People of the Weeping Eye (North America's Forgotten Past) (34 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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“Only because of attacks by the Yuchi. An outside enemy works wonders to salve internal strife.” Trader shrugged. “But for the timing of one of their raids, my brother might have won war honors before I did.” He sighed. “Had he, perhaps all of this might have been avoided. He would have been the center of attention; his marriage would have come first.”
A blue wreath of smoke puffed from Old White’s pipe. “You delude yourself. The confrontation between the two of you might have been delayed, but never avoided.” He pointed with the pipe stem. “Unless, that is, you had decided to forever let him win. Would you have given up everything for him?”
“Didn’t it work out that way in the end?”
“Giving up for something is very different than giving up
because
of something.”
Trader considered that. The old man might have a point. He chanced the rain to crane his head out, seeing that smoke still rose from Two Petals’ seclusion. “Why do you suppose the Contrary picked this time to find me?”
“I don’t know. But whatever the vision was that she had at Silver Loon’s I think it was most remarkable.”
Trader turned. “Very well, that’s my story. What about yours?”
The old man’s eyes hardened. “All in good time, I imagine. For now, for reasons of my own, I think I’ll keep my secrets.” To change the subject, he pointed at the stew. “One of us is going to have to take a bowl of this over to Two Petals.”
“One of us? Why do I suppose it isn’t going to be you?”
“My skin is made of old leather. It hardens and shrinks when it gets wet.”
“Maybe it will squeeze some of those secrets out of your reluctant souls.”
But the old man didn’t seem to hear. His eyes were fixed, as if seeing back into the past, to some terrible event. Bitterness had formed around his mouth, his brow pinched as if in pain.
No matter what he knows, when we finally reach Split Sky City, it will be the most unpleasant moment in my life.
T
he delicious smell of food built a craving in Morning Dew’s souls like nothing she had ever known. Her first insistence was that she would refuse to eat. By dint of will she would starve herself to death rather than allow a single morsel of Sky Hand food to pass her lips. In the beginning she thought she could stand hunger, but thirst had been unbearable. The first mug of water pressed to her lips brought her arms up, and she gulped it ravenously.
As she sat on the cattail matting, however, saliva pooled around her tongue; the fragrant odors of sweet corn, acorn-and-hickory-nut bread, and roasting fish ate at her resistance. Then, too, the foul old slave, Wide Leaf, managed to needle her like poison ivy rubbed on raw skin.
The process of bathing hadn’t humiliated her as much as she had thought it would. Cleaned like the dead, the Sky Hand women had said. Most appropriate. Their warm cloths had massaged her, starting at the toes, working up her calves, thighs, and belly. They had soothed her breasts, chest, and shoulders. Then the warm relief continued down her arms to her hands.
She actually helped to roll herself before they placed their warm cloths to her backside. While she lay there, her souls remained as wilted as mayapple leaves in winter.
Images kept replaying of the days since her arrival. She saw snippets of the mocking Sky Hand and
Albaamaha who had come to jeer, peer, shout, or throw insulting things at her. She had heard them laugh, seen their pantomimes of how the captives would be treated.
Was it so long ago that I did the same?
She remembered the captives in their squares in her own plaza. How could the earth have turned upside down so quickly? A sob tried to choke her as she remembered the lingering deaths of the captives taken from the Alligator Town raid. The memories of how her people had burned, cut, and beat the helpless men in the squares was now too real.
The same is happening to my beloved Screaming Falcon.
She had forced her thoughts away from the inevitable—tried to still the horror and pain in her souls.
The process of washing her hair had touched her for some reason and brought her back from the misery inside to the external world. She was able to make an assessment of her surroundings. The house was well made. The wall poles were set upright in a trench, the roof high and pitched. Unlike so many houses, the plaster here was clean, as if freshly done. Sleeping benches on either side were neat with folded hides and brightly dyed fabric blankets. Beneath the benches, pots, jars, and baskets had been placed in orderly rows. The wooden plank boxes were all carved, inlaid with shell, the wood polished to a fine sheen. Cooking vessels had their own place, each capped with a wooden lid to keep rodents out. The matting, though worn in places, looked clean. On the rear wall a carved wooden image of a panther had been hung. The workmanship was excellent, the panther reaching out with one clawed paw, its mouth open to expose white teeth. The single eye—made of polished oyster shell—gleamed in the firelight. To its right a doorway led into a small storeroom where she could see larger baskets and boxes.
As the women continued to scrub and rinse her long hair, she closed her eyes. Just for a moment, she could imagine she was a girl again, and it was Old Woman
Fox’s fingers that she felt. What had happened to Grandmother?
“The world is a cruel place,”
the old woman’s voice came back to haunt her.
“You must never forget that. Breath Giver made it that way so that only the strong would survive. No matter what, you must always be strong, girl.”
But she wasn’t.
Oh, Grandmother, you would be so ashamed of me.
She wished for death—anything to avoid this horrible new reality. No matter what ministrations these Sky Hand women did, it was only preparation for the moment she was led to Smoke Shield’s bed.
When would that be? How would she endure? Would it be smart to just lie there? Could she pretend that it was Screaming Falcon who climbed onto her? Could she make herself fly away from her body? Perhaps send her souls to some happy place where her mother still smiled?
It will only be my body that he possesses.
And if she lay like unresponsive meat perhaps he would simply get it over with, strangle her, or break her neck.
“Oh, she’ll make Smoke Shield a happy man,” Wide Leaf growled, as if hearing her thoughts. “Don’t see what he wants with this one. He’d be happier with one of the slaves. At least they pant at the thought of his touch.”
“That will be enough,” Heron Wing had warned.
In the end, they had finished, leaving her in a seated position, inspecting their work as her hair dried by the fire. “That will do for now,” Violet Bead had decided. “I wouldn’t worry about the perfume until just before he calls for her.”
“And we have to get that dress cleaned and repaired,” Heron Wing had said.
“I’ll attend to it.” Violet Bead had yawned. “Pine Needle can wash it first chance she gets. She should almost be finished cleaning up.” She grabbed up Morning Dew’s soiled dress. “Oh, the cape.”
Heron Wing stepped over to one of the cedar-wood boxes, lifted the lid, and removed a fine quillwork cape. This she handed to Violet Bead before the woman ducked out into the night.
“Gods,” Heron Wing had said, “I’m tired.”
“Too many days without sleep,” Wide Leaf agreed, her scowling eyes still fixed on Morning Dew. “We going to leave her just sitting there, naked?”
“Give her one of my work dresses. Smoke Shield will be busy. After the celebration the Council will break for a couple of hours’ sleep, and then they’ll want to get into the Albaamaha trouble and discuss the political situation with the Chahta.”
Political situation?
A flicker of hope grew in Morning Dew’s breast. Then perhaps ransom was still not out of the question? For that she could endure. Once back in her own lands, she would dedicate herself to the destruction of the Sky Hand if it meant selling off her territory piece by piece to the Natchez, the Yuchi, and the Pensacola. Forge a grand enough alliance and even the stunning magnificence of Split Sky City could be brought to its knees.
Wide Leaf dropped an old brown dress in Morning Dew’s lap. “In case you get cold,
Matron,
you can put this on.” The old woman leaned close, imposing herself in Morning Dew’s vision. “And if you run, they
will
bring you back. You’re going to be on your back, given what Smoke Shield wants you for. He won’t care if the tendons in your heels are still in one piece.”
Slaves who insisted on running often had the large tendon severed above their heels. From then on, they walked in a curious, slow, wobbling gait. The idea of it sent a chill down her already-numb souls.
Morning Dew hadn’t expected to sleep, but she came awake the next morning, her body resting on a blanket she didn’t remember from the night before. In her sleep, she had pulled it gratefully around her, and now she blinked in the light of a new day.
Sitting up, she had clutched the brown dress, wrinkled now, and wadded where she’d hugged it to herself in the night. For long moments she considered it before finally pulling it over her head. Her bladder was full, and she glanced suspiciously at the two women sleeping on the pole beds. It would serve them right if she pulled a jar of food over and urinated in it, but doing so might awaken them.
With all of her stealth, she rose to her feet, stepping to the door and looking out. The sun was high in the sky. Gods, how long had she slept? Two men—different ones from the night before—sat at a fire beside a ramada. Their attention was on bone dice that they tossed on a blanket. Piles of counters lay beside them.
Looking beyond that, she could see log mortars with long pestles propped to one side, then the endless mass of houses and granaries that crowded between her and the palisade. People were everywhere. What were the chances that she could just walk through them, make it to the canoe landing, and push off?
“Going somewhere?” a muzzy voice called from behind.
“Do you want me to wet your floor?” Unbidden, her voice reeked of sarcasm.
Heron Wing blinked, yawned, and stretched her arms. Then she stepped from her bed and scratched. “I could have slept for a moon.”
Morning Dew glanced at Wide Leaf. The old woman’s mouth hung open, exposing gaps in her teeth. She seemed dead to the morning.
Heron Wing remained an attractive woman, her body athletic, high breasted, and with a slim waist. She pulled her hair back, reached for a dress, and pulled it on. She slipped her feet into sandals and beckoned to Morning Dew as she led the way through the door. At the side of the house a chest-high screen had been built around an old storage pit. From the odor, Morning Dew knew exactly what it was now used for. Heron Wing stepped
behind the screen, pulled her dress up, and squatted, saying wryly, “You won’t mind if I go first? That way, if you run, it will be on a full bladder. It should slow you down.”
When the woman finished, Morning Dew took her turn, pleased that Heron Wing ignored her, her face turned up at the winter sun. The woman’s breath fogged in the cold air.
“Why did you marry him?” Morning Dew asked. “He’s a weasel.”
“He is all of that,” Heron Wing surprised her by saying. “Unfortunately, at the time, I wasn’t thinking very well. There were political considerations, gifts had been exchanged, and given the events of the time, I consented.”
“Then why haven’t you divorced him?”
“We are not Chahta.” She smiled wearily. “Though at times I wish we were.”
The wistfulness in her tone caught Morning Dew off guard. “You are not like him.”
Heron Wing actually smiled at her. “I know. Thank the gods.”
Morning Dew stood, unsure what to do next.
Unexpectedly, Heron Wing turned to her. “Listen to me. Hear what I say and take it to your souls. I cannot undo what has been done. One cannot stop a river and reverse its flow. But this is my advice: Do not run. Even if you make it to the river, they
will
bring you back, and they
will
hurt and humiliate you.” Heron Wing’s hard stare emphasized the point.
Having nothing else to do, Morning Dew nodded.
“When Smoke Shield sends for you, just submit. Do nothing to anger him. Whatever you do, don’t fight him. If you make him mad, he will hurt you. Badly. If you resist in any fashion, he will consider it to be a challenge. He will make it his duty to break you. If will be fun for him, a grand diversion. Should that happen, you will be the center of his attention for a very long time. Do you understand?”
She did.
“The best thing for you is to do as he says; but the trick for a smart woman—and I think you are that—is to find the balance. Comply with his wishes, but do so without enthusiasm. As soon as he grows bored with you, he will set you aside for other diversions.”
“Why do you tell me this?”
Heron Wing smiled humorlessly. “Because I believe in Power. I know how capricious it is, how happy a person can be one moment, and then find she has nothing but broken hopes the next. I don’t know why the just can be made to suffer, but it can happen to the best of us.” She glanced knowingly at Morning Dew. “And because once, though not a captive, I was in the same situation as you now find yourself.”
How could you have been?
“Come,” Heron Wing said. “Let’s roust that lazy old Wide Leaf and see what sort of meal she can make us.”
“I’m not hungry,” Morning Dew had insisted as they entered the house. She had refused the first meal. That had been hands of time ago. Now the smell of the food was wondrous.
For the most part, Heron Wing ignored her. She and Wide Leaf attended to various domestic duties. Every so often people arrived, asking for an audience. Each time, Heron Wing stepped outside. Most of the visitors came with the express purpose of catching a glimpse of the famous Morning Dew. They all offered their congratulations on the singular honor bestowed on Smoke Shield. Each time, Morning Dew sighed with relief when Heron Wing used her artful ways to turn the curious away. More than once, however, the visitors wanted to discuss personal problems, or disagreements within the Panther Clan. To those, Heron Wing gave thoughtful counsel, though Morning Dew had no idea of the personalities and troubles involved.

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