People of the Weeping Eye (North America's Forgotten Past) (6 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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Trader used a fragment of broken rock to crack off more waste stone.
“Why don’t I ever learn?” Snow Otter was saying to the falling rain. “Other people never treat your tools with the respect they should. What is it about these foreign Traders? Why do they flock to me with their destructive lunacy?”
Trader cradled his find as he looked up into the rain. “I get to keep it, right?”
“The broken hammer? It’s yours … as long as you find me one as good to replace it.”
“No, the copper,” Trader said. “The deal was that I got to keep all the copper that I dug up.”
“That was the deal
before
you ruined my hammer,” Snow Otter growled. “That’s why I brought you up here to this old hole. We’ve never dug anything but small …” He was squinting through the downpour. “What have you got there?” The metallic sheen from beneath couldn’t be anything but metal.
“Copper,” Trader said reverently. “And from the weight of this rock, a lot of it.”
Snow Owl forgot his deerhide cover and scrambled down into the narrow pit. He cocked his head, fingers running across the rain-spattered copper. His eyes widened with disbelief, words catching in his throat. “That’s worth a fortune!”
Trader stared at the gleaming metal, the cold rain forgotten. “Yes, I know.”
T
he trail Old White followed up from the river wound through the trees, skirting ropy masses of vines that hung from the oak, beechnut, and maples. Overhead the branches intertwined to create a lacework of gray between him and the cloud-banked sky. Squirrels, those few that had avoided the stew pot, watched from heights beyond the range of a boy’s arrow. Fresh leaf mat carpeted the forest floor in light brown, draping logs too rotten for firewood. Every other stick of wood had been scrounged over the last couple of years for village fires.
Old White cocked his head and listened. The sounds of war were unmistakable. He’d heard them often enough through the years. He grunted under his breath and resumed his pace along the narrow forest path. He grimaced as a loud shriek carried on the north wind. Humans could be such noisy beasts. Only the herons on their migrations, and the geese passing overhead, made such a racket.
He had seen at least fifty-some winters pass. But, truth to tell, he’d lost count some years back. It didn’t seem to matter much, given the places he had been, the things he had seen. A man could have too many memories. Fact was, he had accumulated more than any man he had ever known. So many trails had passed beneath his feet during his wanderings. And with his death, the sights, sounds, faces, and places would vanish.
And perhaps this cockeyed venture would, too.
Trouble was, ever since his days with the desert
shamans, he’d taken his Dreams seriously. Now he felt his heart quicken. Though the path he followed was unfamiliar, a curious tugging on his souls led him forward. Downriver, he had heard tell of a woman possessed of the Spirits. Rumors hinted that even her family had begun to fear her. Was this the place? Images of the girl had filled his restless sleep. In the Dream, she’d been prancing and pirouetting around a lightning-riven tree. One that had looked hauntingly like the storm-scarred oak above the canoe landing where he had just left his long Trade canoe.
But then, he had chased will-o’-the-wisps before, only to meet blank stares at lonesome villages when he tried to explain his quest. But for the Trader’s staff he carried, many of those backward farmers would have been just as happy to drive him off with firebrands.
The river landing, below the blasted tree, had been packed with pulled-up canoes: a clear indication that a settlement was close. But so many canoes? The sound of battle clarified the potential ownership of many of those craft.
An ululating scream carried on the fall air and sent a chill through Old White’s bones. He’d heard that same scream before. It had come trailing out of the Dream like the smoking wraith of a ghost. He had felt pain that he supposed was hers, and that she was desperate.
Two Petals.
That’s the name they had called her by. In the Dream, her eyes had sharpened at that name.
He stepped out of the trees and stopped short. Sunlight gleamed on his white-streaked hair, now pulled tightly into a braid that hung down over his left shoulder. Countless seasons of sun, wind, and storm had creased his face and darkened it to the color of a burnished brown pot. He wore a serviceable brown hunting shirt, belted at the waist with wraps of rope to support the heavy fabric pouch at his waist.
The seasoned Trader’s staff he held in one callused hand was as tall as he; made of hickory, its top had been
carved into the shape of an ivory-billed woodpecker. Just below the bird’s head long white feathers flipped and tossed in the breeze: the universally recognized sign of Trade. Intertwined rattlesnakes had been carved along the shaft; shapes, representative of the portals between the worlds, decorated the serpents’ sides. Each of the writhing snakes sprouted wings a third of the way down its length. Once painted, the colors had faded: One was barely discernible as red; the other still sported patches of faint white.
Old White wore a cape that had seen better days. Cut from a buffalo cow’s hump, the hair had been scuffed off in patches, the leather polished black from grease and charcoal stains. Beneath the cape, and bulging like a misshapen hump, a square wooden pack rode the middle of his back, its weight borne by two wide leather straps that crossed his shoulders. A second pack, this one of fabric, hung looped from his left shoulder. The large pouch at his belt was tied with a drawstring. His feet were clad in travel-worn moccasins, the soles cut from the thick skin on a bull buffalo’s forehead.
His sharp brown gaze fixed on the sight before him. A wooden palisade surrounded a village that lay just beyond a series of recently harvested cornfields. Here and there gray-black columns of smoke rose just high enough for the wind to bend them into the far fringe of trees. The fight was nearing its final stages. Lines of warriors ran forward, shooting arrows at defenders who ducked back from the gaps in their palisade. A pile of brush had been laid against the defenders’ walls and set afire. It now ate at the wood, weakening the deep-set posts.
Gods, I am living the Dream.
He could see the events about to unfold.
Old White started forward, not even bothering to wince as another shriek carried on the air. Men made that sound when an arrow sliced deeply into their guts. Partly it was pain, but mostly it was the disbelieving knowledge that a slow and agonizing death was inevitable. He had
often treated the dying as pus and gut juices slowly ate a man’s insides.
He had crossed all but the last of the cornfields before one of the attacking warriors caught sight of him. The young man turned, calling out and pointing as he nocked another arrow in his bow. Several of his companions whirled, each fitting an arrow as they began to charge in Old White’s direction.
He stopped, raised his staff, and let them see the gleaming white feathers fluttering below the woodpecker head. The warriors slowed, glanced uneasily at each other, and muttered before one split off, racing for a knot of men standing just beyond arrow range of the besieged village.
“I am no threat,” Old White called out as he approached the warriors. “I would speak to your war chief.” If the vision had been correct, his use of the A’khota language should mollify them for the moment.
“Your accent is terrible,” one of the warriors answered in Trade Tongue, an arrow still riding his bow. He was wary, eyes shifting back and forth in search of other enemies.
“My apologies,” Old White countered, inclining his head. “I learned a little of your tongue, but it has been, let’s see … ten winters? No, perhaps more like twenty.”
A tall man broke from the knot of warriors, trotting his way. The fellow was young, muscular, a round-headed war club gripped tightly in his fist. His expression communicated a grimness of purpose that didn’t bode well.
“Greetings,” Old White called in A’khota. “I have come in peace.”
“Talk in Trade Tongue,” the war chief growled. “You sound like you’ve got rocks in your mouth. What is your purpose here, Trader?”
Old White drew himself up, both hands on his staff. “I have come for a young woman.”
The war chief grinned sourly and gestured at the village.
“It won’t be long and you can take your pick.” A shrug. “Assuming you have something to Trade for her.”
“While I have seen her in Dreams, I have also heard tell of her. Young, perhaps sixteen or seventeen summers,” Old White said softly. “It is said that she can charm the birds. I have also heard that she talks with the Dead. Others say the Spirits speak through her.”
The smug assurance faded from the war chief’s face. “Two Petals.”
“That is the name I heard downriver.” Old White nodded amiably.
“What is your purpose with her, old man?” His tone turned hostile as he backed a step, raising his war club.
Old White tilted his head. “Have you seen the Crow Mound?”
“Of course. I am Fast Palm, war chief of Black Sand Town. My people are the A’khota. The mounds carry our messages to the Spirit World, act as portals between their world and ours. Do not toy with me.”
“Oh, quite the contrary, I assure you.” Old White raised a calming hand. “Now, imagine the Crow Mound with only one wing. Incomplete, out of balance, not a thing of Power at all, only a misshapen lump of earth.”
“I don’t understand.” Fast Palm was fingering his war club, shifting from foot to foot, clearly contemplating whether to smack the old man—and take risk offending the Power of Trade—or just order him away.
“The Crow Mound is but one of many your people have fashioned for the gods and spirits. My quest is but one of many that holy people, Dreamers, and Healers have. However, for me, it is most important. Two Petals—like one wing of your mound—completes the picture.”
“She is a
witch
!”
“She has been touched by Power.”
“She is
murdering
our chief! She spoke an incantation when he visited here, jabbering to demons and
malicious spirits. She said she wanted him; then she threw up all over him when he touched her. Her bile took possession of his body and is killing his souls. He coughs up blood. His flesh is melting from his bones. She must die.”
“The fate of your chief doesn’t concern me, Fast Palm. My vision does. You will cease your attack and allow me to take Two Petals from here.”
The war chief narrowed an eye. “Assuming I agree to this silly idea, what makes you think Spring Rock Village will give her to you?”
“Like you, they won’t dare to cross me.”
Fast Palm tested the balance of his war club, pensive eyes on the wooden ball at its end. The orb was scarred, nicked, and dented from previous impacts. “If you value your life, old man, leave now.”
Old White reached into the fabric sack hanging from his belt, his right hand rummaging through the various bags, boxes, and containers within. “I ask you once more to surrender her to me.”
“I don’t even know you. You speak like a barbarian. Your dress is unfamiliar to me. What is your name?”
“I am called Old White.”
Fast Palm’s eyes widened. “Him? The one they call the Seeker?”
“Him.”
“He is a legend.” A wary smile crossed the war chief’s face. “But you … I think you are no legend. Just some silly old fool. The Old White of legend would simply sweep me and my men aside, walk through a wall of fire, split the Spring Rock palisade, sprout wings, and bear Two Petals off. You’re not him.”
“Stories are like penises. They tend to swell with the telling. In this world, I have never sprouted wings.” Old White arched an eyebrow. “Fire is another thing. What if I told you I could breathe a fire into your eyes that would burn without flame?”
Fast Palm glanced at his warriors, chuckled, and thrust
out his chest. “I’d call you a liar.” He didn’t seem to notice, but the attack on Spring Rock Village had slackened, his warriors backing away to watch the curious meeting. Many were slowly inching closer, heads cocked to hear the exchange.
Old White withdrew his hand from the bag, extending it, fist closed. “Look closely. You have never seen fire held in a man’s hand like this.”
The war chief did as he was bid, bending down, a disbelieving frown on his wary face.
Old White opened his hand to display a red powder on his open palm.
Fast Palm sneered. “That’s not fire! Just some—”
Old White blew, jetting the powder into the war chief’s face.
Fast Palm darted back, taking a deep breath. “You old
fool
! You are about to find out just what my wrath—” He coughed, then sneezed, reaching up to rub his eyes. The coughing and sneezing intensified. When he could catch his breath, he wailed, shrieking, dropping his war club to paw at his eyes. Tears were streaming down his face. “Gods! It burns!
It burns!
”
Old White raised his staff as the warriors pressed forward, eyes wide, mouths open. “Leave him be. I have done no permanent harm, only taught him a painful lesson in respecting unknown elders. And, I hope, given him a dose of humility.”
War Chief Fast Palm sank to the ground, weeping, moaning, tears rubbed wetly over his cheeks as he pawed at his eyes, kicked, and coughed out of control. “Gods, it hurts! Stop it!
Stop it!
”
“Will you give me the woman?” Old White asked. He stared sidelong at a warrior who had half drawn an arrow that rested on his bow. Extending his staff, he added, “You’re next.” The warrior slackened his pull, swallowed hard, and stepped back slowly. The others watched their war chief’s misery through horror-widened eyes.

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