A November Sky

Chapter Fourteen

For the next half-moon, Kocoum and I did not speak. We had exhausted all our words. Any comfort was given through touch—the brush of his lips on my forehead, the weight of his arm thrown over my waist as we slept, the coarse bristle of his legs against my own. Kocoum spent his days in the Great Long House, debating policies for the newest clan, preparing Capahowasick for its newest occupants. I visited occasionally, to understand what was causing the lines beneath his eyes. Two of our girls had disappeared, and Kocoum had yet to hear back from John. Hadn't heard from him since the ceremony, actually.

Kocoum sent a group of scouts to the newworlder village. I watched them go from the doorway of the Great Long House, their hulking forms painted brown to match the barren trees. Then, at the end, a flash of white. I edged forward, shading my eyes with my hand. For a moment, the forest was quiet. Bare branches swayed. Leaves tumbled along stone-ridden paths. Then Catori scurried between two pine trees, stirring the browning leaves in the underbrush. Every few steps, she'd pause, ducking behind a tree. I laughed, glancing inside the longhouse to see if Kocoum had noticed, but he spoke to two of his counselors. I was not the only tribeswoman sneaking away to the newworlder village—though Catori's version of stalking resembled a child playing seek me, find me.

* * *

Soon, rumors circulated the village, each adorned with Catori's flare for detail:

"A second ship has arrived, its belly overflowing with furs and guns and flat yellow cakes and barrels of red juice that turns the men to mush."

"John has lost control of his clan. His men marched him outside their fence walls and had their thunder sticks sighted on him, wicks burning, when his mamanatowick from across the sea barked a word and called them off. It is said this great chief's metal skin shines so bright it will blind any man to look him in the eye."

"The newworlders build new huts and longhouses, as if they no longer plan to move."

"The men crawl back and forth between the village and an outbuilding, where they melt sand over a great fire, turning it on long poles. When they blow through these poles, the melted sand expands into transparent green pots. As if their mouths can breathe life into the sand."

* * *

The first small snow blew in, blanketing the grass, and the rumors faded to remnants: men drunk on red juice, a mamanatowick blessed by Brother Sun, soul-givers blowing pots from thin air.

I was sitting outside the smokehouse separating the last scraps of meat for curing when Toma finally approached me. Her moccasins sifted through the powdery snow, the deerskin toes etched with bright blue designs. Trees, mountains, rivers: images meant to ground her to the earth, to bring strength. As she neared, I followed the moccasins up to her leggings, the simple deerskin dress, the soft white rabbit fur cloak, the light brown hair tumbling over her shoulder. I did not know what to say. We had not spoken since Nehsandi's injury. "Toma."

"I'll tell you of your mother. Any story you wish." The words burst from her, like a beaver's dam breaking high on the river.