Free The Feverbird's Claw by Jane Kurtz Page A

stream, anywhere, even without soap. Her skin itched. Her hair felt heavy and dirty. Three other young girls brought food, and she spoke to them, even though they laughed at her mistakes. Their voices reminded her of the Delagua girls who teased her while their mothers and grandmothers were weaving together. “Are you a boy?” they would ask in soft, mean voices as she stood awkward and impatient at the loom. “Ask your mother to check.”
    On a warm night Moralin lay awake for a long time. She thought she heard the moans of the skulkuk, far off, but perhaps it was someone blowing a shell. The pongas began thrumming again. By now the wood animal was so used to her it hardly moved when she stroked its silk fur and tickled its nose. She took it out of the cage and let it run up her arm, laughing at the feeling of its tiny star-shaped, straw-scratching feet on her skin. Finally she fell asleep thinking of Song-maker’s lessons long ago. “I ran. Thee ran. You ran. She ran. He ran. They ran. We ran.”
    She jerked awake when someone touched her shoulder. It was Ooden. The upper part of her face was painted red. A red line ran from under her nose to her chin.
    Ooden held her finger to her lips and beckoned. Moralin stumbled out of the house. The moon was a red bowl in the sky, huge and soft. The pongas were loud, and fire crackled and leaped.
    All the people, even the babies, were painted with red, yellow, and black designs. Moralin followed, and Ooden slipped close to the fire, where she stood silently along with eleven other girls. People began to trill. An old woman stepped forward. She spoke softly to each girl, then bent and scooped something out of a basket. It seemed to pour itself down her arm, rippling like a lake’s wavelets. Moralin licked her lips. Manage your fear.
    The woman stretched her arm into the air. The snake writhed and wrapped itself around her hand. Its black eye glared. The woman handed the snake to one of the girls. The girl lifted it high as the old woman chanted: “I speak for this child to our brother snake, sister snake. One who …” Moralin frowned at the words she didn’t know.
    â€œOh, ancestors, give her courage,” the woman chanted.
    Moralin hid her smile, remembering Ooden acting out a wild beast, arms high, fingers stiffened into claws.
    â€œMay she be …” The woman said an unfamiliar word. “Worthy,” Moralin finished to herself. It must be. That’s what the Delagua would say.
    Ooden took the snake. The painted lines across the girls’ mouths must mean they should not talk or cry out.
    Next, the old woman took something—a sharpened bone?—from the hot coals. She used it to pierce the first girl’s lower lip and moved to the next girl, leaving the bone in place. None of the girls flinched or gasped.
    At the end the painted lines were wiped away. “These children are worthy,” the old woman called out. “Mark it well.” She began to paint a red leaf shape on the first girl’s stomach. The circle burst into a high, shrill joy cry. The sounds shimmered in the air as she painted.
    Soon Ooden was back. The girl’s eyes were shiny in the firelight. “I was worthy,” Ooden said. “Go forward and be worthy, too. He calls.”
    Moralin hesitated. What would she have to do to be worthy? The smoke seemed to form itself into the thin head and wide, baleful eye of a snake.
    â€œGo,” Ooden whispered. Moralin swallowed and took a step.
    â€œWho speaks for her?” Green Cloak asked.
    To Moralin’s surprise, the warrior woman came forward. “This is my story.” She said something about the kachee. Moralin heard voices crying out, “True, true.”
    Ooden stepped gingerly forward. “This is my story. She knows many words.” The man’s eyes seemed to burn Moralin’s face, already slippery with sweat. Could she convince him she had changed?