Read Online People of the Longhouse by W. Michael Gear - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: W. Michael Gear
Ads: Link
fill the forest. She pets the feather while she whispers to herself, or perhaps to the feather.
Kotin releases Hodigo and calls, “All right, get up, Hodigo.” He pauses. “I said, get up, you worthless …”
The man doesn’t move. Wrass and I stand up to see better. Our guards do not seem to care. They are all breathlessly watching Hodigo.
“What’s happening?” I ask Wrass, who is taller than me.
He shakes his head. “I don’t know. He’s just lying there.”
Hodigo’s friends bravely move in closer. One man crouches and places a hand to Hodigo’s throat. “Blessed Spirits,” he says softly. “He has no heartbeat. Is he breathing?” He quickly places his ear over the bloody designs on Hodigo’s chest and listens. “I don’t … I don’t believe it! He’s dead .”
Gannajero chuckles, and my legs go weak.
Tutelo looks from Wrass, to the guards, and back to me, and sobs, “Odion? What happened to that man?”
I cannot look at her.
The other girl in our group silently rolls to her back. I do not even know her name. She is the quiet one. The child no one seems to notice. Short and skinny, with irregularly cut mourning-hair, she has a face like a chipmunk’s: round, with small dark eyes, and two front teeth that stick out slightly. She hasn’t spoken a word to anyone … until now. “Don’t be s-scared. It wasn’t the feather,” she stutters. “Sh-she probably used helleb-bore. If you gather the roots this time of year, it—it’s deadly.”
We all turn to look at her. The attention seems to unnerve Chipmunk. She curls onto her side again and turns her back to us. She’s shaking all over.
As I am. My legs feel like boiled grass stems. I sink to the ground and put my arm around my little sister. She hugs me tightly.
“It’s all right, Odion,” Tutelo whispers. “Mother and Father are coming. They’re coming.”
Seven
T he northern sentry cried, “Two people on the northeastern trail!” Sindak climbed to a higher branch in the maple tree where he stood guard over the western trails. Glorious swaths of orange, red, and yellow leaves dappled the mountains. He scanned the winding stretches of trail he could see—even in the soft lavender gleam of dusk they seemed to glow. But he saw no travelers. Not that it mattered. He would know who they were soon enough.
He sighed and leaned against the massive tree trunk. A tall, muscular young man, he had seen nineteen summers. His beaked nose protruded far beyond his deeply sunken brown eyes. Shoulder-length black hair blew around his lean face. Few women found him attractive, which was one of the reasons his wife, Puksu, had recently divorced him. There were other reasons of course, not the least being that she despised him. He had committed two crimes in her eyes: He hadn’t yet gained acclaim as a warrior, and they’d been married for two summers without a child. Gratefully, he no longer had to listen to her endless complaining.
His gaze drifted back to the broad plaza of Atotarho Village. Arranged in a rough oval around the plaza were four longhouses, four smaller clan houses, and a prisoners’ house. The magnificent longhouses—the biggest ever built in the history of their people—were constructed of pole frames and covered with elm bark. The Wolf Clan longhouse was amazing; it stretched over eight hundred hand-lengths long and forty wide. The others were shorter, two or three hundred hands long, but still stunning, especially when viewed from Sindak’s height. The arched roofs were almost level with his position, soaring over fifty hands high. Each clan was headed by a matron, and each longhouse was inhabited by the male and female descendants of one woman—around whom many legends revolved—and her maternal female descendants. When a man married, he moved to his wife’s longhouse.
Since the People of the Hills traced descent through the females, a child belonged to his mother’s clan and owed obedience to its clan
Kotin releases Hodigo and calls, “All right, get up, Hodigo.” He pauses. “I said, get up, you worthless …”
The man doesn’t move. Wrass and I stand up to see better. Our guards do not seem to care. They are all breathlessly watching Hodigo.
“What’s happening?” I ask Wrass, who is taller than me.
He shakes his head. “I don’t know. He’s just lying there.”
Hodigo’s friends bravely move in closer. One man crouches and places a hand to Hodigo’s throat. “Blessed Spirits,” he says softly. “He has no heartbeat. Is he breathing?” He quickly places his ear over the bloody designs on Hodigo’s chest and listens. “I don’t … I don’t believe it! He’s dead .”
Gannajero chuckles, and my legs go weak.
Tutelo looks from Wrass, to the guards, and back to me, and sobs, “Odion? What happened to that man?”
I cannot look at her.
The other girl in our group silently rolls to her back. I do not even know her name. She is the quiet one. The child no one seems to notice. Short and skinny, with irregularly cut mourning-hair, she has a face like a chipmunk’s: round, with small dark eyes, and two front teeth that stick out slightly. She hasn’t spoken a word to anyone … until now. “Don’t be s-scared. It wasn’t the feather,” she stutters. “Sh-she probably used helleb-bore. If you gather the roots this time of year, it—it’s deadly.”
We all turn to look at her. The attention seems to unnerve Chipmunk. She curls onto her side again and turns her back to us. She’s shaking all over.
As I am. My legs feel like boiled grass stems. I sink to the ground and put my arm around my little sister. She hugs me tightly.
“It’s all right, Odion,” Tutelo whispers. “Mother and Father are coming. They’re coming.”
Seven
T he northern sentry cried, “Two people on the northeastern trail!” Sindak climbed to a higher branch in the maple tree where he stood guard over the western trails. Glorious swaths of orange, red, and yellow leaves dappled the mountains. He scanned the winding stretches of trail he could see—even in the soft lavender gleam of dusk they seemed to glow. But he saw no travelers. Not that it mattered. He would know who they were soon enough.
He sighed and leaned against the massive tree trunk. A tall, muscular young man, he had seen nineteen summers. His beaked nose protruded far beyond his deeply sunken brown eyes. Shoulder-length black hair blew around his lean face. Few women found him attractive, which was one of the reasons his wife, Puksu, had recently divorced him. There were other reasons of course, not the least being that she despised him. He had committed two crimes in her eyes: He hadn’t yet gained acclaim as a warrior, and they’d been married for two summers without a child. Gratefully, he no longer had to listen to her endless complaining.
His gaze drifted back to the broad plaza of Atotarho Village. Arranged in a rough oval around the plaza were four longhouses, four smaller clan houses, and a prisoners’ house. The magnificent longhouses—the biggest ever built in the history of their people—were constructed of pole frames and covered with elm bark. The Wolf Clan longhouse was amazing; it stretched over eight hundred hand-lengths long and forty wide. The others were shorter, two or three hundred hands long, but still stunning, especially when viewed from Sindak’s height. The arched roofs were almost level with his position, soaring over fifty hands high. Each clan was headed by a matron, and each longhouse was inhabited by the male and female descendants of one woman—around whom many legends revolved—and her maternal female descendants. When a man married, he moved to his wife’s longhouse.
Since the People of the Hills traced descent through the females, a child belonged to his mother’s clan and owed obedience to its clan
Similar Books
