People of the Mist (54 page)

 
          
He
could imagine the net down below, the top held up by the forward ropes, the
stone weighted bottom skimming the mud. Like a giant maw, it scooped the fish
into the netting.

 
          
Flying
Weir had likewise clamped his rope and plied his paddle to drive them forward
and away from the other canoe.

 
          
Stroke
by stroke they pulled their net ahead, each paddler panting as he struggled
onward. Paddle as he might, the weight of the net pulled the battling canoes
inexorably together.

 
          
“That
should be it,” Nine Killer called as the net lined out behind them. “Let’s haul
it up.” He could feel the freshening of the wind. When he looked over his
shoulder, he could see how it scalloped the waves.

 
          
Hand
over hand, they pulled up their catch, the canoes crabbing sideways toward each
other under the load.

 
          
Nine
Killer strained until the muscles knotted in his arms and shoulders. His
fingers began to cramp from the cold water, and the smell of wet hemp mixed
with the salt breeze blowing in from the bay. From long practice, he laid out
the rope in soggy coil after soggy coil. Water was puddling in the canoe
bottom.

 
          
The
corner of the net appeared from the depths, and Nine Killer stole a quick
glance to see that Crab Spine, too, had reached netting. Together, they began
pulling the knotted cord into the canoes. The vessels were almost knocking
gunwales, only the thick cluster of loaded net keeping the boats apart.

 
          
“Watch
it,” Flying Weir reminded. This was the point when people lost their balance
and tipped over.

 
          
Between
them, they began putting the net into the center of the canoes, and the first
wiggling fish could be seen as they splashed and fought the restricting mesh.

 
          
“All
right,” Many Dogs called. “Half and half.”

 
          
In
unison, they heaved, the bulk of the net, heavy with fish, caught between the
canoes. Nine Killer reached into the cold water and lifted the burden past the
gunwale. Silver scales gleamed in the light as they spilled netted fish into
the canoes.

 
          
“Looks
good,” Flying Weir said through a smile. “We filled a lot of bellies with this
load.”

 
          
“And
I for one,” Many Dogs crowed, “am tired of smoked fish.”

 
          
“Well,”
Nine Killer joked, “with as many hungry mouths as you have in that misbegotten
Star Shell Clan, I think your part of the catch is spoken for. But don’t be
disheartened, I’ll save a skeleton or two for you.”

 
          
“You
just have to remember to ask him nicely,” Crab Spine joked. “Or, he might just
let you have the heads.”

 
          
“Oh,
be quiet,” Many Dogs answered, “or I’ll slap you with a wet fish!”

 
          
Nine
Killer found the bottom of the net and turned it inside out, spilling perch,
rockfish, and at least one winter jellyfish. Nine Killer paused long enough to
skewer the beast and flip it overboard. He could even see a couple of
catfish—lured into the depths by the fresher waters of low tide—squirming in
the mass at his feet.

 
          
Balancing
carefully, they transferred the net, heavy with water, to Crab Spine’s canoe.

 
          
For
a long moment, all they could do was bob on the waves and grin at each other as
fish flopped ankle-deep in the canoe bottoms. Then Nine Killer glanced back at
the open bay. The wind had picked up enough to raise the swells they rode. “I
think it would be prudent to head for home. If these waves pick up, it will be
the fish eating us for supper.” Nine Killer snaked his paddle up from the
bottom and turned his canoe for shore. As “he paddled, he took a moment between
strokes to club this or that particularly vigorous fish that threatened to flip
itself overboard.

 
          
Now
they paralleled the swells, each heavily laden canoe cresting the waves with
but a finger’s width to spare at the gunwales.

 
          
From
the bow, Flying Weir said, “You’ve been spending a lot of time with the witch.”

 
          
“We’ve
been working together on the matter of Red Knot’s death.” Nine Killer glanced
at the shoreline, measuring the rising waves and wind against the distance they
had to travel to the inlet below
Flat
Pearl
Village
, and safety. Could they make it?

 
          
“Well,
what’s he doing? Everyone’s talking about it. The stories are rampant, that
he’s accused the Weroans qua, that he’s going to challenge Copper Thunder, all
kinds of things.”

 
          
“I’m
surprised people haven’t said he’s turning himself into an owl at night and
flying around.”

 
          
“They
have.” Flying Weir shook his head. His eyes were riveted to the rough water.

 
          
“Well,
he’s staying in Rosebud’s long house I’ve been there most nights. I haven’t
seen him become any owl, and, to tell you the truth, for the amount of squash
he eats every night, he couldn’t fly if he wanted to.”

 
          
Flying
Weir chuckled. “Well, it isn’t often that we have a witch who’s looking into a
murder to talk about. You’ve got to expect these things.”

 
          
“I
know.” A wave sloshed water over the gunwale as they crested the peak. Many
more like that, and their fish would be swimming again. Nine Killer paused to
whack a rockfish as long as his arm. The paddle made a sodden sound as it
thumped the purple-striped body.

 
          
“So,
there’s nothing to report?”

 
          
“Not
really, but I have a question for you.”

 
          
“For
me?” Flying Weir Jooked back across the mass of writhing fish.

 
          
“That
last night of the dance, a warrior should have been appointed to guard the
palisade entrance. Do you know who?”

 
          
Flying
Weir paddled in silence for a moment, and Nine Killer could tell by the set of
his shoulders that he was suddenly tense, more so than the rough water would
warrant.

 
          
“Yes,
I know.” Flying Weir said at last. “Stone Cob was responsible for posting
guards that night. He told me about it later, griping about Flat Willow …”

 
          
“Flat
Willow
?”

 
          
“The
same—our bit of bright sunshine. Stone Cob told me that when he asked Flat
Willow to guard the gate, he was almost insolent. I think Stone Cob’s words
were “I thought I was going to have to smack him in the head. He said he had
things to do.” Or something like that.”

 
          
“I
see.”

 
          
Flying
Weir spared a glance over his shoulder. “The Panther’s been talking to him,
hasn’t he?”

 
          
“Just
do me a favor, all right. Keep this between you and me.”

 
          
“Why
would Flat Willow want to—”

 
          
“Flying
Weir?”

 
          
“Yes,
yes, between you and me.”

 
          
They
crested a tall wave, the wind kicking spray to soak Nine Killer. The exertion
of his body almost evened the cold bite of wind. Water trickled down his
greased skin, slowly winning the battle for his body heat.

 
          
“Well,
it looked like a good chance to fish, but we could have had a better day,” Nine
Killer muttered. He glanced back, seeing the second canoe plowing along in
their wake, their situation just as perilous with the heavy net mounded
amidships.

 
          
“Good
thing we didn’t go out into the bay, we’d be swimming. And in water this cold,
not for long.” Flying Weir wiped spray from his face. “Do I need to take the
gourd and bail yet?”

 
          
“No,
but some of the fish are swimming again.” Nine Killer cracked another rockfish
with his paddle. “I think if we push hard, we can make calmer water before we
have to bail.”

 
          
If
things became serious, they could pitch some of the fish, but Nine Killer
decided he’d rather sink first. The catch had been as good as he could remember
for a deepwater netting.

 
          
They
made the shallows just as rain began to pelt them from the dull sky. Around his
feet, half the fish floated on their sides; the others, smaller, splashed about
in the shallow canoe bottom. The water was up above Nine Killer’s ankles, and
his flesh was pebbled with cold. He suffered through his first shiver, and
tightened his grip on the wet paddle. When he glanced behind him, he could see
angry white caps on the water.

 
          
“You
know, we just made it.” Nine Killer grinned in spite of himself. Fishermen
plied open water at their own peril in winter. Rough water swamping canoes
wasn’t the only risk. Fishermen had been known to grow so cold that their wits
deserted them. Disoriented by shivers, they forgot to bail their boats, or
would be swept out to sea on the tide. Some died, and others, luckily rescued,
couldn’t even name their clans.

 
          
Flying
Weir snared the bailing gourd as it floated by and scooped water over the side.
Behind them, Many Dogs was doing the same.

 
          
Nine
Killer shivered again and bent his back to the chore of sending them homeward.

 
          
“This
Copper Thunder,” Flying Weir noted, shivering himself, “he’s been talking to
the younger warriors.”

 
          
“Uh-huh,
promising them glory and fame on the war trail.”

 
          
“What
do you make of that? Is there anything to what he’s been saying? Can he really
push the Mamanatowick out of his lands and claim them?”

 
          
“Not
according to The Panther. Did you hear that the elder was a War Chief for the
Serpent Chiefs once? He says that Copper Thunder might train his warriors, but
he can’t support them.”

 
          
“Why
is that?”

 
          
Nine
Killer pointed at the fish sloshing in the bottom of the canoe, then realized
Flying Weir couldn’t see the gesture. “Because we have to spend so much time
fishing. Like today. Our people can’t be full-time warriors.”

 
          
“That
makes sense, but who are the young going to listen to? The Panther, or Copper
Thunder?”

 
          
“Will
it matter in the end?”

 
          
“I
don’t know, War Chief. I just don’t know.”

 
          
“Flat
Willow
was on guard that night?” Nine Killer
considered the implications. “White Otter told me there was no one guarding the
gate when she went through just after dawn. So, if Flat Willow wasn’t at the
gate, where was he?” “He was the one who found Red Knot’s body,” Flying Weir
added. “Remember? He said he’d been hunting, seen High Fox, and backtracked
him.”

 
          
“Yes,”
Nine Killer added grimly. “I remember.”

 
          
“I
think you should add a little more squash,” Panther said. “Maybe one or two at
least.”

 
          
Rosebud
sighed and gave Panther a cross look. “I think the hominy will be fine for
tonight. I’ve seasoned it with beechnuts—you like those—and added mint leaves
for good measure.”