Lightning flashed in the night. The wind continued to gust up from the south. Atop the Bird’s Head, Mud Puppy pulled his ragged shawl about his shoulders and huddled in the wind-whipped darkness. He had removed the little red chert flake from his belt pouch and clutched it tightly in his right fist while he rubbed his temples with nervous fingers.
Sick. I feel sick. His stomach had knotted around the bits of mushroom that he had swallowed. Now it cramped and squirmed, while the tickle at the back of his throat tightened and saliva seeped loosely around his tongue.
Please, I don’t want to … The urge barely gave him warning as his stomach pumped. Time after time, Mud Puppy’s body bucked as he heaved up his meager supper; and then came slime until finally a bitter and painful rasping was all his wracked body could produce.
Coughing, he gasped for breath. When had he fallen onto his side? Cool dirt pressed against his fevered cheek. Hawking, he tried to spit the burning bile from his windpipe. Vomit ate painfully into the back of his nose. Tears dripped in liquid misery from his eyes, coursing across the bridge of his nose and slipping insolently down the side of his face.
Had he ever felt this miserable? When he blinked his eyes, odd streaks of color—smeared yellow, sparkling purple, smudges of blue and green—belied the blackness of the night. His body seemed to pulse, his flesh curiously distant from his stumbling thoughts.
Waves, timed to the beat of his heart, rocked him. Yes, floating, as if on undulating darkness. He had felt this way in water. Water. The notion possessed him, and for a moment he forgot where he lay, so high on the Bird’s Head.
“Hold on to your souls,” he reminded himself, and when he swallowed, his body turned itself inside out.
What is happening to me? The words scampered around his tortured brain, echoing with an odd hollowness.
“Are you afraid?” The voice startled him.
“Who spoke?”
“I did.”
“Where are you?”
“In your hand.”
Mud Puppy tried to swallow the bitterness in his throat again and felt his flesh rippling like saturated mud. Raising his hand, he opened it, staring at his palm, nothing more than a smear in the darkness. The flake! That tiny little bit of stone that had winked at him in the sunlight.
“You can talk?”
“Only to those who dare listen.”
Mud Puppy blinked his eyes, his body seeming to swell and float. Bits of colored light, like streamers, continued to flicker across his vision. “Do you see them?”
“See what?” the flake asked.
“The lights.” Mud Puppy told him in amazement. “Colors, like bits of rainbow broken loose and wavering.”
“You’re seeing through the mushroom’s eyes,” the flake said.
“How?”
“The world is a magical place. An old place, one in which so many things have become hidden. The simple has become ever more complex. Creatures come and go along with the land, growing and shrinking, mountains rising and being worn away. Shapes shift. Forms flow.”
“How do you know these things?”
“I am old, boy. So old you cannot imagine. Carried across this world from my familiar soil, I am left here, separated from the rest of myself.”
“Do you grieve?”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Then I do, too.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I.”
Mud Puppy frowned at the thin bit of stone, running his finger over the smooth chert. “What are you?”
“Whatever you make of me. I was alone until you picked me up. As long as you hold me, I shall be whatever you want me to be.”
Was it the flake of stone talking? Or the voice of the mushroom echoing around his souls? Mud Puppy blinked, his souls twining about and floating in his chest. Did it matter? The flake’s answer was oddly reassuring: “I shall be whatever you want me to be.”
The first spatters of rain pattered his skin. The impact of the drops went right through him, as though he were pierced by a cast dart. He forced himself to sit up, dazed, failing to understand as the raindrops thumped and hammered on his head. Each drop sent echoes of its impact through his skull, like rings on a pond. Eternity stretched as he lost himself in the sensations. The water trickling down his cold skin was alive. He could sense its living essence, silver and fluid.
Cold. Have I ever been this cold? Dumbly he ran his hands down his arms, squishing the water from his skin. He could feel himself, feel the blood being pushed around inside him as he tightened his grip on his arm. His body seemed to glow despite the cold.
A gust of wind pushed at him and relaxed. Wind, a thing of the sky.
I flew! The memory of the Dream floated out of the recesses and re-formed within his souls. Yes, hadn’t that been magical? His souls turned hollow with the sensation of dropping, weightless, from a great height. Were those really Owl’s wings that had carried him?
“They were indeed,” a deep voice told him from the night.
He blinked, lashes wet and cold on his face. “Flake?”
“No.” A pause. “Do you remember me? Do you remember the promise you made?”
“Masked Owl?” In the flickering glow of distant lightning, Mud Puppy saw him. The giant owl perched on the grass-thatched ramada. Those huge eyes seemed to gleam in the night.
“Are you seeking the One, Mud Puppy?”
“The One?”
“The One Life. It comes after the Dance.”
“Which you will teach me?”
“Someday.” Masked Owl agreed. “But first, I want you to talk to your uncle. He is here with a message for you.”
“My uncle?” Mud Puppy frowned. “Cloud Heron? Is that whom you mean?”
Lightning flashed again, this time to display Cloud Heron, his body lit by a pale shimmer. To Mud Puppy’s surprise he stood
several hands above the earth, floating as though it were the most normal of activities.
“Hello, boy.” Cloud Heron cocked his head; his eyes looked as if they’d been painted with charcoal.
“You look well, Uncle,” Mud Puppy cried happily. “The illness is gone! I’m so happy! Now, everything is right again. You are well, White Bird is home from the north. Mother won’t have to worry so much.”
“I’m dead, Mud Puppy. What you see is my Life Soul.” The words sounded hollow on the storm. “As we speak, my sister is crying beside my body. I came here, to the Bird’s Head, because it is the way.”
“What way?”
“To the West, Nephew. You know what lies there?”
Mud Puppy suffered a sudden shiver. “The Land of the Dead.”
“That’s right. And once my Life Soul crosses the boundary, steps off the mound, it can’t come back. Not to this place. Spirits can’t cross the rings, boy. They can’t walk across water or lines of ash. My Life Soul will be gone forever.”
Mud Puppy frowned. “I’ll miss you.”
“Why?” Cloud Heron demanded. “I never liked you.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
The ghost seemed to waver, shifting when the wind blew through him. “You are right. It doesn’t matter now. I never understood who you were, what you were. If I had known, I would have taught you more. Treated you differently.”
“Taught me more of what?”
“The things you will need to lead. The world will have to teach you. So many will try to kill you, to destroy you, you must be crafty and cunning. You have so much to learn, and no one to teach you.”
“You could teach me, Uncle.”
“I don’t have time now, Nephew. Perhaps my Dream Soul might, if it is ever so inclined. I can’t say how it will decide to treat you.” The ghost shifted, twisting in the air. “A canoe is coming. From the south, from the Panthers. Five young men. As many as the fingers on your hand. With them is an angry young woman. They are going to raid Ground Cherry Camp. Can you remember that?”
“Ground Cherry Camp,” Mud Puppy repeated.
“They will strike at first light on the third day. She must be allowed to escape.”
“Who?”
“She will try to kill you, Mud Puppy. She is very devoted, her
soul wounded and angry. Don’t trust her.” The ghost wavered again. “I don’t want to go. So much … undecided. He’s going to die.”
“Who, who is going to die?”
“So much greatness. Taken before his time. How wrong I was … how very wrong.”
“Uncle?”
“Don’t fail us, boy …”
Only black wind remained. In the distance to the east, white strobed the clouds as lightning flared and died.
“Uncle?” Mud Puppy tried to stand, wobbling on his feet. His senses spun and tricked him. His small body thumped as it dropped onto the mound’s sticky wet clay.
“He has taken the leap,” Masked Owl said, his eyes glowing like coals in the darkness. “His Life Soul has fled. From here it will begin the journey to the West. Do you remember the promise you made to me?”
“That I will help you, yes.” Mud Puppy’s vision kept swimming, losing sight of the gleaming owl’s eyes. “Are you still wearing your mask?”
“Of course.”
“Why?”
“Why does anyone wear a mask?”
“To make them look like someone else.”
“Sometimes, but not this time.”
“Then why?”
“You must find the answer to that, Mud Puppy.”
“Everyone is asking things of me.”
“It is your destiny. Do you have another question to ask me?”
From the recesses of his head, the question came: “Why did the Creator separate the Earth from the Sky?”
Masked Owl laughed at that. “You must answer that one on your own, too, boy. But, lest you become totally frustrated, I bear a message for you.”
“You do? Is it from Salamander? Would he be my Spirit Helper?” Hope leaped up within him like a fountain of light.
“He is considering it. But, no, the message isn’t from him. It is from Cricket.”
“Yes?”
“He wanted you to know that he sings with his legs. By rubbing them together. He also said to tell you that there is a lesson in that. The lesson is that you should never judge based upon appearances.
A cricket might be a very small creature, but it can still make a great noise. In all the world only thunder has a louder voice than Cricket. Remember that, Mud Puppy.”
“I will.”
“You had better rest now. Your body needs time to Dance with brother mushroom. Oh, and about your uncle’s message, I would give it to the Serpent. He is the one most likely to understand. And, for the time being—outside of myself—he is your single ally.”
Masked Owl vanished as if he had been but a fanciful flight of imagination. Blackness, cold, and a terrible sickness remained.
White Bird could have chosen better weather for his homecoming, but instead of bright sunshine he got a gray drizzle that filtered down in streamers from the cloud-choked skies. Nevertheless, he stood in the rear of his canoe as it slid onto the mucky bank of the landing.
On shore a throng had gathered amidst the clutter of beached canoes. People stood respectfully behind the Serpent, their brightly dyed clothing creating a speckling of color against the gray, dreary day. In dots and clots they stretched up the incline above the landing. An expectant excitement ran through them as they talked anxiously with each other. Most were wearing flats of bark on their heads to shed the persistent drizzle.
Yellow Spider leaped out of the bow as White Bird stepped into the calf-deep waters at the stern. Together they pulled the heavily laden dugout as far as they could onto the bank. The dark silty mud seemed to grip the rounded bottom in a lover’s tight embrace. Behind them, the rest of the Wolf Traders landed, dragging their canoes fast against the bank.
White Bird and Yellow Spider straightened, extending their arms to where the Serpent waited several paces beyond them. The old man had a curiously haunted look on his flat, wrinkled face. Water trickled down the faded tattoos on his sagging brown skin. He might have been a standing skeleton, so thin and delicate did he look. Behind him the crowd went silent. White Bird was aware of their eyes, dark, large, and peering at him in anticipation.
“Great Serpent!” White Bird shouted the ritual words into the misty rain. “We are returned from the north with goods for the People!”
“Are you cleansed?” the Serpent called back.
“We are, Great Serpent. By your Power and skill.”
“Are your Dreams pure?”
“They are, Great Serpent! My Dreams have been pleasant this last night. My souls, and those of my companions, have been at peace.”
“Do you leave anger and disharmony behind you?”
“We do, Great Serpent.”
“Then enter this place and be welcome, White Bird and Yellow Spider of the Owl Clan of the Northern Moiety. And enter this place, you Traders of the Wolf People, and be welcome.”
“Is that finally it?” Hazel Fire muttered out of the side of his mouth.
“It is, my friend.” Yellow Spider answered in the Trader’s tongue. “Now come and be dazzled by the greatest city on Earth.”
Together they started forward, but the first to break free from the crowd was Spring Cypress. She shot down the bank on bare feet, hair streaming behind her in a dark wave. She threw herself into White Bird’s arms, hugging him desperately.
“White Bird! I’ve missed you so!”
He clasped her to him, feeling her round breasts against his chest, enjoying the sensation of her damp skin against his. She was taller and fuller of body than he remembered. After a winter of experience he could feel the promise in her woman’s body. Taut and firm, she conformed to him. Her damp hair smelled of dogwood blossoms. From somewhere hidden in the back of his souls Lark’s face flashed, the image unsettling. He pushed it away and clasped Spring Cypress for a moment longer, then stepped back to look at her.
Snakes, she was beautiful, her heart-shaped face dominated by large dark eyes and a slightly upturned nose. She looked so delicate, and her souls were mirrored in her gaze; that longing and excitement was for him. For a moment he struggled with the desperate urge to lift her up and twirl her away from the watching crowd. What a shame that once again he had to be the man his mother demanded of him.
“Where is my mother? I would have thought the Clan Elder would be here to greet me. Is she detained?” he asked, matching her smile with his own.
In that instant Spring Cypress’s eyes dropped, her smile fading. “I am sorry, White Bird. Your uncle. Last night.”
“Is he …?” He couldn’t make himself say the inevitable words.
She nodded. “I just found out. I heard Moccasin Leaf telling the Serpent. Cloud Heron has been sick for so long. It wasn’t unexpected.”
He closed his eyes, exhaling as he controlled his expression. “I
wished to see him one last time.” A pang of loss began to grow in his chest. “I had so much to tell him. So many things to ask about.”
“What is it?” Yellow Spider asked, disentangling himself from some of his friends. They had charged down the slope ahead of Yellow Spider’s sister, Water Petal.
“My uncle,” White Bird said. “Last night.”
Yellow Spider flinched. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“What happened to him?” Hazel Fire asked, nervous eyes on the crowd that surged down toward them.
“Dead.” The word sounded flat in White Bird’s throat.
“He’s the one you are named after?”
White Bird nodded. Then he forced himself to meet the oncoming crowd. The Serpent, he noticed, had already turned to leave, plodding up the slope on his stick-thin legs. No doubt he was wanted at Mother’s. It was his duty to begin the rituals to strip the body of flesh and cleanse the house site.
“Greetings, White Bird.” Gnarly old Mud Stalker strode purposefully down and extended his good left hand. His hard brown eyes took in every nuance of White Bird’s expression. “It seems we have a day of joy and sorrow, all mixed together.”
How did he take that? What is his real meaning? “Indeed, Mud Stalker”—White Bird gave the man a facile smile—“it is always a joy to see you. Or were you thinking of something else?”
“I was referring first to your return, and second to the news about Cloud Heron. He was most adept.”
He was … especially when it came to thwarting you and your clan. “He will be mourned by all.”
“At least the alligators didn’t get you, White Bird.”
“Well, we can’t always depend on alligators, can we?” He avoided glancing at the man’s mangled right arm. “I have brought a great many gifts for your clan, Speaker. I thought of you constantly while I was upcountry.”
“I shall look forward to hearing your tales,” Mud Stalker said, touching his forehead in deference. “But I am taking up too much of your time, what with the death and all the responsibilities that now fall on your shoulders.” He kept his eyes locked on White Bird’s. “My deepest sympathies. If I can be of any service, or if I can advise you on any subject, do call on me.” He walked on to greet Yellow Spider.
Clay Fat came next, a jolly smile on his face as he clapped White Bird on the back. Rainwater traced rounded paths over his belly and dripped from his knob of a navel. “Glad to have you home, young man. And even happier to see that welcome you gave Spring Cypress.”
He winked, the action contorting his round face. But behind it, White Bird could sense the man’s nervous tension. “I think she’s going to be declared a woman soon!”
“Oh?” White Bird asked, wondering what his mother’s old friend was hiding behind his bluff and glowing expression.
Clay Fat lowered his voice. “Well, perhaps we could have done so several moons ago, but we were waiting for a special event.” A pause. “Have a word with your mother, young man. I can’t think of a better match than the two of you.”
So, Mother is against a match with Spring Cypress? Why? What has happened since I have been gone? “I will speak to her as soon as I can.” He cast his eyes up the slope of the canoe landing, searching for some sign of the Owl Clan Elder.
“I think she’s detained. About your uncle, my deepest sympathies, White Bird. He was a great man.” Water ran from Clay Fat’s bark hat. It sat crooked on his ball-shaped head so that the runoff trickled onto the curve of his greased shoulder. The drips beaded and slid down his brown skin in silver trails.
“As are you, Speaker. You filled my thoughts the entire time I was upriver.”
“Better that you had spent your thoughts on Spring Cypress than me. That would have been a great deal more productive—not to mention more pleasant, eh?”
“We will talk more later, Speaker.” White Bird clapped him on the back, passing to face Thunder Tail and Stone Talon from the Eagle Clan as they took their place next in line.
“Greetings, young White Bird.” Aged Stone Talon offered her hand, birdlike under thin skin. As she balanced on rattly crutches, the top of her head barely reached the middle of his chest; the old woman seemed to have aged ten tens of turnings of seasons since he had seen her last. Her flesh reminded him of turkey wattle, loose and hanging from her bones. Hair that had been black a summer ago had gone as white as the northern snows. Her back had hunched and curled like a crawfish’s tail. But she looked up at him with the same predatory eyes that a robin used when it considered plucking an unlucky worm from the ground. “So, the barbarians and the monsters of the North didn’t get you?”
“No, Elder, they did not.” Instinct told him that no matter how her body had failed, her wits seemed as sharp as a banded-chert blade. The question was, which way would she cut? And which clan would drip blood when she was finished?
Her son, Thunder Tail, the Eagle Clan Speaker, cleared his throat. He wore a necklace made of split bear mandibles that hung
like a breastplate. His weathered face reminded White Bird of a rosehip that had been kept in a pot for too many winters. His tattoos had faded through the turning of seasons, darkening and blurring until, like the patterns in his soul, they were hard to decipher. “Are we to call you Speaker, now?”
“Respectfully, I have no idea. I have just arrived.”
“Difficult, isn’t it?” Stone Talon gave him a toothless smile that rearranged her shriveled face. The thoughts behind her eyes, however, were anything but pleasant. “Having to face all of this when your souls are freshly plunged into grief.” She gestured toward the crowd that still awaited him. “Your uncle was a strong leader. Where will you find his like?”
“There is no one like him,” White Bird agreed easily. “My clan’s loss is indeed grievous, but it wounds us all. My uncle served all the people. Fortunately, Elder, I have four canoes to help lighten the People’s sadness. I have set aside some special presents for the two of you. As soon as I find a moment, be sure that I shall bring them to you personally.”
“Clever boy, that one,” he heard Stone Talon say as they passed on.
“At last!” Three Moss cried from where she waited impatiently. “Come, Mother. Let us greet White Bird.” Three Moss led Elder Cane Frog into White Bird’s presence. Her hand rested on her mother’s bare shoulder.
He reached out, taking the blind Elder’s frail hand and clasping it respectfully. “My souls are pleased to see you, Elder. I’m sure your daughter has told you about the Trade we have returned with.”
“She has.” Cane Frog smacked her lips, as if something distasteful clung to her pink gums. Her sightless right white eye wiggled and quivered, while dirt encrusted the empty orbit of her missing left. “She also told me you brought barbarians with you?”
“I did, Elder.” He laughed lightly. “There was no other way to carry so much Trade. It was that, or sink the canoe.”
“Never that,” Cane Frog agreed. “You know, I lost my oldest brother that way. Tragic. Such a Speaker he would have been for the clan. Best to be safe out on the water. Yes, always safe.”
“I agree, Elder.”
“Our hearts are wounded by the news of your uncle.” Three Moss was looking at him speculatively. Life had been unfair to her. Plain, thickset, and bland of feature, she didn’t have that spark of animation in her flat brown eyes. “We are, however, joyous at your safe return. So many had declared you dead. Most had lost hope.”
“Hope should never be given up completely,” White Bird told
her evenly. “In my case, I must apologize for making so many people worry. Events, however, dictated that I go farther than I had planned, and once there, that I dedicate myself to the Trade through the winter. But I assure you I longed for home. In fact, I have some special gifts that I have picked out, just for Elder Cane Frog.”
“We are obliged to you,” Cane Frog rasped. “Your return was propitious, young White Bird. Indeed, most propitious. But then, luck has always favored your clan, hasn’t it? You know, it was just a couple of days ago that we were talking—”
“Mother”—Three Moss took the old woman’s arm—“come, we can’t monopolize White Bird. Others wish to welcome him home. There is still Yellow Spider to see and the barbarians to welcome.”
“Yellow Spider? Who is he?” White Bird heard the old woman ask, as Three Moss led her away.
“Brother to Water Petal, of the Owl Clan,” Three Moss was hissing as Speaker Deep Hunter led Elder Colored Paint to White Bird.
Deep Hunter, Speaker for the Alligator Clan, was watching Cane Frog as Three Moss stopped her in front of Yellow Spider. He had a curious smile on his lips. By the time he turned to White Bird his expression had grown thoughtful. “So, you are well and healthy. Welcome home, White Bird. After so many declared you dead, it is a joy to know that your souls are safe and returned to those who love and cherish you.”
“Thank you for your kind greeting. I regret that I worried so many, Speaker.”
“Oh, fear not. It does them good every once in a while to be proven wrong.”
“Who, Speaker?”
“The ones who come to think that they know how the world works … and that they are the smart ones. It is always such a shock when they find out that they are not as cunning as they thought. It is healthy to be reminded that people, things, or events can come from unexpected quarters to disrupt everything and throw the simplest of plans into confusion.” Deep Hunter’s thoughtful black eyes were taking White Bird’s measure. His long face always had a sad look, but Deep Hunter was never a known quantity. “Stew, as you no doubt know, is tastier when it is stirred every so often.”
“I hear the wisdom in your words, Speaker.”
“Do you?”
To change the subject, White Bird reached out to take Colored Paint’s hand. “Greetings, Elder. I have brought you some special gifts from upriver. You filled my thoughts throughout the winter. So much so, that it gives my souls great joy to see you again.”
“It was cold, your winter up north?” Colored Paint asked, her glinting brown eyes on White Bird.
“Yes, Elder.”
“I spent a winter up north, you know. Poison and snakes, but that was a long time ago. How many winters? Three tens? Three tens and three? I can’t recall. But cold? I tell you, I thought my bones would crack. You don’t know the value of a good hot fire until you’ve been that cold.”
“I agree, Elder.”
“We not only come to welcome you,” Deep Hunter interrupted, “but to offer our respects over your uncle’s death.” The enigmatic smile remained on his thin lips as he asked, “There is talk that Owl Clan will have a very young Speaker. Have you given that any thought?”
White Bird kept his expression blank. “I have been in seclusion, Speaker. My first responsibility was to the purification of my souls and body. I have no hint as to what my clan might be considering.”
Deep Hunter nodded absently.
What was he hiding? White Bird’s souls tingled with warning. It was one thing to deal with Mud Stalker. He had always been an enemy, but what motivated Deep Hunter?
The Speaker smiled easily. “Come and see us when you have a chance. After that winter up north the Elder will have a warm fire for you, and I shall make sure our stew has been adequately stirred. We will have a great many things to talk about.”
“Thank you, Speaker. And you, Elder Colored Paint, have a pleasant day.”
“Going back to the fire,” Colored Paint muttered. “Just talking about it has made my bones shiver. A bit of winter lingers inside me. I think it was because I got so cold upriver that time. Hope it doesn’t bother you the way it does me.”
“I hope not, too, Elder.”
Deep Hunter added: “Give your mother my greeting. Send her my respects concerning your uncle. Tell her that we need to speak. Soon.” He led Colored Paint down the line to Yellow Spider.
White Bird glanced uneasily at the growing crowd. He wished he could just press his way through them and sprint up the slope to the plaza. From there he could run full tilt north to his mother’s house on the first ridge and learn the news.
Time began to drag as he worked his way through the throng. It seemed that the entirety of Sun Town had poured out to greet him. Everyone was curious as to what he had brought, and just as anxious to see the barbarians and to invite them to visit, eat, and tell their
tales of the far north. It took but a suggestion from White Bird to the gathered young men, and they surged to the beach and muscled the muddy damp canoes onto their broad shoulders. He smiled at the clans vying for the honor of carrying the Trade up to Owl Clan’s territory.
As they started up the slippery slope, people crowded around Hazel Fire and his companions, shouting questions and invitations.
Not that Traders didn’t come from distant places, but these were young warriors, not the professional rivermen with wild tales that were meant to awe their audience into a lucrative Trade.
White Bird did enjoy a moment of satisfaction as the crowd surged up the slope from the landing. He was watching the Wolf Traders, noting their expressions the moment that they stepped out onto the expanse of the great southern plaza. They stopped short, stunned at the sight of the huge curving ridges topped with lines of houses. Even with the drizzle that masked the Bird’s Head to the west, they stood stunned, speechless at the majesty of Sun Town’s earthworks and the geometric perfection with which it was laid out.
“There is no place like this on Earth!” Gray Fox finally gasped. “Do the gods live here?”
“No,” Yellow Spider assured him. “They are in the sky above and under the earth beneath your feet, where they should be. No, my friend, you have just entered the center of the world. We are the Sun People, and there are no others like us anywhere.”
White Bird led the procession, striding with the same presence and posture he had seen his uncle adopt for formal occasions. Behind him the crowd lined out, a gaudy procession who marched and clapped their hands, Singing and laughing, the canoes bobbing on a buoyancy of shoulders.
He had forgotten the immensity of Sun Town. In respect, he touched his forehead as he crossed the town’s center line, the low beaten path in the grass that delineated the Southern Moiety from the Northern. As he entered Owl Clan territory, his heart seemed fit to burst. A swirl of emotions—joy at success, sadness at the news about his uncle, and pride in his clan—swirled within him like mixing floodwaters.
As he came striding up to the first ridge, he stared through the rain, feeling water trickle down his face to soak his already wet breechcloth. “Greetings, Elder Wing Heart,” he called as he stopped short of the borrow ditch below his house. “Your son has returned. He has been cleansed and brings Trade for the People.”
As if on cue, his mother stepped out from behind the hanging, stately, looking every inch the influential Elder that she was. “Welcome
home, White Bird. My heart is filled with gladness to see you.” She paused. “More so given the sorrow that has filled us after your uncle’s death.”
“I grieve for the Speaker,” he answered, voice ringing.
It was at that moment that the Serpent stepped out behind Wing Heart, his face streaked with charcoal as was appropriate when dealing with the dead. A black face didn’t frighten the freshly dead souls.
The crowd had flowed around his party in a semicircle, watching the greatest of spectacles. He could feel the anticipation, the rising excitement. People hung on every word, wondering if Wing Heart would declare him to be the new Speaker. Or would she wait? Did she have the kind of influence to make such a declaration, knowing full well that her clan would be forced to support her? Would she take that kind of risk, knowing that to have to withdraw it later would amount to a terrible loss of face?
White Bird straightened, his heart hammering with anticipation. Yellow Spider was standing by his side, spine stiff, shoulders back, head proud. The four heavy canoes were lined up behind them, evidence of his ability to provide for the People.
Wing Heart stood as if frozen, staring across the divide created by the borrow pit. In its boggy bottom, cattail and cane had sprouted, the first green shoots of spring. Water lilies were coming back to life, the emerald leaves floating on the black water.
“White Bird,” she called out imperiously, “nephew of Cloud Heron, who was once Speaker of the Owl Clan, I would …”
A muttering ripple ran through the western end of the crowd, people parting as if they were water. White Bird cocked his head at the interruption and the rising babble of excited talk. Unease tightened in his chest, his muscles charged the way they would for combat. He realized he was breathing hard, as if he’d just run for several hands of time.
When the crowed parted, it took White Bird a moment to recognize the boy. He looked like a drowned urchin, black hair plastered to his head. Smears of watery soil blotched his cheeks, shoulders, and scrawny chest. What had originally been a white breechcloth looked gray, stained with clay and ash. But what affected White Bird the most was the look in those large, haunted eyes. Power seemed to radiate from them like heat from a glowing cooking clay.
“Mud Puppy?” the question popped unbidden from White Bird’s lips as the boy walked past, that eerie stare locked on a world beyond this one.
The boy didn’t hesitate but plodded down and splashed through the water and up the ridge toward Wing Heart.
“Mud Puppy?” she barked angrily. “What are you …”
But Mud Puppy walked past her, stopping instead before the Serpent. In the sudden silence, White Bird couldn’t hear what the boy said, just the mumbling of his low speech.
“That is ridiculous!” Wing Heart blurted.
White Bird couldn’t stand it. Snakes take the little imp, he’d just ruined everything! Before he could think, he was striding forward, enough aware to round the eastern edge of the borrow pit instead of slogging through the water so that he could stalk up to his mother’s house. No; he wouldn’t wring his brother’s scrawny neck, not here where the entire world could see, but he’d sure do it as soon as no one was watching.
The Serpent had straightened, his face oddly drawn by a frown. Wing Heart shot a hard hand out to grasp the boy’s arm. White Bird could see the muscles in her back tense and knot as she dragged the boy toward the doorway. Her body twisted as she pitched him unceremoniously into the shadowed depths of the house.
“People!” The Serpent raised his hands high. “Word has just come to me that the Swamp Panthers are sending a party to raid us. Five warriors will attack Ground Cherry Camp the day after tomorrow at dawn. Who will go to ward off this threat?”
The announcement stopped White Bird cold. Without looking, he could tell that the crowd hung upon a precipice of indecision. It was instinct that led White Bird to raise his hand, shouting, “I will!” only to wonder what he’d done, and what had happened in this moment that should have been his greatest triumph.