Beyond the Great River (People of the Longhouse Book 1)

by Zoe Saadia

  “There may be not enough light to follow them all the way,” Akweks’ hesitant voice brought him back from his reverie. “But we can check the other side of this hill safely. I think it would be a sensible thing to do.”

  The older warrior’s eyes were as narrow as two slits. “I’m going back to report to our leader. You two do whatever you like. Get yourselves killed or captured, if you want to. I won’t be grieving, especially not over you.” The glance shot at Okwaho was dark, disclosing the depth of the man’s enmity. It made him shiver. It was not right to talk in this way, not while in the heart of the enemy’s land. Such a clearly expressed wish could bring the attention of the evil spirits, the minions of the Left-Handed Twin himself.

  “What an annoying piece of rotten meat this man is,” muttered Akweks as the sound of their companion’s footsteps dissolved in the afternoon breeze. “I can’t believe he said what he said.”

  “He hates me because I’m not one of you, not fully. The filthy rat!” Desperate to cover that earlier twinge of anxiety, the words still resounding in his head, refusing to disappear, Okwaho kicked at entanglements of roots. “He wants to fight it out. One day, it will happen.”

  “But you are one of us,” protested Akweks, loyal as always. “Your father was a Flint People’s man before he was adopted into Onondaga nation. You are one of us, by blood, if not by the clan you belong to.”

  “That’s not enough for the rotten skunk.”

  Clenching his teeth, Okwaho pushed the familiar frustration away. He had gone to live with the Flint People a few moons earlier, with the formal consent of his father and the approval of everyone who was involved: his mother, his oldest brother, the leading people of his clan and the rest of their town, which was a large, important settlement, second only to powerful Onondaga Town.

  It was a good decision that everyone approved, among the Onondagas and among the Flint People, as well. Little Falls, the largest town of his hosts, never forgot that it was in their settlement that Father grew up, it was there where he had brought the Messenger of the Great Spirits to deliver the word of the Great Law of Peace. This made Little Falls the most important settlement among the Flint People, and among the entire confederacy of the Five Nations as well.

  Unfortunately, situated in the middle of the Flint People’s lands, Little Falls saw little action. There was not enough warfare anywhere these days. Since the Great Peacemaker, the Five Nations lived in peace among themselves, warring only with the Crooked Tongues from across the Great Lake, but halfheartedly so. Father still hadn’t given up on the idea of drawing the fierce old-time enemy into the Great Union, ridiculous as it might sound, and no matter what many people thought about it, Father wielded too much influence to dismiss his words, any of his words, lightly. Thus, the lack of warfare, even against the traditional enemy from across the Great Lake, left young, ambitious warriors like Okwaho with the necessity to look elsewhere. So he had gone to live with his father’s former people.

  Situated on the outskirts of the metaphorical longhouse of the Five Nations, the People of the Flint bore the responsibility of keeping the eastern side of the confederacy safe from an encroaching enemy, any enemy. Not that anyone dared to encroach on the powerful union. The Keepers of the Eastern Door they were called, the title and responsibility his father’s former people took seriously, seriously enough to carry the war into the possible enemy’s territory. Once upon a time, they had paid no attention to the hills and the valleys beyond the end of their Great River; they were too busy warring against their immediate neighbors, other People of the Longhouse. But when the Great Peacemaker put a stop to that, the bored warriors and the careful elders, politicians every one of them, began looking elsewhere. And this is why, after some time spent in Little Falls, enjoying the warmth and hospitality of his father’s former home, Okwaho moved eastward, to the frontier town situated upon yet another set of roaring falls, Cohoes Falls, or the Place of the Fallen Canoe. There he had lived for the last two moons, waiting for his first raid, participating in the daily life, enjoying himself, accepted and appreciated for the most part. But not by everyone. There were some who looked on him with suspicion. Annoying lowlifes like Ronkwe, the arrogant good-for-nothing pieces of rotten meat!

  “Forget him,” he said, putting his attention back to the footprints. “Let us find where these are leading. This will make the stupid rat look like the coward he truly is.”

  “Yes, let us do that!” Readily, Akweks sprang onto his feet, beaming now, always delightfully light, the best of company.

  Silently, they slid deeper into the woods, following the invisible trail that twisted tortuously, nothing but a deer track. She knew her way around, that woman.

  “Why did you claim it was a woman, and not a young boy?” whispered Akweks, echoing Okwaho’s thoughts. “Ronkwe must be right about that. No woman would be running around alone, so far away from home.”

  “Boys are not supposed to run around alone, either. They should be moving in groups, like women.” He knew he was not being reasonable about it, but the feeling was strong. He knew it was a woman.

  “They are not supposed to, true, but don’t you remember your childhood? Didn’t you run away many times, doing what you were not supposed to do?” His friend’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “I recall more than a few adventures of that kind from my days. And something is telling me you were even worse.”

  Okwaho bent to examine the faint trail of prints anew. They were engraved deeply, widely, in the confident manner of a person who could run fast, sure-footed and self-assured. Not a womanly way, indeed. And his friend was right. A wandering boy was a likelier possibility. A possibility that also meant more danger. Going by the way he had run, the little skunk had probably reached his settlement by now, alerting people. Not good.

  “Maybe there is a village somewhere up there, a village our leaders were not aware of.”

  Akweks’ face crinkled, relating his open doubt. “Tsitenha, our true leader, knows these woods. He has been raiding these lands for some time.”

  Okwaho made a face. “Who knows?” Shrugging, he peered at the footsteps again. “Let us follow these until Father Sun nears the tops of these trees. It’ll give us enough light to come back in case we ran into nothing.” He straightened up resolutely. “Her village might not be that far away. It could not be.”

  Her again! Oh but why did he keep thinking it was a woman?

  Chapter 3

  When others watched his father, listening to the rolling, well-trained voice of the renowned leader, Migisso watched the crowds, curious about their various expressions, fascinated by them. There was nothing new about the people of his own settlement, a village of little importance, but this crowd of foreigners caught his imagination, made him concentrate on the world that was not the safe haven of his inner sanctuary.

  He didn’t leave his village often, but this time, Father took him along, overlooking the usual drawbacks, indifferent to his son’s shortcomings, to all the weaknesses and flaws, too many to count. When, more than twenty summers ago, the yet-to-be head of their clan and the chief of the entire settlement had been blessed with a son, he did not expect his progeny to turn into such a glaring disappointment. A child may not grow up as expected, may become unruly or timid, not as wise as hoped for, or maybe not as forceful, not a natural leader, although some of the leading qualities could be acquired.

  Yet, what was one to do with a boy whose mind was always wandering, roaming the vastness of the different worlds, uninterested in the happenings right under his nose, whether regular boyish temptations or, later on, the affairs of his settlement and his people. Not strong, not especially witty, not outstanding in any other way. Not anything. A disappointment.

  Shrugging, Migisso glanced at the orating leader, then returned his gaze to the listening people. There were times when he tried to please his father, tried to be of use, to practice with weapons and fishing gear, to learn hunting secrets. He was not completely usele
ss with any of those, but his interest was just not there. Something that Father sensed, growing angry and impatient, losing his painfully gained fortitude. He was not a patient man, the leader of their clan and their village. He had tried hard to control his temper, to be impartial and tolerant, to behave as a worthy leader should. Yet, just like the hunting and warring for his son, the patience did not come naturally to him, something his family could attest to, had they wished to do so. Which they didn’t. They did not wish their master harm. He was not a bad man. To behave normally and pretend all was well seemed like the best of courses. Mother was too busy with her duties, working day and night, struggling to keep up with her high status of the chief’s wife, while Migisso and his sister did their best to behave inappropriately, each in his or her way; he by displaying neither talent nor interest to lead or be involved, she by displaying too much of both, glaringly wrong gifts in a girl.

  “When our forefathers came to the beautiful valleys of the River Whose Waters Are Never Still, they knew they had found a new homeland.” The open challenge in his father’s voice penetrated the fence of his inner world, dragging him back into the impressively large council house, stuffed with mats and decorations aplenty. What riches! The council house of their village was nothing but a few hastily constructed bark walls and a fireplace. “The lands of our ancestors forgotten, we made the plentiful valleys of the mighty river our home, our only home. It is here where Father Sun blessed us and smiled upon us, showing his satisfaction. It is here where our forefathers were allowed to stay and build their villages.” The man’s gaze encircled his audience, open, imploring. “We are brothers, we who came here from the west. We are a family. We should never forget that.”

  The speech was coming along well, if the grave nods and the creased foreheads were to serve as an indication. Migisso suppressed a shrug. They knew what Father wanted, and those who did not, were sure to understand now. A cooperation, a union. The man had been struggling to make it happen for some time now, not always listened to, not always supported or understood, not even by his own fellow villagers.

  Was it really that necessary to cooperate with the neighbors they barely knew, to establish some sort of a procedure? Migisso was not so sure about that, and neither were the others. The towns and villages of River People, those who came here some generations ago, were scattered throughout bountiful valleys and along the Great River, not warring, true, but not keeping close contact aside from occasional trading. Why would they? Every settlement made its own living, and there was more than enough of that. Why would they wish to seek each other’s advice, or give such if asked?

  “We do live as a family, Brother.” The impressively tall man, the head of this town’s most important clan, nodded calmly, his face a blank mask. “As our clans are scattered among the villages and towns, so our settlements are spread along these lands. It is the right way of living, the way of our ancestors. Why would you wish to change that?”

  “We need to keep closer ties, like the family we are. We need to protect each other.”

  For a heartbeat, the leaders kept quiet, staring at the fire, each in their own thoughts. Remembering the raids, Migisso imagined, his own stomach constricting at the mere thought. When he had been a child, their village had been attacked once, torn from its tranquility with the blood-curdling war cries and the flames, followed by the screams of the frightened people. On the same occasion, the enemy had managed to get in, wreaking death. Not always by a direct killing—at least in that the enemy resembled their own people, not seeking to kill women and children and old men, not even the young ones, but eager to plunder the village’s food supplies and other possessions. Such attacks always seemed to be timed with the harvest. In spring or summer only the hunters out in the woods were required to keep a watch against small raiding parties, those who enjoyed harassing and reminding them of their existence, a relatively rare occurrence, but not of late. Lately, the enemy came more and more often, fearsome warriors, terrible beasts with no hearts, no souls, no feelings. He shuddered again.

  “Our villages and towns are living in peace with each other, exchanging goods and well wishes. These were the ways of our fathers, indeed, but it is not enough these days. The western beast has grown more aggressive, seeking to hurt, seeking to destroy. They have grown larger and bolder. The captives from their lands report strange happenings. These people have changed since the messenger of their evil spirits came to their lands. They have grown stronger and fiercer. We cannot contain them separately anymore. We need to unite.”

  The other man’s eyes narrowed. “Does your village have captives of the enemy?”

  He remembered that woman who had died only a few winters ago. A good-looking, vigorous captive, who went about sounding her mind more often than not, even when she had barely spoken their tongue. A fierce person, and a fascinating one. She was liked in the village, well enough not to suffer too much ridicule or harassment, even though no one forgave her countryfolk any of their crimes. Still, a likable person, she turned surprisingly adaptable, prone to laughter and argument, especially with men, sounding her mind in an unwomanly fashion, turning to respectable women of the clans when in need of council, instead. Imagine that!

  No wonder Kentika, his wild, boyish sister, only a girl back then, took a passionate liking to the foreigner, spending as much time in her vicinity as possible, despite Father’s frowning. She had managed to learn some of the enemy’s tongue, and she ran around boasting, speaking entire foul-sounding phrases, her strange too-widely-spaced eyes glowing with happiness. Another unusual person, more alien than the foreign woman in some aspects.

  He suppressed a smile. Kentika would enjoy hearing his report on this spectacular town, sprawling on a towering hill, about its wonders and its people and the speeches their father was making, impressive, fair-sounding speeches that had gotten them nowhere so far. She was always curious about Father’s ideas, always fascinated, trying to be involved. Was it the foreign woman’s influence? Sometimes he wondered about that, although it was apparent even before that woman’s arrival that this wild thing called his sister should have been born a man.

  Instead of him, maybe, yes. He knew what some people thought or whispered. He was a disappointment whichever way he looked upon it. Suppressing a shrug, he forced his concentration back to Father’s words.

  “Our settlement hosted a woman who was captured close to ten summers ago, in a raid that humbled the enemy’s spirit.” There was no expression on Father’s face, not a flicker of the pride he must have felt. “She died a few spans of seasons later. In the winter of illness.”

  More thoughtful nods.

  “So tell us, Brother.” The town’s leading man narrowed his eyes, his forehead knitted with creases. “How do you see it? In what way should our people be striving to work together, to protect each other, as you so eloquently put it?”

  Holding his breath, Migisso watched his father’s frown deepening. They weren’t hostile, the people of Skootuck, but neither were they friendly and open. If anything, the way their leaders’ were talking was arrogant, unbearably patronizing.

  “We need to unite against the raids of the enemy,” he heard Father saying, his voice unperturbed, but his lips pressed into a thin line. “Whenever there is an attack on a village or town, the others would have to come to this settlement’s aid.”

  “To receive word of an attack, then gather warriors and reach the place in trouble takes more time than a raid would take, Brother.” This time, it was a burly man at the edge of the squatting half circle who spoke. “You talk about an enterprise that takes days. An enemy does not take more than one dawn to attack a settlement.”

  “If the settlement is holding on, resisting the attack, it might take longer than a day or two for the enemy to get inside.”

  The smile upon the burly man’s lips was gentle to the point of offensive. “When has it ever happened that a village like yours, or even some larger towns, managed to fight off an attack, w
hile keeping the enemy busy around its fence? If you have heard of such an occurrence, Brother, do tell us, because I have most certainly not.”

  Frightened, Migisso watched the vein pulsating on Father’s forehead, knowing the signs. The leader of their village was losing his patience fast.

  “It might happen. If our warriors are brave, our fences are strong, and our people are prepared, it will happen.”

  “But they are not, are they? Your fence cannot stop the enemy, and your people are not always prepared, even if your warriors are brave enough and fearless, as our warriors are.” The shrug of the squatting man was all innocence. “How are we to help, Brother? How are we to aid you and the other small settlements scattered too close to the enemy from beyond our River Whose Waters Are Never Still?”

  The silence that prevailed was so heavy one could feel it hovering, making the air sticky, more difficult to breathe. The glares of the guests and the hosts had a scorching quality to them, burning each other.

  “Wait outside,” said one of the leading men curtly, gesturing to the warriors and the others who crowded both entrances of the building.

  Pressed by the curious townsfolk and its visitors, Migisso found it difficult to clear his way out, relieved to be outside, in the fresh breeze and the pleasant sun of the afternoon. In this time of the late summer moons, it was still too hot to wear a shirt and leggings, although ambitious young men of Skootuck sported them regardless.

  He shrugged. An ambitious person he was not, nor a person envied or admired. A state of affairs that suited him, but not his father or other prominent people of their village. Yet, in the large foreign town barely anyone knew him or cared for his shortcomings, so it was a pleasure to stroll along the muddied alleys that the bark houses, scattered in disarray, created.