People of the Weeping Eye (North America's Forgotten Past) (25 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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He had laughed, his body lax on hers as the sensations faded.
“What?” she’d gasped.
“After that, I think the whole town knows.”
“You shouldn’t grunt like that.”
“Me? The way you yipped I thought someone stepped on a puppy.”
Gods, who’d have thought? She’d heard the stories the women told. Nothing had prepared her for this. A smile bent her lips, and she hugged herself. She hadn’t known that love could be such a blessing. Not just the coupling, but the warmth in his gaze, the way he laughed at her jokes. When they looked into each other’s eyes, a golden ray of light reached out from their souls, touching, sharing.
Someday, of course, he would take another wife. As his authority and prestige grew, he would take even more. To do so was inevitable and necessary. For the moment, however, she could have him all to herself. And in the coming seasons, she would ensure that this special bond strengthened. Together, they would work as a team, building the greatness of White Arrow Town.
Yesterday they had discussed the possibilities of an alliance with the Natchez. With their combined warriors, they would whittle away at the Sky Hand.
“One day soon,” Screaming Falcon said, “Biloxi will place his cousin atop the palace in Split Sky City.”
She had mused, “It won’t be right, him ruling a larger town than White Arrow.”
“So,” he said, “we build a bigger city here.”
She gave him a taunting grin. “Just where will you find the labor? Surely you don’t expect our people to dig and pack all that dirt. And you’re going to kill off most of the Chikosi.”
“The Albaamaha will have to do something. Besides, the Sky Hand have already broken them to labor. They can serve us just as well.”
Considering that, they had spent more than a hand of time planning how much food would be necessary, where to set up a camp for the workers.
In Morning Dew’s mind, White Arrow Town grew, covered with huge earthworks supporting great palaces and temples. She saw herself carried to Split Sky City on a great litter, and all the way, people bowed, touching their foreheads, saying, “There goes the great matron of the Chahta.”
With those images spinning between her souls, she snuggled against Screaming Falcon, and was almost asleep when a guttural voice outside their door called softly, “War Chief? Can I see you?”
She blinked herself back to wakefulness and prodded Screaming Falcon. “Someone is outside.”
“What time is it?” Screaming Falcon said muzzily.
“Early.”
“War Chief?” the accented voice called again.
“Coming.”
Screaming Falcon slipped from the robes, his body a shadow in the dark room as he wrapped his apron around his waist. “What’s this about?”
“Message from the Natchez.”
Screaming Falcon grunted assent, then staggered to the door. He was yawning like a panther as he ducked out. Through the door hanging, Morning Dew saw the barest of gray light. Gods, whoever it was must have been running all night to get here. What could be so—
It sounded like a loud slap. Then a huffing sound was accompanied by a hollow thud.
What?
Morning Dew scuttled out of the bedding, fumbled for a dress, and dragged it over her head. She was blinking, confused, as she ducked through the door. In the gray gloom she could see Screaming Falcon lying on the hard clay. Muddled by sleep, she instinctively ran to him, crouching.
As she did, arms like hardened wood clamped around her. When she opened her mouth to scream, a dark form jammed a wad of cloth between her jaws, almost gagging her. Her screams made muffled moaning sounds
through her nose. She thrashed, trying to spit the thing out, but a cord was slipped around her head and knotted, tying the gag in place. Two strong men bound her arms behind her, oblivious to her desperate attempts to break free. Pushing her to the ground, they pinned her, quickly lashing her legs together.
through her nose. She thrashed, trying to spit the thing out, but a cord was slipped around her head and knotted, tying the gag in place. Two strong men bound her arms behind her, oblivious to her desperate attempts to break free. Pushing her to the ground, they pinned her, quickly lashing her legs together.
As she jerked on the cold clay, one of the dark figures ducked into her door, hissing, “All clear.”
“Good,” her captor whispered back. “Set fire to it, then help me.”
The attacker, a burly man, had bent over Screaming Falcon, using rope pulled from a bag to tightly bind him. Her husband only groaned, making no effort to resist.
Her nose flared as she sucked great gasps of air, her heart hammering at her chest. Though she fought the thick cord binding her, she couldn’t break free.
From the corner of her eye, she saw the first flicker of fire, leaping yellow in the predawn gloom. It came from the palace, not a bow shot away. Tongues of yellow licked up from a lower corner of the thatch. She watched, terrified, as dark figures emerged from the great doorway, several of them carrying burdens as they made their way down the stairs.
She heard a jar break inside her house. A heartbeat later, the intruder ducked through the doorway. “Hickory oil,” he said. “Broke it on the bed after I piled the firewood there. Used a bowl to scoop embers from the fire. It’s going to burn hot.”
“Good, let’s go.”
The two men bent; together they heaved Screaming Falcon’s limp body over the shoulders of the burly man. As he started off across the plaza, the second man easily hoisted Morning Dew over his shoulders. Squirm as she would, the effect was the same as if she were a sack of squash.
Later, Morning Dew would remember glimpses: fires leaping up from roofs, running figures. The first scream
engraved itself on her souls. Then someone shouted, “
Run!
” War whoops broke out in the still air, hideous bellows of rage, torn from human throats. Then the screams grew louder.
engraved itself on her souls. Then someone shouted, “
Run!
” War whoops broke out in the still air, hideous bellows of rage, torn from human throats. Then the screams grew louder.
The image of a warrior, crouching, his naked body wet and muddy, was caught in the gaudy light of the burning palace. He had his bow pulled back. She saw the release, caught the moment when the barbed shaft drove itself into a fleeing man’s back.
As her captor pounded past her mother’s house, Morning Dew gaped at the flames crackling through the roof. Then her eyes fixed on her mother’s sprawled body. She lay with her arms akimbo, her long hair spread across the ground. A dark stain had spread from the base of her skull. The firelight glinted from her wide fixed eyes.
It’s not true. A Dream. Just a Dream.
Chaos, it was all chaos. From her bouncing perch, vision upside down, it could be only a malignant and vicious Dream. She lived an impossible nightmare as she was carried down the path to the canoe landing. There, she was dumped like a log onto the ground. The impact drove the breath from her body, but didn’t loosen the tight cords.
“Guard them,” came a harsh order. “Check the ropes, over and over. If one escapes, it will be on your head.”
Sky Hand! The accent was Sky Hand! A cry knotted itself in her throat. She twisted, seeing Screaming Falcon’s limp body. And then others. All bound, gagged, and under the scrutiny of two men who carried war clubs in the twilight.
The roar that had been building finally caught her attention. It even drowned the pitiful screams of the dying, and overwhelmed the whoops of the attackers. She bent her neck, staring from the corner of her eyes as an eruption of fire streaked into the sky, belching thick black smoke. The palace. Her palace.
Gods, where was Biloxi? Where was Mother? Not
that dead corpse she’d seen. No! Impossible! Tears of anger, fear, and disbelief shimmered in her eyes, then ran hot across her nose, and down her cheeks.
that dead corpse she’d seen. No! Impossible! Tears of anger, fear, and disbelief shimmered in her eyes, then ran hot across her nose, and down her cheeks.
How could this have happened?
W
aking early, sleeping little, just came with advanced age. Old Woman Fox had accepted that fact gracefully. In truth, however, it surprised her that she snapped wide awake that morning. For four days previously, she had been working, cooking, entertaining guests, gossiping, and generally behaving as an ex-matron should. Most people still called her “matron,” even if she had given over the duties to Sweet Smoke.
aking early, sleeping little, just came with advanced age. Old Woman Fox had accepted that fact gracefully. In truth, however, it surprised her that she snapped wide awake that morning. For four days previously, she had been working, cooking, entertaining guests, gossiping, and generally behaving as an ex-matron should. Most people still called her “matron,” even if she had given over the duties to Sweet Smoke.
With the household stores depleted from days of feasting, she had pulled her old dress on, lifted a basket, and trudged through the predawn darkness to the granary. There, she had raised the ladder, grumbled at her creaky bones, and climbed to unlatch the door. After filling the basket, she reversed the process, and hitched her load to her shoulders.
When the first screams broke out, she was halfway home. Stunned, she had stopped and watched the growing panic as warriors slipped between buildings, shooting arrows at anything that moved.
Knowing she was old and slow, and that she’d have no chance to flee, Old Woman Fox dropped her corn and scurried to an emptied storage pit. There, she huddled in the shadows and watched in horror. Though the sky grew brighter, the terrible scene was illuminated by burning buildings—great thatch-and-log torches that would have rivaled the sun.
“Run! Run!” The cries mingled with the whoops of the attacking warriors.
“To the forest!” The shout came from a nearby warrior. “To the forest! Hurry! Save yourselves!”
A little girl broke from one of the houses, squealing terror. The warrior turned, shifted his bow to his left hand, and grabbed a war club from his belt. In three paces, he caught the girl, barely breaking stride as he split her skull. He was still shouting, “Run!” as he disappeared around one of the houses.
In his wake, the little girl’s corpse twitched, jerked, then went still.
Old Woman Fox gaped in disbelief. The man seemed to be instilling fear, not seeking a fight. And she placed that accent: Sky Hand, as sure as rain fell.
“Oh, dear gods, do not let this happen.” She knotted her bony old fingers, wringing them. “Come on, rally! Where are my warriors?”
Then she saw Raven Mankiller pound past her hiding place, his naked body gleaming in the firelight. One of the Badger Clan’s greatest warriors, he fled like a deer before a drive. Swiveling her head, she looked back at the great fire that consumed the palace and its surrounding houses.
That’s what it was: a drive. But just the opposite of the ones her hunters used to surround deer. The tactic was to find a large meadow, generally one grown full of brush, hazelnut, and scrub. The hunters would ring it, setting fires that burned ever closer to the center. The fire, and the shouts of the hunters, would drive the deer into the ever-decreasing circle. Frantic, the animals would mill in a small knot. There, the hunters would shoot arrow after arrow into their dense ranks. Few ever escaped.
“Cunning,” Old Woman Fox said. “This time the drive is the other way. And we are the deer.”
Another warrior appeared, this one entering one of the houses, only to emerge moments later carrying a split cane torch. This he used to set fire to the roof. Peeking over the rim of her hole, Old Woman Fox watched him set fire to house after house.
She remained in her hole, listening to the roaring of the fires, while the morning light strengthened. The
shouts were distant now, coming from beyond the palisade gate. For a brief time, there was silence. Smoke rolled past in waves, borne by the morning breeze; ash, like bits of polluted snow, settled from the sky. A finger of wind flicked ash into a whirlwind, dancing it around. Then it went over to tease the little girl’s hair before it skipped away.
shouts were distant now, coming from beyond the palisade gate. For a brief time, there was silence. Smoke rolled past in waves, borne by the morning breeze; ash, like bits of polluted snow, settled from the sky. A finger of wind flicked ash into a whirlwind, dancing it around. Then it went over to tease the little girl’s hair before it skipped away.
How could the Chikosi have done this? Every trail and waterway was crawling with travelers headed home from the marriage. Someone should have seen a war party of this size. But what better time—assuming you could avoid detection? White Arrow Town was reeling from four days of festivities, Dances, feasts, and games. Everyone was exhausted. With so many people everywhere, they’d believed themselves safe. The thought of an attack wouldn’t have crossed her mind.
A roof crashed as it fell into a gutted house and shot a vomit of sparks into the choking sky.
Moments later, a conch horn sounded from behind. Its mellow note rose on the dirty morning, hanging, somehow mocking. Almost instantly the warriors reappeared, passing like gray ghosts through the smoke haze. They glanced this way and that, bows at the ready, arrows nocked. And then, like mythical beasts, they were gone.
Only silence, the billowing smoke and ash, and the little dead girl’s body remained. How long did Old Woman Fox hide there? When it was over, she could only judge time by the sun: a brown orb piercing the smoke, no more than a hand’s height above the horizon.
Old Woman Fox climbed out when two men appeared, White Arrow warriors, advancing with drawn bows.
“Here!” she called, coughing from the ache in her throat. “Don’t shoot.”
“Matron?” one of the men called. “Are there others?”
“Just me.”
“Go to the gate. It’s safe there.”
She hurried past, coughing against the smoke-tickle
in her lungs. Here and there a house had avoided the flames. Corpses and the dying lay scattered amidst the trash that had been left from the feasting in Screaming Falcon’s honor. No one had had time to clean up. The granaries were roaring infernos. Twice the burning granaries made her backtrack. She had to walk wide, shielding herself from the searing heat with her hand.
in her lungs. Here and there a house had avoided the flames. Corpses and the dying lay scattered amidst the trash that had been left from the feasting in Screaming Falcon’s honor. No one had had time to clean up. The granaries were roaring infernos. Twice the burning granaries made her backtrack. She had to walk wide, shielding herself from the searing heat with her hand.
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