“The invaders will cut them down,” Old Mother said, the words like ashes in her mouth.
“We will fight,” Summer Blossoms said, slamming her hand flat upon the clay floor, making it an oath. “We will put aside our birthing and join in battle with the men. We will war and battle and kill them all. We will feed their blood to the earth and save the trees.”
“Yes,” Old Mother said. “You will fight. And for a time, you will win. But the years will be few when the shores are safe. The time will come when you will die and you will go to your trees and the invaders will leave none alive on these islands of the west. The invaders will do as I have seen. And the trees will all be cut down.”
“This is a thing most foul,” Rippling Spring said, her out-of-season leaves quivering as if in childbirth, with great fear and stress. “We will not let it come to pass.”
“You must be ready,” Old Mother said. “They will come soon. And they will come forever. They willfarm.”
“I choose a new name,” her great-granddaughter said. She spat upon the clay floor and placed her palms flat upon it in oath-taking. “I put aside mating and birthing. I will no longer be called Summer Blossoms. The name of my vow shall forever be Warrior Woman of Blood and Battle. I will be called Warrior Woman.”
Beneath her palms, the ground erupted with the vines and rootlets and wrapped around her, sealing the vow. A single thorn pierced her flesh, the trees taking her blood.
Rippling Spring copied her gesture, spitting, palms to the earth, speaking her own vow, “My vow name shall be Woman Who Left Her Children’s Children to Make War. I will be called ‘Make War’.” The vines took her at her word.
It was done. The first of the visions of change had begun.
Old Mother smiled, but it was bitterness of wormwood upon her tongue. “Call all the women, from the Old Women and the Staff Bearers, to the youngest who have their moon cycles, all the women of each tribe. Call them to gather at the Womb Circle. Call them before the fullness of the Cold Wolf Howls Moon.”
Warrior Woman of Blood and Battle lifted her once more and held a second cup to her lips. “Drink.” Her voice went harsh. “All shall be as you have said. Except we shall not lose the trees.”
“And you shall not go to your tree,” said Woman Who Left Her Children’s Children to Make War.
Old Mother of Winter Trees had known they would choose war. As the two women lay her frail body back onto the hides and furs and covered her, tears trickled down her creased, furrowed face and dripped slowly into the bed.
???
The Speaker of Hunters and Warriors—called Killer of Lion—emerged from the Men’s Circle after the Vision Moon and led the men to hunt. Though he had only one eye that viewed the world, and one eye that viewed the darkness of the blind, he was the best leader of the hunters and warriors in many spans of hands. Perhaps since the three floods.
His visions had been things of horror. Battle. War. Blood. Plague. Death. And the new enemy, a tribe with white skin and strange eyes and rounded ears. And hair upon their heads like beasts instead of vines and leaves.
He had braided his vines out of the way for the hunt, but . . . there was much pain in his heart. The Vision Moon had been . . . nightmares of horror.
???
When Killer of Lion returned later that day, he placed gifts at the entrance to the Womb Passage: the liver of a hart and its long-bones still with meat and fat and marrow. It was a prized gift, and the first steps of a request to speak to the ancient crone who led the Women of the Womb.
He left the gifts without words, without meeting the eyes of the women who attended Old Mother of Winter Trees. His one-eyed gaze was hard upon the ground, his shoulders rounded with the weight of his visions. His body was heavy, as though his youth had left him as he returned to his circle.
Behind him, he heard one of the women hunters speaking to the Women of the Womb who served the Old Mother. “The Speaker’s spirit is full of grief from his visions, some deep pain he has not shared with us on the hunt.”
A familiar voice said, “Old Mother of Winter Trees has called all the Women of the Womb from all the tribes to gather.”
At the reply, his steps faltered and stopped.
She spoke of invaders and war,” the woman said. It was Summer Blossoms, once his mate.
“Has she asked to parley with the Speaker?”
“Not yet. She is unwell.”
With a gesture, Killer of Lion gestured his men to follow, and dropped to his knees. He crawled through the straight tunnel path and entered into the Men’s Circle.
Invaders and war.
His visions had been true.
???
