His chest hit level ground. He crawled in through the brush onto a ledge that widened out like a shelf, tilting up at the far end but with space enough for several people inside the fringing brush. He stood, looking down over the whole pass, the path coming up from the east, the broad saddle below the rock, everything now within reach of his sling.
From the ledge where he stood, a trail went on, a dent across the upper slope, but this was good enough. He turned to see Ofra poised at the far side of the sheer slope, his face wiggling with doubt.
“Throw me the sack,” Corban called. “Keep your head up.”
Ofra pitched the sack toward him, and he caught it and set it down against the back wall of the ledge. Seeing a little coil in the dust he stooped and picked it up. It was a bowstring. The Wolves had been here first but he had found it too. Maybe they had even come down by the easier trail. He dusted his hands off, pleased.
Ofra came up beside him, panting. He said, “If I hadn’t seen you do that I would never have done that.” He lowered the pack to the ledge. Behind, in the half-dark, Arl stood on the far side of the gap in the trail, looking sadly at them across the sheer plunge.
Corban spread out his cloak and sat on it, his back to the warm rocky earth behind him, and opened the pack and found the round skin of water. Ofra was still on his feet, watching Arl. “Go back!” He waved his arms at her. “It’s too dangerous.”
Corban ate meat. In the deep sky overhead the stars were pricking through, raining down their unreadable messages. He licked his fingers. Then Ofra shouted, and there was a rattle of stones and dirt and suddenly a small, light, smelly body careened over the brush and landed on Corban.
“Yow,” he said, and pushed her off. She laughed. He had never heard her laugh before. She settled down next to him, and her fingers stole toward the red and blue cloak. He gave her some meat, to keep her busy, and they all settled down to wait.
He dozed, comfortable, the others on either side of him, waking often. Halfway through the night he came awake as if for the rest of his life. The blue glory of the sky spread over him, all stars. Somewhere below him an owl hooted its soft, explosive call. He sat thinking of what was to come. He had to die sometime anyway, he thought, but he wanted to take Miska along. If he could take Miska, he would gladly die.
Off through the pass, he could just see the moon lipping up above the horizon, a bulbous yellow glob, its forerunning light blotting out the eastern stars. He listened for the owl to hoot again. Away to the west, a wolf howled, maybe far away enough and westerly enough to be a real wolf. The hot summery night wind grazed his cheek like a moist caress.
Arl and Ofra slumped against him, one on either side, sleeping like lumps. He edged out from between them and went around the ledge, gathering up stones for his sling.
The moon climbed across the sky, washing out the stars as it passed, its crooked shape filmy with stray light. Corban heard the owl again, moving through the trees in the eastern throat of the pass. Then toward dawn, he heard another owl hoot, this one the wrong kind.
He turned, stooping, and touched Ofra’s shoulder. The other man came swiftly awake; Corban on all fours led him up toward the front of the ledge, pushing into the heavy thorny brush. Then somebody shrieked, across the way, and somewhere off at the top of the rock, in the trees beyond, people started to yell.
Ofra grabbed Corban’s arm. They crouched in the brush, listening, and Ofra said, “We came up here for nothing.”
He made to stand up, and Corban caught him by the shoulder and pushed him down. Ofra said, “They’re fighting over there, way over there, we should—”
“Shhh,” Corban said.
The shrieks and screams were all coming from the far side of the pass, but looking through the screen of brush in front of him he could see into the eastern slope of the pass, and something was moving down there. He pulled his sling free from his belt. “Here they come.”
“What?”
Corban stood up, to his waist in low brush, fitting a stone to his sling. The trail up from the east lay open before him, bathed in the first watery light of day. Along it half a dozen men were running, two with bows in their hands, heading up the open ground just below the saddle of the pass.
They saw him as soon as he saw them; but he had the stone fitted and the sling whirling, and they were right below him. His first strike took the leader off his feet, and the others scattered back, looking for cover on the bare slope. Ofra bellowed. He started hurling rocks down, bounding around the ledge to find more, prying chunks out of the hillside.
Corban said, “Watch for arrows.” He stepped back, looking for more shot, and found Arl at his elbow, her arms cradling a heap of stones. He fit another to the sling. Ofra shouted, “Watch out,” and they all ducked down into the brush.
An arrow slithered past them. Corban straightened up, saw the bowman crouching behind a thin shield of grass, and slung a stone at him; another arrow sailed up from below, and he moved around, wading hip-deep in the brush, trying to fix where the other shooter was. Almost directly below, in the pass, the man he had struck first was staggering up onto his feet, his arm hanging useless. Corban saw it was the boy Lopi. He could still hear people screaming, off on the height above the pass, beyond the rock, in the trees back there. He fired a stone at Lopi, not to hit him, but to get him moving.
Then from the ridge beyond the rock there came a tremendous crash, like the hillside falling. The day was breaking, white sky spreading up out of the east in veils of milky light. Corban strained to see through the dusk. He thought the line of trees behind the rock had changed—he thought he saw a cloud of dust flying up, way over there. Then Ofra was yelling, “They’re going! They’re running!”
Corban straightened. Lopi, clutching his bad arm, had reached the other Wolves in the eastern shoulder of the pass; with him in their midst they were rushing off down the trail, out of sight into the trees below. Ofra whooped; he threw curses and insults after them, and Arl, beside him, cried out the same words in a higher voice. Corban turned toward the rock.
The light of the sun was streaming into the sky, flooding the high ground of the pass. Across the pass, Tisconum ran up onto the top of the great rock, his arms high, and began to dance.
His voice shrilled out, high and fierce. “I beat him! I have beaten Miska!” He kicked his feet up, and pumped his arms, his knees flying, his elbows out, and the rest of his band came up from the woods beyond the rock and danced with him.
Ofra yelled, “You couldn’t have done it without us,” and waved his arms. “Hey! Over here!” Nobody paid any attention. Corban rolled his sling around his belt again, and went back along the ledge, looking for an easier way down.
Corban went around the pass, looking for bodies, and found none. There was a slick of blood on the ground where Lopi had fallen, and in a stand of grass he found a broken bow. A yell brought him around to see Tisconum and the others, rushing down the thread of the trail along the side of the rock.
Whooping and leaping, they bounded down into the saddle of the pass. Tisconum broke into his dance again, his arms over his head.
“I have done it. I have beaten Miska.”
Corban went toward him; the others were still rushing around, hugging each other and cheering. Tisconum swung toward Corban, broadly smiling.
“He was coming up the back path, and we cast them down! You should have seen how they looked! They fell backward, they ran like deer. Then we threw rocks, and we broke down trees, and piled them all down into the path, so nobody can ever get up there again.”
Corban said, “How many did you kill? Did you kill Miska?”
The Turtle sachem shrugged. “Who knows? Better he’s alive, and knows I beat him “
“You say you clogged the path did you go down it? Did you see any bodies?”
“I threw trees down on him. I hope he’s alive! I have beaten him, Corban-ka. With your help.” Tisconum suddenly flung one arm around Corban’s neck and kicked out in a
nother little dance.
Corban gripped the other man’s arm and flung it off. “What are you doing? Did you leave a sentry? Get somebody up there! Do you think a few trees will stop him?”
Tisconum whirled away, flapping his hands at him, dismissing him. Corban backed up quickly, looking up at the ragged upthrusting rock, jutting up against the sky like a forehead. He cast a quick look around, seeing the others still laughing and dancing, or by the fire looking for something to eat, or gone across the pass to make water.
His lungs swelled. He bellowed, “Get somebody up there now, Tisconum!” He started toward the way up the rock, and as he did, the first bowman appeared on the top of it.
He screamed, wheeling around. Out in the middle of everything, Tisconum kicked in his jig, and an arrow whined down and took him through the throat, in one side and out the other.
Corban yelled again, and ran. Ofra and Arl were under the burnt tree and he ran by them and caught her arm as he went and dragged her along. “Run! Run!” He hustled her along toward the western pass, where the brush was higher.
He twisted to look over his shoulder, running, and saw Tisconum’s band behind him, scattering over the pass, and the arrows showering down on them. He pushed Arl ahead of him, into deep grass, and then under a thorny bush.
Ofra plunged in behind them. “They came back,” he said, his eyes round.
“Miska never gives up,” Corban said. Through the brush he looked back into the pass.
On top of the rock men were milling around, but not shooting anymore. In the pass no one moved. Corban’s belly clenched. He gripped Arl’s arm still, and he looked once into her face, her wide frightened eyes, her lips trembling, and turned to Ofra.
“Go. Take her and go. That way—” He pointed west. “Get as far as you can. Don’t let them take you alive.”
Ofra swallowed once, his meaty face grim, and without a word started off, crouching, fighting his way through the brush. Arl said, “What about you?”
“I’m going to kill Miska,” Corban said. “Go.” When she hesitated, he pushed her. “Go!” And she went.
He waited a moment hiding in the dense thicket. The Wolves were coming down into the pass now, moving around it, pulling arrows from bodies. He heard their voices rise, light, unconcerned, and he saw Miska.
The Wolf stood beneath the burnt tree, his back to Corban. His long hair shagged down his back; he had his war club in his hand. Corban unknotted his red and blue cloak, which would only get in the way, and left it behind.
He crept off through the thicket, trying to get as close to Miska as he could. The other Wolves were scattered off across the saddle of the pass, still recovering their arrows and taking trophies from the bodies. Miska shouted, and several people answered from different sides. They were looking for somebody and Corban guessed who it was. Crawling on his belly under the prickly brush, he got behind some rocks and moved in. He drew his knife out of his belt.
Miska called again; he turned slightly around, more toward Corban, his head down, his face smeared with black paint. Corban broke out of the brush and charged him.
He took three steps to reach him, and that was enough for Miska. The sachem whirled and stooped and got one arm up, and as the knife swept down Corban’s forearm struck Miska’s. The knife flew out of his hands. Corban plunged headlong into Miska, trying to get both hands on the Wolf’s neck.
They went down, thrashing and rolling, and then suddenly the other men surrounded them; hands gripped Corban from behind and dragged him up, and he coiled his body up and kicked out but someone else gripped his wrist and twisted his arm around.
Hasei shouted in his ear, “I have him! I have him!”
Corban stopped struggling; Hasei’s arm was around his neck, half-choking him, and his left aria was crooked up tight behind his back. Miska rose up before him, covered with dust. The black paint made his face hideous. Through the dirt and the black his eyes glittered with satisfaction, and he smiled.
He said, “He didn’t get away after all. Tie him up.” He reached out with one hand and flicked his fingers at Corban’s beard. “For your sister’s sake, I would have let you go, Corban.”
Corban said, “You liar. It’s for my sister’s sake you’re going to kill me.”
Miska’s eyes narrowed, red-rimmed, angry. “Take him away before I do it here.”
Corban let Hasei pull him off around the rock toward the burnt tree. The Wolf poet avoided his eyes and neither of them said anything. With a hand on his shoulder Hasei made him sit down and then tied his hands and his ankles, and tied the end of the rope to the tree trunk.
He went away; Corban sat staring away into the air, trying to collect himself. Abruptly Hasei was back. He had the red and blue cloak, and he stooped and laid it down around Corban, not over him, but around him, like a little wall. His gaze was steadily elsewhere. Corban said nothing to him, and Hasei went away with his head bowed.
Corban thought of the tinderbox; he thought maybe he could cut the rope with the hard edge of the fire box. He groped around with his hands, and felt around the cloak to the corner, where he kept the tinderbox tied in a knot.
It was gone. The knot was open, the creases still deep in the cloth. He sat back against the rock, frowning.
It had been an easy fight, with no deaths, and only a few wounds. The worst was Lopi’s broken arm, which Epashti fit together again and plastered with wet knitbone leaves and tied that to a stick. The whole time she said nothing. The Wolves were gathered under the burnt tree, eating what was left of the Turtles’ food, and laughing and talking over the fight, making fun of the Turtles, and building up big stories of their own deeds.
Miska, she saw, was exuberant; he walked up and down through the camp, basking in their shouts of praise, their howling of his name, over and over. This was his victory feast, she thought, This is what he wants.
When she had done everything for the Wolves, she went around to the side of the rock, where Corban was tied up.
He saw her, and his face brightened, like the sun coming out. She sat down next to him and tears squirted out of her eyes and she put her hands over her face.
“Don’t cry,” he said. “Don’t cry, Epashti.”
Lowering her hands, she turned to him; his face was bruised, and she washed him, and put salve on him, all the while crying. He watched her face steadily. He did not seem afraid.
He said, “Where is the baby?”
She swiped the back of her hand over her eyes. “At home. With Ahanton.”
“Ahanton,” he said, and looked away, and she knew it still hurt him that Ahanton had cast him out.
She said, “She’s a girl. She has eyes like yours.”
He faced her again. “Good. Name her Mav, for my sister.”
“Corban—”
“And find my tinderbox. Somebody’s taken it. I don’t want Miska to have it.”
“I’ll look for it,” she said.
She gave him water to drink, holding the gourd to his lips, and then sat there, her hands useless in her lap. “I can’t do any more than this.”
“I know,” he said.
“Lopi is there, see. Watching us.”
His gaze flickered past her and returned to her face. “I see him.” He smiled again, caressing her face with his gaze. “I’m glad you came.”
“If you escape they’ll only hunt you down again.”
“I know,” he said. Then he said something in his own gibberish, of which she picked out only her name.
But she understood. She began to cry again. She laid her cheek against his, the rough hairy scarred animal face, and whispered, “I love you too, Corban.”
She could not find the tinderbox. But when at twilight she went off along the side of the rock, to relieve herself in private, she found Corban’s knife, lying under a dusty thornbush.
The blade was still warm from the sun. Impulsively she laid her cheek against it. Then she put it away in her clothes, out of sight of Miska.
C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - S E V E N
Ahanton was taking the baby Blessing to Sheanoy, as always, in the morning, to be suckled, when she heard shouting outside the longhouse. She turned around toward the noise; the door of Sheanoy’s compartment burst open, and Epashti’s sister came running out.
“Don’t you hear that? The men are back!” Sheanoy ran nimble as a deer down the center of the lodge to the door.
Ahanton hauled the baby up against her shoulder, wanting to put her down. Blessing was getting bigger and heavier, and she squirmed more, harder to hold. Still, if the men were back, then her mother was back. The jubilant yelling grew steadily louder. She went out of the lodge into the morning sunlight.
All the women were rushing up through the village toward the gate. Old Lasicka, the cripple, hobbled along leaning on his stick, howling in a breathless voice. She followed him up to the gate, where the people were gathered so thick she could not make her way through them.
If Epashti came back, she would take the baby, of course, which Ahanton longed for. But there was much new that Epashti would see and thinking of that Ahanton swallowed down a little feathery apprehension. She wiggled in through the crowd of women around the gate, their bouyant voices crisscrossing over her head.
“Look! There they are—Miska! Ha-Tonga-Miska!” That was Sheanoy, waving one arm over her head. “Raki! Where is my Raki?”
Other voices. “I see Hasei!” “There is Faskata—” “There is Lopi!” “Lopi! But he’s hurt!”
Then, someone said, “They have Corban.”
Their shrill clamor of voices fell still. Abruptly there was space all around Ahanton, and at the center of a hole in the people, she felt them, all around her, turn and stare. For a moment she could not lift her gaze from the ground. Her ears heated. Her scalp itched. Finally she made herself look up, because the men were almost in the gate.
The Serpent Dreamer Page 29