by Andre Norton
“Many return to the tribe. There is danger—already they may know that.”
Again his spirit was more willing than his body. And, although he had seemed strong enough to enter the stream on his own and swim therein for some distance unaided, he began to slip back, and finally clung to a water-logged tree root until Yellow Shell once more lent his strength to the smaller animal.
The stream entered a marsh where there were tall reeds and a series of pools. Some farther off were scum-rimmed and evil-smelling. But along the brook the water was clear and Yellow Shell felt safer than he had since his capture by the mink war party. Then the otter pulled against him and the beaver came to a halt where the stream widened to a pool, a pool half-dammed by a fallen tree and some drift caught against that.
At the otter’s gesture, Yellow Shell aided Broken Claw to the top of the tree log. Pressing his wounded paw tightly against him, he used the other to beat upon a stub of branch still protruding from the log. It gave off a sound that carried out over the marsh. And then Broken Claw paused, for from far in the water-soaked land before them came a pound-pound of answer.
“They know we come,” he signed, slipping from the tree to the water. And Yellow Shell saw marks on the log that said that this signal must have been so given many times before.
So they continued, and the beaver was not surprised when an otter suddenly arrived out of a reed bed, to look at them and then be gone again, giving Yellow Shell only a swift glimpse of a painted muzzle, a headdress of feathers and reed beads. But there had been a spear in the otter’s paw and he had carried it as one well used to that weapon.
At last they came out into what must have been the centre of the swamplands, a core of dry land rising as a mounded island, well protected from discovery by the watery world around it. Earth, which was mostly clay in which were many stones, had been heaped and plastered together, perhaps on a foundation of rocks. On this were the lodges of brush, also plastered with mud that had hardened in the sun. The lodges were smooth-walled and wholly above water, but with something of the same look as beaver lodges—as if they might have been copied from the larger homes of Yellow Shell’s people.
There were otters awaiting their coming, the warriors in front, squaws and cubs behind, but only a handful compared to the number of lodges. If, as Broken Claw had believed, the tribe was assembling again, not all had yet reached this swamp stronghold.
Coup poles stood in front of about five of the lodges, their battle honours dangling—not strings of teeth as in the mink village, but here bunches of feathers or coloured reed chains. The waiting warriors made way for Yellow Shell to climb up on the island. For these last few feet Broken Claw shook free of his aid and walked alone. Two of the foremost of those who waited hurried to his side, giving him support and leading the way through the almost deserted village to a middle lodge that was larger than all the rest, its clayed sides covered with pictures, and coloured marks drawn in the soft substance and then filled in with black or red paint. As on the rocks some of the marks were weathered, but others stood out brightly as if only recently done. And Yellow Shell knew these for tribe and clan records, so this must be the lodge of not only a tribal chief but one who also held the rank of medicine singer.
A warrior pushed past Yellow Shell to loop aside a curtain knotted out of dried reeds. And the beaver paused, allowing Broken Claw and his two supporters to enter first. There was a small fire in the centre of the lodge and from it came a thin blue thread of sweet-smelling smoke. To one side squatted a very old otter, his muzzle white. As his head swung towards them, Yellow Shell saw that he had but one eye, that the other side of his head was scarred with long rips that were well healed. Before him was a small ceremonial drum made of a tortoise shell with the skin of a salmon dried tight across it. On this the old otter beat softly from time to time, using only the tips of his claws, making a kind of muttering sound, as if something deep within the earth whispered to him.
Facing him across the fire was a younger otter, but one who had yet more years than Broken Claw, or even the warriors who had brought their wounded comrade into the lodge. He was the largest otter Yellow Shell had ever seen, fully as big as a beaver. Around the eyes he had painted black circles, and on his chest hung a disk of bone carved and painted—the badge of a high chief. Thrown over one foreleg and trailing out behind him on the floor was a square of reeds woven together, with feathers tucked into that weaving to make a bright robe of ceremony.
There was a burst of otter talk that Yellow Shell could not understand, and then the chief reached under the edge of his feather-patterned robe and brought out a long-stemmed pipe. With two claws he skilfully brought up a burning twig from the fire and set it to the bowl. With a puff of fragrant smoke rising from it, he raised the pipe towards the roof of the lodge, the sky, pointing it again down to the earth, then east, north, west, and south, finally offering the stem to Yellow Shell.
Taking it carefully into his forepaws the beaver drew a deep breath and then puffed it out slowly, turning his head meanwhile in the same order as the otter chief had presented the pipe.
As he passed the pipe to the left and so into the waiting paws of the old otter who had stopped his drumming to take it, the chief spoke in swift sign language.
“The lodge of Long Tooth is our brother’s. The food and drink that are Long Tooth’s are our brother’s. Let him rest, and eat and drink, for the trail behind him has been long and hard.”
The reed matting that was the door of the lodge was drawn aside as a squaw almost as old in years as the drumming otter brought in a bowl, which she set before Yellow Shell, and with it a gourd that now served as a cup and from which came the scent of some stewed herb. The beaver dipped into the bowl and found fresh alder bark, sweet to the taste, and with it bulbs of water plants.
As he ate and drank, courteously ignored by all, Long Tooth talked to Broken Claw. Then the young otter was taken away by his friends and the chief sat staring into the fire, the pipe now resting under his paws but no longer burning. The ancient otter went back to the low drum of claw on stretched fish skin.
But at length he said something to the chief, and Long Tooth nodded slowly. The old otter reached into the edge of the fireplace and scooped up a pawful of grey-white ash. He scattered this over the surface of the drum, adding a second pawful to the first, so that there was now a thin coating of powder on the drum top.
Then, putting one paw on either side of the drum as if to hold it very steady, he threw back his head, so that his grey muzzle pointed almost straight up to the roof over their heads, and began a chant in a voice that was thin, and old, and quavery. But, as the old one continued, Yellow Shell, listening, knew he was hearing a medicine singer of power, one who could control great forces. And so the beaver sat quietly, not daring to stir.
Cory felt that he had been shut tight into a small part of Yellow Shell from which there was no escape, and this was frightening. Yet with that fear was the feeling that something important was going to begin right before his eyes, and he gazed as intently upon the medicine otter as the rest.
The quavering chant died away and the otter was visibly taking a deep breath, drawing air into his lungs as if about to plunge into water and stay thereunder for a long time. Holding that breath, he leaned forward over the powdered drum. And then he blew his lungs empty, straight over the ashes.
Cory expected to see them all disappear, but they did not. What was left made a pattern, an outline, crude but recognizable, of a bird. And Yellow Shell knew that symbol, for it was one common with all the river tribes, and perhaps with the plains tribes also, though with them the river peoples had little dealings. It was the mark of the Eagle, or rather of the Eagle’s totem—the Thunderbird.
The old otter and Long Tooth looked at each other and nodded, then the otter chief signed to Yellow Shell:
“This is a bad thing now on the river. The minks move here and there. They raid, they take prisoners, and always the crows fly be
fore them, spying. Other things move—perhaps they are spirits—but who sees spirits except when he dreams a medicine dream? It is not wise of such as we to look upon the ways of spirits. Yet the Changer is both spirit and of the People, and what he does can mean much evil to all of us. We do not know what he would do. They say that in some time to come he will turn the world over and the People will be slaves if they live. Though slaves to what—we do not know—perhaps evil spirits. Perhaps the time comes now when he would do this. And we cannot tell if there are any we can call upon who are strong enough to stand against the Changer.
“But of all of us the Eagle lives the highest, the closest to the Sky World. And if he will aid us, then—”
What he might have added he did not, for in that moment the old otter uttered a sharp cry. Yellow Shell had been so intent upon what the chief was saying that he had been staring straight at the otter’s paws, with only a glance now and then to the face of the speaker. Now he jerked his head around and saw that the old otter was eyeing him, Yellow Shell, with a searching stare.
Now the old one’s withered paws moved, shakily, with less ease than Long Tooth’s, but with the same authority the chief used.
“The mark of the Changer is on you! You are and you are not beaver!”
Cory did not know the proper signs, but his beaver paws moved in an answer that was the truth.
“I am and I am not beaver. But,” he hastened to add, “I am no enemy.”
“No,” the medicine otter agreed. “You are a friend to us, to all who stand against the Changer. Listen well: if you would find what will defeat him, perhaps make you not beaver-with-another but wholly beaver, wholly other again, then go you to Eagle. For this is a spirit thing and Eagle knows more than we do—or else Raven does, Raven who shakes the dance rattle, who sings the songs-of-great-power for Eagle’s tribe.”
Cory was eager. “You mean Eagle—he can change me back?”
But the medicine otter shook his head. “Only the Changer can change. But there are ways, powers, to make him—sometimes. And from Raven, who is Eagle’s holder of spirit power, you can perhaps discover that which shall be as a spear for the hunting of the Changer.”
“We send a pipe to Eagle.” Long Tooth spoke now, his claws glistening in the firelight as his paws moved. “If you wish, you may go with the pipe bearers. You have earned much from us by bringing Broken Claw back, but this is a spirit way and so not to be followed unless one has great need. If your need seems so to you, go with our pipe people into the mountains.”
“Yes.” Yellow Shell’s answer was swift and sure.
“Rest you then,” the old otter signed. “For the way is long and hard. And it will take time for the pipe medicine. There are songs and dances of power to be used to make it ready.”
The beaver was shown a heap of bedding grass at the back of the chief’s own lodge for his resting and he curled upon that thankfully, so tired that he could no longer hold his eyes open. But even as he fell asleep he wondered that one already asleep in his own world—as Cory must be—could also sleep in a dream.
Sound awoke him and for a moment or two he could not remember where he lay, but the dried, sweet-smelling grass was under his nose and as he moved, it rustled, making him remember. So the dream was not yet finished and he was still the beaver Yellow Shell; he did not need to look upon the paws that were his hands, or the fur on his body, to be sure of such knowledge.
He turned his head. The old otter had put aside his drum, was squatting hunched forward closer to the fire. Before him lay a bundle tied with thongs that were threaded with beads of cut reeds and seeds, and bits of feathers. Over this the otter held his forepaws and Yellow Shell knew that this was a medicine bag and one his hosts considered to possess great power. The medicine otter was now drawing forth a portion of that power into himself. He chanted, but in a very low voice, using otter language that Yellow Shell did not understand.
With the tips of his claws, the old otter placed around and over that decorated bundle a covering of skin, pieced-together fish skin, and over that a second cover of woven grasses that was painted brightly and heavily with power signs of coloured clay. Then he arose, with a stiffness that suggested that he moved only with great pain and effort, to place the bundle back in a sling hung from the roof of the lodge.
Squatting again, he sat nursing his forepaws against his chest, singing in a low mumble. But he did not wait for long. The curtain door of the lodge was pulled aside and Long Tooth entered, carrying a long bundle painted half red, half black, so that Yellow Shell knew that this, too, was a medicine thing.
Two more otters followed him. Both wore ceremonial paint and each carried a coup stick that he planted in the earth before the fire on the side where he took his place.
The chief laid his bundle on a decorated mat and untied the first of its wrappings while they all chanted. There was a second wrapping painted blue and yellow, a third that was all red, and a last that was white, each unfastened with great care by Long Tooth. Then there was exposed a pipe.
It was a pipe of great ceremony and a very old one, Yellow Shell knew. Its bowl was of red stone that had been chipped with patience into the shape of an otter’s head. The long stem was decorated with reed and seed beads and painted black.
Once the pipe was free of its wrappings, the old otter leaned forward to hold his wrinkled paws over it, giving to it the power he had drawn from the medicine bundle. Cory noticed that he did not touch it, nor did any of the other otters, including Long Tooth.
After some minutes the chief again covered the pipe with the wrappings that had lain loosely under it, one, two, three, four. When the last and outer one was securely tied, he slipped the whole into a case of oiled fish skin, a final protection for the bundle. And to this was made fast a carrying strap so that he who bore it would still have his paws free.
Yellow Shell sat up on his haunches and the grass of the bedding rustled, sounding very loud in the lodge where the chanting had now ceased. The old otter had wavered back to the bedding on his side of the fire and curled up there, as if what he had just done had exhausted his store of energy.
“A sun and a sleep have you lain here, Brother,” Long Tooth signed to Yellow Shell. “It is now well with you?”
“It is well, Elder Brother. My feet are ready for the trail.”
“And the trail awaits the feet of those who bear the pipe,” returned Long Tooth. “Fill yourself from our bowls, drink from our stores, Brother, then go with our good will.”
He must have made some sign or sound Yellow Shell did not catch, for the old squaw came in once more with a steaming bowl of drink, a newly culled bunch of water roots and alder bark. And Yellow Shell ate all he could stuff into him, knowing that it was well to depart for a long journey with a full stomach, for that was an honour to the owner of the lodge.
They set out at sunset. The bearers of the pipe were the same two warriors who had shared the ceremony in the chief’s lodge, only now their paint-of-ceremony had been washed from their fur and they went with only the sacred white colour circling their eyes, and in bars on their foreheads. Nor did they carry spears, for even the mink must respect an enemy who travels with a medicine pipe, lest raising paw against such travellers bring the wrath of all spirits down upon the attacker.
Yellow Shell had gone to the lodge where Broken Claw lay, his wounds packed with healing mud and herbs. The younger warrior, his eyes dulled by fever, had looked longingly at the beaver.
“I—would—I could—take—this trail—” he signed with slow sweeps of his uninjured paw.
“So it is known, Brother,” Yellow Shell returned. “But if this time you do not take this path, there shall come another when you do. Know this, between you and me there is blood shared and we are as two cublings of the same litter.”
“It—is—so—and together we shall take the war trail against the mink!”
Yellow Shell nodded. “The spirits willing it, yes, my Brother!”
The three left the swamp by a waterway so overhung with reed growth and brush that Yellow Shell guessed it had been purposely hidden. In places it was almost too narrow for the bulk of his beaver body, but the otters skimmed through it with ease.
Before dawn they were well away from the swamp and had travelled overland, which was the greater danger, through a woodland, heading for a stream that would lead them into the mountains. His companions seemed so sure of the trail that Yellow Shell followed them without question. But they went most cautiously through the forest, sharing out, before they ventured into that dangerous territory, the contents of a fish-skin packet that had sage and other strong-smelling herbs worked into oil, to hide their scent from the flesh eaters.
Once they crouched together in a well-rotted hollow log to watch the passing of a cougar. He was snarling softly to himself as he went, and, though Yellow Shell did not understand the great cat’s language, he could guess that he must have missed an early kill and was now intent on making up for that loss. Whether it was the pungent stuff with which they had smeared their bodies, or else the spirit power of the pipe, the green eyes did not turn in their direction. And death on four padded feet went back and away from where they sat in hiding.
Yellow Shell found it difficult to keep up with the otters, though they all dropped to four feet. They ran with an up-and-down humping movement whereas he waddled at an awkward shuffle. And he knew that he was delaying them, though they did not say so.
The forest lay at an upward slope and they were heading in the direction of the heights. Cory found himself listening for the call of a crow even as he had during their flight upriver. At the same time he was aware of seeing more about him than he had ever noted before. To look at things through Yellow Shell’s eyes was indeed to see a new world. The range of sight was closer to ground level, in spite of the beaver’s large size, but at that range it was much keener than a boy’s.