The Broken Land Read Free

find out I was among the war party—if she ever finds out—my life will not be worth the price of a wooden bead. Even if the Flint matrons do not believe hunting me down is worth the lives it would cost—for I am a formidable warrior—she will be coming. She can’t let me live, not after his. Not after the promises I made.
    … I requicken in you the great soul of Dekanawida … .
    The dread emptiness that often assaults warriors when the battle is done filters through me. I lean more heavily against the boulder and concentrate on breathing, just breathing. Empty cadences of the river babbling over rocks penetrate the night.
    Only three moons ago, the Flint People were our allies. We fought together, lived together, protected each other’s villages from the marauding Mountain People who sought to kill us all and take our lands. When the matrons ordered this attack, I was stunned, as were many, including War Chief Deru. Our people have suffered many losses in the ongoing war, and each has to be replaced. Every warrior understands that this is accomplished through adoption. Captives are taken and marched home, the best selected, and put in line for the Requickening Ceremony. During the ritual, the souls of lost loved ones are raised up and transferred to the living body of the captive, along with the name of the deceased. When relatives have their families back, it eases their grief, and restores the spiritual strength of the clan.
    I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. When I lower it, I stop to stare at the blood that cakes my fingers. Some of the people who lived in this village were her relatives. Her clan.
    … S unlight filtered through the scent of her hair. Flesh coming alive, the open lips that touch mine like an unslaked summer, the heart-wrenching safety of her arms enough to convince me to forsake my own people.
    “Blessed gods, stop it,” I murmur with hushed violence.
    When the war ends, perhaps … But, no, that will never happen. Not after tonight. And the war isn’t going to end. Great Grandmother Earth has been growing progressively colder and drier for longer than I have been alive, at least twenty-three summers, which means our corn, beans, and squash crops rarely mature. As a result we are forced to hunt and fish harder. After many summers of desperation, most of the deer are gone, the lakes fished out. The only solution is to take what we need from our enemies.
    Or so the matrons tell us.
    When I refused to obey the order to accompany this war party, High Matron Kittle called a special council meeting of the allied villages. What the council decided was law. “Alliances are quicksand, always shifting. You know that, Sky Messenger. We must all do our duties, including you. Don’t you care about your people?”
    “ … You’re the only man I’ve ever trusted. From this time forward, you are one of my people. Her sudden embrace like wind ransacking the forest … ears roar. Later, pawpaws baked in hot ashes … happier than at any other time in my life …”
    Two men rise from their cook fire and stretch their tired muscles. Deerbone stilettos, war axes, and clubs bristle on their belts. Every man carries in his bosom the idea of the knife and axe. How can he even think of peace when the thrill of victory beckons?
    Someone makes a joke. Laughter erupts, but it is uneasy, filled with nerves and exhaustion.
    When a low growl rumbles in Gitchi’s throat, I reach down and pat the old wolf’s grey head. He is staring out at the battlefield, his yellow eyes bright, fixed on something I do not see. “It’s all right, Gitchi. Everything is—”
    The words die in my throat. There, at the edge of the burning village, wreathed in blowing smoke, stands a dark wraith, his black buckskin cape flapping around his tall body. The ancient, tarnished copper beads that ring his collar flash blue in the firelight. He turns to gaze directly at me, and the hair at the nape of my neck prickles. His hood is