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

carried by
the faint breeze would confuse the deer’s keen eyes at the same time they
carried Flat Willow’s scent away.
                 Two
years had passed since the summer day when he’d emerged from the Huskanaw
ceremony where the boy he had once been had been ritually “killed.” He had been
tested to determine his strength and endurance, and to determine how much pain
he could endure without crying out. His skin had been tattooed, and finally the
priest had struck him dead with a Power wand, driving the boy’s soul from his
body. After that he lay in a painful daze as his body was painted black like a
corpse, and funeral songs were sung over him and his fellows. He’d fasted for
days, and drunk sacred datura and yaupon tea. Then the priest had whipped him
painfully to his feet, splashed him with water, and blown tobacco smoke over
his body to purify him. The black paint of death had been washed off before he
was repainted red with puccoon root and slathered with bear grease.
                 A
man had been born where a child had once stood.
                 From
that time forward, Flat Willow had dedicated himself to the hunt. He had sworn
before Okeus’ altar that he would be the finest hunter in the Greenstone Clan.
Day after day he stalked through the woods, practicing his craft. He learned
the ways of the deer, the bear, and the bobcat. His soul became one with the
forest. To the core of his being, he’d believed that his growing fame would
bring him notice, and allow him to approach Shell Comb after Red Knot was made
a woman.
                 With
the silence of smoke, he crossed an open patch and slipped into the trees, no
more than a shadow in the gloom, as he followed the small heart-shaped tracks
of a deer.
                 His
eyes missed no clue. His ears caught the faintest sounds. When he found the
pile of droppings, he touched them to feel the heat. He was close now, almost
upon them.
                 He
sniffed the damp air to judge the breeze. Before him, the trail split. On a
hunch, he ghosted to the right, sensing that the deer would head for the oak
grove and a few last acorns before bedding down for the day in the dense
hawthorn and grapevine cover.
                 He
followed the slope of the ridge, testing each step through his moccasins.
Between the bare branches, he could see the fog-patched inlet shining silver
down below him, then … the barest flick of a tail caught his attention. No more
than a bow shot ahead, a doe stood at the edge of the oak grove, her head up,
ears alert.
                 Flat Willow froze, the first thrill of the hunt
tingling each nerve. Only when the doe dropped her head to pluck up an acorn
did Flat Willow take one more slow step.
                 A
second doe stepped into his sight, a fawn by her side. Flat Willow waited until her head lowered; then he slipped
behind the hole of a towering red maple.
                 The
world faded as Flat Willow’s attention focused on the deer. Step by careful
step, he closed the distance. He crossed the trail that led down to Oyster
Shell Landing and eased into the lee of an ancient beech. Patiently, he edged
his head around, seeing a young two-point buck no more than fifteen paces ahead.
The buck pawed at the leaves, seeking to uncover buried beechnuts.
                 Flat Willow slid his left foot around the tree, and
prepared for the shot. His heart strengthened as he shifted his weight and
settled his right foot. Raising the bow, he pulled the arrow back to his ear,
sighting down the slim shaft. One last breath filled his lungs; he centered the
stone point on the deer’s back to compensate for the arrow’s drop.
                 This
was the moment he lived for. You are mine!
                 The
buck’s head jerked up, startled, ears pricked. The animal stared up toward the
ridgetop, body tense.