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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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That had been early afternoon. Now Smoke Shield stared sullenly into the night as he hunched at the low doorway. Red Awl whimpered behind him. Albaamaha
had no more guts than certain Chahta high minkos. But no matter where they cut, or what they burned, Red Awl insisted his Albaamaha were innocent.
“Of course my people hate you,” Red Awl had said. “Look what you do to us! You even turn on those of us who would find ways to live with you! You, and your Power, are cursed!”
“Then you know nothing of Power,” Smoke Shield had replied. “We are strong, and Power flows through the strong like a great wind. With it, the weak are blown away.”
“If you are made high minko,” Red Awl had said, “you will bring blood and fire to our land. It will end in death and misery for all of us.”
“Who killed the captives? Who decided to humiliate us before the gods?”
“I don’t know!” he had screamed as Fast Legs applied a burning stick to his testicles.
“Just name the Albaamaha who did this thing, and the pain will be over.”
“I can’t!”
Red Awl had cried. “Anyone I named would be innocent! Don’t you stupid Chikosi understand? If an Albaamo did this thing,
I don’t know who
!”
And so it had continued. Now for a blissful moment there was silence but for the woman’s choked breathing. Red Awl had fainted, his souls fleeing from the wreckage of his body. Fast Legs had slapped snow against the worst of the wounds, seeking to draw the man’s souls back, but his body sagged limply.
Smoke Shield stared out into the night. A good three inches of soggy snow had fallen, melting from the bottom up.
What will make him talk?
He pondered that idea, thinking of different manners of inflicting pain.
Fast Legs asked, “War Chief? Should we let him rest until morning?”
Smoke Shield rubbed the back of his head. “I suppose. It’s late. Maybe when he finally comes to, he’ll understand that this will go on and on until he talks.
Maybe that inevitability will do what immediate pain cannot.”
“And the woman?”
“Cut her dress off. It’s cold. I could use some soft warm relief.” He smiled grimly. “Torture is an exhausting business.”
Lotus Root turned out to be the best part of the day. She fought like a wildcat when he pulled his beaverhide shirt over his head and settled on top of her. He had to cuff her once, hard, when she bit his lip and drew blood.
 
 
R
ed Awl blinked. Pain, terrible and encompassing, brought him to wakefulness. He bit his tongue to keep from screaming. He gasped for breath and tried to swallow down a dry throat. The deep burns on his body shot white agony through his limbs and torso.
I have never known hate until now.
He managed to focus on the sleeping forms barely visible in the darkness. In the rear, huddled against the wall, he could make out Lotus Root. Her hair fell over her head like a shawl, and she clutched her ruined dress around her like a blanket. He swallowed hard, trying to keep from moaning. By the Ancestors, he didn’t want to wake the Chikosi.
The act of sitting up left him woozy and reeling. How could a human body hurt this much? “Lotus Root?” he whispered. “Shhh! Lean this way. Maybe I can get to your knots.”
She didn’t respond, but remained huddled, like a child who had been beaten.
“Lotus Root? We must be very quiet.”
“Go away,” she whispered miserably.
A hot tear traced down his cheek. What had they done to her? She had always been the strong one.
“If I can reach your knots, I may be able to loosen them.”
She remained like a lump.
He bent his neck, feeling burned skin compressing.
Abba Mikko, help me!
 
 
S
moke Shield awakened to the winter song of a robin. He shivered in the cold, blinking to clear his vision. Morning light spilled through the low doorway, the world beyond bright with reflected snow. He yawned, seeing his breath rise in a wispy white streamer. Gods, Fast Legs needed to stoke up the fire. He tried to snuggle deeper into his bear hide. When he made a face his lip ached, which reminded him of the Albaamo woman, and her sharp teeth.
He chuckled. Well, Red Awl should be recovered enough that he could watch while Smoke Shield enjoyed another session with his wife. Yes, that was a great way to warm up while the fire was rekindled.
He sat up, dabbing at his swollen lip, then froze as he looked toward the captives. Gone! Both of them!
“Fast Legs! Wake up!” He scrambled to his feet, searching in the old trash at the back of the hut. The bindings lay in limp piles. He knew Red Awl’s; they were stiff with blood, and cleanly cut. The woman’s still had kinks in the cord where the knots had been pulled loose.
“What’s happened, War Chief?” Fast Legs stood, eyes thick with sleep.
“They’re gone. So are my bow and arrows.”
“I was sleeping on mine.”
“Thank the gods.” He leveled a hard finger. “How did they
pick the knots
?”
“I don’t know, War Chief!” Fast Legs swallowed hard. “You checked them yourself!”
He gave the man a “You’ll pay for this” look. “They can’t have gone far. Come, before this snow melts, we can run them down.”
He grabbed up his bearhide cape and peeked out the doorway, half expecting an arrow to be loosed in his direction. Nothing. He bolted from the door, sprinting to one of the trees, to stare warily out at the forest.
The tracks headed straight down the trail, making for the canoe landing.
Fast Legs darted out, then to the side, his bow drawn, arrow nocked. “Do you think they headed for the canoe landing?”
“I do. But we’ll have to go carefully. I think they’ve fled, but you can’t tell.”
“They’re not warriors,” Fast Legs replied. “I say we forget caution. The important thing is to find them before they reach the river.”
Together they sprinted down the trail. How long had it been? Smoke Shield’s practiced eye read the tracks. Some, in patches of sunlight, were already melting out. The woman ran easily. The man however, was dragging, stumbling, drops of blood spattering here and there. They were nothing more than pink splotches in the melting snow.
Smoke Shield paused where the man had fallen, then struggled to rise. The woman had come back to help him. “He’s weak,” Smoke Shield noted before resuming the chase. How much lead did they have? Judging from the tracks, at least a hand of time. But the rapidly melting snow masked the usual clues a tracker would use.
Smoke Shield led the way, careless that his prey might have circled to lay an ambush. At the speed he was running, there was a good chance a weak man, even a good hunter, would miss a shot. And Red Awl was weak. Another bare spot showed where he had fallen.
“He has lost a lot of blood,” Fast Legs decided. “Running has opened some of the wounds.” Looking closely, Smoke Shield could see clots of it. The surface had dried, crinkling. The quarry had a good lead.
“We have to run,” Smoke Shield ordered. “They’re farther down the trail than I would have thought.”
Curse it! How could I have slept through their escape ?
A building rage lent strength to his muscles as he pounded down the trail. He slipped on the muddy ground, scrambled for purchase, and regained his feet, running harder.
He noted impressions in the mud where the Albaamaha had slithered and slid as well. The marks where Red Awl had fallen were coming at ever-greater frequencies.
Please, great gods, tell me he has passed out again!
The woman wouldn’t be able to do more than drag her unconscious husband along.
Hope began to rise between Smoke Shield’s souls. There was a chance. Gods, why hadn’t he thought to cripple the man last night? Cut his tendons, and he’d never have made it this far.
They slithered down a steep slope where the soil was mostly clay, and found better footing in the leaf mat. Here the snow was reduced to patches, the flat having a slight southern exposure. Which way?
The canoe landing. If they haven’t reached there, we can circle back, pick up the trail, and hunt them down.
He was panting, running easily now that his muscles had warmed. The desperation of the chase sent a thrill down his bones. Yes, he would catch them. Another bloody patch marked the man’s latest fall. The leaves here were disturbed as if stone-clad feet had stumbled through.
Back in snow again, the tracks looked fresher, and Smoke Shield fought the urge to whoop with glee. They would catch them; he just knew it!
He bounded down onto the old river terrace, and sprinted along the winding trail. Drag marks in the leaves and snow, coupled with deeply imprinted tracks, showed that the woman was pulling Red Awl now.
“I’ve got you!” He raced forward, catching glimpses of the river’s far bank through the maze of tree trunks. He almost overran the place where Lotus Root had
dragged the man off to the side, then scattered leaves to hide the fact.
Smoke Shield skidded to a halt, crouching, panting for breath as he stared into the trees. Fast Legs, a stone’s throw behind, slowed, crouched, and took cover behind a thick gum trunk, his careful eyes peering into the forest.
Smoke Shield slipped from tree to tree, and stopped. He signaled Fast Legs to sneak around to the side. A man’s form—leaned against the far side of a beech—didn’t move, but Smoke Shield could see a muddy foot. That had to be Red Awl.
He waited, glancing this way and that. Where had the woman gotten to?
“War Chief,” Fast Legs called, “he looks dead.” Fast Legs approached warily, his bow drawn, alert for any movement.
Smoke Shield eased forward, eyes scanning the silent forest for any sign of ambush.
Where is that four-times-cursed woman?
“Dead,” Fast Legs asserted.
Smoke Shield hurried forward, crouching by the dead Albaamo. He touched Red Awl’s neck, feeling cold flesh. The man’s eyes had begun to dry, the pupils in the first stages of gray. As Smoke Shield raised the man’s arm, it felt loose. “Not dead long. Perhaps a hand of time?”
He turned, staring at the trees. “Where is the woman?”
Fast Legs studied the ground around them. Most of the snow was melted, stripelike patches here and there in the shadows of the trees. “There.” He pointed at a partial track. “Canoe landing, I’d say.”
“Remember, she still has my bow and arrows.”
“Even if she reached the canoe landing, she can’t have gone far. We’ll split up. I’ll go upstream while you head down.” Fast Legs added, “It would be better if you were seen in Split Sky City sooner rather than later. If
she’s hiding among her people at Bowl Town, I’ll get her in the end.”
Smoke Shield bent, got a grip on the dead Albaamo, and hoisted the limp body over his shoulders.
“What are you doing?” Fast Legs demanded.
“Go! Canoe landing. Kill the woman. I’ll be along.”
Fast Legs left at a pounding run.
Smoke Shield hurried along, aware of blood and fluids leaking down his back and legs. The bear hide would be ruined, but he could always replace a bear hide. The one thing he could not afford was the discovery of a dead Albaamo mikko. He topped the crest above the landing and tossed the corpse to slide down the greasy wet clay. Fast Legs stood there, dark worry on his face.
“Gods!” Smoke Shield cried, seeing only their two canoes resting on the beach. Deep tracks showed where the woman had struggled to push her heavy dugout into the water. He slipped and slid down before grasping the corpse and dragging it to the canoes.
Smoke Shield walked out into the current to see past the thick stand of rushes and cattails on either side of the landing. He stared up and down the river. Nothing broke the smooth surface of the water, either upstream or down. “Her first impulse would be to head downriver,” Smoke Shield said. “She would believe herself moving faster, gaining distance.”
“That same current will carry you, War Chief. Hurry. Let me push you off.”
“What about the body?” Smoke Shield asked.
“I’ll attend to the body. You go!” Fast Legs was pushing the canoe as Smoke Shield climbed in. “Here, War Chief! Take my bow.” He tossed his bow and quiver into the hull.
“What about you?”
“I’ll manage! I’m a warrior.” Fast Legs waved as Smoke Shield lifted his paddle and steered into the current.
Foolish woman. He’d be on top of her before she could make any kind of safety.
And when I do, Lotus Root, you are going to wish you were lying back there with your dead husband!
A
fter Fast Legs tumbled Red Awl’s body into his canoe, he pushed off, reaching for his paddle and driving the craft upriver, close to the bank. As the first fingers of sunlight topped the horizon and cast light on the wavelets breaking on the shore, the rushes just north of the landing parted, and Lotus Root stepped out. She glanced back where her canoe floated, hidden in a marshy stand of cattails.
“You were right, my husband. These are not smart Chikosi.” She sniffed against the tears that began to trickle down her cheeks. “They shall hear of this day’s work. Upon your dead souls, my husband, I swear it.”
She wiped at the tears, stepping out to stare upriver. Fast Legs’ canoe was a dark speck at the bend of the river. She had hoped they would be too anxious to take Red Awl’s body, that they would rush headlong into their canoes and paddle off, giving her time to retrieve the final conclusive evidence of what they’d done.
Instead, she had only her word, and the Chikosi war chief’s bow and arrows. It, along with her status as Red Awl’s wife and leader of the Dog Bane Clan, would be enough.
“You have unleashed the winds, War Chief. Now, let us see if you and the Chikosi can ride them!”
 
 
S
unlight streamed down between puffy white clouds in the aftermath of the storm that had drifted far beyond the southern horizon. Snow melted into puddles of water on the packed earth of Rainbow City’s plaza. People hurried along, bent on various tasks. They were bundled against the chill that blew down from the north. As they passed, they cast curious gazes at Old White, Swimmer, and Trader as they skirted the edge of the great plaza. To their right, the flat expanse was broken by the great Sacred Cedar of the Tsoyaha. In this case, the Sacred Cedar pole was a tall straight specimen, its sides carved to show the long-ago quest of one of their warriors in search of the terrible wizard who was frightening the sun. Old White wasn’t certain he’d ever seen such a large cedar log. That the Yuchi had managed to cut it, drag it here, and plant it awed him. It must have been a gargantuan effort.
The plaza they skirted consisted of the gaming ground, oriented north to south so the teams could play before the Sacred Cedar. Meanwhile oriented east to west on either side of the pole were the chunkey grounds, one for each moiety.
The Yuchi were unique among peoples. A child was born into his mother’s clan as among other folk, but he was a member of his father’s moiety. The Chief Moiety had its Council House on the square mound overlooking the plaza, while the Warrior Moiety lay to the south. Unlike among the Sky Hand and other peoples, the clans acted autonomously, owing nothing to the moieties. Of these, the Bear, Wolf, Deer, and Panther clans were the most prominent and influential. Yuchi houses all bore an emblem of the sun high up on the ridgepole, but each clan totem was displayed just over the door.
The ground between the plaza and tall palisade to the east was packed with thatch-roofed houses, granaries, storerooms, ramadas, and hollowed-log mortars with their associated pestles. A thick veil of blue smoke rose from
around the roofs to trail off to the south. Along with the smell of wood smoke came the odors of cooking food. Everyone was busy preparing for the winter solstice. The high point would be the stickball game between the moieties on the final day. Wagers were being cast, with the fortunes of entire clans bet on the outcome.
They passed the Chief Moiety Council House—a high building behind a low palisade. The mound it was constructed on was capped with blue clay that shone in the sunlight. Across the plaza, they could see its opposite, the Warrior Council House atop a similar yellow clay mound. Both structures had been built to impress, but not so much as the great mound rising on the northeast corner of the plaza.
The palace there was the grandest building in Rainbow City. The mound itself was huge, a jutting earthen construction finished in bright red clay that glistened in the sunlight. The palisade at its margins rose straight and true, allowing glimpses of the palace beyond. The high walls were similarly plastered in the bright red of the mound with a white stripe surrounding the walls, and visible just below the overhanging roof. The roof itself rose high into the sky, with effigies of Bear, Wolf, and Ivory-billed Woodpecker protruding from the gray thatch.
“Not as impressive as Cahokia,” Old White granted.
“Nothing is.” Trader looked around. “Nevertheless, it gives a person an entirely new perspective of the Yuchi. These are a strong and healthy people.”
“Most of the southern chiefdoms are.” Old White replied. “It makes a person wonder if the Spirit of Cahokia has moved to the south. As if somehow the Power has shifted this direction. Corn grows better here. The Caddo, Natchez, Chikosi, and Chaktaw seem to have inherited Cahokia’s heart.”
“Go away,” Trader said, shooing one of the growling local dogs who approached Swimmer with stiff legs, its back hair on end. “That’s it, Swimmer. Relax. We’re on
our best behavior here. I don’t want to end up on a square just because you think you can whip some upstart Yuchi mongrel.”
“Speaking of which”—Old White pointed—“there they are. And, blessed be Power, you’re not hanging in one.”
A series of squares stood along the northern boundaries of the plaza just ahead of them. Off behind them were society houses on low mounds. And behind them rose the city palisade that clung to the edge of the steep bluff.
Trader walked over, running his fingers along one of the poles, staring thoughtfully at the stained wood, knowing full well what gave it that dark hue. “It was a close thing.”
“Perhaps,” Old White granted.
“You weren’t the object of the Kala Hi’ki’s wrath.”
“It was only a matter of removal. I am still Chikosi, even if I’ve been gone longer.”
“You are going to have to break yourself of the habit of calling our people Chikosi, assuming we ever make it there. It’s considered derogatory.”
“The Natchez call us the Chikaza. The Chahta are called Chaktaw. It will all become one someday.” Old White scratched his chin. “People are funny that way.”
“Are you going to tell me your terrible secret now that we’ve dodged the Yuchi arrow?”
“No.” Old White smiled. “Some secrets are best kept until the moment of greatest import. And who knows, we are not at our destination yet. I might die with it, leaving you forever perplexed. That notion entertains me immensely.”
“Your idea of amusement is seriously ill,” Trader said, straightening from his inspection of the square.
“Greetings!” a voice called from behind them. The burly war chief who had captured them on the river emerged from one of the buildings. He descended the
wooden steps fronting the low mound, muscles bunching in his thick legs.
“Greetings, War Chief.” Old White gave him a slight nod. “You are well, I hope?”
“Well indeed.” He glanced at Trader as he approached. “And sleeping well despite the lack of Chikosi screams coming from the square.” He offered a slight bow. “Forgive me. I am not known for my tact. My people find that my other talents offset my brutish manners. I am Wolf Tail, war chief of the Tsoyaha. I ask you to understand my reluctance to name myself the other night. Were you to be witches or dangerous sorcerers, that knowledge might have given you something to fasten your magic upon and done me ill. I have had occasion to deal with witches in the past. It wasn’t pleasant.”
“You are forgiven,” Old White granted easily. “My young friend here will also forgive you, but it takes him longer. He hasn’t had quite the breadth of experience I have. Youth and all, you know.”
Trader added dryly, “You are forgiven, Wolf Tail. A war chief’s first duty is to protect his people from all enemies.”
Wolf Tail glanced sidelong at the square. “Personally, I am just as glad that the Kala Hi’ki has offered you his protection. I don’t like war … or the things that come of it.”
“A peculiar notion for a war chief,” Old White granted.
The warrior shrugged. “When called upon, my men and I do what must be done. We do it very well, and while some chafe, and wish me replaced so they could seek greater glory on the war trail, I would as soon avoid the fighting.” He glanced at Trader. “When it is all finished, win or lose, someone must weep. Children lose parents, and the defeated are always driven to retaliation. Or do Chikosi enjoy weeping for their dead?”
“No one does,” Trader replied. “I may indeed be younger than the Seeker, but I have traveled far, and seen
many peoples. Warfare, like everything else, must be kept in balance.” He paused, studying Wolf Tail. “For a man who claims to lack tact, I think a great deal more goes on inside that head of yours.”
Wolf Tail grinned. “It is good to have the respect of one’s adversary.”
“You have mine, War Chief,” Old White added. “Did your warriors receive the gifts we sent?” Small packages of mint tea had been parceled out from one of Trader’s packs and sent to each of the warriors.
“They did. I would thank you. It was an unnecessary gesture. They were just following orders. Reluctantly, I’ll admit, but they obeyed despite their wishes to simply smack you in the heads and toss your bodies into the river.”
“Our arrival caused them inconvenience,” Old White added. “It was only fair given that they carried our packs to the temple.”
Wolf Tail gave him a thin smile. “My understanding is that the Kala Hi’ki is Healing the Contrary?”
“And making good progress,” Old White reported.
“I have also heard that you will be with us until solstice.”
“At least,” Trader said, signaling Swimmer to stop sniffing at Wolf Tail’s leg.
Old White prayed the dog wouldn’t mistake it for a tree.
“In that case I hope our hospitality makes up for our welcome.”
“It will,” Old White said agreeably. “We were just on the way to pay a visit to your chief. It seems he has been most curious about us.”
“A great many people are.” Wolf Tail paused. “I have only heard vague rumors about Power, the Chikosi, and trouble ahead.”
Trader added fervently, “Yes, well, Power has certainly given us a few surprises. As to the Chikosi and trouble, I fall into your camp. I would rather avoid it.”
“What do you think about their attack on the Chaktaw ?”
“What attack?” Old White and Trader said simultaneously.
“They surprised White Arrow Town in retaliation for a raid. It was remarkably efficient. They swam down the river at night, taking the town immediately after the matron’s daughter married the White Arrow war chief. They captured the high minko, the
Alikchi Hopaii,
and many others. A great many were killed. The Chaktaw are reeling.”
Old White frowned. “We have heard nothing of it. We have been upriver. We had hoped to descend the Horned Serpent River, Trading all the way. Are the Chaktaw preparing for war against the Chikosi?”
Wolf Tail studied them thoughtfully. “For the moment they are strengthening their defenses. They expect a series of attacks when the weather warms. This new Chikosi war chief, Smoke Shield, is an ambitious man. Now that he has tasted success, with no battle losses, he is going to think about settling old scores.”
“This could be trouble,” Old White told Trader.
“It could indeed.” Trader frowned. “I wonder who this Smoke Shield is? Have you ever heard of him?”
“No. But I have been long gone from these parts. This could complicate things for us.” Old White turned to Wolf Tail. “You have taken precautions, I hope.”
“Odd words for a Chikosi, no matter how long removed from his people.” Wolf Tail lifted an eyebrow.
“War is bad for the Trade,” Trader added. “Things have become difficult enough without having armies of warriors marching the trails. You need look no farther than the Michigamea to see the effect it has on the movement of goods along the rivers.”
“Who started this trouble between the Chaktaw and Chikosi?” Old White asked.
“The White Arrow. But how does any of this get started? Someone inflicts a real or perceived insult on
someone else, or a grieving relative attains a position of authority. A chief believes he can gain prestige and Power by defeating his neighbor. In this case, according to rumors, a young and inexperienced high minko thought he could chastise the Chikosi.”
BOOK: People of the Weeping Eye (North America's Forgotten Past)
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