People of the Weeping Eye (North America's Forgotten Past) (20 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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She arched a suspicious eyebrow. “I’ve heard of the buffalo, and even seen the night lights. But these other things?” She shook her head. “No.”
“They are as real as I am.”
She glanced at him. “Did you ever find love?”
He lowered his eyes. “Several times. Once with you.”
“Then why did you leave? Do not tell me it was over this crime you committed in the south. I would have taken you no matter how polluted and guilty you were.”
He sighed. “I suppose I left because I was deeply, truly, content with you. I was in love, and loved back. You lifted the darkness from my souls, and I loved living again.”
“Was that such a burden?”
He glanced at the fabric pack resting atop the cedar one beside the door. “No, it was an injustice.”
She had followed his gaze to the pack. “You could have just thrown it into the river, perhaps smashed it to pieces and tossed it into a busk pit somewhere as an offering of appeasement to the gods. You didn’t have to continue punishing yourself.”
“You don’t know what I did.”
“I know more than you think.”
“Really?”
She shrugged, going back to her beadwork. “I looked in the sack once while you slept.”
He swallowed hard. “And what did you see?”
“Your rotted conscience.”
“Well, it is of no matter. I am going back. What was done shall be made right.”
“I suppose that will allow your souls to travel to the Sky World without regret. And once there, will you be received by your Ancestors with open arms?”
He glanced up at the soot-thick bones. “I don’t know what to believe about the afterlife. Among the Azteca, I saw people sacrificed to their rain god.”
“That happens here. Prisoners are killed before the palaces and thrown down the mound.”
“One or two, yes. But not thousands. For four days, from the first light of dawn to the last rays of sunset a solid line of captives was marched up the high pyramid. They were bent backward over a stone, their beating hearts cut from their bodies. Then the corpses were tossed bleeding down the steep stairs. As fast as they fell, slaves hauled them off to the fields for fertilizer.” He saw her shock. “They painted their tall stone mound with blood. It shone crimson in the sunlight.” A pause. “And the rains didn’t come. So seven days later, they started the whole ugly process again.”
“You joke.”
He sadly shook his head. “How can one believe in the gods after seeing something like that?”
“But you still believe in Power. You followed your Dreams to this girl.”
“In Power, yes. I’ve touched it, Danced with it. I’ve felt it rush through me like a hot wind. It’s gods that I no longer believe in.” He looked down at Two Petals’ slack face. “But then, you always thought I was a fool.”
 
 
“Y
ou could stay with me for a while.”
Fox Squirrel’s words echoed between Trader’s souls as he used a broken branch to dig his copper out of its cache. The snow had ceased, the air crisp. Around him the forest dripped, and occasional bits of icy snow clattered as they fell from the branches. At the trail crossing, brown water swirled
around his canoe. The forest was quiet, as if waiting, the Dreams of the trees hidden down in the roots beneath the frosty leaves.
“What do you think?” Trader asked Swimmer as the dog lifted a leg to pee on a sapling. “If I left the copper, no one would find it. For half the packs we’re carrying, Fox Squirrel would keep us for the winter.”
Swimmer cocked his head, probably the same way he would if listening to a lunatic.
“It’s a warm place to stay. And she liked you. Scratched your ears and belly like it was you giving her gifts instead of me.”
Swimmer turned his attention to sniffing a zigzag pattern down the trail. He seemed particularly interested in a set of turkey tracks that were fading in the melting snow.
Trader pulled the last of the dirt free and reached down for his pack. “Of course, the weather will break. These fall storms, they drop a couple of days of snow, then the air warms right up. Won’t be true cold for another moon.”
Swimmer came trotting back, his furry tail wagging. He stopped to pee on the same sapling, then switched sides and peed on it again.
“Just making sure, huh?”
Trader lugged the heavy copper down to the canoe and settled it. “Come, Swimmer. If I’m being an idiot, I’d best be about it.”
The dog jumped nimbly to the canoe, clambered onto the packs, and settled into his place on a fold of fabric Trader had placed for him. Trader pushed off, raising his paddle and driving the canoe into the current.
“Oh, I guess it’s not the last foolish mistake I’ll make in my life.” He nosed the canoe past the creek mouth and into the main channel. “Still, there’s something about her. Our dear Fox Squirrel has a certain spirit. And it’s not just the coupling. The thing is, she really likes men.”
He glanced at the dog. “Not all women like men. But I guess you wouldn’t know about that. I think it has to do with the people. Different people have different ways
about how men and women deal with each other. Now, among my people, women are … well, they care for the house. That’s their duty. That and raising the children. Men make the decisions. I guess you’d say there’s a wall. A difference that’s bred into us. Men and women have to be so very careful not to get too close.”
Swimmer stared at him from under lifted eyebrows.
“No, I’m serious. Coupling is all right. As long as you’re married. And to each other. And it’s not too close to some sacred time. And you’re not trying to purify yourself to keep some lightning-blasted Power in balance with some other crazy Power. Rules, rules, rules. That’s what we have.”
He pondered that, swinging his paddle in a steady rhythm, reading the current.
“Makes you wonder how that all got started.” He nodded back toward the shore. “Fox Squirrel and I, we had fun. We coupled and talked, laughed, and talked some more, then we coupled.” He paused. “The thing is, I really enjoy spending time with her.”
Swimmer shuffled on his fabric and dropped his muzzle on his paws.
“Among my people, a man who spends too much time with a woman is considered weak. They believe that he picks up a woman’s ways, and his heart turns watery. Then you spend time in an A’khota village and they have women warriors. Not many, but women who go on battle walks, shoot arrows, and swing war clubs. Mention that among my people and they’ll think your head’s gone softer than your heart.”
Swimmer tapped his tail a couple of times.
“So,” Trader mused, “we’ll go to the lower river. Down past the Natchez and Caddo. I know of a band of Tunica down there where the women are as much fun as Fox Squirrel. Not as attractive, mind you, but willing.”
He frowned. “Of course, they don’t speak much Trader Tongue. You can get the point across: These furs for a night with you.” A pause. “Trouble is, after Fox Squirrel,
lying with a woman who can’t talk to you just isn’t the same.”
From Swimmer’s expression, he wasn’t sure the dog believed him.
“What?”
Swimmer perked his ears.
“Oh, that.” Trader cleared his throat. “All right. There was a woman once. I was madly in love with her. She filled my Dreams, day and night. I watched her, and she watched me. It wasn’t that she was forbidden, as Fox Squirrel would have had you believe. She wasn’t a relative. Fact is, she was in a proper clan. My clan representatives had spoken to hers; a marriage was already arranged. I knew that. We knew that,” he corrected.
“I might have been young, but I gave my heart to her, Swimmer. And you know what, she still fills my Dreams. Even after all these years.” He nodded at the dog. “That’s what happened while I was coupling with Fox Squirrel.”
He watched the endless trees crowding the bank. “Why do I tell you things I wouldn’t even admit to myself? What is it about you? Are you really the demon dog those silly farmers thought you were?”
Swimmer thumped his tail again.
“That’s what I thought.” Trader smiled. “Yes, that’s why I left. That’s why I always leave. I meet a woman, like Fox Squirrel, then at just the wrong time,
her
image seems to bloom like some exotic flower between my souls.”
Trader paddled for a while, an empty feeling inside.
“I’ll bet you’re wondering why I don’t go back and get her?”
He bit his lip, wondering if he could say this, even to Swimmer.
“Because I killed a man over her. By now, she’s long been married. It’s bad enough what my people would do to me. They don’t take kindly to murder … especially over a woman. But the worst thing is, I couldn’t stand the look she’d give me. Maybe it would be hatred, or worse,
loathing. And what would I do if her expression proved she despised me? Hatred? Loathing? I guess that’s all right. But being despised, now that’s like a knife in the heart.”
When he looked down, Swimmer was asleep.
But then, being ignored was better than being despised.
P
ower, like air, permeated the world. It could flow like a subtle breeze through a man’s life, or blow like a gale, flatten his house, and send him tumbling to ruin. Unlike air, Power could be managed. To channel it toward a given purpose took specific rituals, and the greatest of respect and preparation. Like fire it could burn just as easily as heat. Do not believe for a moment that humans can ever control Power. The foolish might try, but in the end, they would be consumed by the very force they sought to master. Rather, like a river, it could be used, diverted to a specific end, but eventually its water must return to the river.
For war, the red Power bestowed its wielder with prowess, courage, skill, and endurance. To call Power to his aid, Smoke Shield followed the prescribed ritual: He had painted his body red, with black on his lower face. Then he had dressed in his war shirt, collected his bow and arrows, and his shield. He had slipped his three small white arrows through his hair and picked up his war ax. Three times he had circled the tchkofa mound, calling out for warriors. People had gathered, watching solemnly. Among them, his wives, Heron Wing and Violet Bead. On his last round, he had seen both women retreat through the crowd, each headed to her house where she would clean the place, sweeping any trash to a pile in the corner.
Since both had just recently emerged from the Women’s House, neither could taint any of his possessions.
A woman during her moon could pollute a man, cause Power to shun him. After cleaning the house, they would prepare a feast, using care to follow the rituals, never touching the food with their bare hands.
After finishing his three circles of the tchkofa, Smoke Shield had led the way to the Men’s House. For three days the thirty-two men who had joined him had secluded themselves. They had assiduously avoided any contact with females, fasted, bathed in the sweat lodge, and drunk a broth made of button snakeroot.
On the third day, High Minko Flying Hawk entered the Men’s House. He had painted his face red with black bars running parallel across the cheeks. The heavy copper headpiece had been polished to a sheen, and his eight small white arrows—symbols of war honors—had been poked through his hair. He carried a hafted stone ceremonial knife; chipped from fine chert imported from the Charokee lands, it was as long as his arm, and used to ritually execute prisoners. Flying Hawk had worn his best white apron, the tip of it hanging down between his knees.
Smoke Shield watched as the high minko looked at the expectant warriors who sat on the benches. A low fire—its embers carefully carried from the tchkofa fire—smoldered in the central hearth. On the walls hung shields, skulls, and weapons taken from long-vanquished enemies. In the east, on a clay altar covered with a blanket festooned with ivory-billed woodpecker feathers and strips of cougar hide, sat the red cedar box that held the war medicine.
It was said that within the ornately carved box were scales and bits of horn taken from the Horned Serpent by a great
Hopaye
. There, too, lay an arrowhead from the beginning times that had once tipped one of Eagle Man’s shafts. With it, he slew Cannibal Turkey. Sprigs of red cedar, shining pieces of galena, and the scalps from dead enemy chiefs added to the war medicine’s great Power. So, too, did a piece of copper sculpted into
the shape of Morning Star. Some said the red color of the wood had resulted when a great war chief sustained many wounds, the box soaking up his blood and giving him strength to continue and win his battle.
Below it, on a wooden stand, rested the war pipe, a heavy thing made of stone and carved into the shape of Morning Star as he knelt over a dead enemy and severed the man’s head. Into its back a large hole had been bored for the bowl. The long wooden stem, carved into interwoven serpents with pearls for eyes, sat just below on a raccoon skin.
Flying Hawk turned to the men. “Is there any man among you who is not ready for war?”
Smoke Shield replied first. “I am pure of heart, and am prepared.”
One by one, the others repeated his words.
Flying Hawk nodded, then walked to the altar, kneeling. “Bless us, great Spirits of war. What has been wronged must be set right. Hear the cries of our dead, calling for justice. The White Arrow Chahta have attacked our relatives and spilled their blood upon the dirt. They have broken the harmony of Power. Chaos—you who have been let loose—aid us now. Flow through us. Strengthen our hearts.”
From a box beside the altar, he shook out tobacco and carefully tamped it into the great pipe’s bowl, using a wooden pestle so as not to touch the sacred leaf. Lifting the heavy stone bowl, he placed it on the hard-packed red clay floor and carefully inserted the long stem. Then, he nodded to Smoke Shield.
With great solemnity, Smoke Shield rose from the bench and stepped to the pipe stem. Taking it in his mouth, he watched Flying Hawk light a twig in the fire and hold it over the bowl.
As Smoke Shield puffed, Flying Hawk stood, raising his hands to the warriors. “You are about to attempt a most daring thing. We have been unjustly attacked. Our people are at risk. There is no time to call additional
warriors from the hunt. Everything rests on you. Do you understand?”
Smoke Shield grunted assent as he exhaled blue smoke and watched it rise toward the high ceiling. As he stepped aside, Blood Skull, who would be his second, took the pipe stem and sucked. At the same time, Smoke Shield stepped over, touching his medicine pouch to the war medicine box. “Bless me with courage and skill. Grant me cunning and the ability to outwit my enemies.” Then he hung the small bundle around his neck.
He stepped aside as Blood Skull touched his medicine pouch to the war medicine and asked for its blessing.
As the warriors, one by one, smoked from the war pipe and touched their medicine to the cedar box, Flying Hawk told them, “In all of our history, none of our Ancestors has been called upon to attempt so daring an attack. The White Arrow do not expect you. They will be comfortable, happy, and lax in their vigilance. Their thoughts are only centered on this marriage, not on our attack. But you must be wary. You must sneak through the forest as silently as cougars on the hunt. You must be as keen-eyed as a hawk, and see before you are seen. Like wolves, you must not sleep, but be eternally vigilant. I warn you, do not be too eager. Do not take a single scalp just because you find some solitary Chahta along the trail, but avoid him. Remember the greater purpose of your attack. It is up to you to pass unnoticed.”
He glanced at Smoke Shield. “My nephew, cunning as the raccoon, has told you his plan. You will not travel as warriors, but as hunters. You will not wear your finery, but simple hunting shirts. Your shields will be cased in fabric sacks to look like burdens of food. When you walk, it will not be as warriors, but as simple hunters, returning with a bounty for the wedding feast.
“You will approach from the north, acting and talking like some Chahta from distant places. Avoid conversations. Say only that you are in a hurry to bear your catch to White Arrow Town.
“You will time your arrival until just after dark. In the darkness, you will enter White Arrow Town and find a house close to their palace. Inside, you will quietly kill the occupants, and only then will you uncase your shields, war clubs, and don your warrior’s clothes. But I warn you, do not take time with vanity. The Chahta will not care that your faces are not perfectly painted.”
Nervous laughter erupted from the warriors.
Flying Hawk used his hands to still them. “I know it will be hard. But subdue your passions until that moment when you burst from the house and climb the steps to the palace, and then you may let your furies loose. At that moment, scream like a thousand demons. Your job is to frighten the enemy, run through them like red wolves among quail. Instill fear and panic, and they will flee, thinking themselves overrun by overwhelming numbers. In the darkness, they will not know. Do you understand?”
“Hay-haw,” they all answered.
Smoke Shield took their measure, seeing the gleam in their eyes.
Yes, they are keen now, but will they be as committed when we are sneaking through a dark and hostile forest?
“When you have taken their high minko and this Screaming Falcon, make your way to the canoe landing. Steal whatever craft you need, and set the rest adrift. The White Arrow will have no trail to follow when they finally gather their wits. Before they are organized, you will be downriver, and most of the way home.”
Each of the men was nodding.
Flying Hawk touched his breast. “I know that sometimes, late at night, you will hesitate, wondering if you made the right decision. No one lives forever, and should anyone die, he
will
have his souls avenged. You need not return to Split Sky City to know this. You will hear the screams of the captives from far beyond the walls.”
Sobered, the men nodded, glancing at each other in reassurance.
“The Sky Hand People have never been as proud of our warriors as we are of you at this moment.” Flying Hawk bent down, taking the last puff from the war pipe. Exhaling the smoke through his mouth and nostrils, he said, “Let us go now. A great feast has been prepared. Let our people adore you, and as you feast, look into their eyes, see their gratitude, and keep that memory next to your hearts as you do this great thing.”
Smoke Shield clapped each of his men on the back as they stepped out into the fresh air. He could hear the cries of joy as his people met their heroes.
“You made a good speech,” Smoke Shield said as he lifted the war medicine and ran his arms through the straps.
“You just make a good raid,” Flying Hawk replied, worry in his eyes.
 
 
H
eron Wing clapped her hands, raising her voice along with others as the warriors trotted grandly out of the plaza; through the maze of houses, granaries, and workshops; and down to the canoe landing northwest of the Skunk Clan grounds. There, among the multitude, she watched Smoke Shield and his warriors clamber into their canoes. They pushed off and began paddling downriver, heads up, looking for all the world as if they had already won.
“Will he come back?” Violet Bead asked from beside her.
Heron Wing grunted. “Would we care if he didn’t?”
“I’m not looking forward to having my hair cut, howling in the night, and acting like a widow.”
Heron Wing shrugged. “But for the cut hair and howling, what would be the difference?”
“Not much.” Violet Bead turned; she was a tall woman, attractive, with long glistening hair. Her two children,
girls of three and four, stood beside her. Having seen twenty-one summers, Violet Bead was five years younger than Heron Wing. Smoke Shield had been smitten with the woman’s beauty the first time he’d seen her, and had pressed Flying Hawk to arrange a hasty marriage. Violet Bead’s people were weavers, their lineage of little status and less authority among the Crawfish Clan. But then, what Smoke Shield wanted, he always got. In the case of Violet Bead it had taken several years before he tired of her.
She did better than I at holding his interest.
The thought came unbidden. What did she care? She glanced back at her son, now eight. He was playing in the dirt, drawing in the soot-stained soil among bits of shell left by the shell carvers. He liked to draw, but as Pale Cat’s nephew, he would be directed toward the arts of a Healer. She had already had talks with her brother about what to do if Healing didn’t mesh well with the boy’s creative spirit. At least he was nothing like his father.
She absently reached up, fingers tracing the faint scar on her cheek. Smoke Shield had given her that after a particularly bitter argument. In truth, she didn’t mind him bedding the slave women and frolicking with the prostitutes, but he didn’t have to be so rotted blatant about it. As far as she was concerned, if he was driving himself into the slaves, prostitutes, and several other men’s wives, he wasn’t crawling into her bed. It was bad enough on those rare occasions when he felt compelled to. People had begun to talk about how for eight years he hadn’t planted his seed in her sheath.
There are advantages to having a
Hopaye
for a brother.
Pale Cat gave her the necessary herbs and had instructed her on how to irrigate her sheath to avoid pregnancy. She had told him it was for one of her friends on whose behalf she’d asked; nevertheless, he probably suspected. Pale Cat, however, held no great fondness for Smoke Shield, either.

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