Free The People of the Black Sun by W. Michael Gear Page B

forests, the air, and under water.
    My gaze clings to the Doorkeeper Mask. It represents the Spirits who dwell at the rim of Great Grandmother Earth. Long black hair drapes over the red forehead and black chin, making the bent nose protrude from between the silken strands. The whistling mouth sucks sickness from wounded bodies and blows it into the Sky World where Elder Brother Sun burns it to ashes that are then used to purify the sick or scare away evil Spirits.
    â€œAre the Flint People headed home?” Mother asks. She has seen thirty-nine summers and is very tall, as tall as I am, twelve hands. Short black hair, streaked with silver, frames her oval face. She has a narrow nose and full lips. Through the fine doehide leather of her white cape—painted with black bear paws—muscles bulge. She was once a great war chief. She still practices with her bow and club every day. Despite the fact that she is now a village matron, yesterday she led the Yellowtail warriors into the fight.
    â€œThey are,” I answer, and move to stand at her side before the flickering fire.
    â€œI pray their journey is safe and they arrive home to find all is well.” Mother turns to the matrons on the second ring of benches. “When will the Hills People be leaving?”
    Matron Zateri rises, and I spot Hiyawento, who sits on the bench next to her, his arm around his eight-summers-old daughter, Kahn-Tineta. Just seeing Hiyawento and Zateri, knowing they are here, soothes me. Because of the horrors we endured together as children, we are inextricably linked. They live inside me as much as my own souls do.
    Zateri smoothes her hands on her buckskin cape. She is just twenty-two summers old, short and girlish. From the back, she is often mistaken for a child. Her two front teeth stick out slightly. To those who do not know her, she appears frail and weak. Slowly, with precision, she says, “I have discussed the issue with Matron Kwahseti of Riverbank Village and Matron Gwinodje of Canassatego Village. We will be leaving as soon as we have identified and collected the bodies of our warriors from the battlefield. Hopefully, we’ll be gone by midday.”
    Matron Kwahseti stands up beside Zateri. She is thirty-five with gray hair. “Please understand, we do not wish to leave you. We know how many warriors you lost yesterday before we entered the fight on your side, but we fear our own home villages will be Atotarho’s next targets. We must make certain our relatives are safe.”
    High Matron Kittle turns, and firelight sheaths her beautiful face, reflecting from her large dark eyes and perfect nose. Even at forty-four summers, she is renowned as the most beautiful woman in the Standing Stone nation. She does not wear a cape, just a smoked elkhide dress, painted around the collar with yellow hawk wings, that molds to every curve. “We understand, but could you possibly leave a few hundred of your warriors with us, as a symbol of the new alliance between our two nations?”
    â€œAs you know, Sindak and his forty warriors asked to remain to help you,” Zateri answers. “We approved their request.”
    â€œYes, but we need more, High Matron.”
    Kwahseti, Gwinodje, and Zateri whisper together.
    I search the gathering. Where is my betrothed, Taya? She must be here. Because she is only fourteen, a woman of no position, she cannot sit on the reserved benches. But somewhere out in the crowd, she must be watching me. While I do not see Taya, I do see my sister, Tutelo. She stands with her arms crossed over her chest, her gaze fixed upon me. Mourning hair drapes irregularly around her pretty face. Where are her young daughters? Perhaps they remained in the Bear Clan longhouse, speaking to their dead father, saying good-bye.
    Zateri turns away from the other Hills matrons to gaze at me. “Sky Messenger, have you Dreamed anything about the next few days?”
    I spread my arms. “You know my