he returned home, when the violence grew too destabilizing. Hiyawento had been hoping to see him.
“Where is War Chief Sindak?” Kallen whispered from his right.
“I’ve been wondering the same thing. I suspect the chief will explain his absence. At least Negano is here.”
Negano was Sindak’s deputy war chief, but he was also the head of the chief’s personal guards. He stood a short distance away, speaking softly to a grizzled old warrior. Negano had seen thirty-two summers and wore his long black hair in a single braid that draped the shoulder of his buckskin cape. It was strange to see a man with long hair these days, when so many had cut their hair in mourning.
Across the house, warriors studied each other. Everyone looked hungry. Cheeks were sunken, eyes squinted, mouths set into hard lines. Hushed voices were weary, but resolute, congratulating each other on the latest victory against the Flint People.
Hiyawento listened to them. The last battle had been brutal, costly, a waste of lives that gained many captives, but little food. In his opinion the only thing it had accomplished was to drain their slim food rations even more. With forty new captives to feed, everyone would have less.
Atotarho looked around, watching as the last of the Riverbank Village representatives was seated. As a symbol of his dedication to war, Atotarho always braided rattlesnake skins into his gray hair, then coiled it into a bun at the base of his head. The style gave his gaunt face a skeletal look. His beautiful black ritual cape, covered with circlets cut from human skulls, flashed with his movements.
Finally, Atotarho said, “Let us begin,” and gingerly lowered his body to one of the logs on the south side of the fire. For several heartbeats, he sat with his head down and his eyes closed, as though contemplating the gravity of the issues that faced the council today. He rubbed his knee, and his wrinkled face tensed. His joints must ache from the long walk across the village to get here.
Atotarho lifted his hands. “Council members, the issues before us today are grave. Though united in our war against the other nations south of Skanodario Lake, we have profoundly different notions of how to win this struggle. I urge you to put such differences aside here, and allow every member to speak his heart. Lastly, please excuse the fact that my War Chief, Sindak, is absent. He is away on a crucial mission.”
Kallen whispered, “What mission?”
“I know nothing of it.”
As Atotarho leaned forward to retrieve the cup of plum tea that had been prepared for him, his gorget—a shell pendant that covered half his chest—fell from his cape. Everyone went silent. A sacred artifact of leadership, it was not a thing for ordinary eyes. Twelve summers ago it had been broken, the bottom half lost on a snowy hillside in the distant country of the People Who Separated. Though Atotarho had sent warriors to search for the bottom half, it had never been found, and he’d been forced to hire an artist to replicate the missing piece as best he could. A black line zigzagged through the center of the pendant where it had been glued together with pine pitch.
The pendant was ancient and chronicled the most sacred story of all: the great battle between human beings and Horned Serpent at the dawn of creation. Horned Serpent had crawled out of Skanodario Lake and attacked the People. His poisonous breath, like a black cloud, had swept over the land, killing almost everyone.
In terror, the People had cried out to the Great Spirit, and he had sent Thunder to help them. A vicious battle had ensued, and Thunder had thrown the greatest lightning bolt ever seen. The flash was so bright many of the People were instantly blinded. Then the concussion struck. The mountains shook, and the stars broke loose from the skies.
Legend said that at the time of the cataclysm, two pendants had been carved by the breath of Horned Serpent. One belonged to the chief,
“Where is War Chief Sindak?” Kallen whispered from his right.
“I’ve been wondering the same thing. I suspect the chief will explain his absence. At least Negano is here.”
Negano was Sindak’s deputy war chief, but he was also the head of the chief’s personal guards. He stood a short distance away, speaking softly to a grizzled old warrior. Negano had seen thirty-two summers and wore his long black hair in a single braid that draped the shoulder of his buckskin cape. It was strange to see a man with long hair these days, when so many had cut their hair in mourning.
Across the house, warriors studied each other. Everyone looked hungry. Cheeks were sunken, eyes squinted, mouths set into hard lines. Hushed voices were weary, but resolute, congratulating each other on the latest victory against the Flint People.
Hiyawento listened to them. The last battle had been brutal, costly, a waste of lives that gained many captives, but little food. In his opinion the only thing it had accomplished was to drain their slim food rations even more. With forty new captives to feed, everyone would have less.
Atotarho looked around, watching as the last of the Riverbank Village representatives was seated. As a symbol of his dedication to war, Atotarho always braided rattlesnake skins into his gray hair, then coiled it into a bun at the base of his head. The style gave his gaunt face a skeletal look. His beautiful black ritual cape, covered with circlets cut from human skulls, flashed with his movements.
Finally, Atotarho said, “Let us begin,” and gingerly lowered his body to one of the logs on the south side of the fire. For several heartbeats, he sat with his head down and his eyes closed, as though contemplating the gravity of the issues that faced the council today. He rubbed his knee, and his wrinkled face tensed. His joints must ache from the long walk across the village to get here.
Atotarho lifted his hands. “Council members, the issues before us today are grave. Though united in our war against the other nations south of Skanodario Lake, we have profoundly different notions of how to win this struggle. I urge you to put such differences aside here, and allow every member to speak his heart. Lastly, please excuse the fact that my War Chief, Sindak, is absent. He is away on a crucial mission.”
Kallen whispered, “What mission?”
“I know nothing of it.”
As Atotarho leaned forward to retrieve the cup of plum tea that had been prepared for him, his gorget—a shell pendant that covered half his chest—fell from his cape. Everyone went silent. A sacred artifact of leadership, it was not a thing for ordinary eyes. Twelve summers ago it had been broken, the bottom half lost on a snowy hillside in the distant country of the People Who Separated. Though Atotarho had sent warriors to search for the bottom half, it had never been found, and he’d been forced to hire an artist to replicate the missing piece as best he could. A black line zigzagged through the center of the pendant where it had been glued together with pine pitch.
The pendant was ancient and chronicled the most sacred story of all: the great battle between human beings and Horned Serpent at the dawn of creation. Horned Serpent had crawled out of Skanodario Lake and attacked the People. His poisonous breath, like a black cloud, had swept over the land, killing almost everyone.
In terror, the People had cried out to the Great Spirit, and he had sent Thunder to help them. A vicious battle had ensued, and Thunder had thrown the greatest lightning bolt ever seen. The flash was so bright many of the People were instantly blinded. Then the concussion struck. The mountains shook, and the stars broke loose from the skies.
Legend said that at the time of the cataclysm, two pendants had been carved by the breath of Horned Serpent. One belonged to the chief,
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