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

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BOOK: People of the Weeping Eye (North America's Forgotten Past)
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Old White considered this as he used his paddle to keep them centered in the current. Silver Loon had warned him
about hostilities in the area. In the bow of the canoe, Two Petals sat, facing him. From the moment they’d left Cahokia, she’d tried to paddle. Problem was, she took this Contrary thing to heart, absolutely infuriating him as she insisted on facing backward and paddling against him. In the beginning, they’d just gone around in circles. In final frustration, he’d hollered, “Stop it!”
At which command, her brow had furrowed, and her tongue protruded from the side of her mouth. She had attacked the water with her paddle; the fury of it only drove them backward in a circle—and splashed him with enough water to thoroughly soak him.
“Go!” he finally cried in defeat. “Paddle your heart out! Paddle, curse it.”
And she’d stopped cold, head tilted as she inspected him curiously, the paddle gripped in her small hands.
That she seemed incapable of working to their benefit was of little consequence on the way downriver, but what was he going to do when they turned into the Mother River’s current? True, he’d paddled all the way upstream from the Natchez lands, but the Father Water was a wide thing, full of backwaters. The Mother River was a whole different matter; entrenched as it was between high banks, the current flowed swiftly. Could he propel them both?
Oh, such interesting times, Silver Loon had promised.
As they neared the confluence, the highlands off to the east narrowed to a point. There, visible for some distance, he could see the first of the Illinois towns.
“Do we have trouble up there?” He indicated the distant town. Several large buildings could be seen above the palisade.
“Never any trouble. Not for us,” she declared.
“I see.” And he eyed his packs, wondering how much passage was going to cost him. On the journey upriver, his canoe had been empty, only carrying provisions. Now, however, the gifts bestowed on them by Silver Loon would pique any chief’s interest.
“Keep it all,” Two Petals told him. “We need every bit of it.”
He chuckled, amused by his sudden instinct to hoard. “You’re right. They’re just things. I suppose it was spending a night with that Trader. His greed must have rubbed off.”
A traveler who had nothing was of no interest to petty chiefs. And he was, after all, Old White. As he had done for years, he could barter stories in return for a hot meal, a dry bed, and a roof. Sometimes he could perform a Healing, or dispense some of his medicine herbs. On other occasions his magic tricks would do the job.
He glanced at Two Petals. She might be a real problem. Who knew what might fly out of her mouth at the most inappropriate time? Or, did it matter? Was her Spirit vision so precise that she knew the ramifications of what she said? Thinking back to the discomfort she’d driven Trader to, he wasn’t sure. The man had been long gone come morning.
That, he decided, was a shame. The young man was from Split Sky City. Like himself, condemned to a life of running. He would have liked to have known Trader better. Who knew, perhaps they were of the same clan? Trader likely would know the fates of family, old friends, clan leaders, and the like.
“Different,” Two Petals told him. “Totally different.”
“Who, me and Trader?”
She glanced up at the cloudy sky, her hands making those intricate patterns she seemed disposed to. “Do you think it hurts when clouds run into each other?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. I’ve never been a cloud.”
“We are all clouds. Puffy, white, and sailing through blue time.”
He knotted his souls around that, trying to find the relationship, and finally gave up. The gods alone knew what twists and bends a Contrary’s thoughts took.
“I don’t want to hear about the bearded white man,” Two Petals said offhandedly.
That caught him by surprise. “Well, I saw him. He’s a man, just like any other, but his skin is definitely white. And I swear, he did have dark brown hair all over his face. His eyes were blue, funniest thing. He was about my size, but his hair was a light brown. Unlike any hair I’ve ever seen. He was pleasant enough—a bit sad, though. Because with his boat wrecked, he could never go back across the sea. He’d taken a Pequot wife … had two children.”
Old White chuckled. “One of the old men translated for me. You wouldn’t believe the stories he tells. Weapons that clap like thunder and shoot fire. Great wooden boats with hundreds of men aboard. He told of how his people ride big animals, sort of like buffalo.” He shook his head. “Now, I’ve seen some things, believe me. But the things he said were beyond belief.”
“Lies, all lies,” Two Petals told him.
Old White studied her thoughtfully. “Too bad no one can cross the sea. I’d like to see those things.”
“Yes, you would. Such friendly people.” She trailed her fingers in the water. “How does it do that?”
He dismissed that latter. “I don’t know. That white man seemed all right.”
“They’ll never come here.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Indeed? Given the fact his boat wrecked, it doesn’t bode well for their abilities to cross the sea, either. Now, that I’d like to see. One of their big floating boats.”
“Oh, you will.”
“Too bad.” He sighed. “Besides, there’s other white men. I’ve seen some on occasion. They’ve got red eyes, can’t see very well, and most avoid going out in the sun.”
“Just the same,” she told him, frowning down at the water. “Just why does it do that?”
“What?”
“It’s always standing still.”
“We’re moving.” Then he thought about it. “But so is the river.”
“It always stays in one place.”
“What about a lake?”
“The waves are busy trying to stay home.”
“Maybe it’s happy.” He tried to put a Contrary’s twist to the idea.
“That’s crazy.” She gave him the sort of look she’d give a backward child.
He sighed, turning their bow toward the lowlands that marked the confluence of the rivers.
With plenty of time to consider her words, he stroked them forward, but cast occasional glances at the high town. He could only catch glimpses between the trees now.
So, one day the white men would come to his world. But he wouldn’t live to see it. Could the stories the white man had told him really be true? Two Petals said they were. Imagine the things they could tell him.
And her notion of water—it had never occurred to him before. Were waves just water trying to escape from a lake? When he thought about it, water was always moving. Springs seeping from the ground, rivers running to the sea. The only time water was still was when it was captured in a pot, caged.
Suddenly, he burst out laughing. Two Petals gave him a probing look.
“Even at my age, I’m still learning about myself.”
“You know everything,” she agreed.
“Yes, I do. The world is still full of surprises. Two Petals, you make me young.”
They were rounding the point now, and far to the south, past the trees, he could see the southern bluffs. That was Michigamea territory, and it would be wise to avoid it. His paddle working rhythmically; he nosed them into the broad waters of the Mother River, seeing the color change: clearer, greener.
He was still feeling lighthearted when the canoes emerged from a creek mouth in the riverbank.
“They’ll never catch us,” Two Petals said softly.
“Should I be worried?” he asked, checking to see that his Trader’s staff was handy.
“Not you.” She clapped her hands to her ears. “This is just the beginning. Later, I’ll be in the middle of a swarm. If only the sound wasn’t so loud.”
“Great.” He lifted his staff as the canoes approached: four of them, each manned by four husky young men. Their hair was cut in roaches, tattoos marking their faces. Several had copper ear spools in their earlobes. Wolf and bear hides hung from their shoulders. While Old White couldn’t see weapons, he imagined they’d be ready to hand just below the gunwales.
Old White called out in Trader Tongue, “We travel under the Power of Trade.”
“Good,” the man in the lead canoe called back. “We have need of Trade.”
Old White shot a measuring glance at Two Petals. She was staring thoughtfully at the clouds, a puzzled look on her face. If it was trouble, she didn’t seem concerned.
He cupped hands to his mouth, shouting, “I was thinking of traveling farther upriver.”
“We could help you.” The first canoe had pulled abreast. The leader stood, balancing easily in the rocking craft. His gaze surveyed the packs, and a ghost of a smile crossed his lips. He turned, saying something in a tongue Old White didn’t understand. They talked back and forth for several heartbeats, one man gesturing. Several of his men shipped their paddles, and one produced a coil of rope. Holding one end, he tossed it across to Old White.
“Have the girl hang on,” he ordered.
Old White sighed, fingering the fine basswood rope. “Don’t take this.” He tossed it to Two Petals. “And now, whatever you do, be sure you let go of it.”
He could see the puzzled looks in the other canoes.
“We’re going to go fast,” the warrior told him. “We don’t want to linger in these waters.”
Old White laid his Trader’s staff down as the canoes lined out. The warriors weren’t joking. Two Petals grunted as she took the strain of the line. Then she was smart enough to take a wrap around her body.
As his canoe slipped along, Old White noted that the warriors kept looking back behind them. Whatever they’d left back there, they were making fine time getting away from it.
“What are we into now?” he wondered. The fact that the four canoes surrounded them in a diamond formation had disturbing implications.
 
 
A
t the end of the second day, with a light rain falling, Smoke Shield called a halt. He passed orders to build fires and shelters. His weary warriors pitched into the task, raising lean-tos, cutting vines, and weaving them through the poles. Then they piled leaf mat over the frameworks. Deadfall was brought for seats, and their single fire bow was taken from its pack. Within moments, blue smoke rose from the tinder that Scaled Bird had placed next to the cherrywood dowel. No warrior would blow on embers while on the war trail, so he used a section of eagle wing they carried specifically to fan the fire.
Smoke Shield walked along the line of captives, huddled now for warmth, their hair and clothing soaked, their skin pimpled. He knew Morning Dew by the ridiculous dress she was wearing. It was a gorgeous thing, dyed a bright red from bloodroot and dogwood bark. Chevrons of porcupine quills in black, yellow, and white made patterns reminiscent of tents over drilled oyster-shell beads. The effigy of a falcon had been rendered with small white pearls, each drilled and carefully sewn in place. Many were now missing, the threads hanging like forgotten hairs.
“Enjoying your walk in the woods?” he asked.
Morning Dew might not have heard, her gaze fixed on the ground.
“We enjoy nothing in your presence,” Screaming Falcon said thickly. The blow that had broken his jaw left his face swollen; a large bruise discolored the left side of his chin.
“More’s the pity.” Smoke Shield cocked his head. “I wonder if you’ll be so arrogant after a couple of days tied in the square?”
“I am a warrior,” he spit.
“Yes, I can see that.”
He walked on down the line, seeing the fear in Biloxi Mankiller’s eyes. The high minko swallowed hard, averting his eyes. Yes, that one would provide sport. How could the White Arrow have elevated such a man? The women, Biloxi’s wives, wouldn’t even look up. Dancing Star, the White Arrow
Alikchi Hopaii
, had no expression at all, as if disbelieving his Power could have been so easily broken. His nephew, Daytime Owl, who would have followed him, spent most of his time trying to care for the old man.
Last in line, the shivering Albaamo looked up with eyes that reminded Smoke Shield of a mouse caught in the bottom of a bowl. When he smiled, the Albaamo’s chin quivered, and it wasn’t just the cold.
Smoke Shield checked their ropes, then ordered, “Tie them between two trees, the rope tight between them so they can’t get to each other’s knots. I want two guards on them at all times. You are to check their bindings frequently. The rain might loosen them.”
“Yes, War Chief.”
While he made a round of his camp, his second, Blood Skull, passed out food and water to the warriors. Seeing that all was well, Smoke Shield retired to the small fire in the lean-to Blood Skull had constructed. After carefully placing the war medicine box on a square of sticks that Blood Skull had erected for it, Smoke
Shield extended his cold hands to the fire, grateful for its warmth. Their other packs, containing booty—including the White Arrow scalps, trophy heads, and collected weapons—were laid to the side. To the right rested a mysterious fabric bag that Blood Skull had burdened himself with. When first asked about its contents, Blood Skull had only given him a knowing grin, saying, “All in good time, War Chief.”
BOOK: People of the Weeping Eye (North America's Forgotten Past)
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