by Zoe Saadia
He could not get enough air. Fighting for breath, he stared at the agitated eyes, aware of his own welling dread, of the eminent, looming disaster, knowing that he was failing in his duty to help his friend calm. Why were they talking about him now? Why would he have to leave? And where?
“Promise!” The feverish gaze gleamed in the smoky darkness, unnaturally bright now, sending waves of panic down his spine.
“Yes, I promise. I will leave, but not before you are safely on your way. Not before I fast and smoke the sacred pipe and dance the sacred dances to help you find the right path.” At all costs he needed to channel his friend’s thoughts back into the proper direction. If he died restless, he might not manage to find the proper way.
“People are angry with you now… I heard them talking… They blame you for this failure.” The eyes were clouding, the effort of talking taking the last of the dying man’s strength.
“They can’t do me harm.” He pressed the already-shriveled shoulders, wishing he could have given them his strength. “I wish I could go instead of you. You are a better warrior. A better man. But that’s why the Great Spirits want you, maybe. Because of your kindness. Who knows? The Right-Handed Twin might have something in store for you. Something wonderful, something that will make the lives of our clans, our towns, better.” He watched Iraquas’ face calming again, the anguished features smoothing under his gaze. Heart peaking, he went on. “Yes, I know it now. This is why he has summoned you. And so we have to make sure you reach the Sky World soon, not forcing the Right-Handed Twin to wait. He has a wonderful work for you, now I know this. And while you are doing it from the world of the Great Spirits, I’ll try to do something here, and so we will work together. Like you wanted. Like we always did. We have always fought together, haven’t we?”
The knot in his throat was again too tight to continue. No, not always. This time he had abandoned his friend and his people, taking a pleasurable journey, preferring to guide a boy of no significance, enjoying a magnificent show of a bear hunt, while his friend fought and got killed.
None of it would have happened if he had come.
The knowledge tore at his chest like the claws of a ferocious beast. None of it! The War Chief would still be alive, and Iraquas would be cracking his jokes around the fire at these very moments and not fighting for breath, going away in an agonizing pain. It was all his fault. People who said so were right. He did participate in the War Dance. But by refusing to join the raid on the next day, he might have attracted the bad spirits belonging to the Evil Twin. He had made them interested and involved.
“Do you think so?” The whisper reached him but barely, the eyes peering at him half closed, their eyelids grayish and heavy. “A work up there? To help… to help you along…?”
“Yes, I know it now. You will do wonderful things to make our peoples' lives better.” He had to control his voice, had to make it sound firm. Again, he thought about no one but himself and his sense of guilt. What sort of a person was he! “You will work with the Right-Handed Twin side by side. You will be one of his most trusted aides. Not uki, but one of the Sky Spirits. And I will look for you every night, among the brightest stars. Every time I need help, and also when I’m just lonely and have stopped believing in myself.”
The colorless lips were smiling now. Just a hint of a smile, but he could see it, and it made him feel better. He watched the chest rising and falling, slowing its motion, not laboring for breath anymore.
“You will always be there, in the sky and among the trees, watching and helping every now and then. I know it now. And I’m not afraid anymore.”
The chanting behind his back intensified. He felt the clouds of smoke reaching, overcoming the stench of the rotting flesh.
The palm around his arm lost its strength, still, he clutched it, feeling it growing stiffer, not burning his skin anymore. Or was it just his imagination? The face upon the folded blanket was calm, set now, a face of a stranger.
He watched it for a heartbeat, then another. The light was gone. What made this man alive, what made his friend himself, disappeared, taken by the Grandmother Moon, responsible for giving and taking life.
He straightened up with an effort, his limbs numb from crouching for so long. Trying not to sway, he rose to his feet. The people were chanting, passing the pipe, inhaling the sacred smoke, murmuring prayers.
“He began his traveling,” he said hoarsely, finding it difficult to recognize his own voice. “May his spirit have a restful journey.”
People nodded, while others came down the corridor, prepared to support the mourners. The women were wailing, more than a few, and others tried to comfort them. The men were singing more loudly, as though crying in their own way.
He could not join their singing, his mind numb, tired, wishing to be alone. The vision of his favorite cliff beckoned, and he turned around without thinking, blinking against the smoke.
“Here.” Someone thrust a pipe into his hand. “Sit.”
“I… I need to go out… for a short while,” he murmured, studying the long, elaborately carved pipe as though he had never seen it before.
“Not now,” said one of the men. “Sit here.”
He stared at them, trying to slam his mind into working.
“Let him go!” It was quite a scream, coming from his right. “I want him to leave and never come back.”
The woman sprang into his view, a middle-aged, good-looking woman. Iraquas’ mother. He felt like taking a step back.
“Go away. Leave this longhouse and never come back.” She advanced toward him, her fists clenched. “It’s your fault! Yours and no one else’s. Your fault my son died, and the War Chief, too. You made it happen.”
He stared at her, the suffocating sensation back, making his thoughts run in panicked circles.
“You bring nothing but trouble to this town, these people.” She stood before him, hardly reaching his shoulder but fierce and frightening in her mindless rage. “You are a harbinger of disaster, and now you killed my son.”
“Stop it, woman,” said one of the men stonily. “You are crazed with grief, and you don’t know what you are talking about.”
The woman whirled at her accuser, her hair long and loose, jumping fiercely.
“Oh no, I know what I’m talking about. I’m not the only one thinking that. Don’t pretend you didn’t hear any of it before.” Her voice peaked, then broke. “My son should be alive now, healthy and well. He is dead because of this man. He brought the wrath of the Evil Twin upon our warriors by not joining the raiding party after dancing the sacred War Dance. He is responsible.”
The silence lasted for a heartbeat, then another.
“Stop talking nonsense,” said another man quietly. “Let your son’s spirit depart peacefully. He is still with us, and your screaming will disturb him, will make his journey difficult.” He sighed. “Bring your suspicions or accusations before the councils if you must, but let it rest for now. Don’t make it harder for your son.”
The woman’s face crumbled, breaking before his eyes. He watched the others coming closer, pulling her gently, supporting her as she swayed. He still could not get enough air. Picking his way carefully upon the crowded floor, he began easing down the corridor, his whole being dedicated to the effort of getting out.
No one said a word, no one tried to stop him. The silence behind his back was deafening, thick, pregnant with feelings, as heavy as a rocky mountain.
Refusing to meet his eyes, people moved out of his way, but it was a blessing. He could not meet their gazes either. Or face their words. He needed to be alone. It was as necessary as breathing itself. If he didn’t get away from this crowd, he’d faint, he knew. Or lose his temper and do something stupid, something unforgivable, something dreadful that would give them an excuse to get rid of him in a lawful way.
Chapter 14
Lingering around the sacred fire, but at a respectable distance, Tekeni saw Two Rivers storming out of the entrance, he
ading down the path, oblivious of the stares.
People crowded the sheltered fire just outside the facade, passing the beautifully carved pipe, inhaling deeply, releasing the sacred smoke, murmuring prayers, ready to support the immediate family of the dying warrior.
The faith-keepers of the other clans took care of the ceremony, from time to time enhancing their singing, tossing the clothes of the departing soul into the fire as an offering to the Great Spirits, to make the dying man’s journey to the Sky World smoother.
A sensible thing to do, reflected Tekeni, mildly curious. His eyes followed the tall figure of Two Rivers, puzzled. The man was obviously angry, inappropriately so. Grief could come out in all manners, but such anger was unwarranted, even in a mourning person. What happened inside the longhouse of the Beaver Clan? Did the warrior die already? Was it a difficult death?
He shivered, knowing that to die of rotting wounds was the worst death possible, a sure way to test the man’s strength and endurance, a torturous way likely to unman the strongest. And yet, the young Beaver Clan man was a great warrior. He would die with honor, one could be sure of that. It had to be something else that made Two Rivers that angry.
He hesitated. To follow the man and talk to him was a logical thing to do. They would have enough privacy, and hadn’t he come here in order to find him in the first place?
His eyes drifted toward the sheltered entrance that was spilling out more people. Oh yes, the warrior must have died already. He narrowed his eyes, trying to recognize Seketa’s slender silhouette among the crowds. She had been inside the house, helping along, he assumed, but now she might be coming out.
Hesitating, he came closer, unwilling to draw attention, wary of the gazes. Since coming back, carrying the magnificent fur of the giant bear, his life had changed, definitely for the better. His own clan’s people were now smiling at him, swelling with pride, prepared to talk to him like to any other person, and not only to admonish or give dark looks. The Clan Mother of their longhouse had actually fussed over his wounds, insisting to tie the heated leaves of some plant to his chest, to clean the cuts and to take away the pain. As though he complained of pain.
He grinned. Three dawns since receiving the cuts would make anyone either die of infection, or forget all about it. Still, her concern made him feel good, as though this leading woman really cared about him, like a Mother of the Clan should.
So it had been pleasant around the Wolf Clan people. And around some others. But not around the Beaver Clan dwellings. The Mothers of that Clan received his offering, his payment, with their faces stony, not about to forgive him, not yet. Not ever, maybe. And Yeentso was already well, up and about, making no secret of his hatred, causing Tekeni to shiver at the intensity and the darkness of his furious glances. No, the Beaver Clan longhouses were not a place to hang around, not even as a part of the condoling crowd. And yet…
He strained his eyes, trying to see better. She would be coming out now, definitely, a part of the grieving family. Was the dead warrior her brother? He didn’t know. But even if not, he would be one of her cousins, for sure, being too young to marry into the Beaver Clan, like Yeentso who lived in their longhouse but did not belong to that clan.
The thought of Yeentso made him glance around, but in the agitated crowd, it was difficult to see anyone. No, he wouldn’t be able to find her. But maybe it was for the best. To bother a person in grief was the height of bad manners.
He began easing away, thinking of the steep rocks adorning the bay just outside the town’s gates. Two Rivers would surely be perching there now, on the edge of the cliff, defying the winds, challenging them to cool off his anger. What happened inside the Beaver Clan longhouse?
Deep in thought, he didn’t notice the men until he was almost upon them, a group of dark silhouettes huddled next to the mass of the double fence.
Heart coming to a halt, he slunk toward the nearby plot of tobacco, not willing to be detected, not by this sort of a group. Whoever they were, those people were up to no good, that much was obvious, their hunched shoulders and bent together heads suggesting a clandestine meeting.
“Many people believe in that now, but not enough to do something,” a voice he did not recognize reached him, ringing softly in the crispy coldness of the night.
Tekeni held his breath. In order to reach the opening in the fence and the path leading out of the town, he would have to pass them, too close for them not to pay him attention, but, of course, he could still sneak out, heading straight away through tobacco plots. Silently and as quiet as a forest cat on the hunt, he took a few steps forward.
“They may be enough. There are many who think it’s his fault.” Another voice tore the darkness. “Many believe that now.”
“And still it won’t be wise to try and bring this matter before the councils.” The first man paused, evidently to shrug. “Neither Town nor Clans Councils would deal with an accusation founded in misgivings and fears. It may have been his fault, and it may not have been. He did participate in the War Dance, but the War Chief gave him permission not to come. He can plead that he had not been invited at all. Not many warriors were selected for this raid.”
“The War Chief is dead, and no one knows what occurred between him and Two Rivers on the day of the raid, when they talked for so long the people began to wonder.” This voice Tekeni recognized as belonging to the man of the Turtle Clan, Two Rivers’ clan. Biting his lower lip, he froze, listening.
“So what do we do?” asked the second man angrily. “Nothing, as always?”
“We can still try to persuade the councils to listen to us.”
The silence prevailed, interrupted by the moaning of the wind outside the fence and the chirping of the night insects.
“Or we can wait for him to do something stupid. He will not make us wait for too long, not him.” The Turtle man’s voice softened. “He is not the man to keep his opinions to himself, and now, distraught by grief, he will be quite vulnerable, angered more easily than not.”
More silence.
“He can be provoked into doing something stupid,” said the first man thoughtfully. “Yes, it can happen.”
“Stupid like what?”
“Stupid like something violent. A killing would be perfect, but just a fight may be enough.”
A sound of a kicked stone startled Tekeni, making him dive deeper into the low plants. If discovered eavesdropping on these men, he would be done for, he knew, his heart pounding, mouth dry.
“Yes, it can work.” The first man sighed. “And it should be done quickly, too, while the matters are still fresh.”
“Tomorrow I’ll talk to some people.”
“Yes, do that.”
The rustling of the bushes told Tekeni that they were drawing away, walking slowly, not in a hurry. He breathed with relief, enjoying the crispness of the cool air, with no smoke and no mourning chanting and wailing.
So those people wanted to make Two Rivers do something stupid, he thought, getting up and looking around carefully. To provoke him into something violent, and so get him in trouble with the whole town and every council possible.
Not a very difficult task, judging by the way the man stormed off earlier in the night. He looked angry and frustrated, and now, hearing those people, Tekeni began to understand better. Losing one’s friend was bad enough, but to be accused of being the cause of it? He shook his head. No, it was anything but pleasant for the strange man now.
Back upon the path leading out of the town, he smiled to himself. He had been looking for Two Rivers earlier, mainly to have a friendly company and yet another interesting talk, maybe. But now, oh now, he had more than this. A chance to repay some of his benefactor’s kindness was too great to miss. His information would be of an interest to the formidable man.
The wind greeted him, as fierce as always, coming from the lake, shrilling angrily. Shivering with cold, he hunched his shoulders, wishing to have a long-sleeved shirt now. In the scant moonlight, the strip
of a lower ground looked barren, uninviting, the distant cliffs towering dark and unfriendly. The elements seemed to be in a foul mood, matching the mood of the mourning town.
Listening to the wailing wind, he hesitated, his uneasiness growing. Was it safe to go out with the spirits being so angry? Evil uki would be out there now for sure, roaming, all sorts of unfriendly spirits of ferocious animals and poisonous plants.
He took another step, then halted, his hand slipping toward his knife, pulling it out of the sheath as though on its own accord.
A figure was crouching, huddled behind the last pole of the outer palisade. Heart beating fast, he peered at it, then sensed more than saw its pose, desolate and not threatening, its back toward him.
One more step, and his relief welled, along with his excitement. She was just sitting there, hugging her knees, her head tucked safely in the space her pulled up legs created, a perfect hiding place.
“Seketa!”
She shivered, but didn’t turn around or look up.
“What happened?”
Before he knew it, he was beside her, kneeling awkwardly, trying to see her better through the thick darkness. Was she hurt? His heart was making wild leaps inside his chest.
“Are you hurt? Who hurt you?”
But her sobbing intensified, and he could do nothing but hug her shoulders and try to contain their trembling.
“Tell me what happened!”
“Iraquas is dead,” she whispered, sobbing, her breathing coming in gasps. “He was dying for so long. So horribly. With so much pain. I couldn’t stay.”
“Oh.” He let his breath out, trying not to let his relief show. She wasn’t hurt!
“It is so horrible. This death. He does not deserve it. Anyone but him. Anyone!” She looked up, facing him, her eyes huge and glittering, wide open, having a wild spark to them. “Not him. Anyone but him!”
“Yes, I know.” He searched her face, checking for signs of her being struck after all, just in case. It was red and puffy, but unharmed. He sighed in relief. “I thought someone hurt you.”