The low chieftain's longhouse was dark, the dense scent of mixed herbs lingering heavily. The faint moonlight fell into the room, illuminating two figures sitting opposite each other. Around the shadows was a circle of sacrificial bones, and a silent quietude.
Red Crow Chieftain Kakalo hung his head without speaking. He reached out his thin arm, picked up a pine flute from the ground, and put it to his lips. The ethereal flute sound rose in an instant, wailing into the night, its sound distant and desolate, like a call from the wilderness.
