People of the Mist (62 page)

 
          
She
made a face. “It was a little ridiculous. Just think, a strong nation like the
Andaste have to kill a little white dog, and burn his body to send a message to
go’d? How would you feel if you were Okeus, and people sent you a dog for a
messenger? It’s… well, insulting!”

 
          
“And
it goes on for days.”

 
          
She
nodded. “Maybe they don’t have anything else to do, being locked in their long
houses for days on end with nothing but snow everywhere.”

 
          
“It’s
the middle of winter. Up in that country, what do you expect?” He paused.
“Well, if you think sending a little white dog is ridiculous, what would you
send?”

 
          
“A
person, of course.” Shell Comb shrugged. “Isn’t that why our ancestors are so
cared for in the House of the Dead? Unlike the Andaste, we can speak for
ourselves.” “And the Green Corn ceremony? Is that so different from our own,
here?”

 
          
“Indeed
it is, Elder.” She used a finger to emphasize her point. “Those silly Andaste,
they do the same dance for each ceremony. Always the Feather Dance. No matter
what the ceremony—winter, spring, corn-ripening, harvest, or fall. The same
thing over and over. I don’t think I was ever so bored as during the
Ah-do’~weh. Speech after monotonous speech. And the masks! False faces, bushy
faces, cavorting around like monsters!” She shook her head. “I think we’re a
great deal smarter. The Spirits come and live inside our Guardian posts. We
don’t invite them into our bodies.” She glanced at him, suddenly uneasy.

 
          
“No,
Shell Comb, I’m possessed of no other spirit than my own, and it, I must say,
is more than I’ve ever been able to handle.” He smiled up at the bright morning
sunlight. “I find it curious that no matter how I protest, people insist on
believing that a person wants to be a witch. I’d no more make that bargain with
Power than cut off my right arm.”

 
          
She
fiddled with the corner of her feather cloak. “If you could go back, do
anything differently, what would you do, Elder?”

 
          
His
brow knotted with thought. “Oh, everything, I suppose. Presuming, that is, that
I could go back knowing what I do now—to counsel myself. That’s what you mean,
isn’t it? For, after all, it was passion and inexperience that led us into our
mistakes in the first place.” He shrugged. “What about you, Shell Comb?”

 
          
A
terrible pain lurked behind her dark eyes. “If I could change anything, I would
have been born as you, Elder.”

 
          
“Me?”

 
          
“Yes,
I’d be you. How much better to have lived your life than my own.” And with
that, she turned on her heel, walking rapidly toward the palisade gate.

 
          
He
watched her go, the sunlight dancing on her swaying hips and filtering strains
of blue out of her shining black hair.

 
          
“Ah,
beautiful Shell Comb, I begin to understand. You and I, what a pair. Okeus
rides on our shoulders—and laughs, and laughs.”

 
          
Nine
Killer crossed his arms and cocked his head. He stood beside Panther at the
canoe landing. A chilly breeze was blowing in off the water, and Nine Killer
pulled his feather cloak tightly about his shoulders. The old man was like a
dog sniffing after a rabbit, and the way he was nosing about now, you’d think
he was nipping at the rabbit’s very tail.

 
          
“You
understand what you’re to do?” The Panther called after Sun Conch. She pushed
her canoe farther into the inlet and stepped into the wobbling craft. The
vessel cut a narrow V across the undulating surface. The water had darkened in
the winter cold. In summer, it grew murky and green for reasons Nine Killer had
never understood.

 
          
Sun
Conch used her paddle to back water. She called, “I’m to find Stone Cob at
Three
Myrtle
Village
, and give him the piece of copper the War
Chief gave me.” Sun Conch lifted the shining piece of metal, and shot them a
smile before she dipped her paddle into the water, turning her canoe toward
open water. “He’s to bring Black Spike and High Fox here, to
Flat
Pearl
Village
.” “

 
          
“And
if Black Spike doesn’t want to come?” Nine Killer called.

 
          
“I
tell him that The Panther will come to him—this time, at the head of Flat
Pearl’s warriors.” “Tell him that we will lay this accusation against High Fox
to rest!” Panther shouted, hands cupped around his mouth. Then he waved as Sun
Conch drove her slim dugout away from shore.

 
          
“Lay
the accusation against High Fox to rest?” Nine Killer asked softly, glancing
sidelong at Panther.

 
          
“Oh,
that’s not a lie, War Chief.” Panther smiled crookedly. “One way or another, we
will have the truth of it. Even if the boy ends up thrown onto the bonfire with
his arms and legs broken, there will be no doubt about his guilt or innocence.”

 
          
Nine
Killer propped his hands on his waist. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

 
          
“All
in good time, War Chief.” Panther huddled in his feather cloak. “I will have
brought this to its conclusion before the solstice celebration. The pieces have
finally begun to fit. Like a big pot dropped on the ground, it takes a while to
place each shard in relation to its neighbor. Then, all of a sudden, there it
is, the shape of the vessel before it was dropped.”

 
          
“But
it will never hold water again,” Nine Killer reminded.

 
          
“Of
course not,” Panther said sadly. “But, then, once the pot was dropped, we knew
that, didn’t we, War Chief? The world was sundered when that blow splintered
Red Knot’s skull. Nothing will ever be the same for the people involved.
Especially for the murderer.”

 
          
“You’re
talking in riddles, Elder.” Nine Killer watched Sun Conch round the bend, her
canoe obscured by the tree-covered point that stuck out into the inlet.

 
          
“Riddles?
Not at all.” Panther turned. “Come, let us go to your sister’s. She was cooking
squash when I asked you to join me here.”

 
          
They
turned, picking their way among the overturned canoes. The day had warmed
enough that snow was melting, leaving the landing muddy and slick. Nine
Killer’s moccasins were soaked through, his feet cold. “I still don’t see why
you need Black Spike and High Fox.” Nine Killer swallowed hard, his keen mind
drawing the only conclusion. “Bat dung and gull droppings! You don’t mean … ?”

 
          
Panther
made a face, his rubbery skin reddened from the cold. “The youth lied to me,
Nine Killer. I promised I’d have his hide if he did; but for that, I could have
gone there, to Three Myrtle. I need him here. He’s the final piece of the pot,
you see. The proof, if you will.”

 
          
Nine
Killer grimaced. “I still have trouble believing he killed Red Knot. With
everything we’ve learned, it’s got to be someone else. I’d even believe the
Weroansqua did it before I’d believe it was High Fox.”

 
          
“She
might want you to. If what I suspect is true, the Weroansqua is going to be a
very unhappy woman.”

 
          
Nine
Killer’s gut churned. “Stop hinting around and tell me what you suspect,
Elder.”

 
          
Panther
stopped short. “Not yet, War Chief. What I suspect will upset a great many
people. I’d like to prove it to myself before I decide how I will act on the
knowledge.”

 
          
“You’re
not making sense!”

 
          
“But
I am.” Panther’s kind smile and wounded eyes belied the worst of Nine Killer’s
fears.

 
          
“Elder,
I know everything you know. If it’s so clear, why don’t I see it?”

 
          
“Because,
my friend, you are blinded by your own truth.” Panther resumed his journey
toward the palisade. “People see the world as they were taught to see. You have
been taught one way, and when you look another, all you see is the patterns as
you expect to see them. Like a man looking into the mist. You expect the world
to be the same when the mist lifts. Perhaps, War Chief, I don’t want to jerk
that mist away. I still might be wrong about what’s on the other side.” “That
doesn’t reassure me.”

 
          
“It
wasn’t supposed to, War Chief.”

 
          
They
stepped through the palisade and crossed the plaza. The Guardian posts cast
long shadows while the sunlight shone on the carved faces. People had already
begun placing offerings at their bases in anticipation of the solstice.
Solstice was the second most important ceremony the people had, after the
greening of the corn in late summer. This was the time when they demonstrated
their thanks to First Man for the year past, and implored him to begin his
journey northward to bring warmth and life to the world again.

 
          
The
House of the Dead looked gray today, the bark siding weathered. Nine Killer
could almost feel Red Knot’s presence through the walls. He could imagine Okeus
sitting there in his dark niche, his eyes malignant in the firelight. A shiver
traced up his back.

 
          
“If
this turns out wrong, Elder, what will it mean for the Independent villages?
What am I to prepare myself for?”

 
          
Panther
fingered his sagging chin, his thoughtful gaze on the ground before them. “The
worst.”

 
          
“War
with the Great Tayac?” Nine Killer’s glance strayed to where some of the young
warriors stood to one side, talking to Flat Willow, eyeing his roached hair.

 
          
“Don’t
forget the Mamanatowick. Water Snake is always coiled in his lair, waiting,
ready to strike at a moment’s notice. And, even if he ignores a sudden
opportunity, Stone Frog and his Conoy warriors are lurking in the north.”

 
          
“Of
them all, I’d rather deal with him. He has a longer way to go, and water to
cross.”

 
          
“Unless
the fog rolls in—or he moves on a moonlit night.”

 
          
“There
is always that.” Nine Killer pulled at the feather cloak that warmed his
shoulders. Old man Mockingbird stood before his daughter’s long house “Elder,
if you will excuse me, there is a man I must talk to. I will join you in
Rosebud’s house in a bit.”

 
          
“Go,
War Chief. But, be warned, if that squash is as good as last time, you may not
find much remaining.”

 
          
Nine
Killer nodded over his shoulder, striding across the plaza. He reached out to
touch the Guardian posts as he passed. They watched him with expressionless
wooden eyes, as if judging his soul.

 
          
Old
man Mockingbird was almost as old as Hunting Hawk, his back bowed with age, and
his skin like a walnut husk left too long in the sun. In his younger days, he’d
been a noted warrior, but now his eyes had gone dim. His thick knees grated so
loudly when he walked that people could hear them. Because of the pain, he
rarely walked far. “Greetings, FJder,” Nine Killer said as he approached. The
old man tilted his wrinkled head, bending a fleshy ear to hear better. His
wispy white hair gleamed in the sunlight. A single bluebird feather pierced the
thin knot he continued to wear on the left side of his head.

 
          
“Who
comes?” The old voice was scratchy. “Nine Killer, Elder. The War Chief.”

 
          
“Come
to call me to battle, did you?” Mockingbird barked a hoarse laugh. “Let me get
my bow. But, you know”—he smiled, exposing toothless gums—“I’ll be more dangerous
to our warriors than the enemy!” He wiped a gnarly finger under his age-swollen
nose.

 
          
Nine
Killer shared the laugh, and said, “I imagine you’ll do just fine, Elder.
You’ll do damage enough.”

 
          
“Yes,
indeed, War Chief.” He extended a withered arm. “So long as they are this
close, eh?” He patted his sunken biceps. “They’d have to be. I can’t shoot much
farther than my toes these days.”

 
          
“Ah,
but you did once.” Nine Killer crossed his arms as he smiled at the old man.
“It is said that in your youth you could draw a more powerful bow than I. I
would have liked to shoot against you in those days—just to learn a little
humility when you beat me.”

 
          
Old
man Mockingbird nodded, head wobbling on his stringy neck. “Yes, it would have
been good.” He licked his thin brown lips. “The only shot I ever missed was in
battle with the Mamanatowick. I had a clear shot at old Blue Gill. For all the
mischief he caused us, I wish I’d skewered his miserable heart that day.”

 
          
“Well,
we’d have all benefited. His son, Water Snake, isn’t much better. Was that
before or after the boy was born?” Mockingbird frowned, his face drawn into a
strained pattern of wrinkles. “Can’t say. After, I think. But, with the old man
dead, maybe the little whelp wouldn’t have learned some of the tricks he did,
eh?”

 
          
“Maybe.”

 
          
Mockingbird
smiled up at the sunlight, his faded old eyes looking into the past. “Those
were good days. Yes, good days.”

 
          
Nine
Killer let the old man relive his memories for a moment, then asked, “Elder, I
have come with a question for you.”

 
          
“Yes.
If I can help.”

 
          
“Do
you remember the morning after Red Knot’s dance? White Otter said you were up
early, walking around the plaza.”

 
          
“Huh?
Yes. Walking, you say?”

 
          
“Very
early. You were one of the first ones about.”

 
          
“Can’t
sleep well, these days.” He sucked his lips and lifted a shoulder. “Age, you
know. An old man doesn’t sleep so much. And all that noise, the singing and
clapping. I got up. Stepped out so that I could get around before the plaza got
filled up with people. I don’t see so well, you know. Bump into things. Get in
the way. I like it quiet.”

 
          
“Did
you see anything?”

 
          
“Eh?
I just said, I don’t see so well.”

 
          
“I
know, Elder. But that was the morning Red Knot was killed. Maybe you learned
something that morning. She would have just left the—”

 
          
“Ah!
Yes, I remember. I was out looking for my cloak. I’d laid it down the night
before and went to find it.” He grinned happily. “Sometimes I forget things.”