Free Time of the Eagle by Sherryl Jordan

took me to sit on the far side of the feasting-mat. He gave me a bowl of meat and told me to help myself to the platters of bread and cress and cooked roots. The food smelled strange to me, and I learned later that meat and vegetables were cooked in pits dug into the earth, covered over with leaves and hot stones.
    The meal continued, and people began to talk, though it seemed to me that their conversation was strained, and there was no laughter. There were many other mats spread out along the riverbank, where the air was cool, but I heard no laughter from those groups, either, for all were grieving for loved ones lost to slavery or death. I heard no talk of the ones who were absent; men spoke of a hunt they planned, and of a new canoe they were carving, while the women talked of the clothes they had to make before winter, or the things they wanted to trade from one another, jewelry or clothing or toys for their children. No one spoke to me save Ramakoda.
    During the meal I said to him, “I was told about your two sons taken as slaves, Ramakoda. I’m sorry.”
    â€œThere were many taken,” he said. “Every family in the tribe has suffered loss. I swear by Shimit, if I was chieftain here, we’d be going to Navora now to get them back.”
    â€œWould your father ever do that?”
    â€œNo. He used to be a great warrior, but he’s old now, and wants only peace. He pays a high price for this, what he calls peace.”
    I said nothing, sensing a deep anger in him.
    After a while he asked, “Later today, would you sew up mycuts? Our priestess wanted to treat them, but I said I would have you do it, and no other. She warned me of dire consequences, but I shall risk them.”
    â€œOf course I’ll sew up your cuts,” I said. “Tell me, where is your priestess?”
    â€œShe’s the one beside my father,” he said.
    Looking across the mat, I saw an old woman rocking slowly back and forth, the air about her filled with the sharp shadows of pain. Both her feet were bound with strips of cloth, deeply stained.
    â€œHer name is Gunateeta,” Ramakoda said. “She doesn’t do much healing anymore. Last winter she was lost in the snow for several days, and the cold killed her feet. Now she can barely walk. My father wants her to teach one of the women her healing skills, but she is bitter and short-tempered, and no one wants to work with her. Soon we will have no healer.”
    I looked away from the holy woman to a youth with striking patterns on his coat. He was the only one with painted clothes, and though he had an Igaal tattoo on his brow, he seemed different from the other youths. He was good-looking, with hair curling in heavy ringlets cut shoulder length, and his soul-colors were mauve and blue, the finest hues.
    â€œMy youngest brother, Ishtok,” said Ramakoda, seeing where I looked. “He is our pledge-son.”
    â€œWhat does that mean?” I asked.
    â€œThe Hena are a divided people. Tribe fights tribe, and some of them fight us, while others are friendly. Many summers ago we were attacked by a Hena tribe and had almost lost the battlewhen another Hena tribe—enemy to the one that attacked us—came to our rescue. Afterward, when we had won the battle, the Hena chieftain who had helped us and our chieftain swore always to be at peace with each other. As a pledge of friendship, the Hena chieftain sent one of his sons to live with us for five years, and Mudiwar sent Ishtok to live with the Hena tribe. Ishtok came home to us three summers ago.”
    â€œWho is the man he talks with?”
    â€œThat is my other brother, Chro. Chro fought well in the battle against the Navoran soldiers, so they tell me. My other two brothers were taken for slaves. The woman next to them is my sister, Chimaki. Her husband died two summers ago, of fever. They had no children. She is second mother to my youngest child.”
    â€œI’m not