People of the Owl: A Novel of Prehistoric North America (North America's Forgotten Past) by W. Michael Gear, Kathleen O'Neal Gear Page B
Authors: W. Michael Gear, Kathleen O'Neal Gear
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not stupid, though through ignorance of our ways they may act like it. We simply ask that you do not mock them because they do not know our customs.”
“These things shall be as you wish,” Clay Fat cried happily. “Tell your friends that Rattlesnake Clan offers our homes and hospitality to these Wolf People.”
Wing Heart lifted her chin slightly, thankful once again that Rattlesnake Clan remained loyal to her.
“What are your orders, Clan Elder?” White Bird called ritually.
“You are to camp on the Turtle’s Back. There, you will be attended to. You are to cleanse yourselves before entering the sacred enclosure of Sun Town. You are to divest yourself of evil thoughts, of pettiness, and spite. You are to submit to the Serpent and his attendants when he comes to prepare you. When you are ready, we shall receive you and your Trade.”
“It is as you order, Elder.” White Bird bowed again, then settled himself easily into the canoe’s stern. In what Wing Heart assumed was the language of the barbarians, he said something, and the rest of his companions lowered themselves into their boats. Paddles were collected, and the canoes turned to stroke off into the night, following White Bird’s wake.
Wing Heart remained as she was, tall, head up, watching her son paddle away. There, just beyond the glow of the torches, he would land on Turtle’s Back, a low island that broke the lake surface. Traditionally, Traders camped there, allowing themselves to be cleansed of any evil taint that they might have picked up, or that might be hovering close to their goods. The People couldn’t be too careful. Surrounded as they were by jealous and spiteful peoples, curses and spells constantly flew in their direction—especially from the Swamp Panthers to the south. Despite the Power of their town, malignant evils continued to invade them. No matter that the earthen bands protected their central ground, and that spirits couldn’t cross the water boundary of the lake that stretched east of the village, people still came down sick, and wounds festered, even when rapidly and efficiently treated by the Serpent.
After what Wing Heart deemed as a proper amount of time, she turned, slogging out of the mud and onto the crusted shore. Passing between the canoes, she stopped. People began drifting back up the slope, talking animatedly in the light of their torches. Cane Frog’s young hunters lifted her and bore her away on their shoulders, while
Three Moss, trotting along behind, muttered in low tones.
“Mother?” the voice caught her by surprise.
She glanced down, seeing Mud Puppy standing there, his thatch of hair unkempt, preoccupation behind his large watery eyes. A cup was in his right hand, a flat piece of slate held over it with his left. “Where have you been?”
“I was catching a cricket.”
A cricket! He was catching a cricket? Fifteen summers old, but he might have been ten, given the way he acted most of the time. She shook her head, biting off the harsh comment that leaped to her lips. Not here, someone would overhear, and Power take it, though everyone knew her son to be an idiot she needn’t go out of her way to prove them right.
“White Bird is back?” he asked plaintively.
“Yes, yes, your brother is back. Now, go away. I have things to do. Much must be arranged.”
She pushed past him, starting up toward the trail as Clay Fat stepped in beside her. He was a ball of a man, chubby of face, with a wide mouth. His belly preceded him like a canoe’s prow. In his four tens of winters he had alternately been an irritant under her skin or a blessing, depending upon the circumstances.
“I see that Mud Puppy actually managed to show up. What happened? No spider dangling from the ceiling to distract him?” Clay Fat smiled; some of his kinspeople close enough to hear chuckled. Even Wing Heart’s torchbearers smiled as they walked behind her, their burning cane torches held high.
“It was a cricket this
“These things shall be as you wish,” Clay Fat cried happily. “Tell your friends that Rattlesnake Clan offers our homes and hospitality to these Wolf People.”
Wing Heart lifted her chin slightly, thankful once again that Rattlesnake Clan remained loyal to her.
“What are your orders, Clan Elder?” White Bird called ritually.
“You are to camp on the Turtle’s Back. There, you will be attended to. You are to cleanse yourselves before entering the sacred enclosure of Sun Town. You are to divest yourself of evil thoughts, of pettiness, and spite. You are to submit to the Serpent and his attendants when he comes to prepare you. When you are ready, we shall receive you and your Trade.”
“It is as you order, Elder.” White Bird bowed again, then settled himself easily into the canoe’s stern. In what Wing Heart assumed was the language of the barbarians, he said something, and the rest of his companions lowered themselves into their boats. Paddles were collected, and the canoes turned to stroke off into the night, following White Bird’s wake.
Wing Heart remained as she was, tall, head up, watching her son paddle away. There, just beyond the glow of the torches, he would land on Turtle’s Back, a low island that broke the lake surface. Traditionally, Traders camped there, allowing themselves to be cleansed of any evil taint that they might have picked up, or that might be hovering close to their goods. The People couldn’t be too careful. Surrounded as they were by jealous and spiteful peoples, curses and spells constantly flew in their direction—especially from the Swamp Panthers to the south. Despite the Power of their town, malignant evils continued to invade them. No matter that the earthen bands protected their central ground, and that spirits couldn’t cross the water boundary of the lake that stretched east of the village, people still came down sick, and wounds festered, even when rapidly and efficiently treated by the Serpent.
After what Wing Heart deemed as a proper amount of time, she turned, slogging out of the mud and onto the crusted shore. Passing between the canoes, she stopped. People began drifting back up the slope, talking animatedly in the light of their torches. Cane Frog’s young hunters lifted her and bore her away on their shoulders, while
Three Moss, trotting along behind, muttered in low tones.
“Mother?” the voice caught her by surprise.
She glanced down, seeing Mud Puppy standing there, his thatch of hair unkempt, preoccupation behind his large watery eyes. A cup was in his right hand, a flat piece of slate held over it with his left. “Where have you been?”
“I was catching a cricket.”
A cricket! He was catching a cricket? Fifteen summers old, but he might have been ten, given the way he acted most of the time. She shook her head, biting off the harsh comment that leaped to her lips. Not here, someone would overhear, and Power take it, though everyone knew her son to be an idiot she needn’t go out of her way to prove them right.
“White Bird is back?” he asked plaintively.
“Yes, yes, your brother is back. Now, go away. I have things to do. Much must be arranged.”
She pushed past him, starting up toward the trail as Clay Fat stepped in beside her. He was a ball of a man, chubby of face, with a wide mouth. His belly preceded him like a canoe’s prow. In his four tens of winters he had alternately been an irritant under her skin or a blessing, depending upon the circumstances.
“I see that Mud Puppy actually managed to show up. What happened? No spider dangling from the ceiling to distract him?” Clay Fat smiled; some of his kinspeople close enough to hear chuckled. Even Wing Heart’s torchbearers smiled as they walked behind her, their burning cane torches held high.
“It was a cricket this
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