by Andre Norton
Such a warning was not needed. Both the boy and beaver parts of him knew that minks and danger went together. But the otter was not yet finished.
As with Yellow Shell, the otter’s forepaws had been lashed tightly to his sides, but he could still flex his claws and those nearest the beaver now moved—in a pattern Yellow Shell also knew. Finger talk was always used by tribes that were friendly but whose speech was too different for either to mouth.
“Mink and—other—”
Other? What did the otter mean by that?
Yellow Shell’s paws had been so tightly tied they were numb; he could hardly flex them now. But he was able to give a small sideways jerk expressing the wish to know more.
“Crows come—with orders—” The otter strained, but the effort was so great that he lay panting and visibly weakened when he was done.
Crows? Cory thought back to the river where he had watched the crow and so had been easily captured by the minks. The Changer? A crow, or crows, carrying orders to the minks? The Yellow Shell part of him was almost as frightened as Cory had been when he first found himself in this strange world.
And, Yellow Shell’s fears warned, if this was some matter of the Changer, it was worse than just minks at war. There was even more need to get out of here. Cory looked at the otter again. That animal lay with his eyes closed, as if the energy he had used to sign-talk had completely exhausted him.
Cory tried to squirm towards the otter, but the way his neck and tail were tied prevented him, and his faint hope of having the otter chew through his bonds was gone. If the otter could roll to him—? But he could see that a second loop about the otter’s hind feet, lashed to a stake driven into the ground, kept him tight.
The beaver’s struggles had brought his shoulder against a lump on the ground, painful under him. He twisted his head as far as he could and saw that the lump was his own shell box. He wondered why his captors had not taken it from him. Then he remembered what it held—the small coal. He had fire, if the coal were still alive. And there was the dried grass of the beds. Could he make use of that? No, said the beaver part of him. But Cory’s mind said yes to a desperate plan. Only how could he open the box with his forepaws tied?
Cory began to wriggle, trying to lift his shoulder under which the box lay. For long minutes he was unsuccessful; the box moved when he did, remaining stubbornly under his body in spite of all his efforts. Then it gave a little as he tried harder to raise his weight from it. He did not know how long he would have before the minks might burst in. And every time that fearful thought made him move faster, the box seemed to slide back farther under him.
At last it was free of his shoulder. Now began the strain to turn his head far enough, to roll so that he could reach the box with his chisel teeth. Again that seemed impossible, and so hard was the task that he could hardly believe he had succeeded when he did get the shell between his teeth and held it there firmly. Now to reach the bedding at his left. To move caused agony in his tail, or else choked his throat. He could only do it by inches. But at last, with the shell box between his teeth, his nose nudged against the heap of dried grass.
What he was going to do now was very dangerous. To loose fire where he and the otter lay so helpless—But Cory’s desperation was greater now than Yellow Shell’s shrinking, and he would not allow himself to think of anything beyond trying to do this.
Those strong teeth, meant for the felling of trees, crunched together on the shell, and he smelled the smouldering coal inside. Then, with all the force he could muster, Cory spat the broken box and the coal in it on to the grass, saw it catch with a small spurt of flame. He gave an upward heave of his hind feet and tail so that the flame could eat at the cord holding so cruelly tight. He could smell singed fur now, feel the burn, had to fight Yellow Shell’s fear to hold steady. For while animals knew fire and used it gingerly, they still had greater fear than man of what was to him the most ancient of tools.
Just when he was sure he could no longer stand it, the pressure on his throat was gone and he was able to bend his head forward far enough that his teeth severed in one snap the ties about his forelegs, gave another to cut those holding his hind legs.
He felt the pain of returning circulation, stumbled when he wanted to move fast and easily. But he staggered to the otter, bit through the cord that fastened him to the stake. Then, dragging the smaller animal with him, Yellow Shell reached the rear of the bark tepee. He thrust the bedding away from the wall with great sweeps of his paws, throwing it towards the entrance to make a wall of fire between them and any mink trying to enter.
Luckily the grass did not burn as fast as Yellow Shell had feared it might, but rather smouldered, puffing out smoke that made him cough, hurt his eyes. But teeth and claws were now at work on the rear wall. And before his determined assault the wall split.
What would he find awaiting them outside? Armed minks? But this time he would be ready for them, with punishing tail, claws, teeth. And he, Yellow Shell, was the better of any mink or two or three. Even if they jumped him as a pack, he could give a good account of himself before they pulled him down.
It was the smoke whirling out with them that masked their going. And the nature of the minks was an aid. For they were of the same nature as beaver and otter; they had to be close to water. And, though the village was on the bank of the river, it was still too far from water to suit the furred raiders. As Yellow Shell made for the stream, with the otter he dragged along, he fell into a water-filled cut running between the tepees. How that had been made was a wonder to him as he plunged beneath its surface and struck out in the direction of the river. The minks did not try to control the flow of water as did his own people. They built no dams, or any ditches down which to float the wood, bark, and leaves that meant houses and food. But this cut was the saving of Yellow Shell and the otter now.
The passage was narrow for a beaver, having been made for the lighter bulk of minks. For, while the warriors who had captured him were much larger than any mink of Cory’s world, they were still less in size than Yellow Shell. In spite of the tight fit at some parts of the way, the beaver won through and brought the otter with him.
He surfaced to breathe at last, turned the otter around to brace the smaller animal’s wounded body against the wall of the ditch while he cut through his bonds. The otter’s eyes were open and he was now aware of what went on about him. As soon as the cords fell away, he brought up his forepaws in an urgent signing:
“To the river!”
Yellow Shell needed no urging. He went under water, keeping one forepaw on the otter until that animal gave an impatient wriggle and freed himself from the beaver’s hold, passed him, and slid from the ditch into deeper waters.
Able as the beaver and otter were in the river, yet the minks, too, could follow them there with deadly ease. They would be more wary of attacking either animal in the water, however, where both were more at home than the minks. Yellow Shell noted that while the otter moved quickly at first, he soon lagged, and it was plain that his wounds, which began to bleed again, were slowing him down. One was on the back of his head, proving, Yellow Shell thought, that he must have been struck with a club. The other hurt was on his forepaw, which the otter kept tucked against his chest as if to shield it from even the slight pressure of the water.
A discolouration from blood tinged the water, leaving a trail to be followed by the enemy. Yellow Shell dared not take the time to scout behind to see whether the minks had yet discovered their escape. He could only hope to be on their way in what small time they had left before the hunt started behind. With any luck the burning tepee could hide their escape for a time.
Cory did not try to struggle now against Yellow Shell for command of the beaver body. He only wished that this too real dream would end and he could wake up once more into the world he had always known.
Upstream or down? The beaver hesitated. It was the otter who waved with his undamaged paw that they should go up, against the curr
ent. Yet, would that not be the very way the minks would expect them to go—back towards where they had been captured?
The otter signed again, impatiently. “Upstream—hurry—” He tried to follow his own directions, but swam clumsily, and an eddy pushed him towards the bank. Yellow Shell easily caught up with him, shouldered him on, across the river, towards the opposite bank. Along that they made a slow and painful way, keeping under water where they could, pausing for rests where roots or brush overhung the water to give them a screening shadow.
For it was day now and a bright one, with sunlight glittering on the surface of the river, insects buzzing above, water life to be seen. Yellow Shell ate willow bark within his reach without leaving the stream. The otter clawed aside water-washed rocks with his good paw, aided by the beaver when he understood what his companion wished, and snapped up the crawfish hiding under such roofing.
He was, the otter signed, named Broken Claw; he looked ruefully at his torn paw as he gestured that. And he was of the Marsh Spring tribe, though this was the season when his people split into family groups and went off for the summer hunting. Since he had no squaw or cubs in his lodge as yet, he had been on a solitary exploring trip when he had been trapped by the minks. And at that, Broken Claw showed shame at his failure to be alert. He had come upon a slide, he told Yellow Shell frankly, and had tried it out. Absorbed in the fun of the swift descent, he had gone up and down more times than he could remember now, the result being that he lost all caution and had at last slid directly into a net trap of the minks.
It was not the minks he feared most, however, but the fact that he must have been spied upon by crows who reported him to the mink raiders.
“The Changer—”
“What does the Changer?” Yellow Shell asked in the beaver language.
“Who knows?” The otter seemed to understand enough of those guttural sounds to sign an answer. Perhaps he understood beaver even if he did not speak it. “But it is bad when the Changer comes. The world may turn over—as it is said that in time it will.”
The world may turn over—that touched another and frightening, memory for Yellow Shell. There would come a day—all the medicine makers said it, sang it, beat it out on drums when the People came to dance big medicine—that the world would turn over, when nothing would be as it now was. And all that was safe and sure would be swept away, and all that was straight would become crooked, all that was light would be dark. And the People would no longer be People, but as slaves.
“As slaves—” Yellow Shell’s paws moved in that sign and Broken Claw nodded.
“Already that begins to be. You saw the waterway of the mink village. That was dug by slaves, beavers they took as cubs and made work for them.”
“And what becomes of them?” Yellow Shell’s teeth snapped, his strong tail moved through the water, sweeping a stand of reeds into a broken mass. “What happens to them after they so work?”
“They go, none know where,” Broken Claw answered. “But the crows of the Changer carry many messages to that village.”
“If the Changer meddles—” Yellow Shell shivered. Again Broken Claw nodded.
“True.” His good forepaw moved in a gesture of agreement. “It is best that our peoples know of this. Mine are scattered, which is evil. We must gather together again, although this is against our custom in the days that are warm. What of yours, Elder Brother?”
“They move village. I am a scout for them.”
“It would be better for them not to find new water in this land,” replied the otter. “The sooner you say that to your chief, the better it shall be for your people.”
“And you?”
“To the lodge of our chief Long Tooth, who stays in a place appointed where our people may gather in time of danger. He will then send messages, signal fires, to draw our people there.”
“Yet the minks will be behind us now—”
Broken Claw nodded. “The minks, yes. If they listen indeed to the words of the crows and those who fly scout for them in the sky, then we must both travel with the ever-seeing eyes of the war trail. In the water we need not tie fringes to our feet to wipe out the trail we leave, but they are also of the water and they will know.” He looked about where they had eaten, and Yellow Shell saw the foolish way they had behaved in their hunger.
It would be a very stupid mink who would not see the stripped willow, the overturned rocks, and not know that a beaver and an otter had halted here to rest and eat.
The otter signed. “Yes, we have been as cubs untaught, my Brother. Let us hope that this does not lead to evil for us.”
At first Yellow Shell thought that some of the traces could be hidden. A moment’s study told him that was impossible. All they could do now was to put as much space between them and this breakage as they could.
But while his powerful beaver body had almost recovered from the rough handling given him by the minks, though his head still ached and his exploring paw touched a tender swelling on his skull where the war club had fallen, the otter was less able. And though Broken Claw tried valiantly to swim forward on his own, at last he fell behind. When Yellow Shell realized that and turned back, he found the otter drifting with the current, almost torn away from a feeble claw hold on a river rock.
“Hold this.” Yellow Shell took the other’s good paw and worked it into a loop of necklace about his own shoulders. The otter seemed almost unconscious again. He watched what the beaver did, but did not say anything as the other made preparations to tow him.
Putting out a forepaw to hold the otter’s head so they could look at each other, Yellow Shell signed slowly.
“Where—is—your—chief’s lodge?”
The otter blinked. Then his injured paw moved in a short answer.
“Stream—into—river—big stone—painted rock—follow stream.”
“How far?” Yellow Shell next asked.
But Broken Claw’s eyes were closed, his head lay limply back against the paw that the beaver used to brace it higher.
So, with the weight of the otter now dragging against him, Yellow Shell paddled along the bank, still keeping to the protection he could find there against sighting from the sky. He found that swimming with Broken Claw as a helpless burden tired him quickly, and he had to rest more and more often, pulling the otter out of the stream under some overhang so he could breathe. Twice he cowered in such a hiding place as the shadow of wings fell on the water. Once he could not be sure whether that was a crow or some hunting hawk. But the second time he caught sight of black feathers and was sure.
For a long time after that the beaver crouched over the otter in a cup beneath the overhang of bank, not sure as to what to do. If they had been seen by that dark flyer, then the minks would speedily know where they were. But if they had not, and took to the water now, then the crow might be perched in some tree, watching for them to do just that.
But the minks did not arrive and he guessed he was only wasting precious time in hiding. Yellow Shell ventured out again, still towing Broken Claw. At their next rest, however, the otter roused and seemed better able to understand what they were doing. He agreed that he was weak enough to need Yellow Shell’s support. But he urged that the beaver help him now up on to the bank between two rocks.
From that point he made a long and searching study of the river. Yellow Shell did the same, but could see nothing except insects, birds—including two of the long-legged stalkers of fish and frogs. And no black-winged ones. Then below them, a little ahead, the grass parted and a deer trotted out to dip muzzle and drink.
Broken Claw crowded against him, using contact of shoulder against shoulder to catch Yellow Shell’s full attention. With his good forepaw the otter pointed upstream and to the opposite bank.
The beaver recognized what must be the landmark Broken Claw had told him about. But to reach it they must cross the open river, in full sight of the sky. And on the other side he could sight no bushes or overhang of bank to cover them.
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br /> A cawing flattened both animals between the rocks where they sheltered. Crows—two of them—wheeled above the river. One of the long-legged waders called in return, challengingly, in warning against such an invasion of his territory. Of him the crows seemed to take little heed.
Then the wader took to the air and Yellow Shell did not mistake the purpose with which the larger bird set out to clear away the black-feathered invaders. They fled south, the wader winging after them. But in the time when they had been above the river, had they sighted the two among the rocks? There was no answer to that, no answer but again to make such speed as they could, to get away from that point before the crows could report them, or manage to elude the wader and return.
Bearers of the Pipe
Taking advantage of the retreat of the crows, they crossed the river at once and rounded the base of rock that divided the other stream. Yellow Shell halted in surprise as he glanced up at that pillar of stone. For set as a deep hollow in it, well above the level he could reach, even standing as erect as he could, was the mark of a paw. It was not, he saw upon closer inspection, the track of a beaver, or of an otter, or a mink. Yet it was clearly an animal sign, left imprinted in the rock as if that had been soft mud.
Around it were traces of old paint, and some of that rubbed into the hollow of the track itself, indicating that it was indeed mighty medicine and such a mark as would be a boundary to a territory.
“The paw—” He swam on to catch up with Broken Claw, who was heartened to the point of travelling by himself again.
“Mark of a Great One, a River Spirit,” Broken Claw answered. “It is big medicine. If it were otter, or beaver, then the mink could not pass it. But it is for all water dwellers and so cannot aid us now.”
The stream, once they were beyond where it split about the pillar to enter the river, was what Yellow Shell would have selected himself if he could have picked their means of escaping observation.
For it was a narrow slit, much overgrown with bank-rooted bushes and willows. Also it was plain that this was otter country. They passed otter marks on other stones, not pressed into rock, of course, as the river spirit had set its print, but left in pictures of coloured clay above the high-water mark. These were not of his tribe and Yellow Shell could not read them. But twice Broken Claw paused by some that looked fresher than the rest and at the second such he signed:
