People of the Mist by W. Michael Gear Read Free Book Online

he
watched her from the gloom, white-shell eyes gleaming. Hunting Hawk slipped her
age-gnarled fingers into the pouch at her side and withdrew a handful of corn
flour and mashed walnuts. This she sprinkled onto the red eyes of the coals.
The meal blackened and burst to flame. As quickly as the fire flared, the
offering was consumed. Hunting Hawk could sense Okeus’ satisfaction.
                 “I
have unleashed the storm. Terrible things are coming, aren’t they?” she asked
the squatting god. “Whose fault was this, Okeus? Was the mistake mine?”
                 A
shiver played down her back as she stared into those shining eyes. For the
briefest instant, she thought she heard laughter, and then silence.
                 “Don’t
scorn me, wicked god. I’ve served you well enough over the years.”
                 She
raised her eyes to the scaffold, and the mat wrapped bundles that lay there.
“Greetings, old friends,” she whispered, and stared thoughtfully at the dried
corpses.
                 “Well,”
she told them bluntly, “I’ve done it. Time will tell if it was for the clan’s
best, or not.” She propped herself against one of the posts, the wood
honey-colored with age and soot. “I’ve done something terrible. But necessary.
I had no choice. I want you to know that. No choice at all.”
                 She
could sense the ghosts stirring, and cocked her head. Someone had once told her
that in the final moments of life, a person could finally hear the ghosts
talking. But nothing came to her ears.
                 “It’s
this feeling I’ve got. I’ll be up there with you soon. We’ll just have to wait
and see who the next Weroansqua will be. Someone who truly knows her duty to
clan and lineage. I hope she’s worthy of all of you.”
                 Flat Willow eased his muscular body between the tree
trunks, each foot placed with care. As a boy, he had studied the praying
mantis, each movement the mantis made as it stalked and captured its prey; now
he, too, hunted like the mantis, every movement spare and precise.
                 He
wore only a breech clout his skin greased against the cold. A bone skewer
pinned his long hair into a bun on the left side of his head. His legs were
clad in leggings, moccasins on his feet. An ash-wood bow filled his left hand,
and an arrow lay nocked against the bowstring in his right, ready to be drawn
and released.
                 Of
all the days he’d lived, this one would be the hardest. He needed to kill, to
make him forget, to still the dull ache in his breast. As long as Red Knot had
been a girl, he could stand to be close to her. But now she was a woman—and
promised to a man Flat Willow despised.
                 So,
as the others had danced, feasted, and celebrated
                 Red
Knot’s womanhood, and the arrival of Copper Thunder, Flat Willow had suffered.
Then Stone Cob had accosted him, assigning him the most onerous of duties.
Well, events had taken care of themselves. Even predators could make deals
among themselves; and one day Stone Cob would pay—as they all would. He had
learned patience and stealth from the mantis.
                 His
life had changed last night after Red Knot’s dance. And this morning he-had
taken matters into his own hands. What had prompted him? Betrayal? Revenge? Or
the unexpected opportunity? Perhaps the reason didn’t matter. What did was that
he had committed himself, and acted. Afterward, stunned by what he’d done, Flat
Willow had quietly drifted away, preferring the stillness of the forest and
time to think about future and past.
                 The
sullen gray morning made for perfect hunting. The leaf mat was damp and silent
underfoot. Any colder and it would have rustled with frost. Drier and it would
have crackled with the shifting of his weight. The stringers of mist