by Resa Nelson
Killing Crow shook his head. “I was the last one to come inside last night, and I hung my breeches before I did so.” He crossed his arms. “Someone took them.”
His mother placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “If someone brought them inside on your behalf, we will find them soon enough.”
“If someone brought them into the long house, I would have smelled them already. An enemy stole them.”
“We do not know that. They could have been taken by mistake. Or by an animal.”
What animal could have taken his breeches? The culprit must have been a man. Killing Crow sensed anger rising within his skin. How dare someone outside their tribe take his clothes! No one within the Shining Star Nation would have done so. What if a tribe from another nation now invaded their home?
“This may be a good thing,” he said. “I must find my breeches and whoever took them. If enemies have come, I will uncover them and become ready to protect our home.”
“Son,” his mother said sternly. “There is no true evidence that we are in danger. Do not look for trouble in a place where it does not already live.”
As always, his mother showed her wisdom, and Killing Crow welcomed its calming effect. “I understand,” he said. “But wouldn’t it be wise to keep an open eye?”
“Perhaps.” His mother smiled. “How open do you wish to keep it?”
“Open enough for one day. I would check all edges of our grounds.” He pointed at the dirt beneath the branch where the finch still perched. “Whatever took my breeches brushed away its tracks.”
His mother shook her head in disagreement. “The storm washed away any tracks that might have been there.”
Killing Crow ignored her words and continued with his own. “I will keep my eyes open for tracks that might still be intact elsewhere. Those tracks might speak plenty of their owner.”
His mother sighed with resignation. “Do what you must. As long as you remember the Seven.”
Killing Crow nodded his understanding. Any decision, large or small, should not be made without considering the impact that decision might have on the next seven generations of all people. How might the decision to go hunting for the tracks of whoever stole his breeches impact the young children of his tribe and all the Shining Star Nation and all nations of the Great Turtle Lands?
How might Killing Crow’s decision affect the children that today’s children would bear many years from now? How would his decision stretch into the far future?
“Of course,” he said. “I will begin today’s journey now, but I will think hard and long about the Seven.”
His mother kissed his cheek and smiled. Following tradition, she named him after the first thing she saw upon his arrival in this world: a crow impaling its beak into the chest of an unsuspecting sparrow.
He’d heard the story many times. A crow and a sparrow stood near each other, each pecking at seeds on the ground. Without warning, the crow attacked the sparrow, leaving it stunned after the initial blow and then impaling it a second time to complete the murder.
Some members of the tribe expressed concern at the portents for Killing Crow’s life. Different members argued his destiny lay in becoming a fierce warrior who could protect and defend not only their tribe but the entire Shining Star Nation. Others worried he might commit murder suddenly and unpredictably.
But everyone agreed his mother served as his guide to learning all things right and true and honorable. Killing Crow sometimes recognized the desire to cause death wash through him like an insatiable hunger, but he decided every day to listen to his mother and follow the words she spoke to him.
All of his life, Killing Crow noticed the great respect everyone in the Shining Star Nation paid to his mother. Many claimed her to be the most kind and forthright woman ever to grace the nation.
More than anything, Killing Crow wanted to earn the same kind of respect, and he knew the truest journey to that goal was learning to allow his mother’s nature to rise up within his own blood.
It seemed logical to surround himself with constant reminders of who he wished to become. Therefore, his greatest wish was to someday meet the woman who would become his wife and provide him with that same guidance to help him navigate the rest of his life on the best course.
He’d met no woman within his own nation who could see him so clearly and compassionately as his mother, but he believed such a woman existed and that he would meet her once he lived long enough and well enough to earn that privilege.
“Keep the Seven inside your heart,” his mother reminded him yet again, patting his shoulder.
He kissed the top of her head. “Always,” Killing Crow said, walking away and into the woods.
Although he committed himself to thinking about the Seven before making any decision, Killing Crow kept a light hand on the stone knife tucked under his belt, shaped like a long, sharp beak, ready to impale anyone who might try to harm him.
* * *
After spending most of the day investigating the perimeter of his tribe’s territory, Killing Crow began to wonder if his mother might be correct about someone having brought his breeches into the long house. Someone might not have realized that Killing Crow left his breeches outside on purpose. Someone else might have brought them inside the house and somehow Killing Crow hadn’t noticed.
After all, he found no telling tracks of any kind of enemy on his people’s grounds. And yet, like his mother had pointed out, last night’s storm most likely erased any such tracks.
He walked along narrow trails made by deer and other animals. His current trail opened up onto a small, open field full of tall grass that towered above Killing Crow’s head and rustled in the breeze. He’d just finished eating a few handfuls of blackberries and could still taste the tang on his tongue. He used it to worry free the seeds stuck between his teeth.
A rustling louder than the tall grass startled him. Turning toward the sound on his left, Killing Crow saw a large bird with an orange tail on the ground, its feet entangled in dead vines.
“Brother Hawk,” Killing Crow said, sinking to one knee. “Do you wish my help?”
The hawk looked at him with sharp, bright eyes, flapping its long wings only to become more enmeshed in the vines.
Killing Crow studied the situation. Like the blackberry patch he visited before arriving at this field, new vines bearing fruit intertwined with old vines, toughened with age. He imagined a small bird or mouse eating the fruit, and Brother Hawk swooping in for the kill. Apparently, the hawk’s prey escaped, leaving the large bird caught up in the vines.
This posed a problem whose solution seemed obvious to Killing Crow.
“Have no fear,” he said to the hawk, which eyed him suspiciously while it flapped its wings harder, failing to elevate more than a few inches above the ground. “This will end soon.”
Killing Crow pulled his stone knife from his belt. He crawled closer to the hawk on his hands and knees.
With a few swift strikes, he struck the dead vine until it broke apart.
Startled, the hawk flapped its wings in desperation. Its feet slipped free from the vines, no longer entangled in them. The bird flew high, circled around the clearing, and then landed on top of a pine tree, which bent slightly under the bird’s weight.
Satisfied, Killing Crow stood and tucked his stone knife under his belt where it belonged. He raised one hand toward the hawk in recognition of its regained freedom.
The presence of any hawk predicted the arrival of new information. Hawks were known to be messengers of the Higher Spirits. But the message could be good or bad information. Either way, that message would likely arrive soon.
With a heavy sigh, Killing Crow walked the perimeter of the clearing, once again finding no indication of an enemy presence. Perhaps his missing breeches, whether truly missing or simply misplaced, had sent him on a journey of greater importance than he first imagined.
After all, the missing breeches instigated today’s exploration and hi
s encounter with Brother Hawk. If nothing else, he could return home with word of that encounter and the awareness that an important message would arrive in the near future. Perhaps a message of far greater significance than an enemy attack, although Killing Crow couldn’t fathom what such a message might be.
Killing Crow finished his sweep of the clearing. He looked up and saw the hawk still perched on the top of the pine tree. The hawk spread its wings and let itself fall from the tree, swooping directly at Killing Crow.
He stood tall, watching the bird fly directly toward him. Killing Crow had nothing to fear from his brother, the hawk.
Brother Hawk flew low, brushing Killing Crow’s shoulders with the tips of its wing when it flew past him. The bird’s flight arced high again, and it vanished beyond the treetops of the surrounding forest.
“The ocean,” Killing Crow said to himself, staring at the empty space left by Brother Hawk. “He flies toward the ocean.”
Hawks had no interest in the sea. They preferred spaces where they could spot small animals that would make a good meal. Hawks cared nothing for crabs or other shellfish that washed upon the beach. Large gulls fought over that bounty, and hawks had no reason to poach the territory of gulls. Like the Shining Star Nation and all other nations of the Great Turtle Lands, hawks had their own territory and respected the territory of others.
So why would Brother Hawk fly toward the ocean? Especially after brushing Killing Crow’s shoulder with the tips of his feathers?
The message. If I follow Brother Hawk’s path, he will lead me to the message.
Making sure he had the stone knife lodged securely under his belt, Killing Crow made note of his surroundings and then began his walk toward the ocean that provided the most important boundary for the territory of the Shining Star Nation. When he reached the shore, Killing Crow discovered the message had not come yet. Nothing looked unusual or out of place.
Another day.
Killing Crow remembered stories about towering pale people who invaded this land many years ago. Although he’d been young, he remembered watching his elders paint their faces, place feathers in their hair, and take their weapons to drive whatever invaders they didn’t kill back to the sea. He remembered the bold and brazen screeches of his elders and their mighty victory.
Drawing himself up with pride, Killing Crow felt grateful that today he could take his stone knife in hand and join his people in fighting to protect their homeland.
He vowed to come to the shore every day so he could alert his people should there be a new invasion. Killing Crow promised himself that he would earn the honor to be the first to draw enemy blood.
CHAPTER 35
The light in Astrid’s hand led her to the port city of Gott, the village where she’d first met Vinchi and Margreet. The scent of salt water hung so heavy in the air that she could almost touch it. Seabirds shrieked, circling high above the walkway of wooden boards running parallel to the sea.
Unlike past years, one lonely ship bobbed in the harbor, once packed so tightly with vessels that their sides scraped against each other. The crates displaying cloth and cheeses and furs sold by traveling merchants had vanished, leaving the port feeling barren and deserted. The rows of wooden houses jammed next to each other on the opposite side of the walkway stood like silent guards.
The busy, excited energy of Gott had disappeared, and it now felt like a place where only ghosts would live.
Astrid explored the town, running from house to house in search of villagers. Finally, she spotted a woman tending a steaming cauldron hanging over a small fire pit at the end of the walkway. Astrid ran to her, calling out, “Where is everyone?”
The woman looked up, smiling. “Gone, mostly.” Seeming to be at perfect ease, she returned her attention to her pot and stirred the contents inside. “Haven’t you heard? We’re being invaded.”
Stopping at the woman’s side, Astrid became enveloped in the aroma rising from the pot, rich with fragrant herbs. Taking a peek at the soup, she saw chopped potatoes and purple carrots, a Northern delicacy. Curiosity took over. “You look familiar,” Astrid said. “Do we know each other?”
“I think not. I’m Frieda.” She gave Astrid a quick once over. “My brothers and I come from the Northeastern shore. We journey to Gott several times each year, but I don’t remember seeing you before.”
Astrid wondered if she might have noticed Frieda’s face in the crowd on the day she met Margreet and Vinchi. Or later, after she’d returned to Gott with the Iron Maidens.
No matter.
She needed to let the light show the best route of escape to anyone needing it. Knowing the light now led her south, Astrid believed she would soon find her friends. None of them seemed to be in Gott. “How many people are here?”
Frieda shrugged. “Anyone who kept a permanent residence here is long gone. Most headed toward the Far Eastern islands. All that’s left is me and my brothers.”
“You have to leave, too.” Astrid glanced at the stone embedded in her hand, but no light emerged from it.
Frieda laughed, picking up the top wooden bowl from a short stack at her feet. She filled it with thick, aromatic soup and handed the bowl to Astrid. “Oh, my dear,” she said. “We can’t do that.”
Astrid accepted the bowl, feeling its warmth seep through the wood. “You must. Otherwise, you’ll all die. If you leave now, you can save yourselves.”
“Drink your soup,” Frieda said. “It will clear your head.”
Under normal circumstances, Astrid might have argued that her head needed no clearing. But she’d eaten nothing substantial today. She shifted her attention to blowing on the soup to cool it down enough to eat and then took a tentative sip. The taste was satisfying and welcome. Astrid groaned in relief.
Frieda laughed. “See? Who would make soup for wayward travelers if I left?”
Astrid wolfed down the soup, slowing down only to chew when necessary. Draining the bowl, she started when Frieda clutched her arm.
Frieda’s eyes were still and wide. She stared down the town’s walkway. “Dragons,” she whispered in horror.
Astrid followed her gaze, relieved to see Smoke, Fire, and Slag sniffing around at the distant end of the walkway. “Oh,” she said, “don’t worry. They’re with me.”
To prove her point, Astrid raised one hand high above her head and snapped her fingers. “Smoke!” she called out. “Come here and bring your brothers with you.”
One dragon raised its head for a moment and gave Astrid a cursory gaze, then returned to investigating its new surroundings.
Astrid stomped her foot. “Now!” she called out.
Fire looked up and seemed to notice the ocean for the first time. The dragon trotted toward it. The others followed as if not wanting to be left out of a new adventure. They nosed the wet sand and the incoming tide, jumping in surprise at the cold ocean water rushing over their paws.
“You’re the dragonslayer,” Frieda said, angling to keep Astrid between her and the dragons, a short distance away. “But people say you travel with a pack of dragons that haven’t killed you yet.”
Astrid called out to them one last time. “I told you to stay away from the tide! Don’t come complaining to me if you drown in it!”
She sighed heavily. “When they were still in their eggs I saved them from being eaten by a lizard. I was there when they hatched. Obviously, they think I’m their mother.”
Frieda stared slowly from Astrid to the dragons and back to Astrid again. “Obviously,” she said, releasing Astrid’s arm.
Astrid drank the last of her soup and handed the bowl back to Frieda.
Keeping a watchful eye on the dragons exploring the incoming waves, Frieda said, “We’ve accepted our task here in Gott. I imagine anyone else you come across will feel likewise.”
“Task?” Astrid said, puzzled. “What task?”
“Oh,” Frieda said, seeming to remember something long forgotten. “You weren’t here when we put the warning
plan in place.”
Astrid frowned. “What warning plan?”
Frieda brightened. “It’s a lovely idea, truly. From Gott to the farthest tip of the Southern Coast, we have people along the shoreline. Each of us is prepared.” Frieda pointed behind her, away from the walkway’s end.
Astrid turned to see a large fire pit on the beach, containing long branches stacked high and surrounded by kindling wood. “You’re going to make a bonfire?”
“Only if I spot an enemy ship sailing toward our coast.” Frieda grinned. “Or if I see a fire like mine light up the sky.”
Astrid absorbed the information until it made sudden sense. “There are stacks of wood for bonfires ready to be lit all along the Northlands coast?”
Frieda nodded, still grinning.
Astrid worked through her thoughts out loud. “Attacks often happen at night or in the early morning hours, when the attackers think it will be easy to slip up on their enemy. But everyone along the coast is keeping watch, like you and your brothers.”
Frieda nodded again, her eyes bright and full of determination.
“And if you or your brothers see an enemy ship approach, the first thing you will do is light the fire.”
Astrid took another look at the large pile of wood, remembering all the fires she’d built over the years in her blacksmithing shop. “That wood is arranged to blaze high and fast and strong. It’s meant to be a beacon.”
Astrid pointed to the coast stretching to the south. “And whoever is next in line will see your fire. They will recognize the warning and know to light theirs so they can spread the warning.”
Frieda laughed. “And then all of the Southern coast will come ablaze. We have guard ships scattered out at sea, looking for the warning light. The direction of the fire will tell us where the attack comes from, and our own ships will sail toward it. Northlanders now camp between each warning point. If the Krystrs attack, we will attack them from land and then from sea. We will trap them in the Northlands and bring an end to them here.”
Astrid imagined what the Northlands would look like from the deck of an enemy ship: how fire would ripple along its entire coast, transforming night into day, announcing to Mandulane that the Northlanders would go to any lengths to protect their home from any invader.
