The young warrior called Kit Fox stood off to the side, his knees shaking as he watched Sleeper examine Crater’s bloody body. The man lay on his back, blood running from his nose and mouth. Crater’s eyes were wide open, staring blankly at the orange gleam of dawn that sheathed the hills.
They had made camp in the trees on a bench above Wasp Valley. From that vantage point, they had been able to see the fires in Wasp Village where it jutted out into the sea. Now, as the morning sun brightened, they could make out several small villages of Raven People, as well as the slave quarters that served Wasp Village. Finding Crater had been a surprise that shocked each of the remaining warriors to the core.
“His skull is cracked,” Sleeper said. “He was struck from behind.”
“But I heard nothing, War Chief!” Kit Fox blurted. “I only got a glimpse. The light was bad!” He hesitated. “It … it looked …”
“Yes, go on.”
Kit Fox winced, fearing the war chief’s reaction. “It looked like a huge coyote. The head, the ears …”
Sleeper’s hide cape flapped around his long legs as he stood. He searched the faces of the four remaining warriors. When they’d left War Gods Village, they’d been ten. They were being picked off one by one by an assassin who made no sounds and left no footprints. Panic sparkled in each man’s eyes.
They’d expected to be the hunters, waiting for an opportunity to kill Ecan, not the prey.
In the beautiful valley below, Ecan’s warriors moved along the trails that encircled Wasp Village. Could one man be doing this? One of Ecan’s warriors? Why send one man when he could simply turn his entire war party loose to hunt them down? And more to the point, after all the care they had taken to reach this place, how had the killer located them? It was enough to send shivers through the most hardened of veterans.
Sleeper frowned at the corpse. “When it’s fully light, we’ll try to track him down. We’ll find him. I swear it!”
The warriors glanced uneasily back and forth. A quick look was all that it took to see their flagging courage. If he pushed, they’d break and run.
Sleeper walked a few paces away, and his gaze moved over the leafless alders, as though imagining every dark branch where a man might hide. A magnificent vista of dawn-tinted hills veined by dark drainages stretched before them. He looked eastward up Wasp Valley toward the rolling base of Fire Mountain, two days’ run away.
Through gritted teeth, Sleeper hissed, “Very well, Ecan, you and your mysterious Coyote win this time. But we’re coming for you.You just wait and see. When we do, I’m going to have a hand in bringing you down.”
He turned to his men. “Come. We’re going back to report to Chief Goldenrod.”
Dogrib and five guards surrounded Pitch and Roe, monitoring the crowd and giving them the privacy they needed for the ritual preparations. Pitch supervised while Roe pulled up the edges of the worn hide and deftly stitched it closed around the headless body of Matron Weedis’s son, Flying Squirrel.
People clambered over the mountaintop, and more kept coming. Many of them had been traveling for days or even moons, by foot or canoe, to get here for the ceremonial. Despite the devastated village around them, the War God pillars still stood tall and massive—and that’s what they’d really come to see.
As Roe sewed, Pitch felt ill. Horror was such a powerful weapon. Every person who looked upon a headless body quaked deep down in his soul. Didn’t Cimmis realize that horror engendered wrath the
likes of which none of them had ever experienced before? Even Roe, ordinarily a calm-minded woman, had her teeth clenched; it set her jaw at an odd angle.
“Are you all right?” Pitch gently asked and reached out with his good hand to touch her long red hair.
She looked up. “I want every one of them dead, Pitch.”
He let his hand fall. “Your lineage is North Wind.”
“The Council declared my mother Outcast when she fell in love with Father. I will make certain, when the time comes, that Stonecrop is adopted into Father’s clan. That way he never has to suffer because of my mother’s blood.”
As though embarrassed by the vehemence in her voice, she lowered her gaze and continued working the bone needle through the hide. The young man’s neck gradually disappeared as Roe sewed the shroud closed.
When she’d finished, Pitch straightened and stretched his aching back muscles. The pain in his shoulder wound had grown fiery.
Roe eased his shirt down to study his bandage. “Oh, Pitch, it’s bleeding. Let’s stop for a while.”
“No.” Pitch gestured to Matron Weedis’s headless body a few hands away. “I want to finish the Healer’s purification first. Then I’ll rest. I promise.”
Pitch rose and led the way to Matron Weedis. As he crouched by her side, Dogrib stepped forward, moving around in front of them as if to form their personal barricade. His long white hair glistened in the afternoon light. No matter how many times Pitch looked at Dogrib, he felt awe at the man’s snowy white hair and pink skin.
Roe tenderly touched Matron Weedis’s withered arm. “She was a great woman. A fine Healer. I’ll miss her.”
Pitch removed a small paint bowl from his waist pack. “If you will paint rain on her legs, I’ll paint stars on her arms.”
Roe dipped her forefinger into the bowl and carefully painted wavy red lines down Matron Weedis’s skinny legs.
“Take your time,” Pitch said. “We want Gutginsa, who guards the entry to the House of Air, to know that she is truly one of the North Wind People, a relative of the Star People.”
Roe’s brows lowered. “What do you think would happen if we sent her soul to the Underwater House where the Raven People go? Would her ghost come back to harm us?”
Pitch tilted his head uncertainly. If the Council ever discovered that he’d Sung one of the North Wind People to the Underwater House, they would leave no stone unturned until they found Pitch
and killed his entire family. Sending a dead person’s soul to the wrong afterworld ensured it would be shunned and abused for eternity.
Pitch said, “I don’t think we have the right to decide, Roe. All of her life, she has expected to go live in the House of Air with her relatives. We should respect her wishes.”
Roe petted Matron Weedis’s arm. “Yes, you’re right. It’s just that I would like to spend time with her in the afterlife. I’m sorry we will be in different houses.”
“That’s the way it has always been. They have their places, and we have ours.”
Pitch finished the stars on the matron’s arms and awkwardly removed a coil of twine and six feathers from his pack. “Here are the feathers.”
Roe reached over and pulled his obsidian knife from his belt. She cut the twine into several lengths and replaced the knife in its sheath.
As she tied a feather to Weedis’s thumb, Pitch said, “These feathers will give her the ability to fly through the three Above Worlds, and finally to the House of Air.”
Dogrib glanced over his shoulder and said, “I don’t know why anyone would wish to turn into a star. Spending eternity in darkness sounds depressing to me.”
Pitch smiled as Roe tied feathers around the matron’s ankles and wrists and then slipped a length of twine beneath her back and tied the last feather over her heart.”
Pitch said, “When Sister Moon rises between the stone bodies of the war gods tonight, these seed feathers will sprout, and in a blink her whole body will be covered with feathers. She will have soft gray wings, just like Mourning Dove who gave the feathers, and she will soar away to the first Above World.”
When they’d finished, Pitch touched Roe. “We must now care for our own souls. Follow me. Do as I do.”
They pulled their clothing off and stood naked in the cold. Roe looked beautiful, perfect. In comparison, Pitch looked as skinny as a drowned pack rat, with trickles of watery blood running down his thin arm from the bandage.
Pitch led her to the fire, where a large basket of shredded cedar bark sat. He sprinkled a fistful over the fire and as the purifying smoke rose, said, “Make sure you scoop the smoke over every part of you, to wash away any evil Spirits who have been attracted by the smell of death.”
As the fragrant smoke bathed him, Pitch felt better. He reached for a clean knee-length shirt and dress that lay folded on the ground.
He handed Roe the beautiful leather dress covered with circlets of shell.
Roe slipped it on and smoothed it over her hips. Pitch stared at her with longing before reaching to stroke her hair.
“Before you put your shirt on, Pitch, let me tend your wound.”
He nodded wearily and tossed their old clothes onto the flames. “We must not couple for three days.”
Dogrib’s head jerked up in horror. “That doesn’t include me, does it?”
“It does. And the other warriors in your group as well.”
“Are you joking?” Dogrib gaped in alarm.
“No women for three days.”
“Blessed Ancestors, why not?”
“It’s a final precaution against roaming evil. If some malingering Spirit sees you coupling, it might take the opportunity to sneak into your penis and live there. Once there, the Spirits eat away at the flesh, leaving a mangled, shriveled-up—”
“I understand!” Dogrib’s knees seemed to turn inward, and the muscles in his legs tightened. “Why didn’t you tell me that before we started? Algae is expecting me tonight.”
“Well, just explain to her.”
Roe added, “She’ll understand. Women are naturally predisposed to distrust a man’s penis—let alone one festering with pus.”
Dogrib walked away with his shoulders hunched, as if something were bothering him.
The moss-covered stones that lined the trail to War Gods Village looked like bright green fur balls. White Stone stepped around them as he led Red Dog up the trail to War Gods Village. From their position, near the crest of the mountain, White Stone could gaze out to the ocean. The late-afternoon gleam painted an orange swath across the slate blue water. He could see the islands in the distance. Some of the islands he had camped upon as a boy had vanished in his lifetime. His favorite, Little Snake Island, was now awash, visible only as a break in the irregular line of swells.
It was the first time he truly understood that the sea level really was rising. It made the stories of the world changing suddenly and brutally real. His heart skipped.
“I don’t think this is very wise, War Chief,” Red Dog whispered,
and stepped around a mossy boulder. “Wouldn’t it be smarter to wait until the bulk of the crowd passes before we go to the village?”
“We are trying to look like worshippers,” White Stone answered, annoyed. “Keep moving.”
White Stone shouldered his way through the crowd. Every refugee for a half moon’s walk had to be there. It astonished him. They packed the burned village and filled the narrow trail that followed the spine of the mountain. He turned and could see a serpentine line of people all the way down to the far shore. It didn’t seem to matter to them that they had to tramp through the charred wreckage of lodges, or that the sickeningly sweet scent of burned human bodies clung to the air. They all wished to be as close to the sacred pillars as possible.
Yes, the end of the world, indeed.
Like many of the faithful, White Stone and Red Dog had painted their faces in elaborate designs. Red Dog had yellow circles around his eyes, and one half of his face was black, the other white, symbolizing Sister Moon at midcycle. White Stone had chosen to paint his entire face white, then place red and black dots on his forehead and cheeks. The dots represented the Star People who would guard Sister Moon’s ascent that night. Few people would recognize them beneath the heavy paint, but they also wore their hoods up to help shield their faces.
Red Dog slowed to allow White Stone to catch up, and whispered, “Rain Bear is taking no chances.”
Warriors stood on every high point, on cliffs and boulders; they even perched in the tops of trees. Others worked through the crowd, their red headbands marking them as ceremonial guards. Spears and war clubs filled their hands, and bone stilettos hung from their belts.
“We deceived him once,” White Stone murmured. “It won’t happen again.”
“But why didn’t he just cancel the Moon Ceremonial?”
“How could he? Many of these people have been walking for days. If they’d arrived and discovered the ritual canceled there would have been an uproar.”
White Stone watched two shapely young women walk by. Both carried infants in their arms and had war clubs hanging from their belts.
The taller woman glared at the charred remains of Matron Weedis’s lodge and said, “I pray the gods tear their testicles out of their sacks for what they did here.”
“And feed them to the village dogs,” the other woman added. “The filthy murderers.”
The hatred made White Stone’s gut squirm. He waited until they passed, then whispered, “Keep your head down.”
“I will,” Red Dog managed through gritted teeth, “but Blessed Spirits, if we’re discovered, promise you’ll kill me before the women can get ahold of me.”
They moved into the plaza with the crowd, and White Stone noticed the clothing. He saw faded red capes and holey yellow moccasins, beaded headbands with more than half the beads missing, and old rabbit-fur shawls that looked mangy. No exotic stones or shells sparkled.
“These poor desperate people have worn their best, but it’s worse than the slaves wear in Fire Village.”
Red Dog grunted and whispered, “Makes you wonder what those old women in the Council think these people are hoarding, doesn’t it?”
Evening Star stood on the far side of the plaza and was speaking to an elderly woman. What a stunning beauty she was. Her waist-length hair had been freshly washed and hung over her elkhide cape in thick red waves. She looked pale, weary, and completely enchanting. From the moment he’d first seen her, White Stone had thought her the most attractive woman on earth. What a shame that she’d ended up as Ecan’s toy.
“Let’s work our way up the slope,” he said as a reminder they had a job to do.
White Stone eased through the sea of people and ascended the trail beyond. He climbed onto a rock and stood looking down upon the gathering.
Red Dog climbed next to him. As the crowd eddied, people moved to within a few hands of them. Were they safe here, at the edge? Did the distance and face paint grant them anonymity?
Four rows of people encircled the plaza. Children sat in front, closest to the fire; a boy and girl appeared to be having fights with carved wooden dolls. Behind them, a row of elders sat on hides; then men and women stood behind the elders. Finally, a row of warriors kept watch over the plaza.
The ceremonial would not begin until sunset. That gave White Stone time to just watch. He studied the children sitting around the plaza. He didn’t see Tsauz, but he noticed several children kneeling at the northeastern corner of the village with a big man. His movements were familiar.
“Is that Rain Bear?” He gestured with his chin. Back when Rain Bear had been a warrior in Fire Village, he and Red Dog had been friends.
Red Dog examined the man’s elkhide cape and long black braid. “He moves like Rain Bear, but I can’t tell. What’s he doing? Can you see?”
White Stone climbed higher into the rocks to get a better view of the plaza. “It’s him.”
Rain Bear put an arm around one little boy’s back and pointed to a line of dead dogs that lay on the ground. The boy gestured to several and spoke to Rain Bear, as though identifying them. Another child, a girl with long black hair, stepped forward, crying, and petted one of the animals. Rain Bear smoothed her hair and said something to her. She nodded and ran away.
“What’s he doing?” Red Dog repeated.
“The children are telling him about the dogs that were killed during the battle.”
“Why?”
White Stone rubbed his jaw. “I don’t know.”
Two guards with red headbands walked to within a body’s length of White Stone.
“When we catch them, Lynx,” the first man said, “I plan to stake White Stone to the ground, slit open his belly, and boil his guts while he’s still alive.”
White Stone pulled his hood lower and turned away slightly, as though concentrating on the pillars up the slope.
Lynx grinned. “You will have to beat me to it. I plan to cut out his kidneys a little piece at a time and eat them before his eyes. I saw a warrior do that to one of the Cougar People once. It was amazing. Using a white-hot stone to sear the blood vessels, he kept him alive for three days.”
The first guard grunted and scanned the crowd. His gaze fixed on Red Dog. White Stone’s heart felt squeezed. After what seemed an eternity, the two guards moved on.
“Come on,” Red Dog whispered. “Let’s go higher. I don’t like being this close.”
Rain Bear glanced at Evening Star, then pointed to a black puppy with a white face. It wasn’t dead, but would be soon. Someone had
shoved a spear through its belly. Dirt crusted the blood-caked entrails protruding from the wound. “What about this dog, Wood Quill?”
The little girl twisted the end of her long braid and studied the dog with glistening eyes. “I don’t know this puppy. He didn’t live here.”
Rain Bear patted her back. “Sunfeather told me the same thing. I thank you. You can go back to your grandfather now.”
Wood Quill turned and dashed away through the crowd. When she’d shouldered her way into the ring of elders, she climbed into an old man’s lap.
Rain Bear gazed at the western horizon. Raven had almost finished flying the sun to the sea. Barely a hand of time remained before Sister Moon’s appearance.
A memory floated, that of a little boy with a pack on his back, and the button nose of a puppy barely visible from within. He gently picked up the black puppy with the white face. The beautiful little dog had a pointed nose and spotted ears. It whimpered softly.
Rain Bear petted him. “I know,” he said as he carried the puppy through the plaza and down the trail away from the burned lodges. “I promise I will end this pain for you. Very soon.”