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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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“I was packed long ago, Grandfather. From the moment I learned of your foolishness.”

He paused. “Why are you here?”

“To fulfill the vision.” She looked up at him, eyes like pools in the firelight.

“You … knew?”

“I have made a hot fire. By the time they get here, it will appear that we just left. Grandfather, this was not our time. It wasn’t meant to be.”

“Well, when will it be?”

“When the Power is right.”

“Well, if it has any pity for me, the time is now.”

She laughed, voice like a songbird’s. “Oh, Grandfather, how silly of you. Power has no pity.”

He finished sorting through his things. “Where shall we go?”

“West, Grandfather. Into the hills beyond the river. To the old places. There we can Dance with the ghosts of our Ancestors.”

He stuffed his pack full, tying it closed. Smoke Shield! If he knew, it would only be a matter of luck that kept Paunch from the square. And should that luck not favor him, he’d be seeing the ghosts of the Ancestors himself—and after a most unpleasant death.

“How funny of you, Grandfather. Luck is as fickle as Power.”

He knew he hadn’t spoken. When he looked at her, her eyes gleamed with hidden knowledge.

“You should be married, not running like a frightened deer in a drive.”

“Oh, I’m married already,” she answered, rising lithely to her feet. “I consummated myself to destiny long ago.”

B
utton snakeroot contained a powerful cleansing medicine. The bitter root was chopped fine, boiled in water
to release its Spirit, and drunk when just cool enough to keep from scalding a man’s throat. Within moments, its Power was released. The effects were immediate.

Smoke Shield felt the telltale tickle in his throat. His mouth began to water, and he crouched over the bowl. Within moments, his stomach pumped, and he vomited forcefully. Again and again, his gut convulsed. Gasping for breath, he used a rag to wipe his face and leaned back on his haunches.

“That is good,” Pale Cat told him.

The
Hopaye
inspected the bowl, and when Smoke Shield’s vision cleared, he could see a worm wiggling in the bottom of the milky fluid.

“The purging brought this up. At some time in the fighting, some Chahta witch shot this into you.”

“Did he?” Smoke Shield sighed, raising his head to stare at the roof of the Men’s House. Around him, additions had been made to the relics of war that lined the walls. Some Chahta arrows, a shield, several medicine bundles, but most prominent of all, Blood Skull had placed the White Arrow war medicine atop a wooden stand. There lay the heart of White Arrow Town’s warriors, as surely as if Blood Skull had cut it from their breasts.

For three days now, Smoke Shield and his warriors had been fasting, drinking button snakeroot, and purging themselves. They had alternately steamed in the sweat lodge, and offered their prayers to the gods. The blood and rage of the war trail had to be purged from their bodies and souls. The process of balancing Power was both grueling and difficult. It took sacrifice and stoicism.

Pale Cat had overseen every aspect, ensuring that no man shirked his duty in following the rituals. The very health of the people depended upon it. As each ritual had been finished to Pale Cat’s satisfaction, he had ordered the warriors to leave the building. There, on cue, their wives and mothers had met them, forming two parallel
lines. As the men emerged Singing and waving eagle wing fans, the women Danced, calling out their praises. Only then did the warriors reenter the Men’s House and begin the next phase of the rituals.

The whole thing is tedious,
Smoke Shield thought. He had his own suspicions as to where the worm had come from. The
Hopaye
carried several small pouches of “medicine” tied to his waist, and Pale Cat was a well-known magician, the best sleight of hand Smoke Shield had ever seen. But he saw the effect it had on his men when bits of bloody feathers, old arrowheads, crystals, and other objects appeared in their vomit.

Were it up to him, he would have skipped most of the ordeal; but, being a leader, he endured. He was the first to fast, to sweat, and to drink the sacred tea. When this was over, let no man say he was not dedicated to the well-being of his people, or the Power that they cherished.

Smoke Shield looked up when the high minko entered; cheers broke from the warriors’ throats. Flying Hawk strode grandly across the floor, dressed in his ritual finery, white apron flashing. He had feathers tied to his arms, his copper headpiece shining atop his head. The turkey-tail mace was clutched in his right hand, and all of his small white arrows had been poked through his tight hair.

“I bring greetings to each of you,” he said as he walked up to the White Arrow war medicine box. Tapped lightly with his stone mace, the wood elicited a hollow sound. Then he turned, addressing the
Hopaye.
“I have taken the liberty of calling the people. I assume all has gone well?”

Pale Cat clasped his hands before him, bowing slightly. “It has, High Minko. These great warriors have approached their purification with the same dedication they have shown on the war trail.”

Flying Hawk glanced around, meeting Smoke Shield’s eyes. “We have much to do. A great feast has been cooked. The tishu minko has sent runners. The Council
has been called.” He glanced at the
Hopaye
. “Would it be inappropriate if I led the warriors out myself?”

“It would be an honor,” Smoke Shield cried, hoping to forestall any last-minute “purification” that Pale Cat might want to inflict.

“And you shall walk by my side,” Flying Hawk said. “Has your slave brought you your things?”

“Thin Branch delivered them this morning.”

“Then by all means, dress!” Flying Hawk said jovially. “And I warn you all, look your best.”

Hoots and laughter burst out as the warriors flocked to the bags their relatives had brought. Fine aprons, feathers, copper jewelry, shell gorgets, paint boxes, and palettes appeared.

As Smoke Shield began to dress, Flying Hawk stepped over, lowering his voice. “The Council may be called upon to do more than praise your success. I have sent word out about the Albaamo you discovered, and his confession. As we speak, warriors are seeking the elder known as Paunch. I am hoping that we will have him before any alarm can be raised.”

“Good.” Smoke Shield considered. “How did you plan on handling this?”

“If found, he will be dragged in and made to talk. I want everyone to hear his treachery.” Flying Hawk gave him a disapproving look. “It would have helped if you had brought this Crabapple back alive.”

Smoke Shield waved it off. “I had other reasons.”

“Not just your joy at hearing him scream?”

“No, I …” What? He thought furiously. Of course it would have been better to bring the man back. But in the forest, despite Blood Skull’s wiser counsel, he’d wanted the man to pay. “I was thinking of the effect when the Albaamaha saw one of their own among the captives. It would have spread like fire in a dry field. The plotters would have been warned.”

Flying Hawk nodded, expression blank. “Perhaps you were right.”

“What of the captives?” For three long days, his mind had been fixed on Morning Dew. Perhaps not tonight, but soon, he would be living his Dreams of her. “Were the women guarded as I instructed?”

“I, myself, appointed the guards. The crowd has been at the men, though. I made sure that the guards tempered their enthusiasm. For the most part, the people have shown remarkable restraint.”

Smoke Shield nodded. His sore stomach made a rumbling as he tied his best white apron to his hips. Food would calm any last upset from the button snakeroot drink. Slipping on moccasins, he tied white swan feathers to his shoulders. Finally, Smoke Shield removed his honorary arrows from their otterhide case and slipped them through his hair.

“Let me help you with the paint. On this day, it will be my honor.” Flying Hawk took the paint box, opening it. The bright colors—yellow, red, black, blue, green, and white—had been mixed with bear grease.

When all was ready, the
Hopaye
watched them form up in two lines; then he exited the door. The growing murmurs of the crowd went still with anticipation.

Smoke Shield’s heart had begun to pound. Flying Hawk, noticing his excitement, said, “Yes, heady stuff this. In memory, no one has achieved such a victory!”

The
Hopaye
’s voice carried on the cold air. “My people, the balance of Power is restored. I ask you to greet your brave warriors.”

A shout went up as Flying Hawk and Smoke Shield stepped into the sunlight. The plaza was crowded; people, wearing clothing in all the colors of the rainbow, waved, jumped, and shouted. As they emerged, Tishu Minko Seven Dead and the clan chiefs fell in behind them. Warriors called to their wives and families. Smoke Shield saw that Heron Wing and Violet Bead stood at the front of the crowd. Unlike the others, they only smiled, acting the part of proper high-status wives. Well and fine—at least they were good for that.

In the rear, handpicked warriors carried the spoils of war. Some brandished scalps, fleshed now and stretched in willow hoops; another bore the White Arrow war medicine; then came warriors carrying the shields, bows, and other trophies, all held high so the crowd could see them.

They made the ritual walk north to the base of the tishu minko’s mound, then east, toward the great mound.

People parted as they neared the captives. Smoke Shield, head high, chin up, studied them from the corner of his eye. As expected, Biloxi looked the most pitiful, weak like a wounded puppy. Screaming Falcon, however, maintained an air of dignity, studiously ignoring the proceedings. But Smoke Shield had eyes only for Morning Dew. She hunched on the ground at the end of her rope, head down, face hidden by her dirty long hair.

Soon, my little bird. Very soon
, he promised himself. The route turned south past the Tree of Life with its red and white spirals, and proceeded to the tchkofa with its guardian posts.

Smoke Shield’s stomach growled as he caught the scent of food over the packed odors of humanity. Then he was climbing the steps, passing the guardian poles, and entering the recesses of the tchkofa. Inside, the blazing fire’s heat came as a relief from the cold. He directed his warriors to places of honor beside the fire, the clan chiefs taking their positions behind them.

When all had assembled, Flying Hawk lit the Eagle Pipe, calling the invocation. One by one, Smoke Shield and his warriors took a pull on the pipe, blowing the sacred smoke to the heavens.

The prayers and rituals seemed endless, but finally food was brought in—one fragrant bowl after another—and placed before the warriors. Each man reached in, tossing some morsel into the fire, sharing his feast and appreciation with Power.

Before he could so much as take a bite, Smoke Shield was called upon to relate the story of the raid.

He stood, all eyes fixed on him. The Eagle Pipe was lit, and he took a deep drag of the sweet smoke and blew it out through his nostrils. Raising his hands, he said, “Makatok! I shall tell you the story of how, blessed by Power, we have broken the hearts and souls of the White Arrow people!” As his men ate, he related their reasons for war, told of their preparations, and of the journey to the White Arrow lands.

“And then I reconsidered,” he told the rapt audience. “From my scouts, I learned that the marriage was over, and that all manner of people had begun to leave White Arrow Town.”

“Wah! Wah!” came the cry from Blood Skull. His warriors nodded in agreement.

“The problem was: With so many people on the trails, how were we to pass? Surely, such a large party, dressed as hunters, would be questioned. And who knew? Even if the Chahta believed we were who we said we were, what was to keep them from sending a runner to inform White Arrow Town that meat was coming? The simple fools might have sent people out to help us carry our burden!”

“Wah! Wah!” came the assent.

“That is when I remembered crossing the river.”

His warriors nodded happily.

“A plan—like the gift of Breath Giver—came to me.” He paused, letting the expectation build. “What if we floated down the river? We didn’t need to steal canoes and take the chance that a warning might be given upon discovery of the theft. No, we could wrap our weapons in deer hide, paying particular attention to the bindings, and float downstream in the night.”

Pale Cat stared. “Didn’t you think of the Horned Serpent? The tie snakes, and water cougars? They come out at night, prowling the river depths.”

Mutterings of unease could be heard; people whispered nervously to each other.

Smoke Shield spread his arms wide. “You, O great
Hopaye,
drove that fear from my souls.”

“I did.” Pale Cat looked confused.

“How could warriors purified and prepared by the greatest
Hopaye
alive fall prey to Horned Serpent, or any other Underworld creature?”

BOOK: People of the Weeping Eye (North America's Forgotten Past)

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