Free Time of the Eagle by Sherryl Jordan Page A

understanding,” I said. “What is second mother?”
    He explained, “In Igaal clans, every close kinswoman to a child is considered its mother. Its birth mother is called its first mother. If—if my youngest child lives, Chimaki will be her second mother.”
    He went very still, and grief went through him again, hard like a sword. It is strange how I felt his feelings, the same way I felt my mother’s or those of other people I loved. I think we were bound together by fate long before we met, Ramakoda and I. He said, of his youngest child, “Kimiwe is five summers old. During the battle she was knocked into a fire. She’s dying of the burns, but death comes slow.”
    â€œWhere is Kimiwe now?” I asked.
    â€œIn the healing tent, with the others wounded in the battle.The healing tent is Gunateeta’s domain, and only she may go in there, for it is full of the spirits she calls upon to help. Gunateeta tells me that Kimiwe is beyond knowing, though she still breathes.”
    â€œMany times I’ve helped my mother heal burns,” I said. “My father taught my mother to heal burns the Navoran way.”
    He looked at me, astonished. “Sewing up cuts I can understand, and giving plants to fight poisons,” he said. “But burns . . . Well, they’re another matter. You can heal burns, Avala?”
    â€œI’m knowing what to do with burns,” I said, “though it’s not the healing that is hard but keeping out poisons afterward.”
    â€œIf you stopped Kimiwe’s pain, and tried to do the healing, she would have a chance at life.”
    â€œAnd if I try to heal her and she dies?” I said. “What will you do to me?”
    â€œThere would be no blame in you. She is dying anyway, so you cannot make her worse. If you only take away her pain, I would be thankful. I know your healing well, Avala. I’m willing for you to do this thing, if you are willing.”
    I hesitated, not because of the child, but because of what these people might do to me if I failed, no matter what Ramakoda said.
    â€œI already owe you my own life, Shinali woman,” he said. “And you have agreed to do more healing on me. If I ask too much, I am sorry. My daughter is all I have left of my family. She is heart of my heart.”
    â€œI’ll do my best for her,” I said at last, “if your father, and all your people, will swear to let me go in peace, no matter theoutcome. I’ll not be trapped in a thing that might kill me.”
    â€œYou were trapped in such a thing the moment you first knelt by me, to help me,” he said.
    And then I remembered the words of our priest, Zalidas, and the hope I had that first hour with Ramakoda, when the lands about me burned with light and the ancient prophecy hung in the skies as clear as an eagle’s wings. I thought that perhaps, in the All-father’s knowing, my true work in the Igaal lands lay yet before me, and my healing of Ramakoda was only the beginning.
    â€œI have never been trapped with you, Ramakoda,” I said. “But I still would like your father’s blessing on anything I do here, among your people.”
    â€œThen I’ll ask for it,” he said, “when the feast is over.”
    I noticed that some people had not joined in the feast—five people who stood over the mats with the food, waving large fans made of branches. They kept the flies off the food, but I wondered that they themselves never stopped to eat. No one spoke to them, and they were ignored. I asked Ramakoda who they were.
    â€œSlaves,” he said, putting down his food bowl and licking his fingers clean. “They eat when we’ve finished.”
    â€œWhere did they come from?”
    â€œThe Hena. After battles, we keep prisoners for slaves. And we trade for slaves, when we meet with other Igaal tribes.”
    â€œWhy is there hatred between you and some of the