Chapter Three: Tea and Trouble

The small river flowed steady as time. With the spring floods over, it was little more than a creek, but this stream was fed by sacred springs that never dried up. Low trees grew thicker and higher where the watercourse hugged the west side of the valley before curving eastward around a flat meadow. It turned south once more beyond a wide pool, meandering through grassland and marsh on its way to the Veselta.

The shaman of the White Horse band paused to slip his moccasins back on after wading across a shallow ford just above the pool. A few steps behind him, the band's headman steadied his mate, who found her feet hard to reach with a pack throwing her off balance. Then the three continued up an easy slope to the edge of the meadow.

Mid-morning sun brought out every color of the bustling encampment, sharp and bright. Smoke from burning wood and dung drifted on the wind from nine groups of tents in a rough circle. Voices in conversation, the crack of breaking firewood, someone practicing with a flute, and children's laughter blended in a familiar anthem of daily life.

Ottavar flexed his shoulders in anticipation. After many days of travel the pack straps bit. He studied the tents. Each band's totem animal was painted on the hides that covered the ovoid shelters.

A pair of enormous antlers framed the entrance of the Greatbuck band's largest tent, ahead and to their left on the west side of the campground. Ottavar's grandfather had always threatened to hang his sun-hat on them when he went visiting. Somebody else would have to make the wisecracks now. Last year his grandfather, the White Horse band's shaman, had died in an apparent hunting accident along with the band's headman.

Ottavar considered the wide gap between the Greatbuck camp and the one nearer them. "Over there, don't you think, Lovo? It's the widest space left."

Lovaduc nodded. "It looks good to me." He strode toward the empty site, the other two following. They stopped midway between the two camps.

"At least the only spot left isn't next to...." Sherilana didn't have to finish. The tents of the Bull band stood comfortably far across the circle, between those of Bison and Lion.

"We'll set up here," Ottavar said. A frequently used path cut close to the best tent site, but latecomers couldn't be choosy.

"Ayah." Lovaduc shucked his pack with a sigh of relief. Sherilana leaned her pack against the headman's. Ottavar added his, and gave his shoulders and sweaty back a welcome stretch.

A few children ran back and forth, pointing rudely at the newcomers. Three adults walked toward them from the Greatbuck band's biggest tent. Lovaduc pulled his shoulders back, displaying his uncommon stature. "Better straighten up your beads, Ott, here they come." He pushed his blond hair back with both hands and gave his darker red-tinged beard a quick rake with his fingers.

Ottavar smiled. The beads were in his pack, safely out of the way until required for ceremonial dress. His sister had plaited and tied his hair tight enough to snare a bison, and he despaired of ever having enough beard to get tangled. "Hacaben will say I look like I threw on a door-flap anyway," he said, waving to the approaching trio. "Hai, Hac!"

"Hai-i-i!" A lanky, balding man with a neatly trimmed gray beard hastened his step to reach them first. "Good day, Lovo, Sheri. Ahai, Ottavar, you look like you need a good sit-down and a drink."

"Mari's Underworld, yes. You bring any of that berry-juice pisswater?" Ottavar threw his arms around the man who had been his grandfather's closest friend. Hacaben had played a prominent role in rounding out his education, which included some fermentation experiments. They laughed together, hands slapping on each other's backs.

"I confess to having saved a small skin or two, dry as winter was. I hope it traveled well. Are you tired of Lovo's hucha?" Hacaben stepped back, hands on Ottavar's shoulders.

"Are you?" Ottavar grinned wider.

"I'm not dead yet--hai, take off the serious look, Ottko."

Ottavar realized that his face had fallen at Hacaben's unfortunate choice of words. He smiled wryly. "Sorry."

"So am I." Hacaben pulled Ottavar aside. "How has it been with you?" They talked quietly; Ottavar kept an ear open to the other conversation, while Lovaduc and Sherilana greeted their older counterparts from the Greatbuck band, Moshevar and Zopira, with more reserve.

"Is your mother well?" Zopira asked Lovaduc.

"Yes, Mavi's fine. Doting on the grandchildren. Is this, erm...." Lovaduc waved a hand vaguely at the surrounding space.

Moshevar answered the implicit question. "Yes, we saved the spot for your band, Lovaduc. I don't want any problems arising."

"Won't be us making any," Ottavar muttered under his breath. Hacaben gave him an elbow in the ribs. He shrugged.

"Thank you," Lovaduc said to Moshevar. "Neither do I. We appreciate your consideration. I hope that past differences might be forgotten now."

"So do I." Moshevar's sharp look implied some doubt. "I hope all has gone well for your band? We had begun to wonder if you were coming at all...."

"Ahm, yes, we had a lot of work to do. Didn't have time last fall, just getting something up that would hold through the winter was good enough. But the move has been good for us, really." Lovaduc crossed his fingers to avert the ill luck that this sort of talk could attract. "We had good hunting, plenty of meat to store. The winter wasn't too bad either."

"That's good. Everyone had good hunting last fall, I think. Well, come and sit down a while. I'll fill you in on what's been happening. Your people are not far behind, ah?"

Lovaduc cast a brief glance backward. "Thank you. No, not far, they'll be along soon. We camped within sight of Mammoth Hill last night, got an early start today. The rest stopped for a break while we came on ahead to see where we'll set up. We'll be happy to visit a while."

Moshevar clapped a hand on Lovaduc's shoulder and they walked side by side toward the tents. "You look more like your father every day, Lovo. Ah, I miss him." Lovaduc winced slightly at that.

Hacaben shook his head, and winked. "I was only my father's son once too. Don't worry, they'll get used to the idea that you youngsters have heads on your shoulders."

"Thanks Hac." Ottavar grinned back. The term "youngster" fitted him even more, in his twenty-fourth summer. He was going to feel very out of place in the high councils, with his grandfather gone. At least it was not their turn at the lead--or the Bull band's, thank goodness. They were lucky that Moshevar was the coordinator of this year's Summermeet. He did not envy the man responsible for maintaining order and mediating disputes among the autonomous bands.

Lovaduc presided edgily over the unavoidable welcoming party. Half of the head couples and a few elder shamans lounged around the hearth of his spacious tent. Some had spoken their greetings and left already; others had yet to show up. The door-flap was tied back in a way that extended a welcome to anyone who might want to enter.

"Where did she come from?" one of the visiting headmen asked.

"Hard to say," Lovaduc replied. "Her people had been traveling for a while. Hard times where they came from, harder along the way. She was all that was left, or anyway they'd gotten separated, when we found her--well, Ottavar found her...." He shrugged. "I don't think she wants to remember all of it."

He didn't want to mention just now what Kewarratiwa had told them: that her small band had been harried by the "Tall Folk", their tents set on fire in the night, and many of her people killed. She had gotten separated in the violent confrontation and wandered for days alone.

They had tried to locate her band, but time had been short. It was hard enough to find a particular group of Wa!ikerrima even when they weren't being persecuted. Kewarratiwa's tribe were newcomers to the area, on a perpetual migration from nowhere to wherever. Unlike The People, they had no permanent base camps. How the bands kept track of one another was a mystery. So they had taken her along on their quest for a new home. It soon became obvious that she would remain with them for yet another reason--she and Ottavar were hopelessly smitten with each other.

Although his guests were meticulously polite, Lovaduc could hear them thinking "wog". He stifled a sigh; he had known well enough what to expect. So had Ottavar. "Her people call themselves Wa!ikerrima," he stated mildly, with great care in his pronunciation. He had practiced that blasted click all winter.

"Hmpf," another man snorted, waving a dismissive hand. "Too damn hard to pronounce. All click-clacking, wa-wa-ka-ka. Why can't they talk sensibly? I don't like dealing with people with funny names."

"Our names are just as funny to them," Lovaduc said. The Wa!ikerrima were as human as anyone, only a bit short, a touch more sun-browned, and--well, they did talk funny, but so did other folk. As far as he could see, it was just a matter of getting to know them. After all, there were a few of The People with whom he would rather not be acquainted. Tiwa seemed to be getting along fine with his daughters' friends.

"Oh, come now, Lovo," said the headwoman of the Red Deer band. "I can't imagine anyone thinking our names sound funny. Can you, Amo?" Her truemate Amorad shook his head, laughing with her. The cheerful couple were the next youngest of all the leaders, and younger at heart than most.

"It's all a matter of what you're used to," Lovaduc insisted. "Think about some of the little differences between our bands. My niece, you know Milana, ah? When she took a hearth with the Bison band, she had to call a mislip a mixlip to please her bond-mother." He laughed and waved his empty teacup in a circle. "Either way, it tastes the same in the soup. It's just a bit more of a difference, eh? The River Folk speak more like us, you can understand half of what they're saying, but they can't keep a straight face when they hear my name for the first time."

"There's nothing funny about your name, Lovo," a humorless older man maintained.

"They make pretty good spear points," Amorad put in, "but too small. Yevo was saying that he might try their technique for arrowheads, though. If he can figure it out."

"I think they ought to go back wherever they came from."

Lovaduc wasn't sure who said that, but he was not about to make a fool of himself reacting to it. He didn't like the way the conversation was heading. Be just his luck it would get onto one of Bodisar's pet topics, and in the bastard would walk.

No sooner had he thought it than it happened. Lovaduc rose to intercept Bodisar and Ambelda.

"Good evening, Bodisar-nabu, Ambelda-mada. It is good to see you again." I lie like a grass mat, you make me want to throw up but there's enough patuka all over with you here. "Sit down, please. Would you like a cup of tea, or some hucha?" He waved a hand toward the hearth. Sherilana already held a ladle.

"I'll have tea, thank you," Ambelda said. Her narrow eyes evaluated the tent and all its furnishings in one rapid scan.

A customary display of wealth adorned the interior of the tent. Fine furs hung from the tent-poles. There were woolen blankets patterned in the warm earthy tones of musk ox and mammoth underhair with contrasting strands of darker, dyed yarn. Tripods of well-made spears tied together had baskets set under and between them. Lamps, shallow dishes made of stone with wicks of twisted plant fiber, gave light from wooden brackets lashed to the tent supports.

Lovaduc and his guests sat on comfortable cushions of animal hide folded fur-side in or stuffed with grass. Tightly woven grass mats covered ground leveled by filling low spots with soil dug from the hearth, stomped down to the accompaniment of singing. The headman felt justifiably proud of his band's work. His hearthfolk might be few, but they had a whole heart.

The outside of the tent and many things within it were decorated with paint in geometric designs as well as some striking depictions of animals. Though young to hold the position of elder shaman for his band, Ottavar was an undeniably talented artist. That hardly endeared him to the Bull band's leaders.

Sherilana gave Ambelda tea in a polished wooden cup made by Davoner, father of Ottavar. Wood worth carving was a precious commodity in a world of wind-scoured plains and rocky hills. The headwoman of the Bull band kept her nose high. "Thank you, dear. How are your children?" she said, with no warmth at all. While Sherilana spoke of her four daughters and two sons, Ambelda sipped tea and fingered her many strands of ivory and amber beads.

"And how are your sons," Sherilana asked, smiling. "I remember Cordamal's mating ceremony so well."

Ambelda looked as if she saw something wriggling in her tea. Her forced smile might have served better to frighten small children than to express friendliness.

Lovaduc forbade his face to twitch. It had not been the best idea to mention Cordamal. The Bull band couple's eldest son had forsaken his band and family to live with his true-mate's band; not unusual for a young man of lower status, but--a headman's heir! That he had made a good match might have assuaged them, except for his total renunciation of all ties with the band. She forgot, he supposed. Sheri liked to recall the happy side of things.

"How do you manage to steer clear of the wogs down there?" Bodisar asked. "I hear they've been getting pretty rambunctious, raiding and waylaying travelers."

More like the other way around. Lovaduc shrugged and did his painful best to smile. "I haven't had any problems, haven't seen any sign of them since we settled in. Hunting's been good. Had to do a little more building and some remodeling when spring came. Took some time, is why we got here so late, but we'll be snug this winter."

"I'll have to have a look at your new place. Might be able to help you out a bit, ah?"

"Erm, of course. Maybe...after the Berry Moon, ah? It's a long way to go...." He had hoped it was far enough that they would never see the Bull band outside of the summer gathering.

"Good, good. We'll plan on that. I'll bring Pavo and a few others along. We can hunt all the way back." The grin in Bodisar's black bush had a hungry look.

The officious lard-sack was bringing on the usual headache. On the good side, the Bull band's shaman hadn't showed up. Yet. One could hope--Ivergan was not very sociable. Thank the Good Ones for that. Lovaduc scanned the tent briefly; all seemed well, though Ottavar looked uncomfortable. He knew why, and Bodisar's next angle of attack fanned the flames.

"You picked up a wog girl, I hear. Not a good idea." The fat headman shook his head. "They never really get civilized, you know. She'll go off some day and bring back a bunch of her bloodthirsty brothers, and next thing you know skrrrrrkk-k-k!" He ran a finger across his throat.

Lovaduc glanced at Ottavar, whose jaws were clenched. Uh-uh. Take it easy, Ott. All I need now is someone else as ready to blaze up as I am. He scowled into his tea, taking a sip to cover the shift of attention as well as to moisten his mouth in hopes of getting in a few words. Ah, he's turning away to talk to Hacaben.

"I don't think so," Lovaduc said to Bodisar, who had paused to nod a polite greeting to someone else. "Look, I know how you feel about--other people--but in my experience--"

"Well, that's just the point, isn't it? You haven't had the experience yet. Now when I first took over the Bull band...." Bodisar proceeded to give his version of recent history, every word a hot cooking stone in Lovaduc's slowly boiling pot.

It wouldn't do any good to observe that Bodisar had been no older than Lovaduc when he assumed leadership. Bodisar's father had been cut from the same bull-hide, though less apt to impose on his neighbors. Ludoven, on the other hand, had been far too easy-going and optimistic. His legacy of silent capitulation held his son like quicksand. Everything had not worked out in the end, and Ludoven was dead. So was Kayotar, who had been less inclined to leave well enough alone.

Moshevar interrupted the one-sided conversation, covering an authentic yawn with a cupped hand. "Excuse me, Lovaduc. I really must leave. Getting past my bedtime, ah? And I'm sure you and all your folk are tired." He gave Bodisar a cheery smile. "Why don't we let them settle down for a good night's rest, eh? Plenty of time ahead to talk."

"Ah, of course," Bodisar said. "Have a good night, Lovaduc. I'll see you tomorrow, I hope." He collected his sneering spouse, and with a generous spew of insincere good wishes the pair left.

Lovaduc wanted to air the tent out.

The warmth of the day had fled into a clear night sky. Ottavar and Hacaben strolled into the space between their band's camps and looked out across the circle. Stars outshone any embers that still burned in outdoor hearths. Faint paths of light spilled out of tents not yet closed for the night. Night-chirpers sang all along the creek.

"You're in love with that wog girl, aren't you?" Hacaben said.

"Don't call her that!"

"Sorry, I was just kidding."

"Well, it's not funny." Ottavar glared off into the shadows with his arms folded.

"You're going to hear a lot more of it, and they won't be joking."

"I know." Ottavar chewed his lips, then had to pick a mustache hair out of his teeth. "What is Ivergan saying? D'you think he'll try to stop me?"

"D'you think he won't? Thunderfire, Ott, I think that man has taken up an evil spirit."

"Oh, just recently?"

"No, but he's worse." Hacaben sighed. "Just remember I'm with you, no matter what."

"Thanks, Hac."

A long silence followed. Hacaben broke it. "There's something I want to show you. Come on, it's in my tent." He touched Ottavar's arm and strode away.

Like all senior shamans, Hacaben had a personal retreat and workplace set aside from the everyday affairs of the gathering. The tent was small, not high enough to stand in. Hacaben lit another lamp from one he had borrowed from his headman's tent, setting it on top of a covered basket. Ottavar hunkered down and waited, hugging his knees. From beneath a heap of bedding, Hacaben pulled a scrap of leather, a roughly cut rectangle about the length of his lower arm.

"Look at this. There's been a couple of these turned up, nobody knows where they're coming from."

Ottavar spread the leather flat while Hacaben held his lamp up. It was painted with crude--by his standards--pictographs. Four of them, in two separate groups, depicted men. It was dangerous to portray one's fellow humans, except under very controlled circumstances. A sorcerer might do it to trap their spirits and bend them to his will. These were not detailed enough to provoke much alarm. Between the two pairs of humanoid images was a bison. It was apparently falling from a cliff, if that was what that angular thing was supposed to be.

Two of the man-figures were mere forked sticks with round heads. The bison might be falling headfirst on them. Standing above the bison was one figure more egg- than stick-shaped, sporting an exaggerated black beard. Its arms were stuck out as if it had dropped or flung the bison. Another stick figure next to it had been drawn in anger, Ottavar thought, with heavier, more intense lines.

"Shit! You have no idea who drew this?"

"No. But I have a good idea that you have as good an idea as I do what it's about."

"Yeah. It has to be...." It spoke clear as any words to Ottavar, telling him what his heart already knew. His grandfather and Lovaduc's father had not met their deaths by accident. He considered the drawing for a long time, his lips tight.

"We've got to find out who did this," he said at last, looking up. "I have a feeling he really knows something."

"About time you trusted your feelings."

"Ayah! All that does is get me into trouble."

"There's a purpose for everything." Hacaben set down the lamp he still held so that he could let loose a big yawn.

Ottavar had to smile at that. "I suppose I'd better let you get some sleep. I want to show this to Lovaduc tomorrow." He was tired enough himself, though he might need a cup of calming tea to lure sleep after this news.

Hacaben nodded. "I'd have brought it up to him already, but I didn't want to do it in the middle of the mob-in. I'm glad you didn't arrive any later. There's not that much time before...." Another yawn stole his voice.

Ottavar laughed. "Tomorrow, then, old sleepyhead. We'll come over after breakfast, ah?"

"Before."

"All right, if you want to put up with Lovo then. Thanks, Hac. Good night."

Ottavar stayed outside a while yet, lurking in the shadows behind the tent while the last visitors departed. He missed his grandfather, particularly now. Kayotar had not been of The People. No one knew where the strange man came from, but he had soon become a valued member of the White Horse Band. He had mated late in his long life. Ottavar had always known him as an old man. A vigorous old man, to be sure. He had often availed himself of unattached young women at Summermeets, though devoted to his true-mate of many years.

Meshila, mother of Davoner and of two children who died in infancy and one that was stillborn, had been too delicate. Only Kayotar's tender care had brought her through many hard seasons. She had seemed equal to Kayotar in age toward the end, and the great sickness had claimed her almost overnight. How long was it, six years ago, five? A lot had happened since then.

Ottavar's first love had gone to the Underworld the following winter. Her band had been one of those hit hardest by the sickness. With no leaders, too few hunters, their wholeness gone, the survivors had dispersed among the other bands. Solera had left the Summermeet with the Bull band, never to return.

Kayotar was gone now too, along with Ludoven. Their bodies were found crushed beneath bison driven over a cliff by Bull band hunters. The so-called accident had triggered the White Horse band's move to a new home.

He heard Kewarratiwa's voice from the "giggle tent" now, cheerfully bantering with his sister and Lovaduc's daughters. Falling in love again had been a revelation. Tiwa was a prize beyond compare. However, since their arrival at the Summermeet, he could have no physical contact with her; could not even see or speak to her unless she was surrounded by other women, until her status as a woman of The People was validated by ritual. It seemed foolish. She was a woman, had already undergone her own tribe's womanhood rites.

He didn't know whether she would be allowed to partake in the rites, much less be accepted as a member of the tribe, though Hacaben was positive that Balekara would be in favor of it.

Balekara was an older sister of Zopira and cousin of Zhamavi, Lovaduc's mother. She was in charge of women's affairs at Summermeets, and held an unofficial position of leadership in other matters, at least any that Ivergan did not choose to dominate. The decision was primarily hers to make. Ottavar was still in awe of the highly respected second oldest female shaman, never mind that in theory he held equal rank.

The full Council meeting would be held in a few days. He hoped that Tiwa's case would not have to be brought up there. His standing in the larger community was too new and weak for a hard push. Trying to influence a decision was out of the question; he could only hope not to offend anyone. Above all, he did not want to do anything to damage his band's position. They had the other business to worry about.

If Balekara accepted Tiwa, the mating could take place after the Fire Festival. If their tie could not be formalized, it would not make that much difference in the long run. Her children would be full members of the band and of The People no matter what. Tradition was on his side to that extent. Cockeyed situation. He rubbed the back of his neck and gazed at the stars. Their constant pattern was comforting amid all the ifs.

Lady of Light who rules the sky, keeper of the spirit fire, look kindly upon us.

The wind, or some small creature, made a rustling sound in the bushes, like a soft answering sigh. He felt a whisper of hope in his heart.

It was quiet in the tent, and too chilly to stay out. Ottavar went inside.

He didn't have to wait long to show Lovaduc the painted message. In the morning, the White Horse band had their own, hanging from a stick jabbed into the ground in front of the tent. Lovaduc almost tripped over it when he came out, greeting the morning sun with a yawn.