Salamander trotted down from the Bird’s Head after his sunrise devotions. He felt a lingering sense of foreboding, partly from his disturbing Dreams the night before, partly from Night Rain’s violent bout of morning sickness. Whereas neither Pine Drop nor Anhinga had been bothered much, Night Rain’s first experience of pregnancy was proving to be downright miserable.
“Must be a boy,” Pine Drop said as she cuddled her suckling daughter to her breast.
“That or a monster,” Night Rain had insisted as she wiped her mouth and cast suspicious eyes on Salamander.
He had raised his hands in defense, and said, “I would have asked Power for another daughter. I’m in deep enough trouble with your uncle as it is. Knowing that I had produced another heir for his lineage might make him smile a bit more kindly when I’m around.”
The round red-yellow sun seemed to drift off the horizon and higher into the morning sky. The light made Salamander squint as he rounded the first ridge, where Cane Frog’s house stood. The old Clan Elder hadn’t emerged yet to greet the morning with her sightless eyes. Nor had Three Moss come to check on her mother and see to her needs.
He cast a cautious glance at the round Council House as he passed, knowing that soon, no doubt just before the solstice celebration, he was going to face expulsion. The topic of his witchcraft was now on every lip, some people even speaking openly of it.
How does a person prove he is not a witch?
How could he blame them? Last spring he had been considered an odd boy, even despised by his mother. Within a turning of the seasons his popular brother was dead, Salamander was Clan Speaker, with three wives, two houses, and an unheard of alliance with the Swamp Panthers. People knew that he was tied up in the ways of Power, that he spent a great deal of time with the Serpent. He had helped prepare the bodies of the dead. Each morning found him alone at the top of the Bird’s Head when normal young men were waking up in their wives’ arms. If witchcraft didn’t explain that, what did?
With those thoughts lodged in his head, he was surprised by a sudden prickling of unease. He stopped short, collecting his thoughts. He came this way every morning, following the trail that was beaten into the grass where people rounded the eastern end of the borrow ditch before climbing Owl Clan’s first ridge.
The dog lay on its side in the weeds at the water’s edge. From the way the vegetation was bruised, it was apparent that the animal had thrashed as it died. Even the earth was torn up where it had clawed frantically in its last moments.
Salamander stepped over and bent down. The animal, a bitch, was young. Her expanded nipples and fat sides indicated that she was just days shy of a litter. Her lips were pulled back, exposing foam-flecked teeth and gums. Even in death, terror reflected from her wide brown eyes, the pupils gray. Feces had been squirted onto the matted weeds behind her.
“What happened to you?” Salamander asked, his heart softening. He grabbed a foot, pulling the stiff animal over. She hadn’t died that long ago. Not even the flies had found her yet.
Salamander made a face, feeling the presentiment that tingled along his soul.
“Why are you trying to warn me, little mother?” he asked gently. “What do you wish to tell me?”
He closed his eyes, trying to hear the dead dog’s Dream Soul. With an aching longing, he listened, and heard nothing.
Some people said dogs didn’t have Dream Souls, but he didn’t believe it. Too many times he had seen the sleeping animals, their eyes twitching, their feet jerking, as they made muffled woofs. If they weren’t Dreaming, running in the Dream world, what were they doing?
“I am sorry, little mother, but I will beware. Thank you for trying to tell me, even if I’m too stupid to hear.”
He lifted the animal, feeling how stiff the body was, as if wooden
beneath the thin hair. With great care he bore the carcass to the drop-off overlooking Morning Lake and laid it over the edge. The dead dog slid down along the steep embankment and lodged in some stalks of marsh elder that clung there.
Depressed, he turned his steps for home. Wing Heart sat at her loom despite the early hour. Water Petal—hunched at the side of the ramada—was graining a deerhide on a polished post set in the ground.
To Salamander’s surprise, a third person sat in the morning sun just outside the ramada. It took a moment for the silver hair, the thick shoulders, and lined face to register. Thunder Tail wore one of his bear necklaces, which consisted of claws strung to either side of twin mandibles. A sleek cloak of black bearskin was draped over one shoulder.
Salamander walked past his house and over to the ramada. “Good morning, Council Leader. What brings you here?”
“Good morning to you, too, Speaker Salamander.” Thunder Tail’s serious face reflected the gravity of his visit. “I came to see Elder Wing Heart. It has been a while since I have had the pleasure of her company.”
“She is no longer an Elder.”
“She will always be an Elder to me, Salamander.” Thunder Tail smiled precisely.
Salamander could see that his mother was oblivious to her guest. Her fingers continued to work the threads, arms rising and falling with a supple grace. Those vacant eyes saw nothing of this world but the fabric before her. Her head continued to move loosely as she dwelt on conversations no one else could hear.
“We thank you for your concern, Speaker. She didn’t say anything to you, did she?”
Thunder Tail shook his head, pensive brown eyes on Salamander.
“I am sorry you didn’t reach her. We remain hopeful. Water Petal and I keep believing that some familiar face will draw her back long enough that her souls would remember this world.”
Thunder Tail gestured for Salamander to sit, then wrapped his thick arms around his knees. “I was a good friend of your mother’s. She and I …”
“Yes, I know. You were lovers. She always spoke of you with great respect and admiration, Speaker. I’m sure that she is proud that you followed her into the leadership of the Council.”
Thunder Tail studied him for a long moment. “You speak very well for such a young man, Salamander.”
“I had good teachers.” He indicated his mother. “I spent my childhood listening to her and Uncle Cloud Heron. Something of their skill must have rubbed off.”
He hesitated. “I didn’t just come to see Wing Heart.”
“You are concerned about the talk of witchcraft,” Salamander filled in. “Mud Stalker and Deep Hunter are going to introduce that claim at the next Council meeting, aren’t they?”
“Are you so complacent that you do not understand the threat, young Salamander?”
“It isn’t a matter of complacency, Speaker. I face the perennial problem of those accused of witchcraft: belief. No matter what I state in my defense, people will believe what they will believe. I am not a witch. I wish no one—even my enemies—ill. The more strident my voice is as I cry out my innocence, the more assured others will be that I am guilty of using Power for my own gain.”
“And what gain is that, Salamander?”
He gestured around. “If I had that kind of Power, Speaker, I would return my mother’s souls to this world. Owl Clan and the People have more need of her wits and knowledge here than do the souls in the Spirit World.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“Yes, Speaker Thunder Tail. The Spirit World is already well served—it has my uncle and brother.”
“Your mother never spoke very highly of you.”
“Let us say that I wasn’t what she expected in a son.”
“But you ended up as Owl Clan’s Speaker.”
Salamander smiled wryly. “I think we both know how that happened. But, since it did, I will do my best for my clan, Speaker. I was unprepared for this. I can only hope that as time passes, I will do a better job.”
“And the witchcraft?”
“Were I a good witch, my clan would be preeminent. I would be basking in the reflected fear and respect of my fellows. I would be plotting with Mud Stalker and Deep Hunter to replace you as leader of the Council. I would be surrounding myself with copper, stone, and exotic hides from the far reaches of our Trade. I think I would be busy destroying my enemies, making them die horrible deaths.” A smile crossed his lips. “I ask you, do my enemies tremble at my name?”
“No, Speaker Salamander, they do not.” Thunder Tail fingered the soft bearhide on his shoulder as he thought. His eyes kept straying to Wing Heart, and Salamander could see the hurt.
“She loved you,” he said softly. “More than all the others.”
Thunder Tail looked uncomfortable as he returned his attention
to Salamander. “I don’t know what good it will do in the end, Salamander, but for one, I don’t think you are a witch. There is, however, something about you that worries me. When I am around you, I can feel it, a tension in the air, as if you are headed for some terrible fate.”
“With all of my souls, Council Leader, I hope not. But I give you my word, I will do everything within my ability to keep from hurting the People.”
“What of your barbarian wife? People would accuse her of witchcraft, too.”
“Assuming that I knew how to recognize a witch, I’ve never seen it in her.”
“And when she goes away?”
“She meets with her family.”
“Does she plot against us?”
“Of course. We killed her brother and her friends.”
“But you don’t think she’s dangerous?”
“Speaker, never, under any circumstances, believe that she isn’t dangerous.”
“Then why do you live with her? Surely not just for the sandstone.”
Salamander chuckled softly, shaking his head. “It is a complicated thing to explain. I love her. She is my wife, and I enjoy the time I spend with her. Can you understand that? She does things for me, excites my souls when I look into her eyes.”
“What of your other wives?”
“They are the same. Each one is different, each has her own qualities.”
“But you can trust Pine Drop and Night Rain. You know they won’t cut your throat in the middle of the night.”
Salamander felt the prickle of warning again. “Speaker? Whatever made you say that? I can anticipate the threat Anhinga poses. She came to us as an enemy. It is those we trust the most who will drive the dagger deepest into our hearts.”
Thunder Tail nodded in agreement, and a fist tightened around Salamander’s souls.
Night Rain slipped as she followed her cousin, Water Stinger, down the path south of Sun Town. The trail was slick with mud
from an afternoon rain shower. Water Stinger had appeared at her house as she patiently drilled stone beads while seated in the ramada’s shade. The young warrior had been winded from a long run, and asked for her and Pine Drop.
“Sister is gone. You just missed her. She has taken a basket and gone to collect the first goosefoot greens.”
“Then you come!” Water Stinger had insisted, practically dragging her after him as he headed south the way he had come. “It’s important. Uncle wants you there.”
So they hurried, taking a deeply worn path that led south along the steep embankment overlooking the bottomlands. The way wound through trees that gave periodic glimpses of the cane bottoms where the channel was obscured by the spring flood. Water gleamed silver as sunlight was reflected through the vegetation. The whole world had taken on a blinding green, and the smell of blossoms carried on the air.
“What is it?” Night Rain placed a hand on her belly, wondering what a run like this would do to her queasy stomach.
“Uncle will tell you.”
“Where are we going?”
“The landing just below Raspberry Camp.”
She knew the place: the first camp south of Sun Town where the south channel looped back against a break in the high terrace. Not more than a half hand’s run away, people often camped there when they came from the outlying settlements. Close enough to allow easy access to Sun Town, it was far enough away to avoid the noise and confusion. Not all of the Sun People liked the bustling of Sun Town. She had relatives—people in her own lineage—who lived in the outlying camps, preferring the solitude of the swamps and forest to the city of ridges.
For her turn, Night Rain couldn’t stand the slow pace of life in the camps and outlying settlements. After several days, the monotony, the limited companionship, and boredom set in. She swore she would pull her hair out if she couldn’t return to Sun Town with its constant activity, games, feasts, and visiting.
Water Stinger surprised her when he directed her off the beaten route just outside of Raspberry Camp. Following a faint trail in the grass, he led her over the sloping embankment and down the steep incline. The way wound around roots of walnut, oak, and sweetgum. A spongy leaf mat muffled their steps as the path leveled into a brushy bottom.
Pushing through the willows and cane, Water Stinger led her into
a small clearing. There the willows had been pushed flat and several canoes dragged up onto the crushed vegetation.
To one side, Red Finger had his arms crossed. Uncle and Mother stood over a mud-stained canoe, faces grim in the morning light. Sweet Root’s face reflected anger, grief, and frustration. Uncle just seemed to brood as he fingered the elbow of his ruined arm. Of them all, Red Finger had a look of satisfaction.
“What is this?” Night Rain asked as she stepped forward to stare down at the canoe. At first she didn’t recognize what she saw: A large yellow gourd with holes in it, bits of sticks and … “Snakes!” She placed a hand over her pounding heart. “Who is it?”
“Do you recognize the canoe?” Uncle asked softly.
She studied the craft, seeing the familiar lines. “It looks like Eats Wood’s.” She swallowed hard, leaning forward, fingers pressed to her breastbone. What she had first taken as sticks and a gourd were long bones and a skull. What might have been collapsed willow stays from a fish trap could only be the remains of a rib cage.
Looking more closely she could see that the body had been laid out, supine, the arms and legs straight. Muddy water had yellowed the remains. Waterlogged brown fabric about the waist had been a breechcloth. She could see the familiar turtle motif woven into the cloth. Eats Wood’s mother was quite a weaver. While Night Rain couldn’t be absolutely positive, she was pretty sure that that cloth had come from the old woman’s loom.
“Where did you find him?” The fingers at her breast had closed into a knotted fist.
“Deep in the Swamp Panther’s territory.” Red Finger shifted. “Believe it or not, a crow led me to him.”
“A crow?”
“But for the bird, no one would have ever found Eats Wood. His killers sank the canoe with his body in it. Once it was submerged, they wedged it under the roots of a cypress, where it wouldn’t come loose.” Red Finger shook his head.
“We were meant to find him,” Uncle said as he massaged the scar tissue on his arm. “Your crow was a messenger. Power leading us to justice.”
“You think the Swamp Panthers did this?” Night Rain asked incredulously. “Why would they hide the body?”
“They wouldn’t,” Sweet Root answered. “This isn’t war, silly child.”
“I don’t understand.” She was shaking her head, staring at the oblong hole in the top of Eats Wood’s round skull.
Mud Stalker leaned forward, his hard brown eyes burning into hers. “We’re talking murder!”
Murder? “Why would the Swamp Panthers murder Eats Wood?”
“They didn’t,” Sweet Root hissed. “If they had killed him, they would have taken his body to the Panther’s Bones and strewn the pieces around like the animals they are.”
“Think, Night Rain!” Uncle leaned closer, his eyes boring through her. “Who travels to the Swamp Panthers every moon? Who would have had a reason to hide the body instead of abusing it? Who would have done anything to avoid having to face us with our kinsman’s death?”
“Snakes, you think Anhinga did this?”
“She’s very good with an ax,” Sweet Root reminded. “If you will recall, daughter.”
Night Rain stared wide-eyed at the oblong hole in the top of Eats Wood’s skull. “You think Eats Wood would have let her drive an ax into his head? He knew what happened to Saw Back. I heard him say he’d never be that stupid.”
“Look at him, Cousin. Look hard, then you tell me what you think.” Red Finger crossed his arms.
“There is a way to prove what we suspect,” Uncle replied stiffly. “That is, assuming you still have any loyalty to your clan.” He pinned her with his eyes. “How is it with you, Night Rain? Are you still Snapping Turtle Clan, or are you someone else? Someone who betrays her blood and kin. Someone without relatives?”
Her throat tightened, and she wished she were anywhere but here, looking down on these pitiful remains. “How can we be sure? I mean, how can we know that Anhinga did this? Only bones are left.”
Red Finger bent down, picking up the globe of the skull. Muddy water drained from the big hole where the spine had been. It spattered off the damp wood and pattered onto her bare legs. She cringed at the feel of it on her warm skin.
Mud Stalker frowned, pained, as he studied the skull. “It doesn’t take long for the crawfish, minnows, and bugs to clean up a body, does it?” He indicated the oblong wound in the top. “Here, Night Rain. This will tell us.”
“How?”
“I want you to bring me Anhinga’s ax.” Mud Stalker gave her a blunt stare. “You can do that, can’t you? Borrow it? Sometime when she isn’t looking?”
“I … Uncle, don’t ask me to do this.”
“You owe us!” Mud Stalker thrust his face into hers. “We are your kin!”
She stepped back, desperate to get away from him.
“Or do you serve someone besides your own flesh and blood?” Sweet Root asked. “Is it Deep Hunter? Salamander? Or perhaps that witch, Anhinga?”
“Have you forgotten your ancestors?” Red Finger asked, a sneer on his lips. “Would you rather serve strangers than your clan? Would you leave your cousin’s, Eats Wood’s, souls to wail over the injustice of his murder while you laugh with his killers?”
Night Rain couldn’t catch her breath. She glanced from face to face. Water Stinger had stood to the rear, his expression brooding and angry.
“Do this thing,” Uncle added in a softer tone, “and all will be forgiven between us. You and I will begin again on a new footing … as if the problem with Deep Hunter, and your betrayal, never happened.” He paused. “Night Rain, do you understand the opportunity we are giving you?”
She bit her lip and nodded, feeling her heart thudding in her chest. “Yes, Uncle.”
“Good.” Mud Stalker took a deep breath, stepping back to look down into the canoe. “In the meantime, I think we should tell Pine Drop. Have her—”
“No,” Night Rain whispered. “Don’t tell her yet. Salamander will find out. She will demand an answer from him. Anhinga will find out, and her ax will be gone long before I can get to it.”
“What makes you think Night Rain can manage this?” Sweet Root asked Uncle in a caustic voice. “She couldn’t even manage a meeting with her young lover without getting wound up in another’s snare.”
“I can do this!” Night Rain stamped her foot. “If it means fixing the damage I have done, I can.” She took a breath of the muggy air and waved at a pesky fly that came to buzz around her ear. “I will get Anhinga’s ax. No one will know. Not even Pine Drop.”