Wing Heart sat in the afternoon shade of the thatched ramada beside her house. With a facility that came from many seasons of practice she used her thigh and one hand to spin basswood fibers into cordage. She had stripped the fibers from the tree’s bark by first soaking, then pounding it with a stone-headed mallet. That loosened the fibers so that they could be pulled free, then combed, and assembled into the flaxen pile on her right. As she spun the fibers she looped the finished cord into a coil to her left.
Her house stood at the eastern end of the first northern ridge. From her ramada she could look out over the wind-patterned waters of Morning Lake. Waves lapped at the bank four body lengths below the sheer drop-off. Three glossy white herons sailed soundlessly southward, their wide wings catching the updraft along the bank before her.
Looking out onto the lake, her view included the Turtle’s Back: a low hump of earth topped by three sweetgum trees and trampled grass. She could make out the Serpent’s thin figure as he walked from one young man to another, tapping each of them lightly on the shoulders with an eagle-feather wand.
White Bird sat with his back to the gum tree’s trunk. If his posture was any indication, he looked absolutely miserable. It brought a smile to her lips. That was the point, wasn’t it? The people didn’t want evil spirits from distant places being carried into their midst. By making the host body uncomfortable, those same malicious
forces would drift away in search of a more pleasant body to inhabit while they worked their dark and sorcerous deeds.
“Bless you, my son,” she said with satisfaction, her gaze lingering on the four long canoes that had been pulled onto the small island’s muddy shores. Even from her vantage point she could see the piled packs and reflect on the salvation it meant for her lineage and Owl Clan in general.
She added more fibers from the pile to her right, twisting them into the center of the cord. Fibers had to be added as others were exhausted so that the cordage remained uniform in strength and thickness. The manufacture of cordage was important to her people. Not only did it bind things together like houses, drying racks, and roof thatch, but it was the essential ingredient in their fishnets and small-game snares. From it they braided strong ropes. On their looms it became a coarse fabric for burden bags and storage containers. Cordage allowed them to measure out the uniform earthworks that defined the limits of Sun Town and the holdings of the clans. Cordage was always in demand for Trade, as were the fine fabrics they wove and the wooden products they carved. Small loops of cord even provided for days of entertainment as the children played the finger-string game, creating patterns and designs as they plucked the loop back and forth from hand to hand.
She saw Clay Fat as he approached, walking across the open plaza from the line of houses dotting the ridges to the southeast. Rattlesnake Clan had its holdings there. The moment she saw him she knew he was coming to see her. No doubt the single unifying feeling among the members of Rattlesnake Clan was relief. White Bird had arrived despite their dire predictions. Their political situation, especially their relationship to Owl Clan, had been not only justified but was about to be solidified.
Whereas last week her very existence might have been suspect—given the lack of attention she had been receiving—her circumstances had changed with White Bird’s arrival. One after another she had been entertaining Clan Elders and Speakers. Indeed, the world might have flipped from end to end since her son’s flotilla had nosed into Sun Town’s placid Morning Lake. Even old Back Scratch, the Snapping Turtle Clan Elder, had been forced to swallow her pride and toddle her creaking bones across the plaza to make pleasant talk. Sweet Root, her daughter, had accompanied her, slinking like the predatory cat she was. One day—and not so far away—Sweet Root would inherit her clan’s mantle. Spirits help them all.
Back Scratch kept a lid on most of Mud Stalker’s poison. Sweet
Root, however, wouldn’t have the sense to keep her brother on a short string. She had always been in awe of him, and after her mother’s death she would be a cunning and willing accomplice, ready and anxious to add her own machinations to those of her bitter, alligator-bitten brother.
As the day had passed Wing Heart had entertained them all. Smiling, gracious, she had played the game with all the skill that her turnings of seasons and innate ability had given her. Calling on her clan she had provided smoked fish and bread made from smilax root. A stone bowl continued to steam by the fire, sweetening the air with the pungent odor of black drink. The foamy tea made from holly leaves was normally reserved for special occasions. Having a pot of it on hand provided that extra bit of elegance to reinforce the notion that Owl Clan remained preeminent.
Wing Heart watched as Clay Fat continued amiably on his way across the plaza. His belly protruded over his loincloth, his knobby navel like the stem on a brown melon. A half-lazy smile traced Clay Fat’s thick lips, his expression dreamy, as if he had not a care in the world.
Wing Heart considered him. Clay Fat wasn’t an acutely smart man. Rather he was wedded to stability the way a fisherman enjoyed a deep-keeled canoe. He liked balance and was happiest when he knew exactly what was coming with the next sunrise. The passing of the last six moons—in the shadow of Speaker Cloud Heron’s impending death—had been hard on Clay Fat’s nerves. The uncertainty over young White Bird’s whereabouts upriver—let alone whether or not he was still alive—had been excruciating. Now, with the world set back to rights, he looked much like a fat toad full of bugs.
She owed him. Of them all, he had stood by her, steadfastly believing her promise that her son would return from the north, and that when he did, it would be with a stunning coup that would assure Owl Clan’s hegemony.
No, Clay Fat might not be the brightest of the Clan Speakers. Had he been someone other than himself, he would have taken that opportunity to try to propel Rattlesnake Clan into leadership. At least she, or any of the other Clan Elders, would have struck like a hungry snake when she sensed the slightest vulnerability in her rivals.
But is he so dumb? Wing Heart turned the notion over in her mind, trying to see it from Clay Fat’s perspective. Was it not better to place Rattlesnake Clan in a perpetual secondary role rather than risk falling into even more pressing debt to the others?
“Greetings, Wing Heart,” Clay Fat called, waving as he trooped across the muddy shallows of the borrow pit and climbed the earthen ridge upon which the Owl Clan houses were built. As Clan Elder, Wing Heart had the most prestigious location, on the eastern edge of the berm overlooking Morning Lake. Here she could greet the sunrise, and best of all, monitor the comings and goings at the Turtle’s Back.
“A pleasant day to you, Speaker. How is your Elder, Graywood Snake, today?”
“She is well, Wing Heart. She sends her fondest greetings.” He strode up, breath coming in labored gasps. She could see the sweat beginning to bead on his swollen brown skin. “I must say, things are happening. So much talk.”
“Talk?” She pointed to the cane mat across from her. “Sit, old friend. Enjoy the shade. Would you like a cup of black drink? As you can see, the bowl is still steaming.”
“Bless you, but no. It’s too hot,” he muttered. “Here we are but a half-moon past spring equinox and it already feels like midsummer.” He grunted as he eased himself onto the matting. “Is it me, or are the passing summers getting hotter and hotter?”
“It is you,” she told him, her fingers spinning the cord along her thigh. “The summers are no hotter. It’s just that your belly gets larger and larger. It holds your heat in like a giant cooking clay.”
He laughed at that, slapping a callused hand against his stomach.
“So, there is talk you say? Anything of interest or are they just scrambling to cover themselves, saying, ‘Oh, I knew all along that White Bird would return!’”
He shot her a knowing glance, his dark brown eyes measuring. “Hardly. Envy and venom are whispered behind the hand while smiles and nectar drape public speech. At least that’s the way of the leaders’ lineages. For those who have no stake in the squabbles among the Council’s leaders, interest centers on what lies hidden under those packs in White Bird’s canoes. Most people, as you well know, Wing Heart, could care less who holds the ropes to the fish traps so long as they can share in the catch.”
“Runners have gone out?”
He nodded, reaching down to finger the end of the cane matting he sat on. “People are beginning to trickle in from the outlying camps. Everyone is expecting a feast and dancing, and an excuse to get together and gossip. For the people who are in need, it is a chance to refit, to replace what is broken or worn-out.” He glanced out across the lake, fixing his gaze on the Turtle’s Back and the
figures that hunched out there in a line next to the sweat lodge. “Is everything all right?”
“My son is going through a nasty cleansing. For a while yesterday he couldn’t stop throwing up. I believe that the Serpent is being particularly thorough this time. He wasn’t happy about a three-day cleansing. At White Bird’s suggestion, I requested it rather forcefully. It seems that his Wolf companions, as he calls them, are leery about what it will do to the health of their barbarian souls.”
“Their souls? Why? Is there something wrong with them?”
“Put it like this: Would you trust some Serpent you didn’t know to cleanse your souls? Say, perhaps, some Wolf Serpent whose ways you couldn’t differentiate from witchcraft? A strange Serpent from way up north? One who did things you didn’t understand? Sang strange songs, made you bare your souls to him?”
“I would be more than a little frightened.”
“So are these Wolf Traders,” Wing Heart added. “The last thing I need is for them to bolt in the middle of the night and take those loaded canoes with them.”
“There’s risk in that.”
“There’s risk in everything.”
“What if someone takes sick? What if after they’ve been rushed through cleansing, something goes wrong? People will say that you didn’t take enough precautions.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
He nodded, that slight smile returning to his lips. “Well, there is already talk.”
“Talk? We’re back to talk?” Which of course was what he’d come to tell her in the first place.
“My cousin, Fork Tail, and his party returned from his trip down south last night. He has several nice pieces of that white Panther sandstone. Not as many as he would have liked to have, but enough to still make the trip profitable. It will allow Rattlesnake Clan a chance to offer something at the same time you have to rid yourself of all those canoe loads of exotics.”
“Good for you.” She noticed the reserve behind his bland eyes. “But …?”
Clay Fat shrugged. “There were complications. He couldn’t load his canoe with all the stone he wanted. It seems that some of the Swamp Panthers ambushed him. In the fight that followed he wounded at least one of them. A youth.”
“Kill him?”
“He doesn’t know. Apparently the dart was sticking out of the
boy’s belly when he ran away. As to how serious it was, Fork Tail couldn’t tell.”
“These things happen.” Wing Heart spliced more fibers into her cord and continued spinning it along her thigh. “If we’re lucky, the kid just got nicked. Were others involved?”
“Apparently a party of youths.”
“So there’s no chance the boy might have gone off and died before anyone found out?”
Clay Fat gave her a shake of his head for an answer. “You had better circulate the word to Owl Clan that the Swamp Panthers will probably retaliate. My clan is already spreading the word through the lineages to the camps in the south.”
“Is that all the bad news you’ve got?”
“Of course not.” His thin lips widened in a smile. “You should know that Mud Stalker is nearly foaming at the mouth. He and Back Scratch were in the process of tightening their grip on leadership in the Council until your son paddled into the middle of their plans. He had come to think you were toothless, and all he needed to worry about was Deep Hunter. Then White Bird floats into Morning Lake with his barbarian friends, and Mud Stalker’s world is upside-down. It’s all that Mud Stalker can do to keep from popping the veins in his head.”
“Cane Frog wasn’t happy either. She and Deep Hunter would have been overjoyed to wrest control of the Northern Moiety away from me, let alone take a chance on gaining leadership of the Council.”
Clay Fat was watching her through his expressionless brown eyes. “Very well, Wing Heart, you’ve pulled the proverbial hare out of the hollow log yet again. What about the endless tomorrows? You have two sons, the last of your lineage. White Bird has a great future ahead of him, but you can’t risk him on another venture like this one. Somewhere, sometime, some barbarian is going to kill him, or his canoe is going to be swamped in a spring flood, or he’s going to catch some foreign disease and die. Beyond the protection of our city, the world is a dangerous place. Tens of tens of things could happen. Somewhere out in those distant places something will eventually get him.”
She nodded, aware of just how frightened she had been of exactly that.
“And it’s not like you have a lot of choices.” Clay Fat tilted his head back to stare up at the thatch overhead. “Mud Puppy is your only other child.”
“Would to Mother Sun I had had a daughter out of that mating
with Thumper. I could marry her to some daring young man and send him upriver. If he didn’t come back, I could marry her again, and again, and again, until one of them got it right and brought me back another four canoes of Trade.”
“You wouldn’t even need that,” he told her. “You would have an heir. A daughter to carry your line on into the future.”
“Correct.”
After a pause, he added, “You could always name Mud Puppy Speaker. Then it wouldn’t matter if White Bird didn’t come back.” He laughed one of those deep belly laughs.
“You find that funny, do you?”
He straightened his face; the attempt failed in the slightest to mask his amusement. “He’s young. He might change. You know, grow out of it.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Mud Puppy, grow out of it?”
“Boys do. When they step into the world of men they can’t help but change.”
Snakes! He’s almost a man now, but you’d never know it. “He thinks differently than any boy I ever knew. I’m at my wit’s end. Water Petal has him in the sweat lodge. I’ve made an appointment to have the Serpent take him up to spend the night atop the Bird’s Head. Maybe that will scare some sense into his witless noggin. He’s completely hopeless! His brother returns, the most important event in the lineage in how many winters, and he’s looking at a cricket in a jar!”
Clay Fat nodded, his head oddly cocked. “In the last few moons I have come to discover how important leadership of the Council is to you, Wing Heart. Tell me, if it came right down to it, would you declare him Speaker?”
“Perhaps if I’d been hit in the head too hard, or if lightning struck me.”
“I’ve stood with you through the last moons, Wing Heart. Stood with you when many urged me to look elsewhere for obligations. Your clan and mine have made a good alliance through the endless turnings of the seasons.”
“What are you getting at?”
“All jesting aside, I need to know something.”
“Very well.” She had ceased spinning her cord. “What is that thing, old friend?”
“What would you do to retain Owl Clan’s hegemony? What would you do to keep your leadership?”
She felt trapped in his wary brown-eyed stare. The universe might have narrowed to the two of them. “I’d do anything, Clay Fat. I’ve
lived all of my life preparing for the leadership. I don’t want to give that up. I won’t give it up.”
“Then you’d do anything to keep it?”
She nodded, wondering what this was going to cost her, wondering where it had come from. What did he suspect? Worse, what did he know?
“Anything,” she reaffirmed.
He contemplated her in silence, his eyes prying into her souls, as though to see what she really meant. In the end, he sighed, relaxing, his smooth smile returning. “Then you will understand when I tell you that I … my clan cannot allow Spring Cypress to marry White Bird. Your son will insist. You must refuse.”
Mind racing, she asked, “Why?”
Clay Fat’s expression had turned bland again. “I almost made a terrible mistake, Wing Heart. But for the return of your son, I could have lost a great deal and found myself and my clan in the same position as Frog Clan is in today. At the bottom, mucking about in the silt for scraps. Obliged to everyone. I will support you, do what I must to maintain your leadership, but I want you to understand that I am going to strengthen the position of my lineage.”
“And who were you thinking of?”
“Copperhead.”
“Mud Stalker’s cousin? He’s twice her age.” Her mind wrapped around the implications of Rattlesnake Clan brokering an alliance with Snapping Turtle Clan.
“Copperhead is freshly widowed.”
“He used to beat Red Gourd when she was his wife. Some people think he killed her.”
“That was never proven by her clan.” Clay Fat seemed nonplussed.
Her voice dropped. “You’d do that to Spring Cypress?”
The corners of his mouth twitched. “Let’s just say there is a compelling reason, shall we?”
“What does Graywood Snake say about this?”
“The Rattlesnake Clan Elder understands and agrees.”
She studied him thoughtfully. So, you, too, had abandoned me. White Bird’s return caught you off guard, didn’t it? Now I catch you scrambling to reclaim your balance.
As if he could read her thoughts, he said, “Make this thing easy for me, and I shall give you my obligation for the future.” He paused. “Besides, it might not be so bad, having an ear close to Mud Stalker. As you well know, Elder, the future is a very uncertain place.”