People of the Weeping Eye (North America's Forgotten Past) (14 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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“I don’t think calling you Demon Dog would go over well.” He imagined them pulling up at the Four Lance Town landing. “Greetings, I am called Trader. And this is Demon Dog.” He could see the suddenly grim faces, then
Thwok! Smack!
He could hear the sounds as a worried local drove an ax through the dog’s skull. Trader would probably feel more than hear the crack of his own head,
unaware that another frightened individual had sneaked up behind him while he was talking.
People took things like demons much too seriously.
“Just like at that village back there.” He paused, trying to fit the pathetic beast crouched in his canoe with the story told by the hunters. “Let’s say that you showed up just as they had a little bad luck. Sometimes that happens. Traders are particularly wary of it. We always find an excuse and leave if someone comes down sick.” He took another sweep with the paddle. “Of course, we’re protected by the Power of Trade. People know that in return for protection while inside their borders, we won’t witch them. And if we ever learn of anyone using the Trade as a means of covering witchcraft, we’ll kill them outright.”
He glanced down at the dog. “Which means, if you really are a demon dog, I won’t put up with any wickedness on your part.”
The dog watched him, ears up, head slightly cocked.
“So, how did you get to that village back there?” He watched the trees break to expose another farmstead. It consisted of three bark-sided, round-roofed houses in a cultivated clearing on the high bank. This settlement, too, seemed to huddle beneath a haze of blue smoke, its people inside to avoid the cold and wet.
“You don’t look like a wild dog. And if you’d been from any of the surrounding villages, someone would have noticed you. You don’t see many dogs around with your colors. Most are some combination of brown and white. Black is rare.”
He tossed another piece of jerky to the dog.
“Which brings us back to a name.” He ran a series of them past his souls. He-Who-Escapes-Underwater? No. It would get shortened to Under. Besides who ever named a dog Underwater? People would think he was a fish. Escaper? Maybe. Rotted Lucky? Now there was a fitting name. But for the dog’s rotted luck, he’d have been sucked under and drowned. No, he’d known too
many Traders’ dogs called Lucky. And looking at the soggy and cold cur, he sure hadn’t been living up to any kind of luck recently.
“Swimmer.” It just seemed to pop out of his head. “Yes, you were sure a swimmer. Even if you were almost at the end of your string, you got away from those two superstitious farmers. Now, me, I’d bet when you jumped in the river, one of those little whirlpools that form around the bank sucked you under. Just like that last moment before I fished you out.”
Swimmer was listening closely, ears pricked.
“Who knows, maybe you even pulled that raft of driftwood loose from the bank somewhere while trying to get out.” He emphasized it with the paddle. Swimmer flinched. “As long as you didn’t get too cold, that raft would have put you ashore sooner or later. I’ve known Traders who capsized their canoes who just hung onto the gunwales until the current dropped them close to shore.”
He gestured toward the towering trees crowding the riverbank. The river here was little more than a long bow shot across. “The channel is relatively narrow. It doesn’t seem like it, but wait until you get downriver. At times all you can see is water. Now, down there in the south, getting cast loose in the current becomes a bit more dicey. Why, I wouldn’t doubt but that this old Father Water might sweep you right out into the gulf.”
He grinned down. “Am I talking too much?”
Swimmer didn’t answer, his brown eyes pools of worry.
“I suppose I am.” Trader sighed. “I haven’t had anyone to talk to for a long time. Well, but for the Trade. The point I’m making is that there’s no one to talk to while I’m on the river. There’s myself, of course, but somehow I always win the arguments. Oh, I know. I could have done something about it. Fact is, I had a dog once for almost three moons.” He shook his head. “There was just something about Rascal. I’d swear he had stone
for a brain. Some dogs just don’t learn. Have you noticed that?”
Apparently Swimmer hadn’t, because his expression didn’t change.
“Village dogs got him and tore him up down at Winter Town on the lower river. I warned old Rascal, told him not to leave the canoe.” Trader made a throwing-away motion with one hand. “Never could break him of the habit of chewing on the packs, either.”
Trader glanced up at the graying skies. “Well, night is coming. What do you say that we put in? We’ll make us a camp with a fire and cook up something. I’ve got corn cakes dry in a pack somewhere. Then we’ll see if you’re still around in the morning.”
Swimmer’s tail slapped the wet hull twice.
“And if you try to witch me, or do any demon things, you’ll get the sharp edge of my club.”
Swimmer dropped his nose onto his paws.
“Demon dog,” Trader muttered. “Just my luck.”
S
moke Shield closed his eyes as Thin Branch applied the last dabs of brilliant red color. Smoke Shield enjoyed the soothing sensations of Thin Branch’s fingers carefully smoothing the paint over his forehead. He took a deep breath, letting the tension seep from his tight muscles, and tried to ignore the ramifications of the coming Council.
“Feel better?” Thin Branch asked in his accented tongue. He was Koasati by birth. As a child he had been captured in a retaliatory raid down on the Albaamaha River. Smoke Shield had passed but eight winters when Uncle Flying Hawk presented Thin Branch to him as a gift. They had been together since.
“Yes. Gods, I could just lie back and sleep.”
“Liar.”
Smoke Shield smiled. “How do I look?”
“Marvelous. Power rides with you. Your mixture of the colors was extraordinary.”
Smoke Shield opened his eyes, glanced at Thin Branch to read satisfaction in his expression, then climbed to his feet. They had been seated on one of the double-knotted rush mats in the palace great room. The high stool with its cougarhide covers stood before the back wall. Behind it, a huge copper relief of Eagle Man hung from the wall. So, too, did old shields—war trophies from Flying Hawk’s colorful exploits in combat. Mixed with them were assorted masks, some carved from wood, others from whelk shell, and a few from gourd
husks. Each had been painted to accent the features of the Spirits, gods, and sacred beings they represented: Old Woman, Long-Nosed God, Horned Serpent, Eagle Man, Morning Star, and lesser beings.
Thin Branch handed him his palette—a round sandstone disk, its border scalloped and bounded by three thin lines that represented the worlds of Creation. A man’s palette was one of his most precious possessions. Creating colors was a sacred process, akin to the Creation of the worlds. Colors were not only an affirmation of life, but by their very nature attracted and concentrated different types of Power. White symbolized order, goodness, reflection, and peace. War, chaos, creativity, and struggle lived in the color red. Blue and purple were the sky colors, symbolic of air and the Above World, domain of birds, thunder, and the cloud beings. Yellow was that of healing and growth, while brown became death, corruption, and the Underworld with its creatures. Black was the color of mourning—of nighttime and the creatures that prowled it.
With the application of colors, a man’s souls could attract the essences of those Powers to him, incorporate them, share them for whatever task was at hand. In this case, Smoke Shield was preparing for a war council. He had chosen red for his forehead, lower cheeks, and chin. The tattooed bar across his upper cheeks and the bridge of his nose was rendered in black, the forked-eye tattoos around his eyes were in a pale gray, while a single blue line ran down from his lower lip to his chin, homage to the justice of his cause in instigating war, and the risks that such behavior entailed. Three large white beads cut from the columella—or center swirl of a whelk shell—hung from his forelock.
“I think it is time,” Thin Branch said, hearing Flying Hawk’s brisk steps from down the hallway that led to the back.
Smoke Shield swung his arms to loosen them, slipped his palette into its wooden box, and slung his triangular
white apron around his hips. He tied it securely, and checked to make sure the long point of it hung down straight between his knees. Finally, he reached into a cedar-wood box and removed three small white arrows. He admired them for a moment. Each had been bestowed as a token of honor for his exploits as a warrior. Among the Sky Hand People, no greater honor could be granted to a warrior. Smoke Shield was slipping the last one into his hair as Flying Hawk strode into the room.
“Ready?” his uncle asked, giving him a thorough scrutiny. Flying Hawk had dressed himself in a similar white apron, the center of it decorated with an elaborate eye-in-hand motif. His face had been carefully painted: The black bar tattooed across his cheeks had been darkened with charcoal; bright hematite-red covered the rest of his face with the exception of a thin black line running straight down his forehead, nose, mouth, and chin—a symbol of the grief he expressed for those so ruthlessly slain at Alligator Village. He wore his heavy copper hairpiece: an arrow splitting a cloud. No less than eight of the small white arrows had been laced into his greased hair.
“Ready.” Smoke Shield reached for a copper-headed war club and gestured for Flying Hawk to precede him.
As they left the room, Thin Branch began replacing Smoke Shield’s paints in their small wooden case. As he did, he gently Sang the ritual song of thanks for the Powers imparted by the colors.
“Have you given thought to your words?” Flying Hawk asked as they walked out into the morning. Golden sunlight spilled out of the southern sky and cast a lattice of shadows from the high palisade that surrounded the mound top upon which they walked. To either side of the palace entrance, two guardian posts had been carved into the shape of watching eagles, beaks painted yellow, their eyes black and shining. The outline of intricately feathered wings had been carved in the sides, as if they draped possessively around the poles.
Two steep stairways descended from the gated heights: the Star Stairs to the north, and the Sun Stairs to the east. Hawk led them to the latter, passing through the heavy oak gate and descending the worn wooden steps. Split Sky City spread around them. It thrived as its people went about their daily lives, some walking or packing loads, others pounding corn in hollow mortars. The sound of shrieking children mingled with flute music. Wreaths of blue smoke bent off to the south, borne by the fall breeze. Hundreds of houses lined the plaza, their gray roofs stippling the ground beneath the city’s high wooden walls. The slanted morning light gave them a slightly hazy look as it passed through the moist air.
Two bow shots to the east, the tishu minko’s tall palace gleamed in the sunlight atop its steeply pitched earthen mound. The thatched roof, replaced but a half moon ago, still reflected a golden hue as it pointed skyward. High atop the ridgepole the wooden guardians—shaped in the form of raccoons and rattlesnakes, freshly painted—glared out at the world.
At the bottom of the Sun Stairs, Smoke Shield and Flying Hawk turned right to cross the beaten clay of the chunkey ground. As they neared the tall center pole with its red and white spirals, both men knelt, inclining their heads in recognition of the Tree of Life that speared up from the Underworld, through this world, and into the sky.
Straightening, they pursued their path past the Tree of Life toward the elongated oblong of the tchkofa. The structure topped a rectangular mound oriented toward the lunar maximum where it rose on the northeastern horizon every eighteen and a half winters. A wide wooden stairway led up a ramp to the palisaded summit. Behind the log walls, the tchkofa’s three rounded roofs could be seen; the taller middle roof reminded Smoke Shield of a squatting turtle behind a line of reeds. The smaller humps were the attached moiety houses.
He and Flying Hawk bowed to the effigy poles planted
in the earth on either side of the stairway; both had been carved into falcons, the heads painted gray, beaks yellow, and eye bars black. Their eyes, made of polished shell, seemed to glare malevolently.
“See into our souls, Grandfathers,” Flying Hawk greeted the totems. “Should you carry our words to the Above World, know that we speak only the truth.”
Smoke Shield took a breath as he placed his foot on the first step and began the ascent. At the top of the stairs stood two warriors, human versions of the falcon guards right down to the designs painted on their faces and the falcon-feather capes around their shoulders. They nodded and tugged on their warrior’s forelocks, a token of respect for their high minko.
Flying Hawk nodded in return, and Smoke Shield followed as he led the way through the portal. The small courtyard sprouted additional totems, heads carved from the tops of the upright logs. Here the turkey-tail mace represented the Chief Clan, while Raccoon, Panther, and Crawfish Clans filled out the Hickory Moiety on the east. The carved effigies on the west were occupied by Skunk, Hawk, Fish, and Deer totems, each perfectly carved and painted, their expressions vigilant.
The path between them led to the narrow doorway that opened into the great structure.
The tchkofa consisted of a great round dome, with smaller earth lodges attached at each end by means of a short covered hallway. The smaller rooms were used when moiety business needed to be discussed in private. Hickory Moiety’s chamber lay to the north, Old Camp’s to the south.
“This is it,” Smoke Shield said under his breath.
“You’ll do fine,” Flying Hawk told him with a smile, reaching out to pat his shoulder before ducking into the cavelike passage.
Smoke Shield placed a hand to his breast in an effort to still his pounding heart; then he followed behind his uncle.
After the pure sunshine, the effect was like entering a pit. A low babble of voices went silent as Flying Hawk walked through the gloom to a stout wooden stool covered with cougar hides. It stood in the northern curve of the big earth-covered building. Smoke Shield fought the urge to squint and followed from long practice, trusting Uncle not to trip over something, or someone.
The place smelled smoky, perfumed with red cedar wood. As he passed one of the thick pine roof supports, his fingers traced the polished wood. How many fingers like his had caressed that same post, seeking reassurance in their passage? Without embarrassing himself he took his position behind Uncle’s right shoulder.
Thick logs supported the heavy roof. Stout cane poles had been laid for walls, the whole then covered with earth. Clay had been used to plaster the interior, and then painted in red and white pigments, the colors of chaos and order. To the north—just before the entrance to the Hickory Moiety hall—a clay altar, two paces long, and hip high, had been built. Upon this rested a large red cedar box made of perfectly joined wood. The outside was carved with the hand-eye symbol of the people, the eye rendered in copper with a large section of whelk shell for the pupil. In relief to either side, S-shaped images of Winged Serpent seemed to guard the seeing hand.
The sacred fire burned brightly in the tchkofa’s open center. Smoke Shield focused on it as his eyes began to adjust. The clay hearth contained four logs laid out north to south, east to west, their joined ends afire. He touched the shell gorget on his chest. Engraved in its concave surface was an image of Spider. The cross carved in the middle of its back represented the Sacred Fire taken from Father Sun. According to the story, no other animal had been able to bring fire back to a dark and unfriendly earth. Opossum had tried to carry it in his furry tail, but it caught fire; which was why to this day, his tail was hairless. When Vulture flew up to the Sky World, he placed fire on his head; and to this day
his failure was marked by red, blistered-looking skin. Many-colored Crow made the next attempt, but the fire had scorched his feathers, which left crows eternally black. It was Spider who spun a web, and thus was able to tow fire back to earth. For that reason, Spider continued to build its web in the shape of sunlight.
The sacred fire burned constantly, fed day and night by careful hands. Each summer, with the ripening of the green corn, the most important ceremony in the Sky Hand world was held. After four days of purification, all fires were extinguished throughout the land. Then, one by one, they were relit throughout Split Sky City and the Sky Hand territory. Each blaze was rekindled using fire carried directly from the tchkofa’s sacred fire.
The only time in memory when the fire had gone out had been in his grandmother’s time. The disaster occurred the same night as a destructive fire that had razed the high minko’s palace. Since then, the sacred fire had been burning, a supply of wood constantly at hand. Smoke Shield glanced at Flying Hawk. It was said that someone had extinguished the Sacred Fire that terrible night when the high minko’s palace burned. It was also said that from that night, trouble had continued to brew, that it had led to Flying Hawk killing his twin brother.
Smoke Shield couldn’t stop himself from fingering the scar on the side of his head, remembering, wondering if the events of the past continued to spiral down through the present.
Before the fire, atop a small altar, stood the Eagle Pipe with its long stem. Carved from pink granite, the pipe depicted Eagle Man, a combined image of human, eagle, and snake. He crouched, wings to the side, his hair pulled into a tight round bun atop his head. His mouth was open, eyes staring out from inside their forked design. The center of the image’s back had been hollowed for the bowl; a stem as long as a man’s leg protruded from behind.

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