People of the Mist Read Online Free PDF Page B

terrible storm. His canoe had been
found beached on the Western Shore , but his body had never been recovered. Her
third son, Grebe, had been killed in his fifth year by lightning: his seared
body had lain under a splintered black oak. The scar could still be seen,
spiraling down the tree’s bark.
                 Fever
had taken her eldest daughter barely a year after her birth. She had never been
lucky with children. But then, as Hunting Hawk could confirm—provided she ever
dared to—that trait ran all through the lineage. Do I dare to try and have
another?
                 At
times, she wondered if perhaps some evil had slithered inside her, impregnating
her with a dark spirit that blighted the fruit of her loins. Where else had the
insatiable craving come from? Why had she thrown caution to the winds so many
times? Why had the wrong seed taken hold so often?
                 She
shivered at the thought, aware of that same desire stirring as she studied
Copper Thunder.
                 The
Great Tayac crouched across the fire from her, arms clasped around his drawn-up
knees. No one would call him a handsome man. His nose was too large for his
face; the jaw made a person think of a snapping turtle’s. Forked eye tattoos
surrounded his eyes, and a black band followed his jawline across his mouth.
Older tattoos had faded and blended with his dye-stained skin. He wore his hair
in a roach, both sides of his scalp shaved. But when he looked at Shell Comb,
that penetrating stare sent a shiver through her. Secrets hid behind those
stygian eyes, along with fleeting glimpses of his quick intelligence. He’d kill
at the slightest pretext, and when he struck, it would be like a timber
rattler: lightning fast, ruthless, and equally cold-blooded.
                 We
promised Red Knot to this serpent? What have we gotten ourselves into? Her
harried soul frayed further.
                 Copper
Thunder wore a brown bearskin over his left shoulder, leaving his right breast
bare. A large conch gorget, suspended from a choker, hung at the hollow of his
throat. The polished white shell was etched with the effigy of a great spider.
Below it hung a necklace of copper-tube beads, a wealth of them. They gleamed
in the firelight. The colorful flaps of his breech clout hung down front and
back. A decorated deer hide sash crisscrossed his belly; the shells sewn to it
sparkled in the firelight. He’d laid a folded blanket beside him. From the
dampness on his leggings and moccasins, he’d been far out beyond the palisade.
                 He
turned his gaze to the flames that leapt around the burning wood. Behind him,
ten warriors sat cross-legged on mats. They’d already rolled their sleeping robes
and stored them near the long house door in preparation for leaving. They
talked in low tones, and laughed as they discussed yesterday’s feast and last
night’s Newly Made Woman Dance.
                 Copper
Thunder pointed to the stew. “Is it ready?” he asked in his heavy accent.
                 She
struggled to sound calm. “A while yet, Great Tayac. We added a jar of
smoke-dried fish. Allow it to soften. I wouldn’t have you carrying tales of
poor food away from here.”
                 His
smile didn’t reach his hard eyes. “You may rest assured, Shell Comb, I will
leave here completely satisfied.”
                 It
had been a mistake to promise Red Knot to this spider. Unlike the other great
chiefs, Copper Thunder had built his own chieftainship, carved it out of Water
Snake’s to the south, and Stone Frog’s Conoy Confederacy to the north. Both
Water Snake and Stone Frog hated and feared Copper Thunder, but as much as they
feared him, their generations-old enmity kept them from allying and crushing
the upstart between them.
                 As
Shell Comb considered him, their eyes locked across the fire, measuring,
probing.