. Don’t.

It’s raining. I look up. Misty veils drift down from dark clouds. The forest begins to hiss, and the bright autumn leaves bob as they are patted by the drops.

Walk. Just keep walking.

Three

A
s the campfires of the dead flashed between the clouds, they cast a dusty radiance over the rain-drenched forest, silvering the dark oaks and elms that covered the mountains. The muddy trail was awash. In the indigo shadows cast by the wind-touched branches, the water seemed to rise and fall like waves.

Sonon took a deep breath, allowing the pungent fragrances of earth and bark to seep into his exhausted body; then he twined his hands in the girl’s long black hair and continued dragging her through the mud. His arms and back ached from the labor. In the constant downpour, he kept losing his hold.

As he walked, he softly sang, “
The crow comes, the crow comes, pity the little children, beat the drum … .”

With each step, he heard the beating of the crow’s wings in his head. It was always there. A soft rhythmic pushing of air, as though she lived right behind his eyes, saw his world, knew his most precious dreams. He’d heard her wings since he’d seen six summers. Sometimes, especially at night, he felt her darkness pressing against his eyes like icy hands, trying to shove her way out of his skull.

“ …
beat the drum, grab the young, and run, run, run.”

He stopped to catch his breath and take a new grip. His gaze lowered to the girl’s perfect oval face. In the flashes of lightning, her copper
earspools blazed. He studied her turned-up nose and the unnatural angle of her gaping mouth. Her dark eyes were half-open, staring blankly at the mist that encircled the treetops. Mud coated her white doehide dress, making it cling to her body like a second skin, highlighting the contours of her young breasts and hips. He wiped his drenched face on his sleeve and let out a shaky breath.

It had been raining hard since nightfall, soaking the brittle forest and turning the paths into creeks. Fortunately, the runoff would cover his trail. As always, Sky Woman, the grandmother of human beings, had seen his honor, and chosen to protect him from his enemies—but it made his task much harder. Most of the day, he had carried her in his arms. Now, he could only manage to drag her.

“No,” he whispered, and squeezed his eyes closed for several long moments. “We are almost home. I owe her more than this.”

Despite his fatigue, he steadied his muscles and bent to slip his arms beneath her to carry her again. It wasn’t much farther. He could do this. He lifted her and slogged on down the trail, drowning in the sensation of her stone-cold body pressed tightly against his. Her long hair draped his left arm and stuck wetly to his thigh. Every step he took, those dark strands stroked him, and he longed to weep.

For a time, he just listened to the clicking of her shell bracelets and tried to fight back the memories.

A short while after she’d fallen, he’d gone to her. She’d stared up at him. The silent pleading in her dark eyes had left him trembling.

Blessed Creator, how many times had girls gazed at him like that? How many times had he knelt in their blood and lifted their wounded bodies into his arms? He was a warrior and supposed to be hardened to such things … but he doubted he ever would be.

Lightning flashed, and Thunderers dove right over his head. He gasped, and in the sudden glare of brilliantly lit oaks, he felt somehow unreal … more like a ghost walking through the Land of the Dead than through lands belonging to the People of the Standing Stone.

As the Thunderers cracked and soared away, a gust of wind rattled the branches. Showers of wet leaves cascaded down around him. Sonon shivered. Already, the nights were colder. It would not be long now until Hatho, the Frost Spirit, came again to live among humans. Hatho was an old man in white who carried a large club that he used to strike against the trees, to make them creak and crack as the icy winds of winter descended upon the world.

Gathering his strength, Sonon forced himself to breathe.

The night scents smelled incredibly clear to him. The tang of damp oaks mixed sweetly with the fragrances of the nearby Forks River and the earthiness of the thunderstorm that seemed to have no end.

Ahead, through the dense tangle of trees, he glimpsed the shell midden used by the People of the Hills. The midden—a trash mound three times the height of a man—marked their territorial border. In a few paces, he would be out of Standing Stone country.

Just the thought filled him with hope. He forced his shaking legs to move faster. The girl’s body rocked in his arms.

“Just a little longer,” he murmured to her.

Repeated flashes of lightning turned the shell midden into a wildly twinkling hill.

As he started up the steep slope, he stumbled, almost dropped her, and clutched her to his broad chest. “Careful,” he hissed, more to himself than to her. “Careful now. We are almost there.”

With his sandals skidding and clattering on the wet shells, he carried her to the top of the mound and gently lowered her body. The view from up here was gorgeous. Whitecaps glistened down the length of the wide Forks River, and for as far as he could see, lightning slashed the stormy sky.

“You’re home,” he said, and bent to stroke her face. Her skin felt cold and clammy.

Sonon straightened. For a few brief instants, he did not hear the rain or the wind through the branches. His souls were filled with a terrible silence. Each person, before he crossed the bridge to the afterlife, had to discover what he was running from and why. This moment—this exact moment—was the heartbeat of his own search. The terror that had stalked him all his life.

“The crow comes, the crow comes, beat the drum, hide the young, and run, run, run,”
he sang as he tried to focus his eyes. A dark fluttering filled his head. The iron-gray night was suddenly broken and shimmering, as though each instant was nothing more than a shattered glimpse of death.

Desperation tingled his veins.

He lifted his face to the storm … . The rain washed her blood from his hands … . The roar of Thunderers drowned his agonized cries.

When he could breathe again, he choked out the words, “One f-final task.”

He grabbed the leather cord of his gorget and lifted his precious
conch shell pendant from around his neck. The False Face image carved into the shell stared up at him with hollow eyes. Holding it in both hands, he breathed his soul into it, then placed it upon her chest, right over the protruding shaft of the arrow. As he straightened, the old, tarnished, copper beads that encircled the collar of his cape clicked together.

“When I reach the bridge to the afterlife, remember me,” he whispered.

He watched the cascades of falling leaves that showered the forest while he thought about death: hers and his own. There was a bridge that spanned a black abyss of nothingness, and each soul had to cross it to reach the afterlife. Standing on this side of the bridge were all the animals a man had known in his life. Those he had helped defended him and gave him the time to cross the bridge. Those he had hurt chased him, trying to make him fall into the abyss, where his soul would float in black emptiness for eternity. On the opposite side of the bridge—if a man was going to make it—he saw all the people he’d ever loved, waiting for him. A man who was not going to make it across saw nothing.

Sonon knew, for he had stood upon the bridge many times and seen across the border of death to what lay beyond. That emptiness still lived in his dreams, calling to him in a lover’s voice, luring him to step onto the planks. Someday he would freely walk into those open arms and never return. He longed for that black peace with all his heart.

Cold wind rustled the trees around him, and leaves pirouetted through the air.

He sucked several deep breaths into his lungs and forced his trembling legs down the midden slope toward the trail that led east.

BOOK: People of the Longhouse

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