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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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“Nice to be among Mos’kogee speakers again,” Old White noted.

“It is,” Trader agreed, rubbing Swimmer’s ears. “But I have to concentrate. Enough words are different that you get lost if you don’t pay attention.”

From the darkness, a voice called, “Hello the fire.”

Trader could see Buffalo Mankiller approaching, a dark square object in his hands. As he walked into the firelight, it formed into an intricately carved wooden box, red cedar, if Trader was any judge.

“Mind if I join you?”

“We would be honored,” Old White said, moving to make a place by the fire. He indicated a fold of matting. “Here, keep your bones off the cold ground.”

Buffalo Mankiller seated himself, extending the box to Trader. “You said you were going to Split Sky City? See if this will do?”

Trader disengaged himself from Swimmer, who had sat up to inspect the newcomer; his nose sifted the air for the man’s scent.

The box had been carefully crafted, lightweight but sturdy. Two thick straps had been run through slits in the bottom and then double sewn over the shoulders. The bottom side, visible when carried, had been carved with images of rattlesnakes, water cougars, and snapping turtles. The sides were done in relief with buffalo, deer, raccoons, and turkeys. The top had a depiction of Eagle Man, his turkey-tail mace in one hand, a rattlesnake in the other. The back, or lid, brought a cold shiver to Trader’s souls. There, perfectly rendered, was the eye-hand symbol of his people.

Old White gasped, as if shocked. His eyes were wide, fixed on the box. An expression of disbelief filled his face. He reached out, as if to touch the box from across the fire, but his hand froze midway to its goal. Two Petals, however, had a knowing smile on her face, as if something had just come clear in her odd souls.

Trader stared at the symbol, running his fingers over the relief. “Where did you get this?”

“It’s been around for a long time,” Buffalo Mankiller said, shrugging. “According to the stories, a young Yuchi, who had been disgraced, stole it. The young man brought it here, thinking he could obtain enough wealth
to become a Trader. It has passed from hand to hand, each of its owners falling on bad times. Since you travel surrounded by Power, perhaps it would be best to send it away with you.” He lifted an inquiring eyebrow. “Assuming you can meet my price.”

Trader swallowed dryly, and managed to say, “What … What would you want for it?” Gods, what had gotten into Old White? He looked as if he’d seen a ghost.

“We both know the value of that box. Do you have Trade of equal value?”

Trader carefully set the box to one side, standing and walking down to his canoe. He fished around in one of his packs, finding the thing he sought. Returning to the fire, he dropped the heavy object into Buffalo Mankiller’s hand. The man frowned, holding the shining stone up to the light. “Is this what I think it is?”

“Silver,” Trader told him. “From the far north. I got it from an Ojibwa Trader. It cost me two bundles of yaupon tea. They don’t get much black drink up there.”

“And we get even less silver here,” Buffalo Mankiller said softly. He tightened his fingers around the small stone. “It is a Trade. But I have to tell you, we have waited for years to get fair value.”

“I follow the old ways,” Trader told him. “I’m just as happy as the next man to get a good deal, but when it comes to Power, I give value for value.”

Buffalo Mankiller clutched his silver close to his breast. “It is a mark of the times that such a thing as silver is so rare. Each year, fewer and fewer canoes pass from distant lands. These days people look in, rather than out. Stories of warfare are heard more than those of peace.”

“Have you seen an increase in raiding parties?” Trader glanced at Old White. The man appeared speechless, disbelieving eyes still fixed on the medicine box.

“More this last season than usual.” Buffalo Mankiller stared into the fire. “We will stay in these lands as long as it is profitable, but we do not have the numbers of the
Yuchi, or the Charokee. The Iroquois, too, have begun to make incursions. Last year we saw the first Shawnee raiding party. They stopped here in peace, Traded, and went back east to raid, but it is a sign of the things to come.”

“What … What of the Miami and Illinois?” Old White physically tore his gaze from the box and forced himself to rejoin the conversation. He had withdrawn his quavering hand, knotting it into a fist in his lap.

“We have bloodied them often enough that they prefer to kill each other for the time being.”

“And if things continue to grow more dangerous?” Trader asked.

“That will depend on the Trade.” Buffalo Mankiller removed his own pipe from a pocket. He took a moment to load it, lighting it from the fire and puffing. “Should the Trade dwindle to almost nothing, and the dangers grow, we will return to the west and rejoin the rest of our people.” He smiled wistfully and fingered the silver nugget, holding it up to the light. “It seems that the world is slowly turning to madness.”

“We live in the fading shadow of Cahokia.” Old White spoke as if his souls were elsewhere, his gaze returned to the wooden box with an odd intensity. “In times past, the lords of Cahokia would have sent envoys to people like the Michigamea asking them to cease and desist. Once, that was all it would take. Even the threat of their warriors was enough to make any chief—no matter how great he deluded himself into believing he was—find an excuse to make peace rather than disrupt the Trade.”

“Those days are long gone,” Buffalo Mankiller muttered.

Old White shook his head as if to clear his thoughts. He glanced at Two Petals, at the box, and then at Trader as if fitting some puzzle together. Finally he blinked, rummaging in his belt pouch for his pipe. “Smoke? It’s northern narrow leaf.”

Buffalo Mankiller smiled, unhooked a bag from his own belt, and tossed it over. “Try mine. One of the things
we pride ourselves on—besides war and Trade—is our tobacco. It’s a mixture of broad leaf with a hint of sweet sumac from my own garden.”

“Tell me, good chief,” Trader asked, trying to decipher Old White’s stunned expression. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll be tainted by our Power?”

As Old White loaded his pipe with trembling hands, Buffalo Mankiller chuckled. “I am responsible for the Trade at Lower Town. Because of that, I am a constant preoccupation for the
Hopahe
. He ensures that I take a great many precautions. Because of the unique nature of your visit, I have taken responsibility to see that you pass safely … both for yourselves
and
my people. While I am with you, my son will handle any other business that should come our way.”

“He must be a fine—” Old White stopped short as Two Petals began to Sing in a soft voice.

Trader cocked his head; the Song was a lullaby he’d first heard as a boy. “Where did you learn that?”

Two Petals seemed not to hear.

Trader reached over with his foot, prodding her. She blinked, and appeared to have trouble focusing on him.

“I said, where did you learn that Song? Your people are Oneota.”

Her expression grew confused. “It’s her voice. Clear as silence … and so beautiful. She Sings as he marches off to war, knowing all the while that she has driven him to this.”

Trader shivered again, eyes fixed on the box. Old White’s pipe lay forgotten in his hands, a look of horror on his face, as though terrible memories were creeping out from dark places in his souls.

Buffalo Mankiller glanced uneasily away from the box, a new comprehension in his calculating gaze. “I think,” he said softly, “that I shall accompany you upriver to the boundaries of our lands.” He paused. “Just to be sure that there are no … complications.”

“Your company would be a pleasure,” Trader said
absently. Now Old White was gaping at Two Petals, oblivious of everything else.

Buffalo Mankiller recovered his composure, turning to Old White. “I also asked around. You are the one they call the Seeker?”

“I … What did you say?”

“I asked if you were the Seeker.” Buffalo Mankiller smiled as if to chide himself. “Are even half of the stories they tell about you true?”

“What?” Old White shook himself as if from a chill. His hands were still trembling as he lit the pipe, drew, and exhaled the blue smoke. His eyes were closed, lips moving as if offering a prayer with the smoke. “Oh.” Then he sighed. “The stories about me? It depends entirely on the tale. But the short version is that I have traveled most of our earth. No, I do not fly, or shape-shift into animals or birds. I do not consort with the dead. I have no mystical Powers, though I am skilled at the magician’s craft and the arts of illusion. I know the use of herbs. And, no, I cannot kill with just a glance. Mostly, I have gone from place to place, searching.” He stared hollowly at the box. “And now, I wonder for what?”

“And you, Trader?” Buffalo Mankiller asked. “Somehow I don’t think you’re as simple as you pretend, either.”

Trader smiled sadly, running his fingers through Swimmer’s fur now that he’d resettled on his blanket. “Are any of us simple, clan leader?”

“I am,” Two Petals said into the silence. “There is no one as simple as me.”

Buffalo Mankiller studied her through the smoke rising from his pipe. “In my old age, I expect that I shall look back on these next few days with disbelief and wonder. My grandchildren will either look up at me with awe, or terror.”

“Oh,” Two Petals answered, “no one will speak of us … or this journey. We will vanish like the breeze in the morning, only to be heard in the distant trees.”

Why don’t I believe a word of that?
Trader let the fingers of his other hand trace the carefully carved wood of the medicine box. He would have sworn it vibrated under his touch.

Twenty-three

M
orning Dew endured. Her universe had contracted to Smoke Shield’s room. She finally had some respite when the high minko called his war chief to conference with one of the clan leaders. Smoke Shield had washed himself, dressed, and ordered her to clean up the room.

Dutifully she wiped up the spilled food, collected the bowls, and placed them outside the door. She supposed it was Thin Branch who removed them. The same thing happened with the chamber pot when she set it out.

She prized each second that he was gone. During that time, she set her souls loose, allowing them to travel to fantasy places where she and Screaming Falcon lived alone beside a broad river. They had a snug house, and walked hand in hand through the forest, collecting berries, grapes, and fallen nuts.

But Screaming Falcon would never go to those places. He hung from a square, just beyond the base of the great mound. Pinching her eyes shut, she forced her imagination away from what he was enduring.

If only I could …
But no option remained. Only endurance. Heron Wing’s words echoed hollowly within her. The only thing she could cling to.

She lost track of time, and sleep crept up on her with stealthy feet. She and Screaming Falcon stepped out of the forest and passed the houses and fields to enter White Arrow Town. Mother was waiting for her, two stickball racquets in her hand. “About time you returned. A matron owes more to her people than you’ve been showing them.”

“I’m married, Mother. I have my own life now.”

“You always were a selfish girl,” Sweet Smoke said sadly. “Only you can save yourself, your husband, and your people.” Mother cocked her head in that old familiar appraisal. “Are you up to it? Are you strong enough? Can you defeat the Sky Hand, and win them at the same time?”

“I don’t understand,” Morning Dew complained. “You never say things straight. We’re prisoners! How can I defeat and win the Sky Hand at the same time?”

“Pierce the heart of your hopes and love. Kill what you seek to save. Surrender yourself, Morning Dew. Become the tool of your people.” Mother offered the stickball racquets. “Can you accept your responsibility?”

As the familiar handles were extended toward her, Morning Dew could see the polished wood, stained dark by her sweat. She started to reach for them, but a terrible premonition grew as her fingers hovered above the wood. If she touched them, it would bind her to some awful promise, something she couldn’t quite perceive, but knew lurked down there in the familiar wood.

Her fingers curled, on the verge of seizing the handles.

“Gods! You’d think these clan chiefs were geese the way they honk and flap their wings.” Smoke Shield’s irritated curse brought her bolt upright, blinking as the fragments of the Dream slipped away. She couldn’t help but glance down at her hands. Had she taken the racquets?

“Glad to see you are still here,” he told her as he stepped into the room. “I didn’t think to post a guard.” He tossed a bit of meat onto the matting beside her. She stared at the bloody thing. Gods, was that a toe?

“Your friend,” he told her, stripping off his apron, “Reed Woman.”

Morning Dew gaped at the thing, then stared her incomprehension at him.

“She ran,” he told her. “When they dragged her back, she was fixed so that she couldn’t run again. I thought
you might like a little keepsake. Something to remind you what would be in store if you ran, too.”

She swallowed hard.
I won’t give you that pleasure.

“It’s as dark as a pit in here. Fix the fire.”

She mustered herself, scuttling to the small pile of wood and adding some to the coals. She blew, managing to coax yellow flickers of light from the wood.

He pointed to the bed, the meaning clear.

She lay back on the soft furs and raised her legs. As he fondled her body, she fixed on the knot again, just visible in the dim light cast by the fire. She winced as he forced himself in and began battering at her sore sheath.

“Is it always going to be like this?” he asked.

“I do my best.”

“Then do better.”

“Yes, War Chief.”

“Tomorrow I’ll bring you your husband’s penis. You can run a stick up the middle to stiffen it and practice.”

His head to the side, he couldn’t see her tightly closed eyes, couldn’t read her sudden panic.

“I would have brought it to you tonight. Another gift to go along with the toe. But the god-cursed Albaamaha and their schemes took up too much time. That and the fog moved in. A man can’t see ten paces in front of him … and that’s before it got dark.”

Fog?
She swallowed her disgust as he gasped and his seed jetted inside her. He sighed contentedly and breathed in her ear. “I mean it. You
will
make yourself ready for me next time. If you don’t I’ll cut your precious little sheath out of your body.”

“Yes, War Chief.”

But how? Then she remembered that he kept a grease jar beneath his bed.

He rolled to the side, pushing her away. She carefully slipped from the pole bed and retreated to her corner. He yawned and reached for the chamber pot. She stared at the matting as he squatted over the pot.

When he finished he crawled back into bed. For long
moments he stared at her, firelight like sparks in his dark eyes. She could see fatigue heavy in his eyes. “Go find Thin Branch. Tell him you need something to wear.”

She nodded, climbing to her feet.

“When you’re dressed so that all the men in the palace don’t gawk at you, empty that chamber pot. You ought to have some use besides being a receptacle for my seed. I’m tired.
Don’t
disturb my sleep.”

Morning Dew slipped to the door hanging, glanced out into the hallway, and tiptoed to the great room. Carefully, she peered around the corner. The place looked empty. Where in the name of the gods was Thin Branch?

“Can I help you?” a voice asked from behind.

She whirled, modestly crossing her arms over her naked breasts. The high minko stood in the dim hallway. He looked her up and down, an eyebrow rising curiously.

“I—I mean no … The war chief …”

“Yes, the war chief?” Flying Hawk asked woodenly.

“He wanted me to find Thin Branch. To get me a dress.”

“And the one you wore in here?”

“Ruined. It’s … torn.”

Flying Hawk sighed. “I can imagine. Just a moment.” He walked back the way he had come, only to reappear a moment later bearing a folded dress. “My wife was about your size. This should do.”

“Thank you, High Minko.”

“If you do find Thin Branch, tell him I have retired for the night.”

“Yes, High Minko.”

“Gods,
if
you can find him. The fog out there is as thick as muddy water.”

He watched her as she pulled the garment over her head. She was long past embarrassment. As she slipped past him, she could see the old man shaking his head. Then Flying Hawk turned, heading back to his rooms.

Morning Dew leaned against the wall, her heart pounding.
I live in madness.

As she glanced out at the great room, the fire cast its light on the carvings, the stool, and hanging skulls. On silent feet she hurried to the great door and peered out. The thick mist carried the damp odor of Split Sky City, rich with smoke and the dank smell of humanity. The darkness was complete. Not even the guardian posts were visible.

No one would see me in this.
But did she dare run?

Morning Dew retreated to Smoke Shield’s room, finding the war chief already asleep. He lay on his back, an arm over his head. His mouth hung open, chest rising in deep sleep.

She bent for the chamber pot, staring at the collection of items beneath his bed. The long chipped stone sword seemed to mock her. Soon that sharp point would drink of Screaming Falcon’s life.

Then she glanced at the severed toe.
Gods, he enjoys this.

What would she do when Smoke Shield returned the following day to present her with her husband’s genitals?

I’ll break like a shattered pot.

She bent her head, heart pounding at the terrible images down in her souls. In a soft whisper, she said, “Help me, Breath Giver. I ask only for a little courage. Help me to see this thing through.” She raised her eyes, mouthing, “
Please!
”

P
aunch and Whippoorwill had made their way for two days’ travel westward to the Horned Serpent River Divide. They had slipped silently through the trees, avoiding the trails. Paunch had labored up the long slopes, stumbling over roots, catching his clothing on greenbriar and spiny walking stick. When they finally had reached the crest, Whippoorwill had told him, “We must camp here for a while.”

When exhausted Paunch had awakened the next morning, Whippoorwill was nowhere to be found. Though he had waited anxiously, the girl had been gone for two long days. Paunch was near panic. Twice he had doused their little fire and started east, headed for Split Sky City. Each time, he had stopped, staring uneasily at the trees and listening to the silence. And each time he had talked himself into returning to their little camp. When she returned,
if she returned,
she would seek him there. Now he was just as glad he’d stayed. That morning he had awakened to find the valley below filled with a dense fog that lay like a blanket on the lowlands.

He had walked down the slope, peered into the obscure white haze, and shaken his head. He wouldn’t be able to see beyond the next tree if he got into that. He’d lose his way as sure as the rain fell. Even if Whippoorwill was out there, somewhere, in that mess, he could walk right past her and never know.

Where is she?

It was madness. Why hadn’t she told him she was going away? But then Whippoorwill had always been odd. She had had Dreams from the time she was little. Then, as she grew older, she would often disappear for days into the forest, only to reappear as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

She often knew things he didn’t; and for reasons he had yet to understand, he trusted her instincts.

As well you should have when she counseled you not to send Crabapple on that idiotic mission to warn White Arrow Town.

So, what should he do? Go back and see if she’d returned to Split Sky City as he suspected, or stay close to their little camp? Curse it all in the Ancestors’ names, she’d expect to find him at camp.

He teetered with indecision, then reluctantly turned to climb back to his little fire. The fact was, if she’d returned to Split Sky City, she was either hidden, or the Chikosi had her. If the latter was the case, there was
nothing he could do for her. And he just might be caught himself.

Fretting, sick with worry, he hurried back up the trail. He didn’t like traveling in haste. Movement was the first thing spotted in the forest, and Chikosi scouts were everywhere, keeping an eye on the trails in case Chahta war parties were headed their direction in retaliation for the White Arrow Town attack.

Heart hammering in his chest, he staggered up the last rise to the sandstone outcropping where they had camped. Gasping for breath, he settled himself on a rock and dropped his pack to the leaf mat. Overhead, the sky was a patchwork of interlaced branches against a hazy blue. The only clouds were below him.

“Are you ready to leave, Grandfather?” Whippoorwill asked, climbing up the trail he had just ascended.

“In Abba Mikko’s name! Where have you been, girl?” he exploded.

She cocked her head, as if nonplussed. “Communing with the victims of the Chikosi. Among other things.”

He looked her up and down, seeing the dew in her straight black hair. By the Ancestors, she’d been down in the fog for sure.

“What’s that on your hands?”

“Blood, Grandfather.”

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

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