People of the Weeping Eye (North America's Forgotten Past) (48 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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She paused, remembering. “Father came in. I remember him shouting at me, dragging me away. He was so mad.” She gave the Kala Hi’ki a sad look. “I never did
see the sunlight that deer’s Spirit promised. I just got a beating from Father. He didn’t believe that deer’s voice told me to do it.”
“And your mother? What did she do?”
“She was killed. The A’khota killed her when she went out to collect firewood. I saw her body. All chopped up like that deer hide. She was bloody. They had taken her scalp. I remember screaming, wanting to die so I could go looking for her souls. I couldn’t imagine what living would be like without Mother. That night she came to my Dreams, telling me that the world was all backward.” Two Petals nodded to herself. “That’s when it all started to make sense.”
“Make sense how?”
“Mother was good. She never hurt anyone. People came from all over to have her treat them when they were sick. Father and the rest of the men listened to her counsel. She had so many friends. People brought her gifts, and our house was always full of visitors. She loved everyone, and always had food for them. Even the A’khota, after they heard she had been killed by one of their warriors, sent gifts to Father. They did that because she had Healed A’khota. They said they were sorry.”
“And that made the world backward?”
Two Petals nodded. “Why else would someone who always tried to do good be killed like that? I knew lots of mean and angry people. None of them died that way. Well, sometimes they did. It was always the good ones who got killed, or sick. Then one of Mother’s souls came and told me why it was. Backward. Everything was backward. That’s why I didn’t fit anymore. That’s why I started hearing the voices.” She nodded to herself. “Sometimes I would see people … just as clear as I see you now. They’d tell me things and I’d answer. It made other people in the room scared because they couldn’t see who I was talking to.”
“So what did you do?”
“I stopped talking to them out loud. But I’d listen.”
She looked down at her hands. “I just couldn’t get anything done. I’d start cooking. Maybe boiling corn. Then I’d see someone, or the voices would start talking about things like why sunlight could shine through cracks in the wall, and next thing I’d know, the corn was boiled dry and burning in the pot. It made Father so mad. Other times I would be doing something like weaving matting for the floor, and the voices would tell me to look outside. Then they’d tell me something was outside the palisade. When I finally followed their instructions, I’d find a woman standing in a clearing. We’d sit and talk, and Father would show up sometime later, angry and frightened that I’d disappeared. But when I explained I was talking to the woman, he’d insist she wasn’t there.”
“It must have been very disturbing.”
She nodded, staring at his ruined face. “Things didn’t make sense until Mother told me the world was backward. Then I finally understood. I was the only one who saw things correctly. If I said things backward, I could make sense of it all.”
He nodded, as if understanding. “That explains a great deal.” He fingered the stumps on his right hand. “Why did the Seeker want you? Did he say what his purpose was?”
“He says I called to him in his Dream. He told me he searched up and down the river until he found me.”
“Did he say why that was important?”
“Something terrible happened at Split Sky City. He thinks he needs me to make whatever got turned around right again. Power is calling us there. I’ve seen …”
He waited before prompting, “Yes? It’s all right. I need to know these things if I am to help.”
She blinked, staring at the tea cup. She could sense the herbs working within her. Her thoughts had slowed, and she felt more relaxed, almost at peace. For the first time in seasons, she could concentrate without her souls
fluttering around like butterflies. “I’ve seen fire and blood. If we don’t make things right, balance the Power, a great many people are going to hurt.”
The Kala Hi’ki took a breath. “Did either the Seeker or the Trader say anything about the Yuchi?”
“They have been worried about crossing your territory. I had seen images, things that happened … I mean things that
will
happen.”
“What were they?”
“One way, Trader hangs from the square. It will take him a long time to die, but in the end, people will admire his courage. In another vision, I have seen Trader playing chunkey with a warrior. I think it’s at the solstice ceremony. The weather is cold, the ground frozen. People are watching, cheering. Something about the counting sticks is very important to you and your people. And to Trader, too.”
“How do they mean to hurt us?”
She blinked, frowning. “Hurt you? Neither Trader nor the Seeker mean to harm your people. In one vision, the Yuchi are part of the future. Part of fixing the problem. Trader can stop the war.”
“Stop the war?”
“The one that’s coming. He doesn’t know. I haven’t told him. I think it would scare him.”
“What happens in the war?”
“Chaos is let loose. Everything is ruined. War washes like a red wave across the land. The sky is black, even during the day. When people aren’t looking into the forest for raiders, they are staring at the black sky. I see death everywhere, and the ghosts wander, seeking peace they can never find.”
“Does Trader lead this war?”
“No. If the war happens he will be long dead in your square. A terrible chief, a man with a scar on his head, will lead it. He will spare no one. Not even his own people.”
“Does Trader know this scarred man?”
“He does … and he doesn’t.” She cocked her head. “How odd that it works that way.”
“And if Trader lives? What will become of Split Sky City?”
Tell him the rest,
one of the voices in her head prompted. She took a deep breath. “You should know this: One way or the other, your city here will be abandoned. Where your fields now stretch, only forest will grow. Whether you like it or not, the future of your people is tied to Trader, and whether he survives the return to his people. If Power is not restored, the Children of the Sun will be broken, scattered, and those not killed in the fighting will be absorbed by the Charokee, Shawnee, and others.”
The old man nodded wearily. “I feared as much, Contrary.”
“Ask yourself this: Was the pain of becoming the Kala Hi’ki worth the gift of wisdom? Would you Trade your Power and true vision for a whole body? You are scarred, blind, and bitter, but Power fills your life in a way it never would have had you remained whole. No gift comes without a price and terrible sacrifice. By surrendering what you most desire for yourself, you will achieve what you sincerely want for others.”
“I think I already knew that.”
“So does the Seeker.” She smiled. “Trader will discover this, but he has yet to face his trial.”
“Am I not ‘his trial’?” the Kala Hi’ki asked dryly.
“Dying on the square isn’t his choice. You, like everyone else, see the world backward. You are not Trader’s trial; he is yours.” She smiled at the irony. “How will you choose: to feed your rage and lust for revenge, or gamble on the future of your people?”
“So, if I let him go, my people are safe? I don’t understand.”
“Power didn’t make your choice simple. Killing Trader is quick and certain. He will die on the square, and you
will enjoy his suffering. Letting him go is a gamble—not only on him, but that Seeker and I will succeed in restoring the harmony. I have had glimpses of the different futures. You are but one thread of the weaving.”
“And if I choose wrong?”
“Choose one way and the Tsoyaha continue for a long time to come. Choose another, and they will be forgotten within two generations.”
“Which choice is which?”
“You know the ways of Power. Do you even have to ask?”
 
 
A
s snow swirled out of the night sky beyond the door of Heron Wing’s house, Morning Dew added a stick to the fire and then retreated to her place along the wall. In the days since Thin Branch had led her to Heron Wing’s house, some of the numbness had leached out of her souls. Slowly, inexorably, she was becoming part of Heron Wing’s household. Even sour old Wide Leaf had grudgingly offered her an occasional kindness.
Little Stone, however, had immediately made her welcome, showing her his toys and telling her detailed stories about each of his possessions, and who had given them to him. Somehow it had devolved on her to keep track of the boy.
She glanced across the room at Heron Wing, who was stringing shell beads onto a necklace. The woman had been considerate, almost indulgent during those first few days when Morning Dew had sat in shocked silence by the fire. Without comment, Heron Wing had placed the tripod and hung a bowl over the fire to heat water. After checking it with a finger, she had calmly said, “You will want to wash yourself.” And she had handed Morning Dew a cloth to sponge herself.
She had stripped off the dress Flying Hawk had given
her and scrubbed. She began halfheartedly, then with ever-increasing vigor. She had ended in a manic flurry, as if to remove the very skin from her body. She persisted, even when the bowl was empty. Only when Heron Wing bent over, placing fingers on her hand, did she slow, stare up at the woman, and burst into tears.
“Where is your other dress?” Heron Wing had asked. “The one you wore.”
“Ruined,” she had managed. “He … he tore it.”
Heron Wing had inspected the gray dress. Droplets of blood and urine stains speckled the front. “He gave you that one?”
“No. The … the high minko.”
“Looks like the one Flying Hawk’s wife used to wear,” Wide Leaf noted, her usual gruffness tempered after Morning Dew’s frantic ablutions.
“Wide Leaf,” Heron Wing had asked, “would you take this and wash it?” The tone in her voice was firmly controlled.
The slave had taken the fabric, then vanished into the fog.
Heron Wing had rummaged through a box, procuring one of her own dresses. “It will be a bit large, but it will do until yours is clean.” In the firelight, she had turned knowing eyes on Morning Dew. “We all heal, Morning Dew. Even you.”
An image of Screaming Falcon’s face had flashed down deep between her souls. She had closed her eyes, unashamed at the continuation of her tears. The woman had no idea. Some things would never heal. She had glanced down at her hands, staring at them in disbelief, as if they belonged to another.
The days had passed, and while the horror of what she had done lingered, some semblance of life returned. She found it in cooking, carrying, mending, sewing, and cleaning. Every task she attacked with total and intense concentration. Anything to keep the memories from creeping out.
I have buried the memories,
she told herself.
They are in a box, deep down inside, covered over with a rock. They are forgotten.
But they weren’t. She couldn’t control her Dreams, and more than once, in the night, Heron Wing would wake her, a reassuring hand on her shoulder, and say, “You were having a nightmare. All is fine. Go back to sleep.”
Now as she sat with her back to the wall, she wondered,
Who have I become? What have I become?
And once again found herself staring at her hands.
“Greetings!” a male voice called from the snowy night.
In that instant, Morning Dew’s heart skipped, fear shooting down her limbs.
Please, Breath Giver, tell me they’re not coming for me!
“Pale Cat!” Heron Wing called with delight. “Come warm yourself. It’s not a fit night for beavers to be out in, let alone you.”
The
Hopaye
ducked past the door hanging, smiling, and grabbed Stone up as the boy shot across the room and into his uncle’s arms. “How’s my boy?” Pale Cat asked.
“Fine, Uncle. Look! Morning Dew made me a clay gorget! See? She carved a circle with a cross inside. You know what that is?”
“I do. It’s the sacred fire at the center of our world.” Pale Cat glanced at her. If he saw her fading panic, he didn’t remark on it, saying only, “Thank you. It was a kind gift.”
She nodded politely, averting her eyes.
“What brings you?” Heron Wing asked. “That wife of yours not feeding you well? We have a bit of stew left. Buffalo tongue. It seems that some of the hunters found a little herd of yearlings along the divide to the east.”
“I’ve heard of several buffalo that have been killed this season. Old Broken Thumb killed a couple of cows. They’ve been packing the meat and hides in. Made it just before the storm.” He settled himself before the fire.
“Smells wonderful, and while yes, I’m well fed, Sister, I could stand a taste of delicacy. That’s why I came. Solstice preparations begin. I’ll be fasting and sweating, preparing for the ceremonies.”
Morning Dew drew her legs to her chest, trying to be as small as she could. She ached to ask after her brother’s wives, but couldn’t muster the courage.
Imagine that? After what you’ve done, you can’t find the courage to ask about some slave women?
The notion surprised her.

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