then used a turkey tail to fan him. Healers had been working nonstop, but half the village was down. Forty-two dead. Bahna Sang softly. The lilting words of the Healing Song rose into the air like golden wings, soothing every person who could hear them.
Koracoo bent over and washed her mother’s fiery face with the cool cloth. “Mother, try to sleep.”
Matron Jigonsaseh, leader of the Matron’s Council of Yellowtail Village, whispered, “Too much … to think about … fever … all the refugees. We’re … vulnerable.”
“Our warriors are prepared, Mother. Don’t worry. I spoke with Kittle only yesterday. Every person able to carry a weapon knows he or she may be called at any moment to defend the five allied villages.”
Koracoo smoothed the cloth over her mother’s forehead. Long gray hair streamed around Jigonsaseh’s face and looked stark against the black bear hide that covered her frail body. Sickness rattled in her lungs. In the past two days, her breathing had grown labored, as though there weren’t enough air in the world. Koracoo dipped the hide again, wrung it out. Her heart ached.
When Mother closed her eyes, Koracoo leaned back and took a deep breath. A commotion had risen outside. Warriors called to each other on the catwalks. Feet pounded the plaza.
The instincts of ten summers as a war chief kicked in. Koracoo reached for her war club: CorpseEye. Firelight gilded the copper inlay in club, giving it an edge of flame. She smoothed her fingers over the dark, dense wood. He was old, very old. He had been passed down through her family for generations, each new warrior entrusted with the task of caring for the club’s soul. Legend said that CorpseEye had once belonged to Sky Woman herself. Strange images were carved on the shaft: antlered wolves, winged tortoises, and prancing buffalo. A red quartzite cobble was tied to the top of the club, making it a very deadly weapon—one Koracoo wielded with great expertise.
She shoved to her feet just as her daughter, Tutelo, burst through the leather hanging and stood breathing hard, her eyes wide, as though with shock.
Koracoo said, “What is it? What’s happened?”
“Mother …” Tutelo wet her lips. She was a pretty young woman with an oval face and long black hair that hung to the middle of her back. Sweat beaded on her small nose. She’d run hard to get here. “He’s alive.”
“Who’s alive?
“Sky Messenger, he—”
Koracoo reached out, and her fingers sank into her daughter’s shoulder. “Where is he? Tell me quickly.” Blood roared in her ears.
“At the gates. He asked to speak with Grandmother and the Matron’s Council.”
“Blessed Spirits, he must not know that Kittle has—”
“Koracoo,” Jigonsaseh whispered.
Koracoo spun around to look at her mother. Jigonsaseh lifted a clawlike hand. “Send a runner to Kittle … . Ask her to give us … one day to …” Her words were cut short by a violent coughing fit that racked her body.
Koracoo turned back to Tutelo. “Go to Kittle, ask her to give us one day to hear Sky Messenger’s story before she carries out her execution order. Hurry.”
Tutelo threw back the entry curtain and ran, vanishing into the daylight. Koracoo swung her foxhide cape around her shoulders and ducked outside carrying CorpseEye. People crowded the plaza, most of them refugees from devastated villages. Many carried baskets. Others raced around collecting things: rocks, potsherds, anything they could throw.
Koracoo stalked toward the gates like a hunting lynx, her muscles rippling, ready to do battle if necessary. He might be a traitor. No one knew for certain, but even if he was, he was still her son. Tomorrow she may have to club him to death herself, but it would not happen today. Not if she could stop it.
When War Chief Deru saw her approaching, he shoved a man aside. “Make room for the Speaker for the Women.”
Like a school of fish at a thrown rock, people scattered, leaving a
Koracoo bent over and washed her mother’s fiery face with the cool cloth. “Mother, try to sleep.”
Matron Jigonsaseh, leader of the Matron’s Council of Yellowtail Village, whispered, “Too much … to think about … fever … all the refugees. We’re … vulnerable.”
“Our warriors are prepared, Mother. Don’t worry. I spoke with Kittle only yesterday. Every person able to carry a weapon knows he or she may be called at any moment to defend the five allied villages.”
Koracoo smoothed the cloth over her mother’s forehead. Long gray hair streamed around Jigonsaseh’s face and looked stark against the black bear hide that covered her frail body. Sickness rattled in her lungs. In the past two days, her breathing had grown labored, as though there weren’t enough air in the world. Koracoo dipped the hide again, wrung it out. Her heart ached.
When Mother closed her eyes, Koracoo leaned back and took a deep breath. A commotion had risen outside. Warriors called to each other on the catwalks. Feet pounded the plaza.
The instincts of ten summers as a war chief kicked in. Koracoo reached for her war club: CorpseEye. Firelight gilded the copper inlay in club, giving it an edge of flame. She smoothed her fingers over the dark, dense wood. He was old, very old. He had been passed down through her family for generations, each new warrior entrusted with the task of caring for the club’s soul. Legend said that CorpseEye had once belonged to Sky Woman herself. Strange images were carved on the shaft: antlered wolves, winged tortoises, and prancing buffalo. A red quartzite cobble was tied to the top of the club, making it a very deadly weapon—one Koracoo wielded with great expertise.
She shoved to her feet just as her daughter, Tutelo, burst through the leather hanging and stood breathing hard, her eyes wide, as though with shock.
Koracoo said, “What is it? What’s happened?”
“Mother …” Tutelo wet her lips. She was a pretty young woman with an oval face and long black hair that hung to the middle of her back. Sweat beaded on her small nose. She’d run hard to get here. “He’s alive.”
“Who’s alive?
“Sky Messenger, he—”
Koracoo reached out, and her fingers sank into her daughter’s shoulder. “Where is he? Tell me quickly.” Blood roared in her ears.
“At the gates. He asked to speak with Grandmother and the Matron’s Council.”
“Blessed Spirits, he must not know that Kittle has—”
“Koracoo,” Jigonsaseh whispered.
Koracoo spun around to look at her mother. Jigonsaseh lifted a clawlike hand. “Send a runner to Kittle … . Ask her to give us … one day to …” Her words were cut short by a violent coughing fit that racked her body.
Koracoo turned back to Tutelo. “Go to Kittle, ask her to give us one day to hear Sky Messenger’s story before she carries out her execution order. Hurry.”
Tutelo threw back the entry curtain and ran, vanishing into the daylight. Koracoo swung her foxhide cape around her shoulders and ducked outside carrying CorpseEye. People crowded the plaza, most of them refugees from devastated villages. Many carried baskets. Others raced around collecting things: rocks, potsherds, anything they could throw.
Koracoo stalked toward the gates like a hunting lynx, her muscles rippling, ready to do battle if necessary. He might be a traitor. No one knew for certain, but even if he was, he was still her son. Tomorrow she may have to club him to death herself, but it would not happen today. Not if she could stop it.
When War Chief Deru saw her approaching, he shoved a man aside. “Make room for the Speaker for the Women.”
Like a school of fish at a thrown rock, people scattered, leaving a
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