From the look of the unfinished structure, it could be seen that the longhouses were divided into chamber-like increments within their interiors. There was a sheltered entrance at each end of the longhouses, where bark panels were hung over their entryways with images worked upon their facings.
Logan did not have long to regard the construct, or much of anything else. Villagers quickly surrounded the group, pressing in close, with more streaming in every moment towards the increasing mass by the entrance. They emerged from within and around the many structures, hurrying in from farther areas of the village’s interior, ceasing whatever tasks they had been engaged in.
A few women off to Logan’s right got up from where they had been arraying gathered berries on the surfaces of bark trays. Another woman set down a long wooden pestle by a mortar that looked like a hollowed-out tree trunk, releasing her grip on the narrow midsection, spanning between the two thick ends with rounded heads.
A little baby was resting securely in a wooden cradle-board, suspended from a peg fixed into a high, stout timber post near to her. She paused only long enough to gather up the decorated cradle-board and her baby, a plump little urchin swaddled in dark cloth wrapping that was ornamented with light-colored beadwork.
Logan caught the sight of a number of horses gathered off to the left. They were not saddled, but it was clear that they were being prepared for a journey. All were bearing loads that consisted of hide pouches or stacks of furred skins. Several men were striding away from them, moving to join the rest of the villagers.
More young children were now emerging from where they had been playing deeper amongst the longhouses and huts, accompanied by a bevy of dogs. Bounding alongside them, the canines wagged their tails vigorously in the growing commotion.
The children’s jubilant cries and excited shrieks were mixed with the playful barking of the dogs, putting a cheerful tint upon the living, dynamic picture evolving before Logan’s eyes.
Logan almost chuckled aloud as he beheld the extremely humorous sight of one particularly chubby little fellow, who was trotting as best as he possibly could to keep up with the other children. The little one’s shaky balance showed that it had not been all that long since he had ceased crawling as his primary method of movement.
Logan winced as one of the accompanying dogs nearly tripped the little fellow up, causing him to totter for a second. Logan breathed a sigh of relief as the child stabilized, managing somehow to remain upright.
The broad mixture of old men and women, children, young adults, and several more warriors all appeared eager to get a closer look at the eccentric appearances of the strangers brought back by the war party. They herded around the seven, those farther in back craning their necks and jostling to get better positions, their eyes drinking in the sight of Logan and his companions.
Among the last of the villagers to arrive to the throng around Logan’s group were some of the most intriguing individuals of all.
A few older women, of particularly stately bearings, methodically came up join the gathering. Several younger members of the tribe escorted these women with obvious reverence. The crowd parted wide to allow the elderly women access to the forefront of the assemblage, many conceding their prime locations in deference to the women.
One of the elderly women caught Logan’s attention in particular, as she came to stand almost directly before him. She was wearing a full-length, black-dyed buckskin dress, richly ornamented with dyed quill-work. A distinctive image was visible on the front of her tunic-dress, surrounded by a bevy of swirls and floral representations. It featured a large, semicircular shape, which arched over a pair of parallel lines, whose width spanned to the ends of the semicircle.
The old woman gazed upon Logan with an impassive expression resting upon her heavily creased face. The look in her dark eyes was alert and penetrating, and he wished that he could read her thoughts.
Another distinctive individual caught Logan’s attention in a similar way, an older man whose approach was also accompanied by gestures of respect and deference among the other villagers. Like the elderly woman, he came to stand close to Logan.
He was wearing a headdress fashioned from the thick-furred skin of a brown bear. The bear’s upper jaws crowned the old man’s head, lending his stern, eagle-like visage even more strength as he stared fixedly towards the foreigners.
Logan held the man’s eyes for only a moment, before his attention was taken in again by the swirl of faces all around. The tribal people were still cheering and lauding the warriors, but it was becoming abundantly clear that burning questions were on the tips of all their tongues. Murmurs ran abundantly through the crowd, coming from lips set underneath eyes that were intently scrutinizing Logan’s group.
Before the tension at the unanswered inquiries became too uncomfortably palpable, Ayenwatha stepped forward from the war band and swept his gaze over all of them. A hush fell upon the crowd at his movement, as a host of expectant eyes turned to regard him.
“My brothers and sisters of the Onan, of the village of the Place of Far Seeing, the war party has returned… and with very good tidings. We have not lost even one of our brothers, while gaining a victory over the enemies that would seek to do us harm,” Ayenwatha announced, his tone resonant, and unmistakably proud as it carried over all the gathering.
As if to emphasize the triumphant result of the excursion, the women bearing the scalps waved the poles back and forward again in a salutatory fashion. The gesture elicited a chorus of whoops, cries, and cheers that pierced the air.
Logan could both see and feel the ecstatic surge of delight at the news of the full survival of the war party. The exuberance was especially reflected within the faces of many women that had begun to step forward to greet individual warriors in the band. All of these women wore their hair with a single, long braid down their backs.
Logan did not have to ask anyone regarding the identity of the women stepping forward. Their faces emanated the lightness of sheer relief, along with the radiance of unrestrained joy and affection towards their returned husbands.
The scalp-poles were then given over to some of these women. The particular woman that received the pole displaying multiple scalps had a sparkling expression as she accepted it from the female bearer. She gazed back proudly at the warrior that she had just been embracing, raising the pole high and letting out an energetic, victorious whoop, flashing a dazzling smile at him. The other women receiving scalp-poles had similarly beaming expressions and reactions as they turned to regard their husbands, who, Logan fathomed, were undoubtedly the ones responsible for the war trophies. Following the handing over of the scalp-poles, it took a few more moments for the renewed adulation to settle down again.
The crowd then became subdued once more, as Ayenwatha resumed his address, turning to look upon the seven foreigners as he spoke. To Logan, it felt as if the air immediately thickened with the multitude of inquisitive stares that fell in mass upon him and his fellow exiles. The pervasive stillness held the acute, weighty sensation of the enveloping throng collectively holding their breaths.
“As you can see with your own eyes, we have seven with us who are not of the tribes… and who are not of these lands. They were not taken as prisoners by our war party, and do not appear to be of the enemy. Their stay among us is still to be decided,” Ayenwatha stated firmly. “But know that they carried no sign of the dark magic. The crystals speak truly, and it is certain that they do not practice the dark ways.
“For now, they are to be my guests. They are to be treated as guests of the Onan, while their fate among our people will be decided by our village council.”