People of the Weeping Eye (North America's Forgotten Past) (10 page)
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Authors: W. Michael Gear,Kathleen O'Neal Gear
BOOK: People of the Weeping Eye (North America's Forgotten Past)
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White Arrow Town rose above a flat-topped ridge that jutted out from the western bank of the Horned Serpent River like some oversize thumb. Below its steep bluff, the sluggish brown waters swirled and eddied. At the root of the thumb a tall palisade—six hundred paces in length and offset by archers’ platforms
atop bastions—guarded the land approaches. Behind its secure heights, square houses had been built in haphazard clusters. Additional ramadas, elevated granaries, and charnel houses filled the open spaces. Elite houses and a platform mound that supported a tall chieftain’s palace with its peaked roof of thatch dominated the center of the town. A tchkofa, or council house, stood to one side of the square plaza, as did the warriors’ lodge and several of the Priest’s temples. The Women’s House had been built across the plaza from the warriors’ lodge. There the adult females of the White Arrow Chief Clan retired to spend their menses in seclusion, away from men and isolated from artifacts and places of Power.
atop bastions—guarded the land approaches. Behind its secure heights, square houses had been built in haphazard clusters. Additional ramadas, elevated granaries, and charnel houses filled the open spaces. Elite houses and a platform mound that supported a tall chieftain’s palace with its peaked roof of thatch dominated the center of the town. A tchkofa, or council house, stood to one side of the square plaza, as did the warriors’ lodge and several of the Priest’s temples. The Women’s House had been built across the plaza from the warriors’ lodge. There the adult females of the White Arrow Chief Clan retired to spend their menses in seclusion, away from men and isolated from artifacts and places of Power.
Inside the structure, firelight flickered on mud-plastered walls. It gleamed on the peeled wooden posts that supported a heavy roof. The room measured ten by ten paces, with a puddled clay hearth in the center of the floor. Sleeping benches lined the walls, each belonging to a specific lineage or clan. The walls had been painted red, the color of a woman’s cyclical bleeding. Looms, pottery molds, and half-finished textiles, along with containers of partially crafted shell beads, offered entertainment to the occupants while they spent their three or four days of solitude.
On this night, two women occupied the room. One old and self-possessed, the other young, with the energy of a caged lark. The elder, called Old Woman Fox, studied her granddaughter curiously as the young woman added another length of wood to the fire.
When young Morning Dew looked up, she could see the latticework of poles in the ceiling and make out the cord that bound thick shocks of thatch together. All was covered with a fine coating of soot that softened the lines. Here and there, bundles hung from cords. Some were net bags filled with herbs; others held bone tubes for sucking cures. Leather sacks contained different pigments to be mixed with grease to create paints. The
colors were used ceremonially to adorn bodies, carvings, and woodwork.
colors were used ceremonially to adorn bodies, carvings, and woodwork.
Benches had been built along the walls to a midthigh height above the floor. People thought that no flea could jump that high, and thus the sleepers were safe from vermin. Morning Dew, however, knew that to be false. Most women spent their days squatting or kneeling on the floor mats. There they had ample exposure to fleas. Once they took them to bed, the little beasts infiltrated both hides and corn-shuck bedding to bedevil everyone.
“It’s a fib,” her mother, Matron Sweet Smoke, had once confided. “Actually, the sleeping benches are built to be under smoke level. High enough for easy breathing, but low enough that the smoke keeps mosquitoes at bay. And in winter, that’s where heat from the winter fires keeps a person at just the right temperature.”
Morning Dew had always wondered why some nonsensical explanations supplanted the perfectly reasonable.
Below the sleeping benches lay wooden boxes with intricately carved sides that depicted flowers, bees, and spiders. Others were decorated with geometric and spiral designs and painted in gay yellows, reds, blues, and greens. Here and there incised ceramic jars, water bottles, and beautiful baskets stored foodstuffs, grease, tools, and personal effects. Each container was the inviolate property of its owner.
“Is it time to change your padding?” Old Woman Fox asked from where she knelt across the fire. She was spinning myrtle fibers into cordage, holding one end and rolling the fibers against her thigh.
Morning Dew made a face and reached under her short skirt to retrieve the pad of hanging moss from between her legs. She tossed the sticky bundle into the fire and said, “Sacred Fire, make my red into white.”
“And what does that signify?” Old Woman Fox asked.
“The burning of my blood. Red is the color of chaos.
White is purity and order. When it burns in the fire, blood is turned into white smoke.”
White is purity and order. When it burns in the fire, blood is turned into white smoke.”
“Very good. Now, replace your pad and wash.”
Morning Dew took another pad—a bundle of hanging moss tightly wrapped with cord—and pressed it between her legs. Finally she dipped the fingertips she’d used to touch the pad into a bowl of water to her left. She then flicked the droplets into the fire.
“Grandmother, I still don’t understand.” Morning Dew watched the flames consume her pad. “It doesn’t seem so dangerous. You’d think if anyone went crazy from menstrual blood, it would be women. After all, we’re the ones who bleed. But we’re to believe the mere thought of it can make a strong man weak?”
Old Woman Fox laughed. “Blood is Power, girl. We bleed with the moon; but not from a wound, and mostly we do it without pain. It comes from inside us, flows through our sheaths. Nothing fascinates a man as much as a woman’s sheath. He Dreams of it, desires it, and fears it.”
“Fears it?”
“Of course, girl. It is a mystery to him—a source of obsession, desire, and incredible pleasure. He will cry out in delight as his seed jets inside you. Then it will grow, and nine moons later an infant will pass through that same pink opening. Your loins, girl, are a miracle—and at the same time, a place of terrible pollution.”
“Pollution?” Morning Dew glanced down, trying to imagine how such terrible things could be hidden between her hips.
“You bleed once a moon,” Old Woman Fox said sagely. “Yet you do not die.” She gestured around at the Women’s House. “That is why we come here. Because if we touch a man with our sheath’s blood, it will ruin him, pollute his purity, and make him susceptible to illness, bad luck, and sickness of the souls.”
Morning Dew chewed her lip as she considered. Like any young girl, she’d anticipated the day that her first
menses would bring her to the Women’s House. Passage into womanhood had preoccupied her for years. She and her friends had waited anxiously for this moment to come. Now she found that it was a nonending session of lecture after lecture. Things she already knew: Women sat with their knees together. Only men could sit cross-legged. Women did not touch a man’s weapons under pain of a severe beating. Women dared not set foot in the Busk Ground until the fourth day of the green corn ceremonies. And on and on. Each of the rules of proper conduct had been repeated over and over. Do this. Don’t do that. You’re a Chief Clan daughter. One day you will be the matron. You have more responsibilities than other women.
menses would bring her to the Women’s House. Passage into womanhood had preoccupied her for years. She and her friends had waited anxiously for this moment to come. Now she found that it was a nonending session of lecture after lecture. Things she already knew: Women sat with their knees together. Only men could sit cross-legged. Women did not touch a man’s weapons under pain of a severe beating. Women dared not set foot in the Busk Ground until the fourth day of the green corn ceremonies. And on and on. Each of the rules of proper conduct had been repeated over and over. Do this. Don’t do that. You’re a Chief Clan daughter. One day you will be the matron. You have more responsibilities than other women.
“You were thinking something?” Old Woman Fox turned keen eyes on Morning Dew.
“I was thinking about responsibility. It’s been hammered into my head with a pestle all of my life. Be responsible. You are different from other women. Responsible, responsible, responsible.” She looked up. “Sometimes I think I’m just a responsible womb walking around on two legs.”
Old Woman Fox nodded. “Do you understand why it’s so important for you?”
“Because I’m Chief Clan by birth.” She turned her hands palm up in supplication. “Because one day I will be the matron of White Arrow Moiety. My son will become high minko.”
“And what do you think of this Screaming Falcon Mankiller you are betrothed to?”
“His new name sounds strange on my lips. It will take a while to stop thinking of him as Amber Stone.” She smiled secretly. “I’ve been in love with him forever.”
“Yet you complain about your fate?”
Morning Dew shook her head. “No, Grandmother … . I mean yes. I do and I don’t. I know how lucky I am. I’ve watched him from the time I was a little girl. He has a sparkle in his eyes, a smile that melts my heart. And he’s
always looked at me in a special way, with a promise in his eyes. I watched from the trees when he was given his warrior’s mantle last year and took his war name. No young man has ever become such a praised war leader at so young an age. He has dealt the Sky Hand People a terrible blow, burned the corn in Alligator Village, and taken the chief there captive along with his family. In a couple of years, Amber … Screaming Falcon Mankiller will topple their mighty walls onto their filthy heads.” She snorted derisively. “And we will deal with the Chikosi’s hand-licking Albaamaha slaves, too.”
always looked at me in a special way, with a promise in his eyes. I watched from the trees when he was given his warrior’s mantle last year and took his war name. No young man has ever become such a praised war leader at so young an age. He has dealt the Sky Hand People a terrible blow, burned the corn in Alligator Village, and taken the chief there captive along with his family. In a couple of years, Amber … Screaming Falcon Mankiller will topple their mighty walls onto their filthy heads.” She snorted derisively. “And we will deal with the Chikosi’s hand-licking Albaamaha slaves, too.”
Old Woman Fox gave her a sober look. “I wouldn’t underrate the Sky Hand People.”
“Oh?”
“We are all Mos’kogee. It hasn’t been that long since their Ancestors and ours lived under the mantle of Cahokia. Like us, they, too, came to this country, subjected the people they found, and built a nation. Screaming Falcon Mankiller’s great raid will bring a response. And it will come soon,” Old Woman Fox said softly. “Like us, they do not forget the ghosts of their slain. They know that the dead will never rest until their blood has been avenged.”
Morning Dew arched a disbelieving eyebrow. “My man will repulse them. They’ll run back east to their walled city, wailing and crying through the forest-covered hills. And then they’ll quake in fear, knowing that Screaming Falcon will be coming after them.” She paused. “Especially that putrid worm Smoke Shield. Remember how he watched me? He couldn’t keep the drool from running down his ugly chin.”
Old Woman Fox pursed her thin brown lips, the lines in her face deepening.
“What?” Morning Dew asked. “Put in words the disapproval I see in your face.”
“First you complain of being nothing more than a walking womb. Then you spout silly nonsense. You are smarter than that, Morning Dew. But if you’re not, well,
at least you have that wonderful sheath. Let us hope that Screaming Falcon Mankiller’s seed fills it with many children so that our clan is at least replenished.”
at least you have that wonderful sheath. Let us hope that Screaming Falcon Mankiller’s seed fills it with many children so that our clan is at least replenished.”
“You don’t think Screaming Falcon will be great?”
Old Woman Fox pulled at her grizzled white hair, speculative gaze boring into Morning Dew’s eyes. “I think he will unleash the winds, girl. But I am not sure he can deflect them. If the winds blow us away, what then? If it falls to you, how will you save our people?”
“It won’t come to that,” Morning Dew replied saucily. “Seriously, Grandmother, could the Sky Hand People have anyone who could compare in war with Screaming Falcon and our White Arrow warriors? Surely not that scar-faced Smoke Shield, with all his superior strutting.”
Old Woman Fox continued to watch her for several heartbeats. “Humor me. How would you save our people?”
Morning Dew snorted, giving her grandmother a condescending stare.
In a toneless voice, Old Woman Fox said, “That’s what I thought.”
Morning Dew glowered. “You’ll see, Grandmother. A new day is coming to our people. My man is going to make sure of it. And if he doesn’t, I will.”
“Ah.” Her eyes narrowed. “So you will accept responsibility for your people, no matter what?”
“On my blood.” Morning Dew crossed her arms, absolutely justified in taking her people’s most binding oath.
A cynical disbelief formed behind Old Woman Fox’s eyes.
H
is full name was Flying Hawk Who Calls the Morning Mankiller, but his title was simply high minko, or hereditary ruler of the Sky Hand Mos’kogee. Age had settled into his skin, bones, and muscles, leaving its
legacy in wrinkles, aching joints, and sapped abilities. His mind, however, remained keen behind a knowing brown gaze. As a young man he had been tattooed with forked eyes that mimicked a peregrine falcon’s, and a wide red bar across his nose and cheeks indicated his clan status. Tattoos, he had discovered, never looked as striking in sagging old age as they did on fresh young skin. In contrast he made sure that the copper ear spools that filled his enlarged earlobes were polished until they shone. The feathers bound to his arms were bright red, blue, and yellow. He wore colorful fabrics dyed in bright colors, and the copper hairpiece that proclaimed his status as high minko had been polished until it shone like the light of the sun.
is full name was Flying Hawk Who Calls the Morning Mankiller, but his title was simply high minko, or hereditary ruler of the Sky Hand Mos’kogee. Age had settled into his skin, bones, and muscles, leaving its
legacy in wrinkles, aching joints, and sapped abilities. His mind, however, remained keen behind a knowing brown gaze. As a young man he had been tattooed with forked eyes that mimicked a peregrine falcon’s, and a wide red bar across his nose and cheeks indicated his clan status. Tattoos, he had discovered, never looked as striking in sagging old age as they did on fresh young skin. In contrast he made sure that the copper ear spools that filled his enlarged earlobes were polished until they shone. The feathers bound to his arms were bright red, blue, and yellow. He wore colorful fabrics dyed in bright colors, and the copper hairpiece that proclaimed his status as high minko had been polished until it shone like the light of the sun.
He sat in the middle of the great war canoe, paddles rising and falling as muscular young men drove them forward amidst a V of smaller craft. The waters of the Black Warrior River had a clear green translucence common to the late season. Gone was the muddy opacity of the summer caused by constant rains and floods. Down in the depths, he could make out the moss, clusters of mussels, and the occasional large fish.
Normally he wouldn’t have been traveling this late in the season, but the attack on Alligator Town belied any sense of normality. War parties were a thing of summer, not the late fall, when straight-thinking men should be out hunting deer, their wives collecting nuts from the forest floor. No, this was unexpected, like a sudden slap from a longtime lover. It had kindled a slow-burning anger, one he would be happy to feed until it burned brightly among his people.
On the left bank trees thinned to a clearing. At its base a canoe landing could be seen. Beached craft, like driftwood logs haphazardly laid out, rested on the dark sandy bank. Through the trees he could make out a pall of white smoke.
Alligator Town had been built on an older Albaamaha village site. The place had been occupied off and on, but
finally abandoned because of its location so far downstream. Then, during the rulership of his cousin, Fire Sky, a party had come downriver, and with Albaamaha labor, they had built a town here. As was demonstrated on this day, a location so far from Split Sky City was difficult.
finally abandoned because of its location so far downstream. Then, during the rulership of his cousin, Fire Sky, a party had come downriver, and with Albaamaha labor, they had built a town here. As was demonstrated on this day, a location so far from Split Sky City was difficult.
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