The Broken Land (7 page)

In the drifting mist behind his eyes, the huge man-shaped blackness continued to writhe, heaving its bulk sideways to avoid the stiletto, trying to throw off the small boy on top of him, the boy who would not give up until the blackness stopped moving.

Though Hiyawento knew he lay in a warm longhouse surrounded by people who loved and respected him, he could not help but relive the terror of that final instant.

After an eternity, his gaze drifted over the few things arrayed in baskets lining the northern partition wall. They did not own much—no one did—but these simple things were precious to Zateri: a mussel shell bracelet that had belonged to her mother, an oddly shaped pot he’d brought her from his last battle walk against the People of the Mountain, a handful of quartz crystals that shone like shattered stars. Though deeply asleep, Zateri had one hand twined in the sleeve of his shirt, as though she couldn’t bear to have him move too far away from her. The chill of her fingers penetrated the hide and cooled his arm. Gently, so as not to wake her, he drew the bearskin up over her hand to keep it warm.

His movements must have awakened his eight-summers-old daughter. Kahn-Tineta rolled to her back and yawned a wide deep yawn that revealed her missing front teeth. She blinked around the longhouse. When her gaze finally turned to him and she found him smiling at her, she slipped from her bedding hides and tiptoed across the floor to crawl beneath the bearskin beside him.

“Why aren’t you asleep, my daughter?” He put his arm around her and kissed the top of her tangled hair.

She nuzzled her cheek against his shoulder. “I woke and saw you staring at Mother. You looked like you needed someone to hold you.” She slipped her small arm over his chest and hugged him hard.

As though all the horrors he’d been reliving were nothing more than shreds of mist in bright sun, they evaporated. He stroked Kahn-Tineta’s hair and whispered, “What took you so long?”

She giggled against his shoulder and yawned again. Within heartbeats she was asleep with her arm still around him.

He sighed and closed his eyes.

Six

F
rom the dark recesses of the morning forest, a child’s sobs echoed.

Sonon flipped up his black hood and continued along the icy riverbank, placing his sandals with care. To his left, the river roared over rocks, sending splashes leaping ten hands high. A misty halo of sparkling droplets fell in the wake.

He took his time. At dawn the snow had turned to freezing rain. Everything was sheathed with ice: the weathered driftwood along the shore, the tangled piles of freshly broken branches. Many trees had split down the middle. Others drooped mournfully, their heavy limbs bent and dragging the ground. Across the forest, a symphony of snaps, loud cracks, and thumps rang out as branches succumbed to the burden and came crashing down.

A whimper. Just ahead.

He hurried as much as the ice allowed.

When he reached the little girl, Sonon crouched beside her. She’d lost her grip on the log. The others had tried desperately to grab her as she was swept past. One of the women, the older one, had shoved away from the log and jumped in after the child.

He studied the body. The river had been brutal, raking her over rocks, dragging her across shallows—until she’d washed ashore here. Coated with ice, her naked body lay curled on its side—as though about to be born. She’d seen perhaps six summers, and bruises and cuts mangled her face, but it was also ethereally beautiful. The ice had turned her starved features into shimmering otherworldly sculptures. Frozen black hair slicked down around her face. Through the thin veil of ice, her shrunken opaque eyes stared up at him.

Another whimper.

He didn’t turn. Instead, he looked out across the river where branches rolled in the waves, turning over and over as they were dragged downstream.

He caught a yellow twinkle at the edge of his vision.

Mildly, Sonon called, “Are you afraid?”

The cries stopped.

“It’s confusing, isn’t it?”

Stillness now. Observing.

Sonon had no idea how she saw him. Did he appear to be a man? An Earth Spirit? Perhaps one of the Flying Heads that thrashed through the trees?

“I’ll make sure you get home,” he said gently. “Don’t worry about that. Please, come out of the shadows.”

No movement.

As Elder Brother Sun climbed into the morning sky, the ice-coated trees resembled a translucent quartz forest. Every twig caught the sunlight and held it. When the breeze stirred them, the branches tinkled like seashell bells.

As he shifted, his shadow fell over the girl’s frozen body. For a long moment, it held his attention.

Before he and his twin sister were sold into slavery at the age of eight summers, he used to go out of his way not to step on people’s shadows, and was horrified if anyone stepped on his. It was strange to think of now. Even as a boy, he’d known shadows were more than darkness.

A carefully placed foot crackled the ice. Coming toward him.

Sonon vented a breath and watched the water splash over the rocks. People tended to dwell on the last moments, reliving them, trying not to die. This little girl must still be seeing the snow fall through the waves above her. Her heart must be fluttering as her lungs go cold. She may be struggling to call out to someone, a parent probably.

Flickers … at the edge of his vision. Trying not to frighten her, he turned slowly.

The small golden light swayed in the air. Beneath it, a pale shadow mirrored its movements. Most people could not see soul shadows, but they were always there. Everything that existed cast a shadow.

He gestured to her body. “I’m going to carry you to a place where you can see your home. You will need to visit your relatives in their dreams and guide them to the place where your body rests.”

“Why?”

“So they can find you and prepare you to cross the bridge to the afterlife.”

The light flared, then faded to near nothingness, and trembled.
“Am I dead?”

“Do you see your shadow?”

“Yes.”

“It is the connection point between light and dark, between this world and the next. Once you’ve been prepared for the journey, it will lead you across the bridge to the afterlife, where your new life will begin.”

He slipped his hands beneath her body and lifted it into his arms. She was feather-light. As he walked toward a high point overlooking the river, her crooked broken legs shook limply. He glanced over his shoulder to make certain the Spirit light was following. It was not easy to look upon your own death.

The light bobbed a few paces behind.

He climbed the low hill and placed her on top in the middle of a sunlit crystalline forest. The iced branches cast lacy patterns over her. He did his best to straighten her arms and legs and arrange her head so that she could watch the sky turn. “They’ll be coming for you very soon. You must remain close to your body, though, so you don’t get lost. Do you understand?”

As he rose and walked down the hill, heading back toward the river, the small bright light moved to hover over the little girl’s body. Both cast shadows—the dead body and the soul light.

That was all that mattered now. It was all that ever mattered.

Sonon headed west, taking shelter in his own shadow, letting it guide his steps.

Seven

E
lder Brother Sun had long ago crested the forest canopy, but the council house had not yet given up its deep cold. Hiyawento rubbed his arms beneath his heavy moosehide cape. Sunlight streaming down from the smoke hole forty hands above the central fire created swirling patterns in the thick bluish gray smoke that filled the house. He watched them for a time, as the representatives from the other villages entered. They all tried to arrive at the same time, so as not to force any village to suffer the indignity of waiting for others, but delays occurred. Today, the contingent from Riverbank Village came in last. Many were exhausted warriors, their capes still coated with the dust of the trail. Wearing grim expressions, they stripped off their weapons belts, unslung their bows and quivers, and placed them along the south wall near the entry. After the brilliance of the autumn dawn, it took time for their eyes to adjust to the dim council house. Finally, they proceeded sunwise around the fire to take up their proper positions. Before they sat, they turned, and each gave a respectful nod to the matrons sitting together on the east wall.

The six old women were the true decision makers. As the leaders of the Wolf, Bear, Deer, Snipe, Hawk, and Turtle clans, they would listen until all was said and done here today; then they would take the issues back to the other village matrons, who would in turn discuss them with every member of their clans before rendering a decision as to how to proceed. Each wore a cape painted with the sacred symbols of her clan.

Hiyawento and his deputy, Kallen, sat on the log on the north side of the fire. To his right were the Riverbank Village representatives, and to his left sat the people of Turtleback Village. Directly across the fire, the council members from Atotarho Village, including the evil chief himself, continued to stand together whispering. As the leader of the entire nation of the People of the Hills, Atotarho would be the last to take his seat, which was difficult for him since he suffered from the joint-stiffening disease that had so twisted his fingers and legs they appeared malformed. He had seen sixty-four summers pass, each more difficult than the last.

Hiyawento’s gaze lingered on the council members from Riverbank Village. Towa should have been here. He wasn’t. Originally from Atotarho Village, Towa had married and moved to Riverbank Village eight summers ago. He was a Trader and usually off on some wild expedition. Only recently had he returned home, when the violence grew too destabilizing. Hiyawento had been hoping to see him.

“Where is War Chief Sindak?” Kallen whispered from his right.

“I’ve been wondering the same thing. I suspect the chief will explain his absence. At least Negano is here.”

Negano was Sindak’s deputy war chief, but he was also the head of the chief’s personal guards. He stood a short distance away, speaking softly to a grizzled old warrior. Negano had seen thirty-two summers and wore his long black hair in a single braid that draped the shoulder of his buckskin cape. It was strange to see a man with long hair these days, when so many had cut their hair in mourning.

Across the house, warriors studied each other. Everyone looked hungry. Cheeks were sunken, eyes squinted, mouths set into hard lines. Hushed voices were weary, but resolute, congratulating each other on the latest victory against the Flint People.

Hiyawento listened to them. The last battle had been brutal, costly, a waste of lives that gained many captives, but little food. In his opinion the only thing it had accomplished was to drain their slim food rations even more. With forty new captives to feed, everyone would have less.

Atotarho looked around, watching as the last of the Riverbank Village representatives was seated. As a symbol of his dedication to war, Atotarho always braided rattlesnake skins into his gray hair, then coiled it into a bun at the base of his head. The style gave his gaunt face a skeletal look. His beautiful black ritual cape, covered with circlets cut from human skulls, flashed with his movements.

Finally, Atotarho said, “Let us begin,” and gingerly lowered his body to one of the logs on the south side of the fire. For several heartbeats, he sat with his head down and his eyes closed, as though contemplating the gravity of the issues that faced the council today. He rubbed his knee, and his wrinkled face tensed. His joints must ache from the long walk across the village to get here.

Atotarho lifted his hands. “Council members, the issues before us today are grave. Though united in our war against the other nations south of Skanodario Lake, we have profoundly different notions of how to win this struggle. I urge you to put such differences aside here, and allow every member to speak his heart. Lastly, please excuse the fact that my War Chief, Sindak, is absent. He is away on a crucial mission.”