People of the Mist (18 page)

 
          
Now
the slim canoe coasted through reeds, cord grass and cattails up to a low
island. At high tide it looked like little more than a wart in the water.

 
          
Panther
shook his head. Why not simply brain the girl and have this over with? But then
he’d have had to paddle himself back across the bay, and, to be honest, he
wasn’t sure he could do it. His butt ached, his joints had swollen, and every
muscle in his body had cramped.

 
          
When
the canoe finally slid to a halt in the thick cord grass, Panther gave Sun
Conch a hollow-eyed stare. “We’re here?”

 
          
“This
is where he said he’d go, Elder.”

 
          
“Give
me your hand.”

 
          
Sun
Conch gave him a blank look, as if frightened to touch him.

 
          
“Oh,
for the… Help me up, girl! My joints are stuck!”

 
          
Sun
Conch swallowed hard, and pushed through the thick grass. “Sorry, Elder.” She
pulled Panther to his feet with a crackling of stiff joints. The rounded canoe
rocked under his feet, and Sun Conch held him from pitching into the swampy
muck.

 
          
“Here,
put your arm around my shoulder, Elder.”

 
          
When
he did, she lifted him bodily from the canoe, and practically dragged him
stumbling through the water. Panther winced as the grass sawed at his legs.
Each of his steps was accompanied by the sucking squish of the mud.

 
          
Okeus
take him, the girl was as strong as a boar bear! Panther’s withered brown lips
curled into a secret smile. Maybe he’d better not make her too mad. She might
pull his head off his shoulders.

 
          
Sun
Conch released Panther when they reached the scrubby grass on dry land, then
stepped away and called, “High Fox? It’s Sun Conch! I’ve brought him, as I said
I would!” Panther inspected the little island. No more than a bow shot across,
it didn’t even support trees, indicating that at times the storm surge covered
it with salt water.

 
          
Panther
remarked, “There’s no fresh water that I can see. Nothing to make a fire out of
except dry grass.”

 
          
“I
know,” Sun Conch said, “that’s why he’s here. Who would ever come to look for
him on this desolate island?”

 
          
“Probably
the crows, vultures, and gulls after he dies of thirst or freezes to death.”

 
          
“High
Fox?” she called again. “We are here! Where are you?”

 
          
Panther
glimpsed movement to one side in the thick grass, and spun in time to see a
tall handsome youth rise to his feet. He carried a nocked bow in his hands, and
a war club hung from his waist. His eyes had a wild look, as if his soul
teetered on a thin bridge over terror. He wore an old deer hide cape around his
shoulders. Bits of grass and mud clung to his cold skin. His hair was a tangled
black mass. Where did the animal end, and the human begin?

 
          
“High
Fox?” Sun Conch said and spread her arms. She took two steps toward him. “It’s
all right. This is The Panther.”

 
          
“Are—are
you certain?”

 
          
“Yes,
of course I am! Do you think I would bring anyone else here to your hiding
place?” The young warrior wet his lips, but he did not lower his bow.

 
          
Careful,
old man. He’s panicked, desperate. Too frightened to think clearly. Panther
knew how brightly fear could pump in the veins, and the way the lungs never
seemed to fill. How the nerves tingled and tightened, and horrid specters
lurked in the imagination. Judgment frayed … and finally snapped.

 
          
Afterward,
only the consequences remained.

 
          
“I
am The Panther,” he said. “Sun Conch came to me, offered herself in order to
save you. It isn’t often, young warrior, that a man your age can command such
loyalty and devotion from a girl. So I came, at least this far. Now I must hear
your story about what happened, do you understand?”

 
          
High
Fox nodded, and the tension on his bowstring eased. His eyes dulled. “I didn’t
kill her. I swear. Okeus, hear me, on my soul, I didn’t kill her.”

 
          
Panther
walked up to the youth. “Come, High Fox. Let’s go build a fire, and make some
warm tea. Then, we will hear your tale.”

 
          
Eyes
locked with The Panther’s, High Fox whispered, “I loved her. You must believe
me.”

 
          
Sun
Conch clamped her jaw and looked away, and

 
          
Panther
said, “I make you only one promise, High Fox. I will see that you get what you
deserve. Fair enough?”

 
          
“Yes,
Elder. Fair enough.”

 
          
“Then
come.”

 
          
High
Fox said, “We’re a short distance from the cove where the canvasback ducks
winter.” He turned and pointed to an inlet on the mainland.

 
          
“Yes,”
Sun Conch agreed. “I know the place. No one lives there because the swamps
surround it. It’s a good place to camp, Elder.”

 
          
“Good,”
Panther said. “Let’s go there. We will hear High Fox’s story, and decide our
course of action.”

 
          
Panther
sighed, knowing he had to get back in the canoe and endure the ride once more,
but he’d be crab bit before he spent the night on this poor excuse of an
island.

 
          
Shell
Comb walked down to the water’s edge below Flat Pearl Village, a small pot in
one hand. Night had fallen, cold and bracing. Overhead, patches of stars
intermixed with black splotches where clouds blocked the night sky. Behind her
in the village, the dogs barked at some perceived injustice, and she heard a
shrill voice as one of the women scolded a child. The only other sound was the
perpetual lapping of water against the shoreline.

 
          
She
bent down and filled her pot with water. A fish splashed in the darkness.

 
          
She
turned, making her way along the familiar path that led to the sweat lodge, a
thatched structure built into the bank.

 
          
A
low fire burned before the door, three stones already hot in the fire’s center.
She pulled the hanging aside and ducked through the low doorway.

 
          
No
more than two paces by three across, the low roofed hut was built by tightly
thatching a sapling framework. A large stone, like a dull red eye in the
darkness, lay in the pit excavated centrally in the earthen floor. To her
surprise, the air billowed steam. She could just make out the figure in the
rear of the sweat house, a big man.

 
          
“Come
in,” he said in his accented voice. “The heat is refreshing.”

 
          
Shell
Comb seated herself and placed her pot to one side. He bent forward, dribbling
water on the dull red rock. Steam cackled and hissed, rising in a cloud to fill
the small room.

 
          
She
closed her eyes, allowing the penetrating heat to seep into her pores. She
shouldn’t have come here, but he fascinated her, something in his personality
drawing her to him.

 
          
“I’ve
needed this,” Copper Thunder confided. “It cleanses more than the body, you
know.”

 
          
“Yes.”
She leaned her head back, letting the moisture bead on her skin. “It is said
that steam leaches evil out of the soul.” At least, she fervently hoped so.

 
          
He
laughed softly. “Oh, I doubt that. There are so many cracks and crevices in the
soul that evil can hide where it will. Steam it if you wish, but I’ve known a
great many wicked men who sweat like great rivers, their souls just as black
when they stop as when they start.”

 
          
“And
does that include you?”

 
          
“Most
likely, but then, I’ve never believed that pot of stew the priests dish out.”

 
          
“I
don’t know what to think of you.” She could feel his measuring gaze through the
darkness. “Think what you will. Some of it, if not all, might even be true.”

 
          
She
weighed his words, then chose to ignore them. “Why are you still here?”

 
          
“To
see what happens next.”

 
          
“Are
we just an entertainment?”

 
          
“I
wouldn’t use those words.”

 
          
“Then,
what words would you use?”

 
          
“I
am an observer.” He shifted, placing limp arms on his knees.

 
          
She
imagined his muscles, slack now, his skin sleek with water. What would it be
like to run her fingers down that smooth flesh? Something is crooked in my
soul. All of my life I’ve been fascinated by strong men. What triggers that
excitement?

 
          
Copper
Thunder said, “I’m surprised at you. You exhibit great control. I had expected
you to weep for Red Knot, to rend your soul with grief, and pull out whole
hanks of your hair.”

 
          
“Great
Tayac, I am my mother’s daughter. Grief is for those who have the luxury of
expressing it. My people look to me for leadership. For the moment, they need
to see strength.”

 
          
“Do
you always contain your desires so? I had heard otherwise.” She smoothed the
water from her face and leaned her head back. “And what, may I ask, did you
hear?” “That you are a hot-blooded woman. One accustomed to feeding her
desires.”

 
          
“She
gave him a challenging stare, that thrill beginning deep in the pit of her
stomach. “Life is short, my friend. Okeus saw to that just after the Creation.
As my daughter discovered, only the foolish ever bet on another sunrise. Let’s
just say that I’ve enjoyed all I could, taken the risks . and paid the prices.”

 
          
“And
if you go to war with Three Myrtle Village?”

 
          
“I
would avoid that if possible.” She paused. “Are you just talking, or do you
have something in mind?”

 
          
“I
always have things in my mind. But, for the moment, I’m more interested in your
thoughts. Assume you go to war with
Three
Myrtle
Village
, what will the outcome be?”

 
          
“A
splintering of the alliance among the Independent villages. Water Snake will
see his opportunity, and act. But you know all this, don’t you?” “It would seem
that you are trapped.”

 
          
“We
will see our way through. But what about you? What do you gain? If the alliance
is broken, you’ve lost a counterbalance to the Mamanatowick’s desire for
northern expansion. If he controls the south bank of the Fish River, he can
turn his energies toward you.”

 
          
“Indeed
he could. On the other hand, he will need to strip warriors from all of his
holdings. That would give me an opportunity to strike his frontier villages.
He’ll be weak, bleeding himself in the north.”

 
          
Her
mind’s eye could see it. Water Snake would lose men. In essence, he would be
fighting a war on two fronts. “So, you wait like a rattler by an eagle’s nest.
Only when the soaring hawk diverts the eagle’s attention do you steal his
fledgling.” She grinned warily. “The problem is, the hawk may waver, and the
eagle might turn at the last moment.”