by Zoe Saadia
She peered at him wide-eyed, all sorts of expressions chasing each other across her face.
“It is not so,” she said with none of her usual self-assurance.
“Then how is it?”
“Oh, well, the Deer People were not always our enemies. They were our allies until, well, until this incident last summer. You see, those two young men of the Turtle Clan, they were found dead, and all signs pointed that the Deer People did this. You should remember this. You were already here by the last summer.” She flopped her hands in the air. “Oh, why do I bother? You are not listening, because you think you know it all!”
He could not hold his laughter anymore. “I’m not listening because I heard all that and more. Yes, I was here the last summer. I know the story, and to me, it makes no sense. You and the Deer People are the same.”
“No, we are not!”
“Of course you are. Same tongue, same customs, same lack of carvings upon your longhouses.” He hesitated, remembering his conversation with Two Rivers. “Same amount of clans even. Same everything,” he ended triumphantly, her uncertainty making him happier than he had been in summers.
She glared at him, her nostrils widening with every breath. “And the people from across the Great Lake? How are they different, if it is so?”
“Oh, no, my people are different. Across the Great Sparkling Water it is nothing like here. We speak different tongues, and we have different customs. Everything over there is not like here at all.”
“They are not your people anymore, remember?” Her eyebrows climbed high, making her look again unpleasantly preachy.
“Yes, I remember that.” The familiar dull pain in his chest was back, and he took his gaze away, peering into the darkness.
“There is another reason I was looking for you,” she said softly.
“What reason?” He kept staring into the blackness of the night, but his stomach twisted with anticipation.
“I wanted to warn you.”
“To warn me? About what?”
His disappointment welled, and it angered him. Why should he expect something else from her? She was so pretty and upright, such a perfect member of their society, and what was he if not a wild foreigner, good for nothing but making trouble?
“Well, you see, even though Yeentso will live, your clan would have to compensate my clan for the injury, and the way it made some of our people not go to work, while taking care of him. But the thing is…” She hesitated, and he watched her long fingers toying with the fringes of her dress. “Well, your clan members are angry with you, and they may want you to find the means to pay up all by yourself, with no help or cooperation of theirs at all.” Leaning closer, she looked up at him, eyes troubled, glittering in the darkness, taking his breath away. “My friend overheard them talking about it this morning, and then I overheard them, too, later on.”
He felt his stomach sinking, her troubled gaze sending shivers down his spine. “What will I be required to pay?”
“They were talking about a certain amount of hides.” She dropped her eyes. “Five hides, maybe. Cleaned and tanned, and ready for use.”
“Five hides?” He heard the air bursting out of his own lungs loudly, desperately. “It will take me more than a whole span of season of coming to every hunting expedition, when I’m not even invited to join every one of them. And, anyway, I will get no chance to shoot anything. They used us, youths, to carry things, mainly. To row and to pitch camps, and to make fires and cook, while the older hunters did the hunting. How can they expect me to get those five hides? And to prepare them too!”
“Yes, I know!”
She brought her palms up in a helpless gesture, but it made him feel infinitely better. She was as frustrated, as disappointed. She knew he had no chance, but she did feel bad about it.
“I will help you to prepare them. I can do that.” She went on, frowning. “You have no mother or sister to do that for you, so I’m sure they won’t object. You just need to find someone, maybe. Someone that may be willing to go with you, to help you hunt. Five hides is not a terrible amount. It’s five shot deer. Not an impossible feat. They were talking about ten initially, so I hear. But your clan’s council brought it down to five.”
He could barely hear her, the thundering of his heart distracting, interrupting his ability to listen. She said she would work his hides if he would get them. But what did this mean? He didn’t dare to think about it.
“Would you believe this?” She grinned, apparently oblivious of his agitation. “Ten hides would pay for a new canoe full of weapons and what-not. Your Clan Mothers almost had a fit, so I hear. Their faces were the color of my festive dress, they say.” She pointed at her girdle, adorned by a strip of purplish shells. “Of that color exactly.”
Against his will, he laughed. “The Grandmother of our longhouse is a tough old hag. They were lucky she didn’t turn the color of the storm cloud.”
“Oh, well, our Grandmother is not a soft girl either.” She beamed at him, eyes sparkling. Another long tendril escaped the hold of the carved wooden comb, fluttering across her face, making her blink. She tossed her head to make it go back, but the silky thread insisted, dancing against her cheek, enhancing the softness of its angle.
He reached for it without thinking. All he wanted was to help her remove the obstacle, but the touch of her skin upon his fingertips made him shudder, sending rays of warmth down his spine. The feeling was so intense, it made his stomach shrink, as though he were sick, his heart coming to a halt.
One heartbeat, then another. She stared at him, evidently as startled, and the look in her eyes did not help, enhancing the sensation instead of making it go. He had to do something.
With an effort, he pulled his hand back, the unruly tendril still there, still fluttering, annoying in its insistence.
“Your hair… it’s in your face…” he mumbled, finding it difficult to utter even those words.
“Oh, well, yes.”
She pushed it away with both hands, impatient and so obviously embarrassed he wanted to laugh. A nervous laughter. The strange sensation persisted. It was as though they had done something, something that changed everything between them. But what?
“I think we should go back to the ceremony,” she said, taking her gaze away.
It broke the spell. He clenched his teeth against his welling disappointment.
“Yes, we should.”
In the silvery darkness, he could see her profile as she turned, the high forehead, the soft lines of the oval chin, the darker shade of the full lips. In the daylight one could see all of it and more, he thought, remembering watching her through the last span of seasons, the girl of the Beaver Clan, the pretty, confident, unapproachable thing. Her aloofness was renowned all over the town. Many boys, and even men, were watching her, but none dared to offer her a stroll by the river. They knew better than to hurt their pride in this way. Even through the social dances of the great ceremonies, she didn’t bother to be nice while dancing. Moving with the breathtaking grace, she would dance for the sake of the movement, oblivious of the wistful stares.
He pressed his palms tight, the urge to touch her face, to run his fingers along the lines of the exquisite profile, this most beautiful creation of the Right-Handed Twin, overwhelming.
“I thank you for being so kind to me,” he said gruffly. “I will never forget. One day, I will repay you your kindness.”
She beamed at him, her smile again wide and free of shadows. “I’m glad I could be of help, even if only a little. I wish I could help you more. You are not what they say you are.”
It was impossible to control his limbs once again. He needed to touch her, just one more time, only this once, only for a heartbeat. He felt his nails sinking into his palms, the pain refreshing him, putting his senses back in order.
“Come, let us go back,” he heard her saying, the beads of her skirt murmuring with the sways of the tanned leather.
Without the magic of her ey
es, and no unruly hair fluttering against the exquisite face, it was easier to follow her lead, his heart returning to beat in a reasonable manner.
Chapter 8
Stifling a sigh of relief, Two Rivers leaned against the nearby rock, too tired to try to make himself more comfortable. The sleepless nights were taking their toll, making his head dizzy, his body stiff and crying for a well-deserved rest.
He watched the other warriors squatting all around, smoking the pipe when it was their turn to take the revered, beautifully carved object.
“We will leave in two dawns,” the War Chief was saying. “A party of twenty men. Good, seasoned warriors; no youths this time.”
The men listened in silence, their faces sealed, impartial, as though carved out of wood, glittering in the light of a small fire, elated by the dance, yet as exhausted, their energies drained. The clatter of the rattles and the drumming poured in, with the square still full of activity, the town’s dwellers refusing to disperse, dancing on, social dances now.
He took the offered pipe, pleased to see his hand firm, not trembling. After the War Dance it was always difficult to control one’s limbs.
“Only clubs and bows. Ten light canoes,” the deep voice went on, ringing eerily in the surrounding darkness. “The Clans' Council will give us food for ten days' journey, but we will be eating sparingly, to ensure our well being should the journey take us longer to complete.”
Inhaling, Two Rivers watched the old leader, marveling at the composure and the calm dignity the noble face radiated. The man had been almost a legend, having fought for more summers than anyone could remember, the war trophies mounting in the compartment of his longhouse, the tales of his deeds going ahead of him. Earlier, in the middle of the ceremony, it had taken the old leader a long time to recount his battles. The custom dictated that the most veteran warrior would tell about his wars and victories in between the dances, and this particular tale was taking the longest.
Not that anyone complained. The man’s ability to relate the old stories was wonderful, inspiring, breathtakingly real, taking his listeners to the places and times they had never seen.
“Who will be chosen to join, Honorable Leader?” asked one of the men quietly.
“You will know with sunrise.” The War Chief took the offered pipe, inhaling deeply, savoring its contents. “Now go back, or go to rest. I will need most of you present here, full of power and in the highest of spirits in two dawns from now.” The stern eyes softened, encircling his audience, traveling from face to face. “I will be proud to lead the warriors of your quality once again, before it will be my time to clear the path for the younger leaders to take.”
Unsettled, Two Rivers watched the meditative eyes clouding, wandering unknown distances. He saw a quick spasm crossing the old face, lingering for only a heartbeat.
He held his breath. Had the old leader seen a glimpse of the future? Had he seen something discouraging there?
Forcing his eyes off the saddening face, wishing to allow the man privacy one deserved at such a moment, he got to his feet along with the rest of the warriors, eager to go back to the festivities all of a sudden. The tiredness was still there, but his spirit now craved the merry clamor and the loud commotion of the joyful townsfolk.
He frowned. The ability to see the future was unsettling, every time he had witnessed it. It happened to people on occasions, with no pattern or logic, no special foods eaten and no special beverages consumed. And no matter how reluctant one might feel, what conscious efforts one might have made to avoid this happening, it would pounce on you without noticing, filling your mind's eye with all sort of visions of undecipherable meaning. There were nights he preferred not to sleep at all.
The clamor of the square burst upon him, welcome in its colorful confusion, in its jumble of smells and sounds. He drifted toward the largest fire, hungry and not bothering to conceal it. There was not much solemnity about the social part of the ceremonies.
“Let us grab some food,” cried out one of the warriors. “One can’t be expected to dive into this mess on an empty stomach.”
“No, and we can’t look at those with our bellies growling.” Indicating the circle of the dancers, Two Rivers grinned, eyes lingering on the prancing girls. “All those swirling skirts.”
The warriors laughed.
“You can look around all you like, still living in your clan’s longhouse. When you move to this or that swirling skirt’s compartment, you’ll be more careful with your eyes.”
“And the other parts, too.”
“Oh, yes.”
Receiving bowls of hot stew, with pieces of meat floating near the surface, they squatted upon the ground, inhaling the delicious aroma.
“But you are not in a hurry to move to another longhouse, brother, eh?” said the first warrior, gulping his meal.
“No, I’m not.” Eating heartily, Two Rivers watched the tall girl from the Porcupine Clan laughing, her hair long and luxurious, bouncing prettily as she tossed her head, well aware of the gazes she drew.
“He will be enjoying his freedom until he grows very old. Then he will start looking in a hurry, if his most precious of weapons would be still strong enough by then.”
“I won’t live to be that old.”
The girl’s eyes brushed past him, lingering for a heartbeat. It made him wish to finish his meal.
“Aren’t you afraid to talk like that, brother?” asked one of the younger warriors. “It is not wise to tempt the bad spirits of the Evil Twin.”
“You are talking to Two Rivers,” said someone. “He is not afraid of the spirits. He’ll argue with them until they’ll leave him alone, defeated.” The man shrugged, his face sobering. “He has a prophecy to fulfill.”
“Oh, please!” Suppressing a sudden wave of irritation, Two Rivers took his eyes off the dancers, meeting the gazes of his peers. “There is no prophecy, and there never was. Why would anyone pay attention to the nonsense dreams of a troubled young woman that happened more than thirty summers ago?”
“Dreams are not to be taken lightly, brother.” One of the older warriors gazed at him sternly, reprimanding. “The woman who gave you your life was visited by strange dreams before she conceived. She knew no man, but she grew you in her belly, nevertheless. Her mother had testified to that matter.”
He remembered his grandmother, her large, brown hands, always busy, pounding corn, or working the flour into beautifully smooth dough. She had had a booming voice, and she would scold the children of her longhouse and make them work, still, all the boys and the girls loved to play in her vicinity. It was calming to know she was around.
She never talked to him about the prophecy, but as he grew up he had heard more than he wanted to, having noticed that there was no father in his life, while in the lives of his playmates there usually had been such a person. All he had was a silent, haunted woman for a mother, a woman who had not really been there, sitting in her corner, sewing all day long. Other women went into the fields, cooked and gossiped, laughing with each other, complaining about their men, dancing through the ceremonies. But his mother had hardly talked at all, seldom leaving their compartment, looking at him with those clouded eyes, opening her mouth only occasionally, to tell him how he would do great things – save his people – when he grew up.
He pushed the memories away, desperate to suppress the familiar frustration.
“I won’t presume to judge people’s interpretation of their visions,” he said, shrugging. “But I have my doubts as to this particular dream. There might be a simpler explanation.”
Like a girl lying with a man, then losing her sanity when he would not take the responsibility, he thought, clenching his teeth. His father must have been a terrible man.
“You are not young anymore, Two Rivers,” said one of the elders, shaking his head. “You were reluctant to take your destined path for too long, going against our ways and traditions instead. The people were patient with you, but it’s time you correct
your ways and start walking the straight path.”
The others were peering into their bowls, uncomfortable with such an open reprimand. Two Rivers was not a youth of no significance to be scolded so openly, and in front of many of his peers.
He tried to appear as calm as he could. “I appreciate your advice, Honorable Elder. I will try to follow it, of course, but I do not think I’ve been presumptuous or obtrusive. I appreciate our old ways, our customs and traditions, as much as anyone, more than some.”
He watched Iraquas and the other young men diving into the melee, their faces shining, glittering with sweat, the exhaustion brought earlier by the War Dance forgotten. Why didn’t he have enough sense to join them from the beginning?
“You were heard saying that this impending raid on the Rock People’s villages is futile,” pressed the elder, eyes squinting.
Two Rivers cursed inwardly, glancing at the surrounding faces, surprised, caught unprepared by the sudden interrogation.
“Yes, I do not think we should war on these people. They were not our enemies until the beginning of the cold moons.” He shrugged, angered by their stony gazes. “We have enough enemies to war against.”
“You doubt the decision of your War Chief and the leaders of the town, yet you participated in the War Dance.”
“I will never attempt to avoid my duty, even if I doubt the advisability of the mission.”
The elder man shook his head. “You are arrogant, son, and your self-assurance knows no bounds. In small amounts, such confidence is good in a warrior and a future leader. One should always listen to one’s heart. Yet, in your case, it’s a trouble because you hear nothing but your own words. You respect neither your elders nor your peers’ opinions. You put your own opinions before anyone else’s.” The man’s frown deepened. “It will bring no good, neither to you nor to our community.”
He fought the familiar frustration, making tremendous efforts to stay calm. There was nothing new in this lecture. He had heard it too often, coming from all sorts of sources.
“I do appreciate your advice,” he repeated politely, anxious to escape. “I will try to correct my ways.”