People of the Owl: A Novel of Prehistoric North America (North America's Forgotten Past) by W. Michael Gear, Kathleen O'Neal Gear
Authors: W. Michael Gear, Kathleen O'Neal Gear
Ads: Link
who had just suffered a disturbing upset. Throughout this last turning of seasons, Deep Hunter—with Colored
Paint’s approval—had promised Owl Clan their support. Deep Hunter would do anything to keep Mud Stalker and Alligator Clan in a subservient and obligatory position. Even if it meant supporting Wing Heart and Owl Clan.
Why do I feel that I’ve been betrayed? She nodded a greeting to Deep Hunter and bent her lips into a facile smile—just in case she needed to keep the fiction alive.
Eagle Clan’s Elder, Stone Talon, perched on her wooden crutches, her gnarly hands gripping the smooth wood of the polished branches that kept her crooked legs from collapsing. Toothless, her face looked like a desiccated gourd; Stone Talon worked her gums and wrinkled her fleshy nose as though smelling something foul. Her faded vision seemed to be wavering, as though searching for something. A group of her young hunters—no doubt the ones who had borne her down to the landing—looked as if it was all they could do to keep from crowding at the water’s edge and shouting questions at White Bird.
Deep Hunter strode down to face his sister. Gesturing for emphasis, he asked Colored Paint a question, then turned at the answer to frown out at the water where the canoes floated. Deep Hunter was a brash man, given to impulse. He had no halfway in his souls, but being a hothead and unpredictable made him dangerous in his own right.
Yes, they were all worried. That brought Wing Heart a twist of amusement she wouldn’t have felt earlier in the day. Cloud Heron wasn’t even dead yet, and they had already buried him? Had the fools considered Owl Clan to be defanged? Without any Power at all? She allowed herself to smile with an oily satisfaction. After a turning of seasons filled with worry and fear, her heart felt as though it might burst. This moment was worth savoring. She let the glory of victory fill her, felt it throbbing in her nerves, pulsing in her veins. She might have been a youth again, charged with the sheer joy of being alive.
People parted for her as she neared the shore. In the halo of torchlight, she walked imperiously between the hulls of beached canoes and out into the murky black water. Slippery, clinging mud slipped between her toes. Water lapped against her ankles like a lover’s tongue.
The surface lay smooth and glassy before her, blackness lit by dancing yellow ribbons of light that reflected from the rings thrown by the bobbing canoes. Slim arrows of the night, the craft drifted at the edge of the torchlight: four of them, just as had been reported. She gave a cursory inspection to the barbarians, not that they mattered
much, and turned her attention to the tall young man who balanced so perfectly on the stern of the canoe floating off to the right.
What a hero he made! Firelight reflected off the grease that he had smeared over his rippling skin, accenting the swell of his thick muscles. He stood like one of the warriors in the stories about the first days. A foreign-looking breechcloth hung from the leather belt at his slim hips; a bright yellow wolf’s face was painted on the front flap. His hair, too, was in a bun pinned up at the side like the barbarians wore theirs. She could see his white teeth as he smiled in her direction.
“Are you well, my son?”
“I am very well, Mother.”
She didn’t react to the satisfaction in his voice. “And you, Yellow Spider? Are you well?”
“I am, Elder. Thank you. And my family?”
“They, too, are well. I shall send a runner immediately. Your mother and your brothers and sisters are out at Turtle Shell Camp. They will rejoice to hear of your arrival.” Her voice turned dry. “It seems that they have worked most assiduously to placate your angry and lost ghost.”
Across the distance she could see Yellow Spider take a deep breath. “I am sorry for that, Clan Elder. I can only hope that my return, with the Trade we bring, will reimburse the clan for any
Paint’s approval—had promised Owl Clan their support. Deep Hunter would do anything to keep Mud Stalker and Alligator Clan in a subservient and obligatory position. Even if it meant supporting Wing Heart and Owl Clan.
Why do I feel that I’ve been betrayed? She nodded a greeting to Deep Hunter and bent her lips into a facile smile—just in case she needed to keep the fiction alive.
Eagle Clan’s Elder, Stone Talon, perched on her wooden crutches, her gnarly hands gripping the smooth wood of the polished branches that kept her crooked legs from collapsing. Toothless, her face looked like a desiccated gourd; Stone Talon worked her gums and wrinkled her fleshy nose as though smelling something foul. Her faded vision seemed to be wavering, as though searching for something. A group of her young hunters—no doubt the ones who had borne her down to the landing—looked as if it was all they could do to keep from crowding at the water’s edge and shouting questions at White Bird.
Deep Hunter strode down to face his sister. Gesturing for emphasis, he asked Colored Paint a question, then turned at the answer to frown out at the water where the canoes floated. Deep Hunter was a brash man, given to impulse. He had no halfway in his souls, but being a hothead and unpredictable made him dangerous in his own right.
Yes, they were all worried. That brought Wing Heart a twist of amusement she wouldn’t have felt earlier in the day. Cloud Heron wasn’t even dead yet, and they had already buried him? Had the fools considered Owl Clan to be defanged? Without any Power at all? She allowed herself to smile with an oily satisfaction. After a turning of seasons filled with worry and fear, her heart felt as though it might burst. This moment was worth savoring. She let the glory of victory fill her, felt it throbbing in her nerves, pulsing in her veins. She might have been a youth again, charged with the sheer joy of being alive.
People parted for her as she neared the shore. In the halo of torchlight, she walked imperiously between the hulls of beached canoes and out into the murky black water. Slippery, clinging mud slipped between her toes. Water lapped against her ankles like a lover’s tongue.
The surface lay smooth and glassy before her, blackness lit by dancing yellow ribbons of light that reflected from the rings thrown by the bobbing canoes. Slim arrows of the night, the craft drifted at the edge of the torchlight: four of them, just as had been reported. She gave a cursory inspection to the barbarians, not that they mattered
much, and turned her attention to the tall young man who balanced so perfectly on the stern of the canoe floating off to the right.
What a hero he made! Firelight reflected off the grease that he had smeared over his rippling skin, accenting the swell of his thick muscles. He stood like one of the warriors in the stories about the first days. A foreign-looking breechcloth hung from the leather belt at his slim hips; a bright yellow wolf’s face was painted on the front flap. His hair, too, was in a bun pinned up at the side like the barbarians wore theirs. She could see his white teeth as he smiled in her direction.
“Are you well, my son?”
“I am very well, Mother.”
She didn’t react to the satisfaction in his voice. “And you, Yellow Spider? Are you well?”
“I am, Elder. Thank you. And my family?”
“They, too, are well. I shall send a runner immediately. Your mother and your brothers and sisters are out at Turtle Shell Camp. They will rejoice to hear of your arrival.” Her voice turned dry. “It seems that they have worked most assiduously to placate your angry and lost ghost.”
Across the distance she could see Yellow Spider take a deep breath. “I am sorry for that, Clan Elder. I can only hope that my return, with the Trade we bring, will reimburse the clan for any
Similar Books
