People of the Weeping Eye (North America's Forgotten Past) (39 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 started toward her, a terrible fear brewing inside him.
“Stop where you are,” she told him. “You don’t want to get near me until I can wash. There is woman’s Power in this.” She lifted her hands, staring thoughtfully at the red stains.
Did she just go away to spend her moon … or is there more to that blood on her hands?
He backed away, wary of her.
“Come,” she said, passing wide of him. “We have only been delayed a little while.”
Paunch picked up his pack to follow her and shot a
final glance back at the Black Warrior Valley.
What on earth happened back there?
 
 
L
oud voices brought Smoke Shield to wakefulness. He pried his eyes open and glanced around. Lazy smoke rose from the fire pit, and Morning Dew, in a gray dress, sat in her corner. She stared listlessly at her hands, turning them this way and that, as though transfixed.
Gods, he was growing tired of her. For moons he had looked forward to beating her down, breaking her. Instead, she’d simply been compliant. Nothing he did brought more than a nod and submission. In the face of threats, she had numbly accepted that she was his to do with as he pleased. What a disappointment. Even his troublesome wives were more entertaining.
He tossed to his back, flipping the thin hide from his body. The voices down the hall were louder now.
“What is all that?” he growled. But Morning Dew remained oblivious. Well, he’d relieve himself and provide her with a reason to be animated. Then, later, he’d bring her Screaming Falcon’s male parts—see if that final humiliation provoked some response. He wanted her in tears, or perhaps rage—anything but this emotionless obedience. Mulling his dissatisfaction, he had just stepped to the chamber pot when Thin Branch called, “War Chief? We need you.”
“Coming,” he barked, lifting the bowl to take his hot urine. He finished, grabbed up his apron, and ordered, “Empty that.” He cast one final glance at her wooden expression, growled to himself, and ducked into the hallway. A pile of cloth would have been more responsive.
In the main room, Flying Hawk was listening to a distraught Blood Skull. From the high minko’s posture, whatever had happened wasn’t good.
“What is it? The Albaamaha?” Smoke Shield demanded as he stalked into the room.
“Perhaps, War Chief.” Blood Skull shot him a glance, his face livid. “The prisoners … they’re all dead!”
“What?” Smoke Shield came to a sudden stop. “How?”
“Stabbed in the heart.” Blood Skull’s fists were knotted into hard balls. “It looks like an angry warrior did it. Someone with vengeance on his mind.”
“The Albaamaha wouldn’t dare!” Flying Hawk sputtered.
“What about the guard?” Smoke Shield demanded.
Blood Skull worked his fists. “He saw nothing but fog, War Chief. You still can’t see more than a man’s length in any direction.”
“Tracks?” Flying Hawk demanded.
Blood Skull shook his head. “By now so many people have tracked through the blood that you can’t see anything.”
“When I find out who did this,
they will pay
!” Smoke Shield roared.
Flying Hawk sighed. “Perhaps some Chahta sneaked in to rob us of our victory.”
Smoke Shield shook his head. “No, they would have cut the bonds, tried to rescue their leaders.” He glared at Blood Skull. “Five of them! And the guard didn’t see a thing?”
“He did not, War Chief.” Blood Skull’s jaw muscles had bunched like angry mice. “He swears that he walked back and forth all night long, but that he couldn’t see a thing. He only became suspicious when he noticed the blood with the first faint light. Then he checked each of the captives and came running to me.”
“You know this man?” Flying Hawk asked.
“My cousin. He’s a good man. Not given to laziness or sloth.”
“I’ll take a piece of his hide for this!” Smoke Shield roared.
“With all respect, War Chief,” Blood Skull shot back, “discipline is mine. He’s of
my
clan. We will attend to it.”
Before Smoke Shield could draw breath, Flying Hawk had lifted a hand, stilling any further outburst. “We do not need this. Someone has played the fox to our rabbit. We need not turn on ourselves.”
“This cousin of yours, he must have heard something?” Smoke Shield asked.
“I asked the same thing,” Blood Skull replied. “He said he often heard groans, gasps, and cries. What do you expect? The men hung in the squares. Some had been burned, others cut.”
“And the sudden silence?” Flying Hawk asked.
Blood Skull shook his head. “Sometimes there are periods of it. Men faint. Sometimes they nap.” He raised his eyes to Flying Hawk’s. “In the end we can say that they are dead, that’s all.”
“Gods,” Smoke Shield muttered, drawing his breath. “First the Albaamaha send a runner to warn the White Arrow, and then they do
this
to us?”
“If it was the Albaamaha,” Blood Skull reminded.
“Oh, it was them,” Smoke Shield said firmly. “You can bet on it. This is a provocation. They are pushing us, testing our limits.”
Boiling with anger, he turned, stomping toward his room. At the door hanging he ran full into Morning Dew on her way out. In the collision, the bowl she carried sloshed, spilling his urine down her front and over his arm. Shaking droplets in every direction, he glared at her, grabbed her by the collar of her dress, and tossed her rudely out into the hallway. The chamber pot shattered into fragments that bounced and pattered. Morning Dew slammed facefirst into the far wall, bounced off the matting, and sprawled atop the potsherds and urine.
Smoke Shield whirled as a frightened Thin Branch gaped, eyes wide. Smoke Shield jabbed a finger at him. “Bring my war club!” Then he stalked into his room to throw things as he searched for his bearhide cape and
slung it around his shoulders. As he burst out into the hallway, Thin Branch was helping Morning Dew to her feet; the slave woman had a bloody nose. She was dabbing at it, crimson smearing her fingers. Thin Branch was staring at the urine stains and broken pottery. “Clean up this gods-cursed mess! And someone get this woman
out of my way
!”
“Where should I put her?” Thin Branch asked meekly.
“Send her to my wife, for all I care!”
Then he bulled his way out into the fog-shrouded morning to make his own inspection of the dead captives.
 
 
F
lying Hawk watched Smoke Shield’s actions through narrowed eyes. Gods, would he act that way when he was finally confirmed as high minko? His own anger was stewing like an overcooked broth. He ground the few teeth he had left and flexed the muscles in his arms. Then he shot a glance at Blood Skull, who stood, gaze averted in embarrassment.
After Smoke Shield’s exit, Flying Hawk took a breath to calm himself and stated, “You would think Screaming Falcon was
his
captive, wouldn’t you?”
“The war chief is distraught, High Minko.”
“So are we all.” Flying Hawk walked over and retrieved his cougarhide cape. “Come, let us see for ourselves what has transpired. And perhaps together we can calm Smoke Shield before he breaks something more important than a chamber pot.”
 
 
A
s Heron Wing walked through the cold white haze toward her house, her son at her side, she considered what she had seen. The captives had been killed with a single
deep thrust to the heart. The act had been simple execution. What perplexed her wasn’t the why of it, but that each of the captives had been castrated, apparently after the fact since the guard had heard none of the men screaming. And men—no matter how battered, cold, and weak—screamed when their male parts were sliced off.
Even more surprising, the missing pieces were nowhere to be found. Usually they were stuffed in the man’s mouth, stomped on the ground, or somehow publicly mutilated. The bodies had shown none of the usual signs of such degradation.
What sort of person would take the genitals from all five men?
That single fact would seem to indicate that the killer had sought some sort of revenge, but for what? The rape of a wife or daughter by a Chahta sometime in the past?
Warriors, when raiding, studiously avoided any sexual activity while on the war trail, fearing it would diminish their war medicine. Once a captive woman was taken, however, she was considered property. Everyone accepted that she would be used sexually. No, this was more serious—it pointed to a soul sickness, a surrender to the forces of chaos.
Or witchcraft.
And that thought sent a shiver down her spine. She glanced uneasily at the surrounding fog as she left the plaza and approached her house. Witches liked fog. They could travel about in secret and work their evil without fear of discovery.
She glanced down at her son, thinking about what he had seen. She had wanted him to view the bloody bodies. One day he would be a warrior, and knowing the realities of war and death at an early age left a child with no illusions about life and the ways of Power.
What concerned her was how he perceived the reaction of the crowd. They had been enraged, frightened, and dismayed. The idea that unknown enemies could walk in their midst, flout the authority of the Sky Hand People, and commit such an atrocity put everyone on
edge. Such passions, when mixed between the people’s souls, could burn out of control. Would that knowledge frighten Stone?
“Are you all right?” she asked.
Stone nodded. “It was scary.”
“Yes, it was.”
“Whoever did this must be punished.”
“They must,” she agreed. “Do you understand why?”
“Because they defied us.”
“That’s right. But there is more to it.”
“It’s because of Power?”
“Why would that be?”
Stone’s forehead lined. “Because killing the prisoners shifts Power out of balance. It encourages chaos and disorder.”
“That it does. What did you think about the way people responded?”
“They were mad. Just like Father.”
She had stood with one hand on Stone’s shoulder and watched Smoke Shield pacing in anger, his war club swinging dangerously. Finally, Flying Hawk, Blood Skull, and Pale Cat had arrived and taken her husband to the side. The four of them had talked, heads together, nodding occasionally, before the tishu minko arrived. Moments later, Seven Dead had walked out, calling for the Council to assemble in the tchkofa. In the meantime, more guards had been posted to ensure that the angry crowd didn’t do more damage to the bodies.
“I want you to stay close to the house for a couple of days. If you want to go and visit Grandmother, you come and tell me first. If your friends want you to go play, you tell them you can only play where I can see and hear you. Do you understand?”
He looked up at her, his dark brown eyes large. The black thatch of his hair was mussed. “Do you think there are witches loose like the people in the crowd were saying?”
“I don’t know, Stone. But you stay close just the same.
And if you see anything strange, you come and tell me. One of the captives belonged to your uncle. We might be targets, too.”
He gulped, nodding.
As her house emerged out of the thick mist, she could see Violet Bead and her two daughters. They waited by the door, talking with Wide Leaf.
“Is it true?” Violet Bead asked. “I just heard the news and thought I’d see if you knew anything before I walked over to see for myself.”
“It is true indeed.” Heron Wing looked back the way she had come. Shadowy figures could be made out moving through the fog. “No one knows who did this thing. Smoke Shield is mad enough to do something foolish. Charges of witchcraft are flying around like screech owls in the night. The Council is called. This could turn ugly in no time.”
Violet Bead looked toward the plaza. They could hear angry shouts and something that sounded like a scuffle.
“Maybe I should take the girls home.”
“That might not be a bad idea.” Even as she said it, Thin Branch appeared out of the haze, Morning Dew walking a half pace behind him. “Now here’s something.”
Thin Branch called, “Greetings. You have heard?”
“And seen,” Heron Wing told him. “Can you tell us anything?”
“Only that no one knows who did this thing. The war chief suspects the Albaamaha.”
“These days he sees the Albaamaha behind everything.” She shook her head. “I swear, if he tripped over a stone in the trail, he’d be pulling up the grass, suspecting an Albaamaha of hiding there to roll it into his way.”
Thin Branch grunted noncommittally, and then asked, “You don’t think they’d do it?”
“For what purpose?” Violet Bead asked. “They have nothing to gain by angering us.”
“Perhaps the intent was to give them heart,” Thin
Branch suggested. “This defiance might be a way of proving our vulnerability to less-radical leaders among them.”

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