“That may all be true,” Burnt Hair said. “But what worries me more is how your son is taking this. The two of them were so close, it was as if they had one mind. They were always laughing and doing things together. But now Okwaho walks about as if a dark cloud has come to rest around him. Even if his friend one day no longer remembers his old life, Okwaho will not forget him.”

Okwaho put the digging stick down, taking care not to make a sound. He stood up and walked away from those voices that usually gave him comfort but now just deepened his feelings of hopelessness and anger.

chapter eight

CARRIES

Okwaho walked back around the far side of the wall—away from his father and Burnt Hair. Trees and bushes had been cleared away for more than the distance of a long spear throw all around their village. As Okwaho walked, he looked toward the edge of the forest nearest him. At any moment the silence of the forest might be broken by a war cry. Or the swish of an arrow as it came flying through the air toward him.

He finished rounding the stockade wall and walked back through the gate.

Nowhere is safe, he thought.

That thought, too, made him angry.

The little ones, the six other children of their village, were heading toward him, carrying armloads of sticks they’d gathered from close to the stockade. All of them were much younger than Okwaho, and seemed free from care—for now.

With Tawis and Clouds Forming gone, Okwaho was the senior young person in their little village. None of the others were over seven winters old. All of them looked up to Okwaho and sought his guidance.

Before Tawis had been taken, Okwaho had enjoyed such attention. He’d been kind to those children, tried to provide a good model for them just as his elders did for him. He’d even told them stories and sometimes sang songs. But now the anger twisting inside made him impatient. When he spoke to those children, it was never more than a few words.

The biggest of the little ones, Muskrat, came up with an armful of sticks.

“’Kwaho?” Muskrat said, dumping his small armful of sticks on a pile near the central fire. “What should we do now?”

Okwaho stared at him.

What is the matter with you? Are you stupid? That was what he thought of shouting as Muskrat looked up with trusting eyes. It was only with great effort that he held back those hurtful words.

“Gather stones,” he said, pointing with his lips in the direction of the corn field. “Birds.”

“Nyah wenha, ’Kwaho,” Muskrat said. “Thank you. I will do a good job of keeping watch.”