People of the Mist (20 page)

 
          
“High
Fox, what did you do? Touch her? Try to save her, what?”

 
          
“I
wiped some of the blood off, thinking, hoping it was some silly game. A trick
to make me worry. But the blood… fire and lightning, the blood …” He lifted his
right hand, looking at it as if the skin were stained. “Her blood. It was so
cold … all through her hair.”

 
          
“Did
you try to rouse her? To see if she was just injured?”

 
          
High
Fox shook his head. “She was dead, Elder. No doubt about it. Her eyes were
half-open—and had leaves in them.”

 
          
“So
she was dead. How was the body? Show me. Get down on the ground.”

 
          
High
Fox did, sprawling with his leg up, one arm out thrust and slightly curled.
“Like this. The blood was all over the left side of her head, and some had
trickled down her face. Like this.” He traced along the curve of his cheek.

 
          
“And
was there anything with her?”

 
          
“No.
Nothing that I saw.” High Fox stood and returned to the fire, reaching out to
the flames with trembling hands. “I didn’t stay very long. I just turned and
ran. I—I…” He winced. “I ran into a man on the trail. Flat
Willow
. He was halfway down the slope. I told him
. well, I think I said my father wanted me. I don’t know. I don’t remember. I
was scared like I’d never been scared before. So I hurried back to my boat and
shoved off. Then I paddled like a madman for home.”

 
          
Panther
lifted his brows. “I thought you stowed your canoe in some brush and sneaked up
to the village to hear the talk?”

 
          
“Oh,
yes,” he said, and jerked a nod. “I did do that. It was afterward that I
paddled for home.” “And that’s all there is to it?” High Fox nodded. “I swear
it, Elder. I didn’t kill her-and I don’t know who did. Maybe Flat
Willow
. He was out there. He was the only person I
saw.”

 
          
The
Panther stared into those haunted eyes, and steepled his fingers. “You know,
you’re in a fix, boy. I can guess how Hunting Hawk and’
Flat
Pearl
Village
are thinking. Not only were you running off
with their woman—a woman promised to Copper Thunder—but you were seen running from
the place where they found her murdered.”

 
          
“Yes,
I know.” He stared at his hand again. “And I remember Flat Willow asking me
about my hand. I told him I’d cut it.”

 
          
“And
why did you do that?”

 
          
“Because
Red Knot’s blood was all over it.”

 
          
Sun
Conch added wood to the fire, and Panther watched the flames lick around it. If
High Fox wanted to save a lot of people a lot of trouble, he’d cut his own
throat right now.

 
          
Bat
droppings, that’s how it’s going to end anyway. Who’d believe the boy didn’t do
it? I’m not even sure I believe he didn’t.

 
          
“And
all I have is your word that you didn’t kill her?” Panther asked.

 
          
“What
else is there?” High Fox asked. “Maybe I was wrong to tell her I’d take her
away, but I did it. And I think I’d do it again.” He closed his eyes, shaking
his head. “By the dark god, all we wanted was a chance. Is that too much to
ask?”

 
          
“Sometimes,
boy, it is.” Panther sighed, and tucked his blanket tighter. “Well, let me
sleep on it. I’ll give you my answer in the morning.”

 
          
As
Panther curled up in his blanket beside the fire, he saw High Fox take Sun
Conch’s hand and lead her a short distance away. Panther slitted one eye,
watching them.

 
          
High
Fox stopped at the edge of the swamp, released Sun Conch’s hand, and folded his
arms tightly across his broad chest. Yellow eyes sparkled on the far side of
the reeds, and Sun Conch saw a big wolf slink away into the darkness. She
watched until it vanished, and put a gentle hand on High Fox’s shoulder.

 
          
“What
is it?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

 
          
“He
doesn’t believe me,” High Fox whispered. “I could see it on his face, he thinks
I—I…”

 
          
“No,
he doesn’t. You’re imagining it. The Panther said he needed time to think about
what you’d told him. If he’d already decided your fate, do you think he’d still
be here?”

 
          
High
Fox gestured anxiously, then pulled Sun Conch into his arms, and pressed her
face tightly against his shoulder. “In the name of Okeus, I don’t know what to
believe. What am I going to do?”

 
          
The
freezing mist seemed to draw closer, wrapping them in icy folds, and she felt
his lungs moving in and out in shallow breaths. Sun Conch slipped her arms
around his waist. “You are tired, High Fox. You need to rest. Will you sleep
better if I stand guard over you?”

 
          
She
felt his hand moving down her back, and she could feel its warmth through her
cape. The sound of his voice, his touch, skillfully opened doors she had tried
very hard to close forever. Behind those doors lay the joy and warmth of their
childhood together. A sad longing for them swelled her heart.

 
          
He
pressed his face against her hair, and murmured, “Thank you for bringing him,
Sun Conch. No one else would have been brave enough. I’m not even certain I
would have been.”

 
          
She
lifted her head and saw grief in his eyes, grief that he kept under tight rein.
She saw other things as well, the fear that choked him, and a desperation that
verged on insanity. “I love you, High Fox. I would do anything for you.”

 
          
A
shiver climbed his spine, and his hands slid down her arms. “Sun Conch?” he said
in a low hoarse voice. “Tell me about this old man. You have spent a few days
with him. What do you know of him? Can we trust him?”

 
          
“What
you’re really asking me is if he’s a witch, aren’t you?”

 
          
“Yes.
That’s what I’m asking.”

 
          
“I’ve
seen nothing to prove it. But I don’t think it matters. So long as everyone
thinks he’s a witch, his words will have Power.”

 
          
High
Fox nodded. “That’s true. I just wish I knew if he thinks I’m innocent or—”

 
          
Sun
Conch interrupted, “He will tell you in the morning, and if he decides to try
and prove your innocence, you will need to be rested.” A fragile smile touched
his lips. “Do you remember when you had seen ten Comings of the Leaves,” he
said, and the sadness in his voice seemed to cast a spell over her. She could
hear his careless laughter echoing from those long-ago days, and see his face
shining for her, and her alone, as they ran deer trails, chasing each other
through the forest. A tide of happiness swept through Sun Conch.

 
          
She
rested her head against his shoulder, and said, “Yes. I remember.”

 
          
He
lifted her chin to make her look into his eyes, and the bright beauty of the
moment was gone. Despair lay in every line of his face. “I never realized then
how much I cared for you. I just knew you were the only one I could talk to.
And you still are. Thank you. Thank you for always being there for me.”

 
          
Sun
Conch looked at him through blurry eyes. “I always will be.”

 
          
He
bent toward her, and she thought for a moment he might kiss her, but a tremor
ran through his arms, and he released her and backed away. “You–you don’t need
to stand guard,” he said. “You are as tired as I am. I’ll be fine.”

 
          
“I
want to be certain of that,” Sun Conch said as she reached beneath her
feathered cape, untied his war club from her belt, and drew it out. “Why don’t
you roll up in your blanket beside the fire. I’ll watch from here, where the
shadows will hide me. Go on, now. You need to sleep well, High Fox, so that you
will be able to think straight tomorrow.”

 
          
High
Fox took her hand and held it a moment, then walked to the fire.

 
          
After
High Fox had rolled in his blanket, and had begun snoring softly, The Panther
raised his head to look at Sun Conch. She saw sympathy in his faded old eyes.
Was it directed at her, or High Fox, or, perhaps, both of them?

 
          
She
sucked in a breath of frigid mist, spread her feet, and laid her war club over
her shoulder, preparing for the long night ahead.

 
          
Nine
Killer sat at the middle fire of his sister Rosebud’s long house He cupped a
forgotten shell half-full of lukewarm tea. He had come here to discipline his
young nephew, Two Birds, for talking back to his mother. That was the way of a
matrilineage: a man raised his sister’s children, for they were clan and
family. His own children belonged to his wife, White Star. Since White Star
belonged to Sun Shell Clan, her older brother, Half Moon, was responsible for
the discipline and training of the children.

 
          
Nine
Killer had grabbed the little boy by the shoulders, sat him down, and glared
into his little black eyes, telling him just how a man of the People behaved,
and all the terrible things he’d do to the boy if he didn’t straighten up.

 
          
“Now,”
Nine Killer finished, “if I ever hear you’ve raised your voice to your mother
again, I’m going to pack you up and send you off to The Panther! You hear me?
He eats little boys, and then he curses their bones, and grinds them up. Then
he leaves them around where his enemies can find them. Those bones make bad
people bleed through their ears until they’re dead. Hear me?”

 
          
Two
Birds had swallowed hard and nodded soberly, his eyes half bugged out from his
face.

 
          
“A
bit dramatic, don’t you think?” Rosebud had asked dryly after the tot had fled
for his favorite toy, a corn husk doll, and the safer company of his big sister
White Otter.

 
          
Rosebud
was a sturdy woman of two tens and eight years. She generally wore her hair
long, in a single braid that hung down her back. Her face was round, given to a
generous mouth and a broad, straight nose. She went about life with a sense of
competent efficiency that Nine Killer had always admired. Her most notable
trait was her eyes, brown as berries, but with a depth that Nine Killer had
never been able to fathom. When she looked at him, she had that knowing look,
as if possessed of some deeper understanding of life that had eluded Nine
Killer. It drove him half mad. When he asked her about things, she didn’t seem
any wiser than he, but, Okeus take him, she still looked like she knew.

 
          
Rosebud’s
once-narrow waist had thickened, and after five children her high breasts had
begun to sag. She had just divorced her last husband, a man from Oyster Inlet,
and was now swearing she’d never marry again.

 
          
As
he sat by the popping fire, some portion of his mind was aware of the worried
looks Rosebud and her family were giving him. Earlier, he had shrugged off
their thinly veiled questions about what was going to happen next. Now the
closest of them sat a respectful pace away, as if the distance would grant him
a solution to this terrible mess.

 
          
The
fire spat sparks as the damp wood smoldered in defiance of the freezing drizzle
beyond the long house walls, its heat as futile as the options looming in his
future. How could he possibly take High Fox from Three Myrtle Village? He would
be making war on old friends, relatives, and people he genuinely liked and
respected.

 
          
The
moment the first arrow was released, no matter what the outcome of the battle,
the damage to the alliance would be irreparable. Generations of trust would be
severed as if cut by a sharp shell knife.