Beyond the Great River (People of the Longhouse Book 1)

  Pleased with their findings, Kayeri, their temporary leader, did not scold him for taking the initiative by following the trail. Whatever Ronkwe might have said was evidently not enough to make Okwaho look bad. Instead, he was made to recount all that they had seen—What kind of village was it? How large? Did they see the fields?—and then, nodding thoughtfully, the man decided that this place was worthy of investigation.

  With the major part of their force sailing on earlier, negotiating the dangerous waters of that huge foreign river, only a day or so of traveling from here, heading for a prearranged destination, and them being a mere reinforcement, it was difficult to fight the temptation. What was to stop them from storming a small but well-hidden village that Okwaho’s senses and insistence revealed? Depending on the defense means of this place and its fields and their condition, it might be a great opportunity. They all knew of Kayeri’s ambition. The large boats they had brought were kept empty for a reason. It was more difficult to negotiate frequent rapids in such a long, cumbersome vessel, but the extra space it offered was valuable, purported to serve the raiders on their way back, to carry the fruits of their daring enterprise.

  Weapons and pretty trinkets were a welcome addition, but true spoils, true purpose, were baskets of maize, squash, and beans, jars of sunflower oil, stocks of rare trading items like white and purple seashells or pottery. Captives were welcomed too, of course, but in this aspect, the warfare had changed since the Five Nations stopped warring on each other. Once upon a time, the captives had been the main purpose, either for adoption or for the spectacular ceremony of their execution. Among the apparent brother-nations, it was a natural thing. Yet now, warring against true strangers, the adoption custom turned a bit questionable. Too many foreigners did not understand the subtlety and the wonders of the Longhouse People’s culture. They didn’t know how to live, or how to die properly for that matter, neither adoptees nor captured warriors destined to leave their earthly world in an honorable manner, in pain and dignity, gaining much respect and adoration. No, civilized the foreigners were not.

  Straining his eyes, Okwaho watched the suspected hill for a few more heartbeats, then returned his gaze toward the ugly fence. One pitiful row of sharpened beams, tied together, not too closely fitted. What sort of fortification was that?

  He remembered the intricate corridor the double row of palisade created in his people’s towns, everywhere he had happened to live, his native High Springs of the Onondagas, or Little Falls of the Flint People, or the last town of Cohoes Falls, where their current expedition came from. No enemy could surprise his people, and even if someone had managed, an outright assault on the towns’ walls would see the invaders fighting for every step in the tortuous labyrinth, jammed between high stakes, getting slaughtered by the furious defenders.

  He eyed the fence in front of him once again. What were those people hoping to achieve with that thing, besides keeping the forest creatures out? Probably nothing, although they did not venture to the fields this morning. There was not much activity to be spotted outside as it was. Were they afraid, preparing? Most probably. Forewarned by the owner of the footsteps, they must have been ready to put up their best defense now.

  Damn silly to be spotted by a wandering local in such a way. But then, if not for that, they would not have discovered the village at all. How ironic. The warning of a scout was what put these people in jeopardy in the first place.

  He suppressed a twinge of anxiety. Was it wise to try to storm this village with their relatively small force? Some of the veteran warriors weren’t so sure, but Kayeri insisted. The man claimed that a small settlement was nothing twenty experienced, hardened warriors could not deal with. You trap the locals in the fields first thing in the morning, get over the unprotected fence, take their food supplies and some captives, and go away. The village was too good an opportunity to miss. So here they were, spread too thinly around the fence, hardened veterans some of them, yes, but still a small force, vulnerable to all sorts of surprises.

  Returning his gaze to the hill, he calculated the possible path of the enemy who might have been climbing it now, heading for the village. How many people? Hunters or warriors? If they followed the same trail that had brought them here at night, they might be visible again not long from now.

  He gestured at the warrior who was crouching next to him, bored.

  “I’m going to talk to the leader.”

  His companion narrowed his eyes. “What’s amiss?”

  “Nothing. I just think we should scan some more of these surroundings.”

  Raised eyebrows and a shrug were his answer. He began easing away. Irritating or not, they had all learned to trust his sudden impulses.

  The bulk of their warriors concentrated above the village, in a grove that concealed their presence but gave a generous view of their prey, allowing the sight of two ridiculously short houses and the edge of what looked like tobacco plots.

  The sun shone brightly, unrestrained. Rustling in the nearby fields with no familiar conical mounds, the breeze brought a welcome relief in the heat, yet no women were down there to enjoy the friendly weather. The high stalks of maize swayed forsaken, deserted, the cobs heavy, weighing the stems down, begging to be picked.

  “They know we are sniffing around,” muttered Kayeri, greeting Okwaho with a barely perceptible nod. His eyes didn’t move from the farthest edge of the fence. “Circumvent it once again.” The short order sent two of the warriors hurrying off.

  “Prepare the fire arrows.” Another curt motion made a few more warriors who were crouching nearby, listening avidly, scamper off. “Bring the oil and the cloths here. We’ll be preparing them as we go. No point in trying to conceal our presence anymore.”

  Taking the light motion of the head as permission to speak, Okwaho crawled toward the edge, careful not to disturb a leaf or a branch. From that vantage point, the village looked better, not too large, but not too small either, with the roof of the nearest dwelling covered in bark, in the familiar longhouse’s fashion, yet so different, so short. As though a section of the building was cut off. Strange.

  “What do you wish to report?” The questioning gaze brushed past Okwaho, making him concentrate.

  “I saw people coming up the hill, from the direction we came from. They must have been sniffing around the river. I think they are heading here.”

  The man tensed. “Where did you see them?”

  Okwaho took a deep breath. “They were still far, only beginning to ascend.” The narrowing eyes made him uncomfortable. “I saw the movement, for a brief moment. But it was people, a group of people. I’m sure of it.”

  The eyes studying him narrowed to a slit. “The same hunch as with the footprints?”

  “No. I just saw …” He felt like cursing himself for not keeping quiet, staying in the place he was assigned to watch. “I saw them moving. I was watching the trail we came from. Where we are staying, it is easy to see the entire hill. There was a spark, a certain spark of sunlight. It came from something polished, someone’s weapon, maybe. Or another people-made tool. Then I saw it moving. They might have been crossing some clearing. They disappeared, but if they are following our trail, they will be visible again, in a short while.” He swallowed. “We are only twenty people. If they surprise us …”

  A freezing gaze stopped his words in midair. “Did I ask for your advice, warrior?”

  He fought the urge to drop his gaze. “No.”

  “Then offer none.” The coldness dispersed, but the cloud was still there, shadowing the piercing eyes. “Take five men and go down there. Follow our trail. See what this is all about.” A curt nod addressed the nearest warrior. “Help him get organized.” The pressed lips pressed tighter. “Take Akweks and Ronkwe again. If it comes to the fight, Ronkwe takes the lead. Is that understood?” The gaze grew stonier. “No more arguing with people who are your elders and betters. Our leader might have trusted you, but until we reunite with our main forces, you are answera
ble to me, and I will tolerate no arguments.”

  Still in a state of semi-confusion, Okwaho stared at the wide nape that was turned on him already, then crawled away, welcoming the opportunity to get back to his feet under the protective coverage of the grove. Even the earth of the enemy was unfriendly, covered with too many branches and spikes, the multitude of pinecones taking a pleasure at tearing at his skin, as did the sharp gravel.

  The questioning gaze of one of the warriors made him angry.

  “I’m to take five men in order to scan the woods and the trail we came from.”

  “And leave us with less than twenty people to attack this place?” It came out icily, openly hostile, yet Okwaho could not help but see the merit of this question. They were painfully not enough, open to all sorts of surprises, with his spontaneously organized scouting mission serving no apparent purpose, other than splitting their already meager forces.

  “Yes,” he said firmly, not averting his gaze. “That’s what our leader wants me to do.”

  Their gazes locked, and for another heartbeat, the silence prevailed, heavy, uncomfortable silence. Then the man shrugged, pressing his lips tight.

  “Well, go on, young leader. Choose your following.” The eyes filled with more ice. “Make sure I’m not among them.”

  It was difficult to turn around and head off, saying nothing. For a brief moment, he thought he wouldn’t manage.

  “Something is wrong!”

  Startled by his own exclamation, Migisso straightened up, forgetting the canoe he was dragging up the sandy shore. This made the man who was holding the other end of it curse.

  “What?” he cried out impatiently. The others, two more pairs of warriors, hesitated as well.

  Migisso paid them no attention, concentrating on the smell. It was very light, nearly imperceptible, lingering in the heat of the high noon, reaching out, retreating before he could get a grip on it.

  “What do you feel?” Achtohu shook his head, irritated by the flies as much as by the unwarranted delay.

  “I don’t know, but something is not right.” In a desperate attempt to catch the troublesome scent again, Migisso almost shut his eyes, turning his head, his nostrils quivering.

  They said nothing, exchanging glances, their eyebrows raised high, of that he was sure. No one made the mistake of trusting him. He concentrated on his senses, willing the breeze to come back, to let him explore the suspected odor. Was a fire raging somewhere?

  “We want to reach home before Father Sun goes back to the other world,” muttered someone, and the others smirked.

  “Yes, Man of Senses. Let us go on. You can explore the dream worlds when we reach home. Plenty of time to do that, then, Brother.”

  They were right. He bent to recapture the side of the boat he carried, when the smell wafted in again, this time unmistakable.

  “Can’t you feel it? There is a fire, somewhere up there.” He glanced in the direction they were heading, the top of their home hill towering ahead, offering safety. Or maybe not. “A big fire.”

  They followed his pointing hand with their eyes, their gazes skeptical.

  “I smell nothing,” said his canoe partner.

  “And even if there was something,” contributed Achtohu, shifting his hold on his boat, “what is wrong with the smell of a fire? Our hunters and fishermen are all over the place these days, smoking meat and fish. There is a lot of fire all around.”

  A new gust of wind brought more of the same.

  “This is different. This is no campfire. This one is big.” He tried to listen to his inner voices, but with their contemptuous gazes and their crowding, it was difficult, impossible to summon the right concentration. “Something is wrong,” he repeated, shrugging, resuming his walk, their glances and barely hidden grins not bothering him, having been a part of his life since he could remember.

  “Maybe they have been having a celebration back home,” mused someone, his laughter light and derisive, rolling down the trail that led toward the well-hidden construction they had stored their boats in. “Maybe your highly sensitive nose has been smelling a huge bonfire to broil some deliciously fresh buck or doe. Maybe we better hurry.”

  “He said it’s no good. How can a freshly broiled doe be no good? Even our prophet of doom would not say that.”

  More laughter. He paid them no attention. It had been a while since anyone took him seriously, except at the ceremonies or if someone got hurt and there was no healer around.

  Father allowed him to practice the secrets of the healing, learning from the medicine men or any of his helpers, but only a little. This was not his destiny, Father had said once, growing angry at the mere mention of the subject, when Migisso dared to ask. Actually, it was not him who had asked, but his sister, bringing what preyed on their minds up in that dauntless, careless fashion of hers. The fierce little thing wasn’t good at keeping her thoughts to herself. She knew he was good with herbs, that he loved them, understanding their usefulness, intuitively knowing what plant should be squeezed for its juices and what should be boiled to become an ointment or brew. Not having been allowed to study, he had come to this knowledge all by himself, finding it impossible to resist the urge to experiment with the new plants he discovered on his frequent, if lonely, wanderings. It was stronger than him, the urge to escape the town as much as the urge to explore the earth and its wonders. Back in the old days, only Kentika knew. A wild thunderbolt of bursting energy, his sister provided a rich practicing field with her endless scratches and bruises, even a dislocated limb from time to time. She wished to conceal her inappropriate running around as much as he wished to conceal his frowned-upon healing interest. They had served each other well.

  The thought of her warmed his spirit, taking his thoughts away from the possible danger. She would love to hear all about that large, haughty town Father was trying to bring to their side. He could picture her strange too-widely-set eyes growing to enormous proportions, sparkling with excitement, refusing to believe that so many houses and people could be amassed in one place, surrounded by a high palisade and a long line of tobacco plots. Not to mention the ceremonial grounds. Such a wide space, with that huge maple tree in the middle of it. She would listen breathlessly, then start cutting him off with too many questions, following that pattern of thought that had become her own. People often thought her silly, when she hopped from subject to subject, with no visible logic to it. But he knew that was not true. She was smart and thoughtful. Just not very organized, too easily excited, that’s all.

  Again, the odor of the burning wood reached his nostrils, now more prominent, marring the crispy air. Not peaceful, not belonging, not like a campfire.

  “Don’t you smell it?”

  This time, they halted more readily.

  “Maybe,” muttered Achtohu, his frown deep. “There is something strange in the air, yes. Some odor.”

  “Smoke.”

  Frantically, they scanned their limited view. There was nothing, and yet the brightness of the sky was not as crisp, not as clear as it should have been.

  “Something is wrong.”

  This time, they peered at him with no sneering accompanying their expressions, their frowns deep, eyes troubled.

  “What do you feel?”

  “I’m not sure—”

  A curt gesture of one of the older men’s hand interrupted his words, cutting them in midair.

  “Keep quiet!” It was a command.

  If their breaths were not held before, they surely stopped breathing now, not daring to move a muscle.

  Shivering, Migisso listened to the sounds that interrupted the quietness of the woods, a careful creaking of an occasional branch, the strange way everything seemed to go still. Then the terrible scream tore the momentary silence, unhuman in its intensity, the depth of its suffering.

  Sweat ran down his back, making his shirt cling to his body in the most annoying of manners. What was happening up there, in their woods? He wasn’t sure he wanted to
know.

  “Follow me!” The whisper of the older warrior barely moved the stillness of the air. “Make no sound, and do as I say.”

  Somehow, it reassured them all. He could see it in the surrounding faces, his tightening stomach reflecting their expressions. An enemy might be somewhere around, doing terrible things, but the advantage of surprise was on their side.

  Chapter 6

  It was easy to follow the trail without walking it, as the trees were not so dense, with the ground being relatively flat, dry, not slippery. The perfect season.

  His senses tuned, ears pricked, feet careful to disturb no leaf, Okwaho led the way, having walked this land more than one time since the previous afternoon.

  Not perfectly local, he thought, amused, but not a total stranger either. That inkling about the watching villager was the best thing that happened to him so far. He had been right in taking the risk of looking ridiculous in case it was nothing. It hadn’t been, and since then, their leader trusted him, his feelings, and the logic of his conclusions.

  So here he was now, leading a group of warriors on a scouting mission, a young man who had barely seen twenty summers. Not bad, even for the son of his father; although, of course, there was no way to eclipse Father, in that more than in anything. The Onondaga War Chief was as young as Okwaho now was when he came into his exalted position, some said. Maybe even younger. Certainly, Father had been their people’s leader for more summers than he, Okwaho, or even his elder brother had seen.

  His ears picked up the sound of trickling water, and he gestured for his companions to halt. The trail would be forking by the narrow brook, he remembered, where the climb turned steeper. Anyone coming up that trail would be exposed at this point, their attention on the hardening conditions. According to his calculations, the people he had spotted earlier would reach this crossroad soon. He had been afraid they would pass it before his party reached the right spot, but so far, those fears had not come true. Unless those they searched for were heading some other way he didn’t know about, or the movement he had seen was not a group of people at all, his conclusion too hasty, reflecting what he wanted to happen rather than the real thing. He disregarded the tightening in his stomach.