Ekkatsay shrieked, triumphant, seeing now how well this all had worked. He forgot to think of Miska or Taksa, he saw only that after days of gnawing fret now he could strike out, and with the spear in his hands stabbing and slicing he cut his way into the fighting.
Taksa went down the slope in the midst of the charging Bears, but he did not look for Turtles to kill; he looked for his uncle.
He knew this would be the greatest day of his life, the day of his triumph over Ekkatsay. Today he would become headman of his village, and Miska’s trusted friend, and he had already built in his mind a great story of all that would mean.
Now he had to find his chance. He wormed his way through the running pack of screeching men, searching the crowded pass with his eyes. Half the Bears around him veered suddenly off, whooping, to chase the fleeing Turtles. Taksa clutched his spear tight; up there he saw his uncle, fighting with another man, clubbing and stabbing at each other with their spears.
That was an opening, he knew, and started there, to kill Ekkatsay while his back was turned. But before he reached him Ekkatsay drove his spear through the other man’s chest.
Taksa stopped still. He reminded himself Ekkatsay was a stupid old fool, not some hero, even though now a man sprawled dead before him. Ekkatsay put one foot on the body and pulled his spear loose. Taksa felt the prickle of warning along his arms and back, and drew aside, watching and waiting.
Ekkatsay stormed on up the pass. Everybody else was moving the other way, going east, chasing the last of the Turtles. Taksa followed his uncle at a distance. He thought Ekkatsay was really a coward, going where there were no enemies, but then Ekkatsay rushed suddenly at a clump of white rocks, and a man hidden there leapt up and they struggled together for an instant, and then the Turtle was bounding away.
Ekkatsay did not chase him. His arms were bloody and he was limping. He turned and went ponderously on, and now Taksa saw where he was going. In the height of the pass, at the foot of the Lightning Tree, was a circle of little stones, sitting stones, and a fire bed. Ekkatsay was going after the Turtles’ camp. Taksa moved quietly closer.
Hasei dropped his bow, out of arrows. Below him the fighting filled the pass. Lopi and the boys were hacking hand to hand with Turtles all across the flat ground, and on the far side of the pass from Hasei, Ekkatsay’s Bears were pouring like a waterfall down the sheer drop below the rock. Down there, seeing their chances, the Turtles were already starting to run.
Hasei gripped his war club and rushed down the steep slope, struggling through the dense brush, his feet sliding out from under him, and the air thick with dust. The open trampled ground of the pass was clogged with men, some screaming and fighting and some down and others running. Through the haze of dust in the air he could make out no one. Two men came rushing at him and he saw their long Turtle earlocks and jumped to stop them. One dodged by him but he tripped the other down, and swung his club around to strike. The man leapt up and they faced each other a moment, snarling. Hasei crouched down, looking for an opening, while the other man danced from side to side. Then from behind something struck Hasei on the head.
He went down hard, his senses flying; for maybe a long time he hung in some endless dark space. He came to on his hands and knees, his stomach rolling. He leapt up, but the other man, and whoever had struck him, were gone.
His club lay on the ground near him. He snatched it up and went running across the pass. There were still people fighting. Lopi and some of the other young Wolves ran past him, whooping, blood streaked on their faces. He swerved to keep from stepping on a body lying face up on the ground. Then ahead of him, where the path through the pass dipped down to the east, he saw his brother Yoto and two of the other Wolves, still fighting.
He ran to help them. They had several men backed up against a boulder at the side of the pass. Just as he reached them the knot of bodies burst apart and the Wolves staggered back under a flurry of blows. Two Turtles rushed by them, and a third, a tall man with feathers in his hair, struck Yoto down.
The other two Turtles were running off but the tall man swung around, his spear in his hands, to stab Yoto as he sprawled on the ground.
Hasei yelled; he rushed in toward his brother, swinging his club at knee height, and knocked the down-thrusting spear aside. His counterstroke swished past the tall man’s belly. For an instant they glowered at each other, ready to strike, and Hasei saw the dark eyes of the other man small with hatred and a ripple of fear went through him and he lunged forward, to smash him down, this man who hated him so much. But the tall man wheeled suddenly, dodged his strike, ran off down the hill to the east.
As he ran, he raised his voice in a high rippling yell, and at that sound the last of the Turtles left fighting in the pass turned and ran too.
Hasei knelt by Yoto, who was trying to sit up. The side of his head was swelling and bloody. Hasei took his arm and helped him rise. As he did, Yoto looked up, and their eyes met; Hasei tightened his hand on his brother’s arm, thinking of the spear descending, how Yoto might now be dead, dead forever; and then Yoto was on his feet beside him, alive, smelling of sweat and blood, and both of them looked away, speechless in a rush of feeling.
Hasei drew a deep breath, looking around the pass. Nobody was fighting anymore. Lopi was leaping and shouting at the very height of it; a lot of the men had run down the east side of the pass after the fleeing Turtles but they were starting to come back up the path. “We are done here,” he said. He let go of his brother’s arm. “Let’s go find Miska.”
Yoto wiped his hand over his face, smearing blood across his cheek. “Let’s go find some water first.” He hung his arm around Hasei’s neck, and they went along together toward the captured camp.
Even before the fighting started, Ekkatsay had noticed where the Turtles’ camp was, in under the dead tree. He looked quickly around it. The fire was cold ash, and the bones scattered all around were gnawed clean, but by the foot of the tree he saw what he really wanted: two big pots full of water. He laid his spear down and dipped his hand into the pot and drank.
From here he could see almost all the way down the pass to the east. They were still fighting down there but most of the Turtles were already gone, and half the Bears and Wolves after them. He wiped his hand over his face. There had been many more of the Turtles than of Bears and Wolves, but he thought he would run too, if he found himself surrounded like that. He bent over the pot of water to drink from it directly, and heard something behind him.
He wheeled. Taksa stepped in from the sunlight, into the thin striped shadow of the tree. He held his spear low in his hand, and a tilted smile crept across his face. Ekkatsay stiffened; he saw his nephew intended to kill him. His own spear impossibly far away at his feet.
“You don’t dare,” he said, his voice rasping.
Taksa said, “Do I not? Ask him.” He nodded past Ekkatsay, toward the sunlight, and the Bear headman jerked his head around to look.
Miska came up toward them. He was naked, shining with sweat, all his Wolf paint streaked across his body, his war club in his hand. Ekkatsay’s back tingled up with fear. He took a step sideways, trying to get out from between Miska and Taksa. His nephew was staring at him, his arms tensed, ready to spring; he would wait for Miska’s signal, Ekkatsay thought. Ekkatsay licked his lips, looking from one to the other, thinking he would fight them both, knowing with a stony heart that they would kill him. Miska walked up to him and Taksa, and Ekkatsay’s foul nephew swooped his hand out in a broad groveling gesture.
“I greet you, great sachem, who has given us victory.” He straightened, and his eyes went to Ekkatsay. “Let me present you with a victory of my own, Haka-Miska-ka.”
Miska glanced at Ekkatsay, and said, “I need no victories from you, snake tongue.” He raised his club and smashed Taksa across the head.
Ekkatsay let out a bellow. His nephew went to his knees and then flat on his face, spraying the thick red mess of his brain across the ground. Ekkatsay raised his eyes, s
tartled, to look at Miska.
Miska said, “Why do you look so surprised, Ekkatsay?” He stepped forward, turning, so that he stood astride Taksa’s body, facing Ekkatsay; his body was splattered with Taksa’s blood. His voice was easy, almost gentle, but his eyes were hard and hot and bright. “Did you think I would let this slippery boy kill you? We are brothers, remember. I would not do such a thing.”
Ekkatsay stammered, “I never—I didn’t think—”
“Don’t lie to me,” Miska said. “We are brothers, we can trust each other. But, Ekkatsay, heed this, you are my younger brother. Give me my rights as your older brother, and all will go well between us.” He lifted the war club and touched Ekkatsay’s chest with the blood-soaked stone. “Do you understand me?”
Ekkatsay licked his lips. “Yes, Haka-Miska.”
“Make me a belt of power to signify this, and send it to my village, so that I know you understand.”
“Yes, Haka-Miska.”
Miska smiled at him, and the smile went all the way to his eyes. “Good. You are a good fighter, Ekkatsay, I saw how you fought and I liked it.”
Down the pass suddenly a quavering yell went up, distant, fading. Miska nodded. “He’s running. Let’s go and see who is still alive.”
“I have to take up my nephew’s body,” Ekkatsay said.
Miska nodded. “Whatever you wish.” He went away down toward the hollow of the pass, where a knot of Wolves and Bears were screaming and cheering and waving their arms.
Ekkatsay lowered his eyes to Taksa. A surge of hate filled him and he put one foot on Taksa and stood on him. The women of his village would wail, they had loved him, pretty-tongued evil little man. Ekkatsay began to laugh; he thought of Taksa leering at him, ready to kill him, and now he was lying under Ekkatsay’s foot. The laughter shook him, so for a while he could not bend to pick the body up. He would follow Miska anywhere, he thought, anywhere. Slowly he gathered up his nephew’s body and took it away.
C H A P T E R N I N E
They all gathered in the Turtle camp and looked over their hurts. Altogether, four of the Bears had been killed, and two of the Wolves, and nearly everybody had wounds and bruises. There was very little food, but Miska had it all given out equally and they sat around together and finished it. The sun was lowering down into the massed trees on the western side of the world. Miska showed no signs of wanting to move on; the pass anyway was as good a place to camp as any, although the spring under the rock was too slow to water so many people.
When they had eaten all the food, they built the fire up, found some logs and rocks to drum on, and began to dance. They danced their fighting, each of them in his fearsome strength killing hundreds, each almost dying many times, over and over, saving himself by desperate courage. Miska, who never danced, sat under the Lightning Tree with Ekkatsay, and called to Hasei to find him a pipe.
Yoto had a pipe with him. Hasei’s head hurt and he had no wish to dance; he and his brother went over to sit by the sachem. Some of Ekkatsay’s followers joined them, and Lopi came up too, stooping and bowing with a great air of humility, until Miska pointed to him to sit down with them and be quiet. Lopi sank down beside Hasei, his face glowing. Hasei nudged him.
“What are you here for, boy? Are you the water bringer?”
Lopi muttered, dropping his gaze. On his far side, Faskata, his uncle, patted his head like a child. Miska ignored them. He was packing herb into the pipe. Ekkatsay, on his far side, stretched his arms up expansively, and a wide smile crossed his face.
“So, Miska, I suppose now the Turtles will leave our hunting grounds alone?”
Miska said, “This is the only time I wish for Corban the rodent. Who has fire?”
Lopi bounded up and ran for a coal. Ekkatsay was still chuckling. Hasei had never seen him so jovial and friendly; he thought victory was a good medicine. Of course Taksa was dead, too, which likely helped.
Miska gave the Bear headman a sideways look, perhaps finding him too happy. He said, “He won’t let this be. Tisconum. He will want revenge.”
The Bear headman shrugged his burly shoulders. He had stuck feathers into his hair. A long hank of Turtle hair hung from the sleeve of his shirt. He said, “Today we killed many of them.”
“There are many more,” Miska said.
Ekkatsay shuffled that off with a gesture. “What of these prisoners?” They had taken six captives; one was badly wounded and would die anyway and they would probably leave him.
Lopi came back with a hot stick and Miska lit the pipe. He sucked on it, exhaling puffs of smoke, until the herb in the bowl was glowing red. He took the pipe in his hand, and looked around the circle of men. Hasei could smell the sweet smoke; he leaned forward, his arms on his knees. His head ached and he was tired. Then Miska was holding the pipe out to him, first of them all.
He straightened, warm all over with pride. He said, “Lopi led the charge.”
Miska said, “Lopi was glad to see you there too.” He waved the pipe at Hasei, who took it, feeling all their eyes watching him, put the stem to his lips, and drew in the hot sacred smoke. At once his head stopped hurting and he wasn’t tired anymore. He took the pipe in his hand, looked around at the men watching him, and turned and gave the pipe to Lopi.
“He didn’t know we were there and he still ran straight into their teeth.”
Lopi swelled, his head rising, his face shining. He took the pipe, nodding, first at Hasei, and then at Miska, and then at everybody, nodding and smiling, as if at any moment he might say something very momentous, but he never did. He took a long pull on the pipe and exploded in coughs and doubled up, hacking, while the other men laughed.
Faskata his uncle pounded him on the back. “Next time, don’t take in so much. Remember, you’re still just a little boy.”
Lopi straightened, still choking. He had the pipe still; he fought for enough control to pass it on, and held it out to Ekkatsay, but he could not talk.
Ekkatsay took the pipe and smoked it. He said, “There are many warriors here,” and passed the pipe along.
When they had all smoked, Miska said, “More of you died than we did, so you can have most of the prisoners. But I need two, because two Wolves died.”
Ekkatsay shrugged. “You are the sachem.”
Miska laughed. One of the Bears had produced a little pouch of smoke and was packing the pipe again. Hasei could feel the pounding of the drums in the ground under him. Yoto nudged him and he grinned and wrapped his arm around his brother’s neck, sharing the glory.
The pipe was going around again. More of the men were joining them. Abruptly Miska got up and went off across the height of the pass, and stood there, looking out toward the east, where Tisconum had gone. He was already thinking about what to do next. Hasei was glad he didn’t have to think; all he had to do was follow Miska. The pipe came around to him again and he smoked, tired again, very content.
The two Wolves who had died were both boys, sons of women in Anapatha’s lodge. Miska carried them back to the village. The two prisoners came along with them—one fought and argued and tried twice to escape, although they soothed him and told him how lucky he was, since now he might become a Wolf. The other captive, an older man, only walked along quietly and said nothing.
The women came out to meet them, moaned and cried and wept over the bodies of the two boys, and led them all back into the village, where they had a big feast waiting. The bodies of the two dead boys lay by the river, covered with branches, until the morning, when they would be buried in the ground. All through the evening their mothers and sisters and the other people went and sat there and wept and called their names and made promises to them of memory and duty.
Later, when the moon rose, their mothers, daughters of Anapatha, went to Miska and demanded the prisoners.
The one who had argued and fought and tried to escape, as Miska had thought, was a weakling, moaned even while he was being bound to the stake, and wept for mercy when he saw the women approaching
him with their hot sticks and knives. Miska moved away from him, sick with his weakness. But the older man sat with his back to the stake and his arms folded, and stared straight ahead and began to sing his death song.
Anapatha’s daughters went to him with their knives and he sang of his boyhood and what he had learned from his elders, and the women put coals on the bottoms of his feet and the palms of his hands and he sang of his manhood ceremonies and how he had slain a woods bison by himself. They cut off his fingers and sliced his scalp and cheeks and he sang of fighting and winning and washing in the gore of his enemies.
They slashed his arms and chest until the blood streamed from him and he sang of a great battle, in which he and Tisconum and his brothers had fought against the Wolves, who had come on them all unprovoked, but the Turtles had driven them back into the forest. At this, with his face hacked in pieces and his arms half cut from his body, he turned to Miska and smiled, and sang triumphantly of the death of the Wolf sachem Burns-His-Feet and the humiliation of his people.
Miska sat by this brave man and listened to his song. He could feel the man’s life gathering at his lips, ready to flow away, but the Turtle warrior’s great heart fought to hold on. The other prisoner died, and his body was hauled off; he would not be taken into the Wolves, he had failed the test, no Wolf would eat such meat. The women piled hot fire around the remaining captive and the smell of his own body roasting rose around him and the man struggled to keep his voice steady and strong and sang of his deeds in the battle just past and Miska knew he was giving way and yet he faced death strongly and he held his life within him, it begging to escape, yet he held tight to it, Miska could almost see it, a glow around him, the power streaming around him. He leaned closer, even into the heat of the fire, to share that power with the dying man, to carry him on in his struggle toward death. The women stuck their knives in to the hilt and the Turtle warrior gave up his life in a great bellow and was dead.
The Serpent Dreamer Page 8
