Two Rivers (14 page)

Chapter 13

The War Chief was dead!

Standing at the edge of the chanting crowd, murmuring the customary
address of the condoling song, Seketa tried to concentrate on the words she had
been repeating.

Wipe away the tears,

cleanse your throat so you may speak and hear,

restore the heart to its right place,

remove the clouds from the sun in the sky
.

The words made sense. There was a danger in the deep grief,
danger of losing one’s mind. There was also a need to release the dead spirit,
to placate it and to let it go, so it wouldn’t come back to harm the living.
The ancient ceremony was wise.

Still, the grief persisted, refusing to leave the distraught
townsfolk. The War Chief was expected to see more seasons to come. Having
survived many summers of warfare and daring deeds, the fearless leader was not
expected to meet his end on a simple raid in the lands of the small neighboring
nation.
This
did not make any sense.

She remembered the man’s face, brown and wrinkled, looking at
the world with the calm, reserved dignity, with not a drop of malice or
pretense. The man was liked and admired greatly. Why did his time to depart to
the Sky World come so soon?

She looked up, trying to see the platform tied to the lower
branches of the pine tree, but the surrounding people blocked her view. The
body would be left there for ten dawns, for the people to mourn, before it
would be removed to its final resting place deep in the woods; and the new War
Chief would be elected by the War Council.

Who?

She suppressed a shrug. Did it matter? There was no one like
the old war leader, no one. Everyone knew it, but what could they do about it?

She tried to concentrate, but her thoughts refused to organize
into a proper flow. It had been too hectic, too upsetting through the past half
a moon. Since the incident at the ball game, she'd known no peace, she
realized. As though it had been her fault, as though she had been the one to do
the unspeakable, she and not the wild boy.

The fluttering sensation in her stomach was back, and she let
her gaze wander, trying to catch a sight of him somewhere in this crowd. He
would be here, surely. Since coming back, bringing the magnificent fur, he had
been vindicated of charges against him, restored once again to be a full member
of the society.

She tried to suppress a smile, remembering how he came up,
heading for
her
longhouse, proud and alone, struggling under the largest
fur she had ever seen, offering it proudly to the Mothers of her Clan, his eyes
reserved, his lips pressed, the cuts upon his chest glaring, telling the story
without a word being uttered. Not a wild boy anymore, but a man, a hunter, a
fierce warrior who had challenged the forest giant and came back wearing a
necklace made out of the terrible claws. Oh, how proud she had been while
watching him, the only person to believe in him, the only one to state that he
would be back through those ten dawns that he was gone.

She knew he would be seeking her with his gaze, but when it
happened, she had found it necessary to lean against the wall, her stomach
fluttering, limbs going numb, the intensity of his gaze sending unsettling
waves down her spine. Oh no, he did not forget her while fighting the beast. He
might have grown and changed, but he would still be watching her when she
danced.

The chanting died away, and she shivered, listening to the
murmuring of the people and the speeches of the town’s elders, her cheeks
burning as though caught doing something wrong. On that day, two dawns ago, she
had been planning to find him in the evening, to take him away and ask all
about this hunt, wishing to be alone with him, but afraid of it too, protected
by darkness, seeing nothing but his eyes and the outline of his face but
feeling him as intensely as on the evening of the War Dance. He would tell her
all about his battle with the beast, she knew, and maybe, maybe he would gather
enough courage to touch her face again.

But then, on the same afternoon, the warriors came back,
carrying along their dead leader, their wounded struggling to get out of the
canoes, Iraquas, her favorite cousin, among those carried home because he could
not walk, the wound upon his backside stitched but bleeding, brownish red and
glaring.

She remembered watching the pale, grayish face, seeing the
beads of sweat and the bruises, her dread welling. Not Iraquas, not the
fearless, cheerful, restless Iraquas, who had always made her laugh with his
jokes and all sorts of mischievous deeds. Anyone but him! And yet…

She bit her lips, reluctant to remember the sense of acute
disappointment that kept surfacing. Why had it had to happen on the day of
his
triumph, of all days? Why not later, just a day after, really. And then she
knew that she had been a terrible person to think this kind of thoughts.

She sought him again, but the people of the Wolf Clan were too
far away, on the other side of the mourning half circle, with the devastated
Turtle Clan’s members separating the mourners. The deceased leader belonged to
the Turtle Clan. So instead, her eyes caught the sight of Two Rivers, standing
a little apart, his face pale and haggard, lips murmuring the words along with
the rest of the mourners, but his eyes sealed, unreadable, as dark as the lake
on the moonless night.

She knew what troubled the man, what made his face turn into
stone. He loved the War Chief, admiring the man greatly and making no secret of
it. Out of all respectable people, the old leader was the only one capable of
making the rebellious man listen. There were occasions, ceremonies and just
evenings, when their quiet conversations would last deep into the nights.

She watched the long, narrow face, with its high cheekbones and
prominent nose, a handsome face, but alien somehow. There was something
outlandish about this man, something different and strange, as though he didn’t
truly belong to his own people, as though, indeed, he had been sired by the
Great Spirits themselves.

She had heard about the prophecy, of course; everyone had heard
about it. His mother conceived miraculously, while being still untouched by a
man. But what did it mean? Seketa didn’t know. She was too young to mingle among
the people of influence, and the occasional rumors did not awaken her interest
enough to listen.

There was some unclear destination in this man’s fate, but
whether he was destined to help their people or to harm them, she didn’t know.
Judging by his behavior, it could very well be the latter, was her private
conclusion, but now, watching the grief-stricken face, she felt something close
to compassion. The man was not truly bad. He was just different, odd,
argumentative, but he did help the Wolf Clan boy gain his status, and he did
love the old War Chief. His grief was clearly a genuine one.

“Seketa!” A hand touched her shoulder, making her heart leap.

She whirled around, startled.

“What happened?” she breathed, peering at Tindee’s frowning
face, embarrassed by the glances shot at them. The head of the Town Council was
speaking amidst the deep silence.

A wave of the slender palm was her answer as she watched
Tindee’s back disappearing toward the well-swept path, which was kept perfectly
clean for the condolence ceremony as the custom dictated, with no thorns and no
broken bushes.

She hesitated, then began easing away, trying to attract as
little attention as she could. The Mothers of her Clan were listening, wholly
immersed, grief-stricken and shattered, yet very little was likely to escape
their watchful eyes, an improper behavior less than anything.

“Your glorious hero almost got himself into more trouble.”
Tindee was waiting behind the curve of the trail, her lips twisted in the
typical challenging grin of hers, but her eyes were troubled, full of shadows.

Seketa gasped. “What? What happened?”

“You care, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t!” Involuntarily, she brought her palms to her
cheeks, hoping that the burning sensation was not showing, the glittering eyes
of her friend telling her that it was showing, all right. “I do care, but not
in the way you think.”

“In what way, then, sister?”

“In a good way. He is a friend.”

“A friend, eh?” The prettily round face beamed at her,
satisfied. “Well, I’m here not because of this. I was sent to call for the
medicine man of the Wolf Clan.”

She felt her heart cascading down her belly. “Who got hurt? How
badly?”

“Like you don’t know!” The mischievous smile was gone, replaced
by a troubled frown.

“No, I don’t!” Seketa caught her friend’s arm, when Tindee
began turning away. “How should I know what happened? You make no sense.”

But Tindee’s eyes flashed at her, openly angry now. “Iraquas?
Your cousin? Remember him? It seems like all you care about these day is the
savage boy and no one else.”

“Oh, Iraquas, yes, how is he?”

“Not good, Seketa, not good. If I was sent to interrupt the most
important medicine man of the town on the saddest of the ceremonies, it has to
be serious, no? But why should you care? Your soon-to-be warrior will be all
right, unless his own wounds rot, and it doesn’t look like they would, judging
by the way he keeps picking fights with people. So you can relax and not worry
about anyone of your family.”

She felt it like a blow in her stomach. “I do worry about my
family, and I worry about Iraquas. I was sitting with him last night, until the
moon began to fade. I kept giving him water, and I kept putting wet cloths over
his forehead and chest, to make him cool. And we talked, too. He wanted to
talk, and he didn’t want to be left alone.” She glared at her friend, enraged.
“And you were asleep, very snug under your blanket. So don’t tell me I’m not
caring enough.”

“Oh well.” Tindee shrugged, then turned around. “Come. Let us
find the Honorable Healer.”

“Did Iraquas’ wound begin to bleed again?” asked Seketa, not
pacified in the least, but following nevertheless. She needed to know what
happened to the wild boy, what trouble he got himself into.

“Yes, it’s full of smelly things coming out of it, and no one
can wash the wound anymore because he is screaming with pain when they as much
as try to touch it.” The girl looked back, her eyes glittering with tears. “He
won’t live, Seketa. They all know he won’t!”

“But maybe the healer…”

She felt her limbs heavy, numb with desperation. Another condolence
ceremony, but this time a small, quiet affair. Iraquas was just a young
warrior, not a prominent man, not yet. Not ever now. Just a promising youth,
like the foreign boy, but not even with a glorious act of killing the brown
bear.

“What happened to the Wolf Clan boy?” she asked quietly,
catching up to keep close.

Tindee shrugged. “Oh, he’s got into a near-fight with Hainteroh
and some other boys.”

“Why?”

“Because of you, sister. What do you think?”

“Me? Why me?” Grateful for the briskness of their walk and the
way her friend kept staring ahead, Seketa felt her cheeks beginning to burn
anew.

“I don’t know. I wasn’t near until they were shouting,
threatening each other. But it was about you. The boys from the Porcupine Clan
did not like the way he keeps staring at you.”

“It’s not their stupid place to say anything about that!” cried
out Seketa, forgetting to keep quiet. They were back near the edge of the
crowd, and some people turned to look, startled. She cupped her mouth with her
palms. “It’s not their rotten business,” she whispered, unable to keep entirely
quiet.

“Well, they think it is.” The mischievous spark was back,
lightening Tindee’s dark eyes. “And you are not helping, the way you are gazing
at him whenever you see him these days.”

“I’m not!”

“Hush, sister. Stop screaming. You are disturbing the solemn
ceremony.”

More glances were shot in their direction, openly reproachful
now.

“What happened in the end?” whispered Seketa, grabbing her
friend’s arm. “Who stopped the fight? Tell me before we find the Honorable
Healer.”

Tindee’s eyebrows climbed so high they almost met the fringes
of her fluttering hair. “Your glorious hero grabbed the knife, and it made the
Porcupine boys back away. The same knife that killed the grizzled bear. I heard
people saying that. They say there are cuts in the pelt to prove it. So, it’s
only natural no one wishes to face that knife just now, not so near the
killing. The savage boy lives up to his reputation.”

Another suggestive glance and Tindee was gone, diving into the
crowd, pushing her way politely, muttering apologies. Thoughtfully, Seketa
followed, her heart beating fast. He was feared now, the Wolf Clan boy. Feared
and appreciated, even if not better liked than before.

Did he really kill the huge grizzled bear with the knife? It
didn’t seem possible. No one she knew had done such a deed, although there were
plenty of stories to this end, told and retold by the best of the storytellers;
stories of bravery and wonderful deeds, stories that were to be told by the
winter fire only.

Oh, but this one was no story. This deed had actually happened,
only two, three dawns ago, done by a mere youth of seventeen summers, a person
not grown-up or experienced enough to do a half of it. Two Rivers was there,
helping him with advice, of course. Yet the boy was the one to face the beast.
Not the renowned hunter and warrior, but him, and him alone. The frightful cuts
upon his chest and his right arm proved that he had done it all alone and,
indeed, in impossibly close proximity.

She breathed deeply, trying to calm the wild pounding of her
heart. Tonight she would find a way to talk to him, to ask him all about it, to
have him all for herself.