Wabi by Joseph Bruchac Page B

one group of happy people to the next. They were pleased by all the game I had brought in. I was pleased, too, but getting a bit dizzy.
    â€œWe will all eat well tonight,” said a woman holding a baby.
    â€œWelcome to our family, brother-to-be,” said the man behind her. It was Melikigo, Dojihla’s brother. He thudded me again in the chest with the flat of his palm and then slapped his hand over his heart.
    â€œYou are just the sort of hunter we need for our village,” an old man said to me. He placed a string of clay beads in my hand and then looped them around my neck when I did not seem to know what to do with them.
    Children were tugging at my hands or wrapping their arms around my legs, men and women of all ages were coming up to embrace me.
    I began to feel as if I was caught in a strong wind that was blowing me first one way and then the other. And through it all, every time I caught Dojihla’s eyes, I felt troubled by the look that I saw there. Questioning.
    They sat me down in front of the fire with Dojihla by my side. Meat from the various animals I brought in had been thrust onto wooden spits and was being cooked over the fire right in front of us. Fat was dripping out and spattering on the hot coals. The smell of the cooking meat filled my nose. My mouth began to fill again with water. I swallowed. It made my nose twitch. What a strange sensation that was! It twitched again. I reached up to touch it with my fingers. This soft nose was not at all like my hard beak. I pushed it with my finger, feeling it move. So different. Yet I was getting used to it. In fact, I rather liked having this kind of a nose.
    I looked over at Dojihla. I liked her nose even more than mine. Her nose was the most pleasing to look at of all the young women there. I smiled at her and she smiled back sweetly.
    Too sweetly?
    Suddenly, a feeling of panic swept over me. I did not know how, but I knew I was in trouble. I’d seen that look on Dojihla’s face before many times, from when she was a little girl playing with her friends. Whenever she got that look, someone else—who had been doing something to displease her—was soon going to be unhappy.
    What had I done? I did not know what to say or how to act. I looked around for Fat Face, hoping that he might help me. But he was in another group of people far away from us, talking with a young woman who giggled at his every word.
    â€œHusband-to-be?” a sweet voice whispered close to my ear. Warm breath caressed my cheek. It made my heart beat faster.
    I turned to look into Dojihla’s eyes. My heart thudded to a stop. What I saw was far from sweetness. There was a challenge and a question, there was suspicion and stubbornness. I truly was in trouble. And I had no idea how to get out of it.
    â€œYes,” I answered. If you cannot think of what to say, I thought, say as little as possible.
    Dojihla reached up a hand to touch my face. “You are feeling too hot?” she asked.
    Her innocent tone made a chill go down my back. How could I not be feeling hot with all of the logs she had been piling onto the fire next to us?
    â€œYou are very warm,” she continued. One of her fingers brushed something wet from my forehead.
    Warm and wet? I put one hand up to feel it. It was true. Moisture was leaking out of my skin. Was something wrong with me? I held my wet hand out by the fire. It wasn’t blood. Then I remembered that I had seen water like this dripping from Fat Face’s forehead when he tried to string my bow and from the forehead of Dojihla’s brother when we wrestled.
    â€œYou are sweating so much,” Dojihla said. “I am sure your headband is too hot.”
    â€œYes,” I agreed. I was feeling faint.
    This time, as you have probably already guessed, saying the least was not the best. But I was confused. After all, I had not been a human for that long. When owls are hot, they don’t sweat. They just pant