People of the Weeping Eye (North America's Forgotten Past) (16 page)

Read People of the Weeping Eye (North America's Forgotten Past) Online

Authors: W. Michael Gear,Kathleen O'Neal Gear

BOOK: People of the Weeping Eye (North America's Forgotten Past)
6.27Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
Flying Hawk deliberately turned his head to Smoke Shield.
Smoke Shield took a deep breath, stilling his nerves. “I think I know a way. But we must act now, while they think we are weak, and before we can recall any of our warriors.” He began outlining his plan, but as he spoke, only images of Morning Dew filled his mind.
A
mber Bead threaded his way through the clutter of houses, corn cribs, and ramadas that lay between the plaza and the south gate. Split Sky City buzzed like the summer insects. People clustered around cooking fires, their talk centered on the just-concluded Council in the tchkofa. Children—unconcerned with the politics of the day—ran back and forth, laughing, playing tag, or tossing deerhide balls with small stickball racquets. If only Amber Bead could be so free of worry. But the children’s time would come when they, too, adopted the mantles and cares of adulthood.
The fragrance of wood smoke, grilling meat, fish, and fowl favored the nostrils with an incense that tickled Amber Bead’s empty stomach. He stilled his hunger, mind on the plan that Smoke Shield had just outlined. The idea was daring, and so fraught with risk.
But what does it mean for my people?
As he observed the faces of the adults around their cook fires, he realized their expressions mirrored his own: concerned. The Sky Hand people took the balance of Power seriously. They believed with all of their hearts that unless the White Arrow Chahta were successfully punished, and the balance between life and death, order and chaos was put back in harmony, they would suffer for it in the end.
He could hear Singing, accompanied by the clacking of rhythm sticks and the hollow melody of flutes in the night. Like the concept of universal balance, the lilting
melody mitigated the worried conversations with hope of redress in the grander Spiritual world.
He stepped around a broken basket that lay in the path and glanced up at the evening sky. High overhead, against the day’s last light, a V of geese winged southward, their honks barely audible over the sounds of the city.
“Mikko?” someone called from a nearby fire. “What news from the Council? You were there, weren’t you?”
Amber Bead raised a hand, ducking his head as was required of an Albaamo when addressing a Chikosi. “A decision is made,” he said carefully, recognizing the speaker, a middle-aged man of the Deer Clan. “My apologies, respected sir, but I am forbidden to speak of it. Your chief, Two Poisons, is the one to ask. Again, my apologies.”
He hurried on before the man could rise from his fire and pursue more. Gods, the wrath of the world would fall upon his aging shoulders if he disclosed any of the Council’s decisions. After so many years, and endless accusations by his own people that he was nothing more than a Chikosi lap dog, he should have grown used to such burdens.
Perhaps that will change.
And a faint flicker of hope was kindled in his old breast.
He rounded one of the last granaries. Six paces across, the granary had been built on peeled posts so that the floor was head high, the upper walls made of woven cane and saplings. The thatched roof extended so the drip line was well out from the walls, the whole structure designed so that air circulated around the cached corn to keep it from molding. The posts, too, were greased so that wily raccoons, opossums, and rodents couldn’t climb up the slippery wood to the bounty stored within.
He nodded respectfully to the warriors standing at the gate and walked through the narrow gap and into the night beyond Split Sky City. A soft sigh of relief passed
his lips. He always felt trapped within the city. Once again he was nominally in Albaamaha territory, though the many camps, houses, and granaries clustered just as thick outside the gates. Here, too, people crouched around their evening fires. The place smelled of humanity, smoke, urine, and dung. He nearly tripped over a broken piece of pottery and stepped around a wad of discarded cloth too worn for any function but to foul a man’s feet in the deepening dusk.
“Mikko?” came calls in his own language as people recognized him.
“I can say nothing,” he told the crowd that seemed to materialize out of the gloom. “The chiefs will make an announcement when the time comes.”
An old woman stepped out to block his path. “My daughter and her family were murdered at Alligator Town,” she cried harshly. “They will get blood, won’t they?” she asked, referring to the Chikosi.
He could see several Traders in the crowd. One could never trust the Traders. The only master they served was themselves and the Power of their Trade. “I can only say that the Sky Hand People take the outrage at Alligator Town very seriously.”
“Most of the dead were
our
people,” the old woman cried, raising a chorus of muttering assent.
“It’s the Chikosi,” another growled. “Always the Chikosi.”
“Hush,” someone rejoined. “Do you want them to hear? You’ll end up a slave, cleaning their chamber pots.”
“Someday,” another added ominously, “we’ll have our chance.”
“Enough,” Amber Bead said gently. “Leave this to the Sky Hand. Let them deal with it.”
“Figures we’d hear that from you,” a young man in the back replied. In the gloom Amber Bead couldn’t make out the speaker’s identity.
“Ah.” Amber Bead kept his voice reasonable. “Then perhaps you should walk through those gates, climb the
Sun Stairs, and tell the high minko how to run his affairs. I’m sure he’s pacing the floor up there, waiting for some green Albaamo youth to come whisper wise counsel into his ear.” He got the laughter he wanted, then added, “When the time is right, you shall hear what decision has been made. Until then, I am tired, hungry, and wish to eat.” He paused just long enough before adding, “Alone!”
The crowd gave way as he walked boldly through.
“It had better be justice for our dead,” the old woman cried in a parting shot. “If not, there are others among us who will act.”
Amber Bead turned on his heel. “I know. Tensions are high. But do
not
start down a path that will lead us all to disaster!” He did his best to stare them down in the darkness, and received silence instead.
After a moment, he continued on his way, passing the last of the camps. Stepping off the trail, he skirted his small garden, the squash, pumpkin, and corn stalks brown and shriveled. His house, as benefited his position, was larger than most. Like two humped beehives joined at the hip, it was made of individual saplings sunk into the ground, then bent over and tied at the top. Green vines had been woven through the saplings to strengthen the walls, and thatch was tied over the whole.
Amber Bead ducked through the low doorway and straightened. No fire gleamed from his hearth. The boxes, matting, and sleeping bench made darker shadows. A faint reddish glow came from the doorway into his second room.
The savory smell of roasting catfish filled his house and brought the juices of anticipation to his mouth. Three people sat on the matting around the central fire: Old Paunch, Whippoorwill, and young Crabapple looked up as he entered.
“It is done?” Paunch asked by way of greeting.
“It is done, Paunch.”
Paunch looked at the youth. “Crabapple, go outside.
Make sure that no one sneaks out of the dark to place his ear next to the wall. We need to talk without worry.”
“Yes, Uncle.” The youth jumped lithely to his feet, nodded respectfully to Amber Bead, and ducked out the doorway.
The girl, Whippoorwill, stood. She took Amber Bead’s elbow and helped him down as he took his seat on the rush matting. His bones cracked in the process, and he gasped with relief as he relaxed.
Behind him, his bed was a confused tangle of blankets on a waist-high pole bed built against the wall. Several cloth bags hung from the walls, and brownware ceramics made a disorderly collection under his bed. The catfish, wrapped in large basswood leaves, sizzled on a green willow rack, just high enough off the coals to keep from charring.
Whippoorwill reseated herself, her virgin’s skirt swaying. As was proper, she sat with her knees together while the men sat cross-legged. She had laid a muskrathide cape to one side. The red light bathed her face and skin, touching her full breasts ever so softly and casting shadows in the hollows behind her collarbone. She would have been a most attractive girl but for her large haunted eyes. Something in their depths sent a shiver down his spine. She seemed aloof, as if this world was but an illusion and her souls resided elsewhere.
“What have they decided?” Paunch asked.
“Smoke Shield will attack White Arrow Town. He has gone straight from the Council to the Men’s House to begin fasting and purifying himself for battle. He and what warriors remain will leave four days hence, and secretly travel to White Arrow Town.”
Paunch frowned at the fire. His white hair looked rosy in the glow of the embers. Despite his name, he was a thin man, hollowed out with age. His face betrayed too many seasons of sun, rain, and weather. Deeply etched lines camouflaged the faded tattoos of
his youth. Now he fingered the skin sagging from his chin, and nodded slightly. A ratty brown hunting shirt hung from his shoulders and was belted at his waist with a double wrap of rope.
“He will have what? Perhaps thirty warriors? Forty? Is that enough to take a defended town?”
“Smoke Shield said that there will be a wedding. That Chahta from all over have been invited to the celebratory feast. Hundreds are expected to come from all the Chahta clans. People will be everywhere.”
Paunch blinked. “It will be like a hornet’s nest, filled with warriors from every Chahta town. Does Smoke Shield—arrogant as he is—think he will live long enough to even reach the outer wall?”
“Dreams,” Whippoorwill said absently. “He lives in Dreams. They are no more than mist in the forest.”
Amber Bead snorted. “Smoke Shield doesn’t strike me as the Dreamy kind. Unless, of course, they are visions of blood and agony.”
Whippoorwill fixed him with her uncanny eyes, and Amber Bead squirmed.
“Not Smoke Shield,” she insisted as if Amber Bead were a silly child. “Screaming Falcon Dreams his future. He sees his prestige and greatness in the eyes of his worshipping people. It is well that he Dreams these things.” Her eyes lost focus. “It is so much better to live in one’s Dreams. Don’t you think?”
“Dreams do little for our people,” Amber Bead muttered in return. Happily, he turned his attention to Paunch, who seemed particularly unsettled by Whippoorwill’s words. “Our people are worried about this. No one expected the Chahta attack. It came out of nowhere, at the wrong time of year. War is better conducted in the summer. The entire harvest at Alligator Town was destroyed. Our people down there will have to disperse, make their living out in the forest, beyond the protection of Sky Hand warriors. In little groups of families, they will be vulnerable to Yuchi and Pensacola
raiders, let alone the White Arrow, should they come hunting for more slaves and scalps.”
“The Sky Hand have made too many enemies of the surrounding peoples,” Paunch agreed. “Some of them will take this as an opportunity to avenge themselves, and it won’t be the Sky Hand who take the brunt of it, but our people.”
“The high minko says he will provide whatever food is necessary.” Amber Bead watched Whippoorwill reach out with tongs made of hickory sticks. She used them to carefully lift the catfish from the fire and place it in a wooden bowl crafted from a slab of walnut. The bowl had a duck’s head carved on either end.
“And where will he get it?” Paunch asked, eyes on the steaming fish.
“From the Albaamaha granaries up and down the river,” Amber Bead answered. “Thank the gods we’ve had a better harvest than usual, but to feed that many people? Bellies will be rubbing backbones by spring.”
Whippoorwill used the tongs to pull back the basswood leaf wrappings. White flaky catfish steamed in the dim light. Amber Bead’s belly growled loud enough that both of his guests glanced his way.
“You had best eat,” Paunch added. “If predictions are right, we’ll be hearing enough of that sound come spring.”
“The combination of empty bellies and the prospect of Smoke Shield succeeding Flying Hawk could lead to a simmering discontent among our people. Even the Chikosi dread the day Smoke Shield becomes high minko.”
“What if an envoy were to travel to White Arrow Town?” Paunch asked as Whippoorwill used the duck-head handles to place the plate before Amber Bead. “What if someone were to whisper in Screaming Falcon’s ear that an attack was coming? What if Smoke Shield’s war party was destroyed?”

Other books

Diluted Desire by Desiree Day
Messenger by Lois Lowry
Perfect Fit by Naima Simone
Shadow Music by Julie Garwood
The Chalk Giants by Keith Roberts
Love and Treasure by Ayelet Waldman