The People of the Black Sun (27 page)

Jigonsaseh's mouth tightened. “I will speak with our warriors.”

“Do it soon. If we don't get rain or snow, we have three days until our water is gone.”

The people who'd been listening to the meeting began to filter back to their chambers. Without their bodies to block the light of twenty fires, it fluttered unhindered, coating the walls and roof, turning them liquid.

Kittle softly asked, “After the water's gone … how long?”

Without a shred of emotion, Jigonsaseh said, “Another three days. Probably.”

Kittle swirled the tea in her cup, and took a long drink. “That's when the riots will start.”

“Then we'd best start killing Atotarho's warriors.”

 

Twenty-two

Matron Buckshen slowly ambled across the sunlit plaza of Wild River Village. Feeling her way with her black walnut walking stick, she placed her moccasins with care. She had seen sixty summers pass. Thin gray hair fell around her wrinkled face, framing her white-filmed eyes. Half-blind, she had to stare hard at things to make them out, but over the past five summers she'd discovered that if she just took her time she could do it.

She stopped and used her walking stick to poke at something on the ground.

Five heartbeats later, a little boy rushed up, panting. “I'm sorry, Matron. We're playing hoop-and-stick and the hoop got away from us.”

Buckshen smiled and reached out to find his head, which she then patted. “Are you winning?”

“Not yet, Matron. Pibbig has a stronger arm than I do.”

“Well, just keep practicing. Someday you'll be the best lance thrower in Wild River Village.”

The boy laughed, picked up the hoop, and charged back to the game.

Bucksen concentrated and could see what looked like three boys racing across the plaza after the rolling hoop. It made her chuckle.

Propping her walking stick, she took another step and continued across the plaza. The day was cold, but the sunlight felt warm on her face. Many people filled the plaza, most working. The constant
thump-thump-thump
of women using mallets to pound corn in hollowed-out logs beat the air, and to her right she herd the
click-clack
of men knapping stone tools with an antler tine. Happy voices carried.

As she neared the Turtle Clan longhouse, she paused to look around. Four longhouses hemmed the plaza of Wild River Village, creating a rough square inside the palisade. Three hundred hands long, each longhouse had white birch bark walls. As the afternoon cooled, heading toward evening, Elder Brother Sun slipped lower in the sky and his light sheathed the longhouses with a rich gleam. Through her filmed eyes, they resembled enormous blurry creatures carved from pure amber.

She heaved a sigh. With the plague and attacks, they'd had a terrible summer. Many people she'd loved were gone. But for the first time in many summers, the Flint People had plenty of food to carry them through the long winter ahead. The corn bins were full to bursting. They'd buried beans, squash, goose and duck eggs, in large pits to keep them from freezing, and every house had hundreds of bags of dried raspberries, cherries, persimmons, and plums, not to mention the chestnuts, walnuts, and pecans they'd harvested last moon. If they didn't get raided, they'd have a joyous winter of storytelling and weaving baskets.

Just as she started walking again, surprised voices rose from the palisade. Warriors hurried along the catwalk, staring down at something outside the village gates.

“Blessed gods!”
a man shouted. “It's Kanika! He was with Chief Cord's war party. Open the gates!”

Buckshen carefully shuffled around to peer at the crowd gathering in front of the gates, waiting for the guards to remove the locking planks and shove them open. People sprinted past her.

She focused on the gates, saw them swing open. The crowd rushed out, and a din of concerned voices erupted.

More people raced by her. “What's happening? Someone, come tell me what's happening?”

“I'll be right back with the news, Matron!” a man yelled as he galloped by at full speed.

Buckshen fiddled with her walking stick, trying to be calm as cries rent the air, and she thought she saw a man being carried across the plaza. “What happened? Is he hurt?”

A tall man dashed toward her. Her hazy vision couldn't make out his face. He stopped, breathing hard. “Matron, it's Kanika. Chief Cord sent him ahead. He's been running flat out for two days and nights to get here. He's fevered and raving—”

“Where is Chief Cord and his war party?”

The man seemed to straighten up, and his fists clenched at his sides. “There were attacked by the Hills People, Matron, less than one day's run from Bur Oak Village.”

She weakly reached out to clasp his arm, to keep her knees from buckling. “The war party contained over six hundred. How many did we lose?”

“I—I'm not sure, Matron. I think Kanika said four hundred in the ambush. I don't know how many were lost in the battle the day before—”

“Four hundred? Dear gods. Where is Chief Cord?”

“He was wounded badly. The survivors of the attack are hauling him home on a litter, as well as many other wounded warriors. They can't travel very fast. They're probably two days away. You should also know that Kanika was spouting gibberish. Apparently, he and the other survivors hid in the forest near the Hills camp and heard the new war chief, Negano, telling his warriors that they were heading back to Bur Oak Village to destroy the Standing Stone nation once and for all.”

“What else?”

“Something strange, garbled. About a miracle happening during the Bur Oak battle. Apparently, Sky Messenger's Dream is coming true. Kanika said the Prophet stretched out his hand and Elder Brother Sun brought a great storm that swept the Hills warriors from the battlefield. But he was raving, Matron. It may just be his fevered imaginings.”

Buckshen's trembling fingers squeezed his arm. “Find the other matrons. Tell them to meet me in the council house. We will wish to question Kanika as soon as he's rested and eaten. Hurry.”

 

Twenty-three

Hiyawento stopped on the crest of a hill to look down across the rolling hills. The smoky air clawed at the back of his throat. Afternoon sunlight enameled an endless vista of charred trees and scorched earth. As he pulled his water bag from his belt, and took a long drink, his gaze narrowed. The forest fire had been intense. It must have burned through almost one moon ago, for the ash had washed down every crevice and drainage, streaking the vista like deformed onyx roots. Agweron Village sat in the heart of the blackened chaos. From this distance, the longhouses resembled heaps of burnt splinters.

Towa finally caught up and stood beside him breathing hard, staring across the charred country. He'd seen thirty-two summers pass. Though his long hair had not yet surrendered to silver, lines carved the corners of his eyes and cut half-moons around his mouth. “Dear gods, this happened after I was last here.”

Hiyawento handed him the water bag and waited while Towa gulped several swallows down his parched throat. When Towa lowered the bag, Hiyawento said, “I heard the mysterious fever that ravaged the land last autumn hit the Landing villages especially hard.”

“It did. When I was here the longhouses were half empty. There were so many orphans the clan mothers seemed overwhelmed. But surely they wouldn't have set fire to their own country to rid it of the evil Spirits that brought the fever? They must have been attacked by Mountain People, and the fires spread into the forest.”

Hiyawento rested his hand on his belted war club. The quartzite cobble felt cold beneath his palm. “Why do you think it was Mountain People?”

Towa exhaled hard and looked at Hiyawento. “I passed through the Mountain People villages first, and they were much worse off than the Landing villages.”

“In what way?”

“They were so sick they hadn't been able to harvest their fields. Most of their crops had withered and were eaten by animals. They were starving. They had nothing to Trade, not even a single kernel of corn. War Chief Yenda had just been named Chief of Wenisa Village. After he underwent the Requickening ritual, he flew into a tirade, blaming the Landing People for the fever and every other misfortune.”

“I heard he'd been made chief. So he's Chief Wenisa now?”

“Yes. I left as soon as I could, praying I'd make it to the Landing villages while they were still standing.”

“And you found them sick, too?”

Towa's mouth twisted. “Yes. Sick and desperate. Several people offered to Trade me their only blankets for what little food I carried in my pack. I refused the blankets and gave them everything I had, but it wasn't much. Blessed Ancestors, it was a terrible sight.”

In the distance, Hiyawento could make out the vague form of the next Landing village, Shookas Village, the principal village of the Landing nation. The intact log palisade stood out in stark contrast to the blackened hills. He wondered what they would find there.

Wind Woman gusted over the hilltop, flapping Hiyawento's cape around his legs. “Sky Messenger would have headed straight to Shookas Village. If all went well, he should arrive tomorrow.”

“Then we should hurry. If we get there before him, and there's any elder left to speak with, we can prepare the way for him.”

Towa clapped Hiyawento on the shoulder, and broke into a shambling trot, heading down the hill through stark blackened trees that seemed to go on forever.

 

Twenty-four

“It will take just a few moments,” Zateri said. “Kwahseti and Gwinodje are lodging in the Snipe Clan longhouse. It's all the way across the village.”

“Matron Yi told me to wait, so it doesn't matter how long it takes, but I thank you for informing me.”

Of average height, handsome, and somewhat boyish, Hikatoo had a reputation for being a fine singer. Zateri recalled the richness of his deep voice last summer at the green corn ceremony. He'd seen perhaps thirty summers, and spent the past three as one of her father's personal guards. She found it curious that Yi would choose this man as her messenger. He wasn't Wolf Clan, and though he was known as a reliable and courteous man, Zateri was certain to distrust him … which she did. He kept toying with his left arm, cradling it against his belly, then lowering it, only to pull it across his belly again.

“I heard you were wounded at the White Dog Village battle,” Zateri said.

“It's nothing, Matron. The arrow skewered my upper arm. It's healing cleanly.”

“I'm glad. We have lost far too many good warriors already.”

He gave her a half-smile, perhaps wondering at her usage of the word “we.”

Zateri looked away. The Wolf Clan longhouse in Canassatego Village had suffered during the recent attack. Charred holes gaped in the roof. Hastily covered with slabs of bark, none quite fit. Twilight seeped around the edges, creating a patchwork of luminous ovals. As many people as possible had been crowded into the forty chambers, so that the longhouse seemed to be bursting at the seams with humanity. Twenty fires glittered down the central aisle. People stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the warmth.