People of the Nightland (North America's Forgotten Past) (9 page)

Read People of the Nightland (North America's Forgotten Past) Online

Authors: W. Michael Gear,Kathleen O'Neal Gear

BOOK: People of the Nightland (North America's Forgotten Past)
12.53Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
“Not if he keeps killing our young men the way he has been. I’d give almost anything to put him in a cage for a while and watch him bleed.”
“Blame that on Karigi,” Ta’Hona replied.
“Leave my war chief out of this!” Satah pointed a hard finger. “No one ever had to put him in a cage for incompetence.”
Nashat raised his hands to placate. “We have enough to worry about without turning on ourselves. Our war chiefs have done all that was expected of them.” And, after all, Karigi had his uses. Kakala, however, had started to worry Nashat. Rumors were that he had taken to warning camps before he destroyed them.
The last thing I need is a war chief with a conscience.
Which brings us to …
“We have another problem.”
All eyes turned to Nashat.
“The slaves are eating more than they are producing. We have too many. Especially with this last bunch the Guide had us bring in.”
“We can’t just turn them loose,” Ta’Hona replied, a frown lining his scarred old face.
“No.” Nashat narrowed his eyes. “They are dangerous. The fools still cry out to Wolf Dreamer, asking his blessing and help. Others sing the praises of Windwolf. I would hate to see this get out of hand. The accursed man causes us enough problems without some slave getting the idea he might come in some silly attempt at rescue.”
“Then deal with it.” Khepa waved a thick-veined hand in dismissal.
“That is the will of the Council?” Nashat asked.
Three heads bobbed.
“Then deal with it, I shall.” He smiled. “As a token of the respect I have for the Wolverine Clan war chief, Satah, I shall let Karigi attend to it.”
Satah grinned, exposing his toothless pink gums.
“I still don’t see what the Guide wants with this woman,” Ta’Hona growled.
Nashat could care less what Ti-Bish wanted with a woman. His concern was Windwolf—and the Lame Bull People.
L
ookingbill followed Trembler down the night-dark trail. War Chief Fish Hawk—big and raw-boned—stood before the rockshelter with his war club gripped in a tight fist. Six more warriors could be seen around the slope, their gazes trained on the darkness.
Lookingbill walked up to Fish Hawk and said, “I want you to move far enough away that your warriors can’t overhear. There are enough stories spread as it is.”
“Is that a good idea? This is Windwolf we’re talking about.”
“By coming alone, Windwolf has shown his trustworthiness.”
Fish Hawk gave him a long, penetrating look, then lifted a hand and called, “Warriors, spread out. Let’s not get caught by surprise.”
Lookingbill turned to Trembler. “If you would move up the trail a ways, you could ensure that we are not interrupted by anyone coming to look for me.”
“I’ll make some fitting excuse, old friend.” Trembler laid a hand on his shoulder. “Perhaps something about a problem with your bowels.”
He sighed. “Oh, and they’d love to believe that!”
Lookingbill ducked into the cramped space, and the small oil lamp in the middle of the floor flickered. The hole consisted of three boulders
slanted against each other. Lookingbill sniffed, smelling dry, cold rock; but there was something else, a hint of human sweat, the faintest odor of old campfires.
“War Chief Windwolf?” he asked the form huddled back in the shadows.
“Lookingbill?” Windwolf straightened. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered, with hard eyes. His black hair had been cut short in mourning. Two winters, and he still hadn’t healed from Bramble’s death? Though his darts and an atlatl stood against the wall by his side, he had a knife and war club tied to his belt.
“I am glad that you have come,” Lookingbill said. “Given the promise of safety made by the Nightland, I wasn’t sure that you would.”
“I am ready to grasp at the faintest thread.” But he made no effort to step away from his atlatl and war darts.
Lookingbill hobbled toward the lamp and slumped to the floor. Even this trace of warmth was welcome.
Windwolf studied him for a moment, then asked, “Why did you ask to meet with me?”
Lookingbill gestured to the floor on the opposite side of the lamp. “Come, sit. Let us talk as friends.”
Windwolf hesitated, glanced at the mouth of the rockshelter, then picked up his darts and atlatl. He walked around to kneel just to the left of the entrance. He rested a long dart across his knees. “The Lame Bull People have rarely been our friends.”
“Perhaps it’s time that changed.”
“A great many lives would have been saved if it had changed two summers ago.”
Lookingbill nodded. “Oh, yes, War Chief. My people, however—like yours in the beginning—prefer to delude themselves.”
Windwolf glanced out the entrance at the positions of the warriors, then turned back. “I’m listening.”
Lookingbill exhaled. “Do you know much about Ti-Bish?”
“Some. Not much.”
“Apparently he is very charismatic. Many of my own people have been fooled by him.”
“Among my people, also.”
“There are witnesses who claim that an evil Spirit appeared beside his cradleboard the day he was born. It wrapped Ti-Bish in a white mammoth hide and fed him lightning bolts.”
Windwolf’s face showed no emotion. “Dreamers arise constantly, Chief, like wolves among mice. He’s no different.”
“People say he is.”
Windwolf didn’t respond.
Lookingbill smiled faintly. “Are you aware that many women from Foxfire’s line have been killed recently? Most have died under suspicious circumstances. No one claims the responsibility.”
Windwolf’s brows drew down over his pointed nose. “Foxfire? Wolf Dreamer’s half brother? The son of Ice Fire and Dancing Fox?”
“Yes.” Lookingbill’s gaze fixed on the lamp’s tiny flame. As Wind Woman sneaked into the rockshelter and sniffed around the walls, it fluttered, on the verge of going out.
Windwolf said, “Why is that important?”
“Because prophecies tell us that in the last days, just before the destruction of the world, a new Dreamer will be born. He will lead his people to safety … and he will come from the Foxfire clan.”
Silence filled the chamber.
When Lookingbill said no more, Windwolf asked, “How many women from Foxfire’s line are left?”
“My daughters, Dipper and Mossy, and a cousin, Loon Spot; but she’s too old to bear children. She would be no threat to Ti-Bish.”
“Do you think he’s deliberately trying to kill off your family? To make sure the prophecies are never fulfilled?”
Lookingbill stared out into the night. He felt it again, that looming presence, as though the darkness itself had ears. “It’s possible. Ti-Bish is a curious character. He claims that Raven Hunter came to him and gave him a Vision.”
“You tell me old news. That’s when he began preaching that Wolf Dreamer was wicked and Raven Hunter was good. He says the two are locked in a constant battle over the fate of our world.”
“He also believes that anyone who worships Wolf Dreamer is evil. That’s why he has targeted your Sunpath People.”
Windwolf’s bushy black brows drew together. He stared at the sputtering oil lamp for several heartbeats before asking, “Both the Southwind and Lame Bull People worship Wolf Dreamer.You and I know it’s more than that. The Nightland People are using the Prophet’s religion as an excuse to take our lands. It’s only recently that Ti-Bish has gained any followers.” He paused. “Even his own people called him the Idiot.”
“But all that changed two summers ago when Nashat found him.”
“Yes.” Windwolf exhaled the word. “Nashat plucked Ti-Bish from the forests, cleaned him up, and started announcing the arrival of the Blessed Guide promised in the Old Stories.”
“Selling him?”
“Clearly. We had no problems with Ti-Bish until he began preaching that anyone who worshipped Wolf Dreamer was evil.” Windwolf tilted his head and appeared to be listening to the night sounds outside. Softly, he continued, “Since the attacks began, many would like nothing better than to kill him … and Nashat wouldn’t like that.”
Lookingbill nodded in understanding. “You’ve been on the trail for many days. Have you heard that the Nine Pipes band was attacked and destroyed?”
Windwolf’s face slackened. “Were there survivors?”
“Kakala took all the women. I was told earlier that Nashat has ordered them held in some sort of pen and was waiting for Ti-Bish to decide their fates.”
Windwolf massaged his brow. “His soul must be loose.”
“Sometimes it seems so. The servants in the Nightland caves say that after Raven Hunter talks with Ti-Bish, he wanders the ice labyrinth for days, mumbling to himself, waving his arms like a madman, trying to find the hole in the ice to lead his people back to the time of the Long Dark.”
Windwolf’s eyes glowed as though from an inner fire. “Let us get to the point. Why did you ask me to come here?”
Lookingbill held that intense gaze and saw something frail behind it, as though the man was trying very hard to cover a soul-deep pain.
“You’re here because I want to help you find a way to kill the Nightland Prophet.”
I
n a world gone mad, Skimmer shivered and struggled unsuccessfully to find some faint thread to cling to. She huddled in the darkness, clinging to her daughter, Ashes, for what little warmth they could share.
She had stared in disbelief when Kakala’s warriors had herded them into the pen. The walls were a curious construction of spruce poles carried up from the Lame Bull lands, sections of whale, mammoth, and other ribs, all lashed together. It was the sort of thing her people built to trap animals in.
Who could have thought up such a thing? And what was its purpose?
Then Nashat had walked out, peered through the bars, pointed to high-breasted young Blue Wing, and ordered her removed. Skimmer and the rest of the women had watched silently as pretty Blue Wing stepped out, endured Nashat’s rude assessment of her slim body, and then was ordered to be taken and delivered to the Guide.
Skimmer had silently thanked Wolf Dreamer that it wasn’t her. Now, after four days, she wasn’t so sure. Blue Wing might have to endure Ti-Bish pumping himself between her legs, but she probably had food and drink.
Skimmer swallowed down her dry throat.
Is that what I have become? An animal willing to let a twisted beast use my body in return for a drink and something to eat?
And what of Ashes? She considered at her daughter, safely nestled at her feet.
Skimmer shivered, and looked up at the moonlit night. Only the wind from the south gave them hope. When it faded, the terrible cold came rolling down from the Ice Giants. She could see them above the line of poles, rising white and misty in the moonlight.
Skimmer had never been this close to the huge mountains of ice, had never imagined that they could be so big. They filled the northern horizon, rising in oddly shaped peaks that rose to twisted points. Here and there, she could see where some had slid down, the ice cracked and broken. The whole of it was riddled with dark holes that ran down to where?
The very thought of it sent shivers through her bones that not even her chilled flesh could mock.
What brought me here?
Her reeling soul couldn’t quite grasp her situation. It was like living a disjointed Dream, some impossible twist of imagined horror.
Oh, Hookmaker, how did this happen to us?
But her husband was gone. The time to plead with ghosts was over. The fate they had feared had come to collect them. Hookmaker was dead. She’d stood behind his body, had stared in disbelief that the man she loved and argued with lay bleeding and dying before her. In that shocked moment, some voice within had urged her to run; but she had remained rooted, eyes fixed on her husband as he groaned and blood ran out of his head. She’d barely noticed the warriors who surrounded her, lifted her, and carried her away. She had turned, staring in horror at Hookmaker’s body until it was out of sight.
“Mother, I’m scared. Where’s Father?” Ashes’ pleading voice interrupted her misery.
“Don’t cry, Ashes,” Skimmer whispered. “Hallowed Ancestors, please don’t cry.”
She glanced up at the pole palisade that surrounded the cramped captives. Like wicked black fangs it rose against the moonlit night. She turned her head away, trying to send her souls back to a place where Hookmaker lived, where the stench of human feces, urine, and fear didn’t clog her nose.
“Are they going to kill us?” Ashes whispered fearfully. “The Nightland warriors?”
“No. We’re going to escape. I promise you.”
Ashes clutched Skimmer’s leg. Her young lips had swollen and cracked until she could barely speak. Skimmer stroked her matted hair, wondering how much longer Ti-Bish would force them to suffer.
Tens of people, survivors of the attacks, packed the small log enclosure, standing shoulder to shoulder. Children cried everywhere, mothers impotent to heal the wounds of thirst or hunger. And many of the women were injured. Bloody bandages wrapped arms, legs, and skulls. And these had been the strong ones: the women and children who could carry heavy packs back to the Nightland villages.
They’d been waiting for days, tortured by thirst, the icy wind tearing at their flesh. Several women had gone mad, screaming and lashing out at anyone who unknowingly pressed against them, trying to maintain their slim boundary of space. The sick and weak, too feeble to stand, took turns sitting, heads braced on drawn-up knees. Some were already dead, their bodies hauled to a stinking pile against the back wall. Every time the cold wind changed direction it brought her the scent of rotting corpses. Bile would rise in her throat, and she had to drape her sleeve over her nose.
We live a nightmare. Wolf Dreamer? What have we done to anger you so?
To keep herself standing, Skimmer concentrated on hate. Hatred of all the Nightland People—but especially Ti-Bish and the Nightland clan Elders. She
had
been plotting the Prophet’s murder. It was not an easy task. Nashat rarely allowed the Prophet to appear in public, and then only when thoroughly protected by guards. And always, always, with Nashat at his side. But she’d find him vulnerable someday.
“Where’s Windwolf?” Kicking Fawn moaned. “Has anyone heard? Where’s War Chief Windwolf?”
Hunched and haunted, Kicking Fawn stood only a few hands away from Skimmer, her eyes fixed intently on the ground. Matted hair—spruce needles still visible—hung down over her ears. Several times on the journey north, the traitor, Goodeagle, had taken her off in the trees. Each time she had come back with an ever-greater distance in her eyes.
Skimmer tried to pry her eyes away, but couldn’t. Kicking Fawn had been vivacious and beautiful. Could this empty-eyed woman be the same quick-witted, smiling Kicking Fawn? Her daughter, Swan, a girl of nine, stood beside her. She patted her mother’s hand. “He’s coming, Mother. I know he is. He’ll be here soon.”
“He’s coming?” Kicking Fawn’s eyes lit with hope. “Someone told you?”
“Yes,” Swan said, but she was obviously lying. “I heard it only moments ago. He’s coming.”
“Windwolf is coming,” Kicking Fawn sighed. “He’ll save us. He’ll kill these Nightland dogs.”
“Yes, now, don’t worry. Why don’t you try to sit down?”
By midnight, Kicking Fawn’s soul had drifted loose. She screamed, “Sunpath People, I see a giant wave rolling down over us! It’s huge! Don’t you see it?”
Kicking Fawn pointed toward the Ice Giants. “Oh, Spirits, we can’t escape!”
Worried mutterings erupted as the packed women staggered, pushing each other, straining to see where Kicking Fawn pointed. When they discovered only blue-white mountains of ice, they turned sharply, staring.
“Can’t you see it? What’s the matter with you?” Kicking Fawn shoved Swan away and fell to the ground. She covered her head and writhed as though in the throes of a fit.
Swan stared fearfully down at her mother.
At first people only stood quietly, riveted by terror, but as the woman’s wailing grew to hideous shrieks, someone shouted, “Stop her! I can’t stand it!”
“Bright glittering water, it fills the whole sky!”
Swan stroked her hair tenderly, “Mother, please, it’s all right. There’s no water. You’re just tired and thirsty. We—”
“Oh, Blessed Ancestors have pity. Have pity!”
“She’ll drive us all mad!” Mole, a woman from the Black Elk band, wailed. “Someone shut her up!”
Swan tried to calm her mother. “Stop this, Mother. You’ll use up your strength.You have to save your strength or you’ll die like grandmother. You—”
“Can’t you see it?” Kicking Fawn asked in an agonized whisper.
“The sky is empty, Mother. Just a few Cloud People, that’s all.”
Kicking Fawn suddenly sat up and screamed, “What’s the matter with you all? The wave comes from the caves of the Nightland. They’ve sent it to destroy us!”
“I don’t care if you have to kill her,” a dirty-haired woman named Kite shouted. “Keep her quiet!”
Swan looked up, eyes wide, moonlit tears glistening on her cheeks.
Some woman Skimmer didn’t know hauled back and kicked Kicking Fawn in the mouth.
Swan gathered her mother in her arms protectively, sobbing, “Don’t hurt her! The warriors killed the rest of our family. She’s crazy from the pain!”
White Bat, once a good friend, thrust a finger into Skimmer’s face, saying, “You’re a chief ’s wife. Make her stop!”
“Stop her yourself,” Skimmer whispered, and looked away. “Where were you when we tried to rally our people to fight the Nightland?”
“Listening to your husband,” White Bat answered acidly. “It was Hookmaker who counseled for peace and restraint.”
Skimmer glanced around the enclosure. Terror shone from every face, madness about to burst the very walls enclosing them. Trembling from fatigue and panic, soon they’d all be crazy enough to kill for a breath of silence, or a place to lie down.
“Our souls are loose,” Young Elk said. “It … it must be the cold.”
“Yes, the cold.”
As the night dragged on, fights broke out when women struggled to find sleeping positions. Skimmer remained standing, letting Ashes sleep between her spread feet. In the distance, the towering bulk of the Ice Giants gleamed with an unnatural blue fire. Legends said that a vast ocean of fresh water spread beneath them. She dreamed of dipping her hands in it, and drinking endlessly.
Then, in the middle of the night, when the Blessed Star People gleamed like frost crystals cast across the heavens, a wrenching scream sent a jolt through her. In the dim star glow, she saw Kicking Fawn stand up and stretch her arm toward the Ice Giants. Her hair jutted out at odd angles, making her look like an evil Spirit straight from the underworlds.
“Look! The wave! It swallows our children! Oh, Spirits above, what have we done to deserve such punishment?”
Skimmer stared up at the Blessed Star People, trying to force her thoughts from the horrifying prediction. A meaty slap sounded in the darkness, followed by another and another. Three women shoved the crying Swan away and grabbed Kicking Fawn. They pressed her to the ground, each kicking the woman.
Kicking Fawn cried, “Why can’t you see it? It’s so close! Can’t you—”
“Hallowed Ancestors, shut her up!” a hoarse voice called. “We have to get some sleep!”
Grunts sounded, and Skimmer turned to see one of the women drive an elbow into Swan’s face as she tried to interfere. Another woman jammed a hide knot into Kicking Fawn’s mouth. She struggled pitifully, choking. Swan huddled to the side, dark blood dripping from her nose.
Skimmer squeezed her eyes closed. Would the night never end?
Quietly she prayed, “Wolf Dreamer, why won’t you help us?”
She put a hand over her mouth as silent, dry sobs choked her.
“M-Mother,” Ashes said, patting her mother’s leg soothingly. “Don’t cry.”
Skimmer sat down, squeezing tightly between two women, to hug her daughter.
“Get up!” an older woman yelled. “There’s no room!”
The woman cursed and pounded her back, but she huddled against the beating, refusing to rise. Her trembling legs refused to hold her.
“Don’t hit my mother!” Ashes shrieked, using her tiny fists to weakly flail at the woman’s leg.
In a cold voice, Skimmer said, “If you touch me again, I will get up and
choke the air out of your throat
!”
In defeat, the woman lifted her hands, muttering, “All right. For now.”
Ashes crawled into Skimmer’s lap. “Don’t cry, Mother.” Her daughter extended a tired, dirty hand to pat her back.
Skimmer stroked Ashes’ hair. “You’re the one who must sleep. Tomorrow might be worse. We have to save our strength.”
“But you have to sleep, too.”
“All right, I’ll try. Close your eyes now.”
Ashes relaxed in Skimmer’s arms.
She turned to glance through the mass at Kicking Fawn. The woman was staring across the enclosure with still black eyes.
Two guards had climbed up to sit on top of the logs. In the silver wash of starlight, their faces shone a ghostly gray.

Other books

Callsign: King II- Underworld by Robinson, Jeremy
Fragments by Morgan Gallagher
Napoleon's Woman by Samantha Saxon
The Beautiful Dead by Banner, Daryl
ForArtsSake by Kai Lu
El universo elegante by Brian Greene
The Experiment by Costanza, Christopher