spear at the jay, which simply bobbed to a higher branch and watched it sail below him.
“Ja-a-ay!” it screeched, a shrill cry from high to low. “Jaa-ay!”
“He’s lecturing you now,” said the round son, Wilu. The other son, Zanda, was hard-bodied.
Inaj whirled on Wilu and stalked toward him, brandishing his war club.
Wilu backed up. Laughter choked in the men’s throats and died.
The muscular son, Zanda, said in a sharp tone, “Chief!”
“Too-li-li!” shrieked the jay. “Too-li-li! Too-li-li!”
Inaj turned and took a long look at the bird. “To hell with being mocked.” He glared at his sons. “Let’s move.”
Sunoya stopped in the cover of the last trees before the ridge and looked down. “Spirits, help us,” she murmured. She could see Inaj and his comrades on the trail below. And when she stepped into the open, followed by Dak and Mother, Inaj might easily see her. She looked at the sky and cried out, “Immortals, help us.”
An idea came to her. A woman followed by two dogs—we won’t look like Noney. And a sadder idea: When he finds Noney, he’ll stop thinking about us for a while. She shook her head to clear it and stepped cautiously into the open, peering downward.
Suddenly Inaj flicked a hand at his head. He waved at it over and over. After a moment he stomped off the trail and threw his spear at . . . some pine needles?
Sunoya laughed. She understood. She broke into a run for the top.
Inaj brushed the pebbles off his daughter’s face. He looked at her—dead, dead, dead.
He threw up on the mound. Incapable of words, he let out a croak as from a dying raven. He lay down, one arm in his own vomit. His body heaved up and down with emotions. Grief, rage, grief, fury, grief . . . He yelled. He beat his fists on the stones that buried his daughter’s body. He kicked his feet. He roared like a man impaled on a spear.
Then he lay on the grave, silent, utterly still.
Wilu edged forward and touched Noney’s fingers. Zanda looked contempt at his brother.
After too long Inaj got onto his hands and knees and said, “Sunoya did this.” His voice scratched like a mountain of sliding gravel. He started taking the stones off Noney’s body, one by one. He brushed the sand out of the creases in her eyelids and the corners of her mouth. He uncovered her shoulders and her breasts, which were hidden by her skin dress. He came to the belly—and jumped at the sight of the gaping wound.
He stared. His sons crept close and stared.
Inaj’s rage froze, molten lava turned to ice. “Murdered,” he whispered. “Murdered by that bitch!” he said. Again in a low, howling whisper, “Murdered.”
Wilu and Zanda backed away, queasy.
“Because she can’t have a child, she stole ours.” He glared at Wilu.
The voice quaked, but the men couldn’t tell whether it was shaken by rage or despair.
“Help me,” Inaj growled.
Warily, the warriors uncovered Noney and lifted her.
Inaj slung her over one shoulder and stalked down the mountain, bearing his cold, stiff daughter home.
That afternoon the family buried Noney in a proper way. Then Kanu gave them tea brewed from a willow root. To purify themselves from their contact with the dead, they drank it and then washed their bodies with it.
Afterward Inaj assembled his men and a dog packed with dried meat.
“My husband,” Iwa said.
One by one Inaj threw words at his wife. “Our daughter has been murdered.” He waited a moment and threw words again. “Our grandchild has been stolen.”
Iwa murmured, “I . . .”
Inaj knew he was violating custom. A quarter moon of mourning was required after a death, the family cloistered in the house. What he didn’t know was that his wife wondered whether he would bring back the grandchild or bash in its head.
His voice was low and taut. “Vengeance rampages in my heart.”
11
S unoya sang softly to the child, an old song, a song that spoke of the joys and
“Ja-a-ay!” it screeched, a shrill cry from high to low. “Jaa-ay!”
“He’s lecturing you now,” said the round son, Wilu. The other son, Zanda, was hard-bodied.
Inaj whirled on Wilu and stalked toward him, brandishing his war club.
Wilu backed up. Laughter choked in the men’s throats and died.
The muscular son, Zanda, said in a sharp tone, “Chief!”
“Too-li-li!” shrieked the jay. “Too-li-li! Too-li-li!”
Inaj turned and took a long look at the bird. “To hell with being mocked.” He glared at his sons. “Let’s move.”
Sunoya stopped in the cover of the last trees before the ridge and looked down. “Spirits, help us,” she murmured. She could see Inaj and his comrades on the trail below. And when she stepped into the open, followed by Dak and Mother, Inaj might easily see her. She looked at the sky and cried out, “Immortals, help us.”
An idea came to her. A woman followed by two dogs—we won’t look like Noney. And a sadder idea: When he finds Noney, he’ll stop thinking about us for a while. She shook her head to clear it and stepped cautiously into the open, peering downward.
Suddenly Inaj flicked a hand at his head. He waved at it over and over. After a moment he stomped off the trail and threw his spear at . . . some pine needles?
Sunoya laughed. She understood. She broke into a run for the top.
Inaj brushed the pebbles off his daughter’s face. He looked at her—dead, dead, dead.
He threw up on the mound. Incapable of words, he let out a croak as from a dying raven. He lay down, one arm in his own vomit. His body heaved up and down with emotions. Grief, rage, grief, fury, grief . . . He yelled. He beat his fists on the stones that buried his daughter’s body. He kicked his feet. He roared like a man impaled on a spear.
Then he lay on the grave, silent, utterly still.
Wilu edged forward and touched Noney’s fingers. Zanda looked contempt at his brother.
After too long Inaj got onto his hands and knees and said, “Sunoya did this.” His voice scratched like a mountain of sliding gravel. He started taking the stones off Noney’s body, one by one. He brushed the sand out of the creases in her eyelids and the corners of her mouth. He uncovered her shoulders and her breasts, which were hidden by her skin dress. He came to the belly—and jumped at the sight of the gaping wound.
He stared. His sons crept close and stared.
Inaj’s rage froze, molten lava turned to ice. “Murdered,” he whispered. “Murdered by that bitch!” he said. Again in a low, howling whisper, “Murdered.”
Wilu and Zanda backed away, queasy.
“Because she can’t have a child, she stole ours.” He glared at Wilu.
The voice quaked, but the men couldn’t tell whether it was shaken by rage or despair.
“Help me,” Inaj growled.
Warily, the warriors uncovered Noney and lifted her.
Inaj slung her over one shoulder and stalked down the mountain, bearing his cold, stiff daughter home.
That afternoon the family buried Noney in a proper way. Then Kanu gave them tea brewed from a willow root. To purify themselves from their contact with the dead, they drank it and then washed their bodies with it.
Afterward Inaj assembled his men and a dog packed with dried meat.
“My husband,” Iwa said.
One by one Inaj threw words at his wife. “Our daughter has been murdered.” He waited a moment and threw words again. “Our grandchild has been stolen.”
Iwa murmured, “I . . .”
Inaj knew he was violating custom. A quarter moon of mourning was required after a death, the family cloistered in the house. What he didn’t know was that his wife wondered whether he would bring back the grandchild or bash in its head.
His voice was low and taut. “Vengeance rampages in my heart.”
11
S unoya sang softly to the child, an old song, a song that spoke of the joys and
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