People of the Weeping Eye (North America's Forgotten Past) (7 page)

Read People of the Weeping Eye (North America's Forgotten Past) Online

Authors: W. Michael Gear,Kathleen O'Neal Gear

BOOK: People of the Weeping Eye (North America's Forgotten Past)
11.58Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
“Stop it!” Fast Palm cried, trying to blink his swollen
red eyes. He’d smeared snot across his cheeks, but the coughing had weakened. “In the name of the gods,
stop this
!”
“I want the woman called Two Petals.”
“Yes! Yes!
Anything!
”
“And you will not try to retaliate, or I shall call the fire to burn forever in your lungs. It has had a taste of your souls now. I can send it back, even from a great distance, should you give me reason.”
“I agree!” Fast Palm whimpered.
Old White motioned to the warriors. “Bring water. Use a damp cloth and carefully wash his face. I have sent the fire away, but like flames smothered in a hearth, the heat will have to slowly dissipate.” He hesitated, leveling a hard finger on the warriors. “Do not make the mistake of thinking your war chief weak because of what happened here. A lesser man’s face would have melted and dripped from the bone like heated fat. He is strong, this one.”
Old White walked with the assurance of a Cahokian lord as he strode up to the palisade. Using the reprieve, the defenders had managed to slosh water on the burning brush that had been gnawing at the base of their palisade. He could see wary faces peering out from between slits in the log walls.
“I am Old White. I have stopped the attack. I have come for Two Petals.”
From behind the posts a voice asked, “Old White? The one they call the Seeker?”
“I am he.”
“You’re supposed to be a legend.”
“Then the legend has come for Two Petals.”
“How do we know this isn’t just one of Fast Palm’s tricks?”
“As soon as he stops crying, you can ask him.” He cocked his head. “I am only here for the girl.”
“What do you want with her?” an older, more suspicious voice called from within.
“I need her help on a journey.”
“And if we refuse?” the first asked.
Old White chuckled. “I will burn down your palisade and hand you over to your enemies. Perhaps War Chief Fast Palm will be more forgiving than I.”
“A moment, please,” the older man called back.
Old White could hear voices muttering back and forth. Within moments an old man emerged from behind the double-walled entry. He looked haggard, as if someone had cored a hole into his heart and let its contents leak out. His face sagged with a weary resignation. A fine beaverhide cape hung from his shoulders, and a medicine bag made from a raccoon hide was suspended on the knotted cord belt at his waist. His finely woven hunting shirt dropped to below his knees. Flower patterns made from small colored wooden beads had been sewn onto his sleeves, the breast, and the hem of the garment.
The old man glanced suspiciously at the hostile warriors who clustered around Fast Palm. Many of them glared menacingly in their direction. “How did you stop them?”
“With a breath across my palm. He’ll be all right … provided he doesn’t irritate me again.”
The old man narrowed his eyes, studying Old White. “Are you truly the Seeker?”
“I am called that.”
“I am Skaup, of the Wide Thistle Clan. I sit on the Council here, and am a respected elder among my people. If you are who you say you are, I am honored to meet you.” The old man reached up and rubbed his chin, the action pulling his wrinkles back and forth. “But what would a man like you want with my crazy daughter?”
Old White studied him thoughtfully. “
Your
daughter? Has she always troubled you?”
“As a little girl she was precious, a delightful darling of a child. She was smart, happy, with laughter like a bubbling brook. No child ever brought a father more joy.” His smile failed. “The voices began whispering to
her just before her first woman’s moon. Soon after that, her mother was killed in a raid. Since then, she’s grown progressively worse.” He sighed, and half turned to face the menacing A’khota warriors. “There has been talk among my own people that I should just walk up behind her … put her out of her misery.” A pause. “But I still see my little girl.”
“A family must take responsibility for its own.”
“I know. But I am weak when it comes to her.” The old man shot Old White a sidelong glance. “When Fast Palm came here, demanding that I turn her over, I thought perhaps, just maybe, he would turn around and leave when I refused.”
“Apparently he is motivated.” Old White indicated the smoldering section of palisade off to his left. The wood had been considerably weakened.
Hopelessness and fatigue dulled the old man’s eyes. “My people have been blaming me and my daughter for this attack. It’s my fault. Two Petals brought this down on us.” He made a face before adding, “Fast Palm’s chief must really be witched. I’m afraid she did it to him. She thought he was an arrogant mallard when he came through here. He thought her simple. Sought to lay with her. When he tried to force her, she threw up all over him. Afterward she said some things. It sounded like nonsense. Things about his belly slowly filling with pleasure, about how he would swallow most gleefully. Last I heard, the man’s gut was a burning agony, and he was throwing up all the time.”
“Do you really not understand what she is saying?”
He made a puzzled face. “Something is turned around in her souls. She just can’t get anything right. I know she’s not stupid. Tell her to enter and she goes away. Tell her to leave and she sits right down on the spot. It’s a soul possession of some sort. You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve tried: burning her with sticks until she screams; beating her with clubs; piercing her flesh with thorns; anything to drive the demons from her souls.”
Gods, could she really be a Contrary?
“I need her help.”
“I don’t understand. How could my spirit-haunted daughter be of help to you, of all people?”
“I have crossed half of our world to find her, Skaup. Power has led me to her. I wish to ask her to accompany me.”
The old man made a face. “She is like a black oak in a lightning storm. She’ll draw trouble to you. And whatever your mission here, people will be skeptical of you as long as she’s with you. I can’t make sense of her anymore. No one can. Ask her if she’s hungry after a day of fasting, and she’ll lie and tell you her belly’s so full it’s about to burst. Do you want to subject yourself to that?”
“I will take my chances. Besides, what choice do you have? If she doesn’t go with me, Fast Palm will take her, and kill a great many of your people in the process. If you manage to fight off the A’khota, your own people will demand that you deal with her in a way that will permanently wound your souls. I, however, give you my word: I shall do my best to ensure that no harm comes to her.”
Skaup focused his unsure gaze on Fast Palm. The war chief was on his knees, and his warriors were sponging his face with water. “So much pain, she causes. And the constant lies …” His expression tightened. “She is my daughter, don’t you understand? She’s all that I have left. I can’t just turn her away.”
“May I at least ask her?”
A voice from inside the palisade shouted, “If you don’t give her to him, we will!”
“By the Morning Star, that’s rotted right!” another called angrily.
“Get rid of her, Skaup! We’ve had more than we bargained for already!”
A chorus of shouts rose from behind the defenses. The A’khota immediately reacted to the angry voices, fingering their weapons, ready for a counterassault.
Old White added softly, “I offer you an option, Elder Skaup. In my custody, she will be safe. Perhaps I can help her come to grips with the Spirits. My abilities as a
Hopaye
are considerable.”
“A what?”
“A
Hopaye,
a Healer. I have been many places, talked with a great many shamans, shared the secrets of the plants and cures. If I can cure her, and if she desires to return, you may yet see her fulfill her destiny.”
“I could come along, help you with—”
“No.”
The gruff voice behind the palisade insisted, “Get rid of her, Skaup. Or we will!”
“Sometimes,” Old White soothed, “the only way to help someone is to let them go.”
Skaup stared miserably into Old White’s eyes, the last of his hope snuffed like a spark beneath the weight of a war moccasin. He turned, calling, “Bring my daughter to this man.”
Old White leaned on his Trader’s staff, hands grasping the snakes carved in the wood as if to crush them. His heart began to pound, excitement pulsing with each jet of blood through his veins.
Is this the one? Is she the girl in my Dreams ?
Bodies moved behind the gaps in the palisade. Sounds—like those made by a wounded bobcat—could be heard.
A middle-aged man emerged, followed by several anxious-looking young men. They carried her trussed body, swinging from a pole like the carcass of a slain deer. Her hair was an unkempt mass of raven black, the expression on her young face that of a barely controlled rage. The muffled squealing would have been ear-piercing shrieks but for the wad of cloth jammed between her jaws. They had wound rope around her arms and ankles before knotting it firmly to the pole. Another rope snaked about her waist and bit deeply into the dirt-smudged fabric of her coarsely woven dress.
Old White experienced a surge, like the electric crackle of rubbed fox fur, when her wide shining eyes met his. For a long moment he couldn’t breathe. He shook himself, smiling, his souls warmed by the raw emotion that seemed to glow around her struggling body. She flopped like a fish, straining the arms of the nervous young men who bore her beyond the narrow entry.
They weren’t kind as they dropped her onto the beaten earth. Old White saw pain in the father’s eyes as he bent down and said, “This man says he is Old White, the Seeker. He has offered to take you away, to keep you safe. I … I have agreed.” He gave her a weak smile. “Is that your wish?”
She glanced from her father to Old White, and again he felt the prickle run along his spine. Power shot like a thing alive from her frantic eyes as she looked from face to face. A desperation filled with love, fear, and resignation reflected from her panicked expression. She swallowed hard, mumbling against the cloth shoved into her mouth.
When the old man reached down and pulled it free, she spit, worked her lips, and declared, “I wish you would all twist and burn. Foul people, I detest you all. Go with him? Put up with his torture? Never. Stake me to the ground here. Bind me tight to this soil. No, never bear this body beyond the palisades of Spring Rock! Spill my blood and spit here, you foul whelps!”
The old man winced, pained, and in a quick move, thrust the rag into her mouth again as she drew another breath. Had he not noticed that the men surrounding her had been fixed on her as surely as a snake homed in on a bird? Did he not see the effect she had? Was he deaf to the love and desperation struggling behind her words?
“My little girl,” old Skaup said wearily. “Who would have thought?” He looked up at Old White. “We know your reputation. You, who have traveled the whole world, can you help her?”
“As much as she will help me,” Old White replied with a sense of relief. He could feel Power swelling, shifting around him. High above, an eagle screamed, and he raised his eyes, seeing the white head and tail as the sky hunter tucked, then rocketed away toward the south. Yes, this was right. A part of the puzzle. But what part? The vision hadn’t been clear.
That was more apparent as Two Petals flopped, and wailed against the gag. Her terrified eyes had fixed on her father, tears streaking down the sides of her smudged face.
So what is she? A true Contrary? Or just plain insane?
Aloud Old White said, “If you would bear her to my canoe, I would be most appreciative. The A’khota will no longer bother you.”
Turning, he raised his staff, walking straight away from Spring Rock Village, not even bothering to see if they followed his orders.
They would. They always did.
S
now Otter had dozed. He hadn’t meant to, but the rain pattering against the bark-sided lodge had lulled him. Then, too, it was warmer than usual inside due to the large fires he had ordered stoked in celebration. Worse, he had eaten too much; a full stomach always predisposed a person to slumber. The soft robes sewn of martin, beaver, and otter on which he had lain hadn’t helped matters. Nor had a playful bout of coupling with his wife. Despite the fact it was an act to encourage the Trader, he’d nevertheless exhausted his loins. That sort of thing, too, drained a man’s ability to remain alert. Thus, he was grateful when an owl hooted in the night, bringing him awake and indicating that the worst of the rain had passed.
He blinked, lifting his head to stare about. The far wall was faintly visible in the glow cast by the two fire pits, one at each end of the lodge. He could just make out the lighter framework of supple poles that had been sunk into the earth and bent over before being lashed together to make the loaf-shaped roof overhead. Crosspieces had been tied to the uprights to provide stability, and overlapping sections of bark had been lashed on to cover the whole of it. In the bluish haze that drifted up toward the smoke holes, he could see bags of corn, goosefoot, marsh elder, and cattail root hanging in their net bags. Along the walls, sleeping benches, like the one he lay on, were covered with hides. Below them, decorated bark boxes held all manner of awls, stone tools, clothing, and the other
accoutrements of a successful household. Round-bottomed pots lay canted in a row, ready for use.
Snow Otter ran his tongue over his teeth, feeling the furry covering left from the roasted acorns he had fed to Trader as an addition to the fish cakes. So, too, had he broken open not just one, but two of his prized jugs of berry juice.
Worry over what he was about to do came rolling back like some dark wave to wash over his thoughts. Trade was spiritual—a thing of Power. It wasn’t just that the gods and Spirits had given men a sacred trust allowing them to cross nations, cultures, tribes, and customs, but it served to fulfill spiritual and physical needs.
He fingered the shell pendant Trader had given him for the right to dig for copper. Among his people, the shell gorget engraved with woodpeckers and the sacred pole was worth an entire winter’s food supply. At the time—when Trader had offered it—it had seemed an incredible coup! Imagine: the whelk-shell gorget in return for the privilege of digging around in an old exhausted hole in the ground, one that had only produced small nuggets of copper? Ludicrous!
Who’d have thought the foreigner would discover a deposit of huge wealth, worth many times the value of the white shell gorget?
Snow Otter made a face at the darkness. Power, the whole thing reeked of it. A Trade: one large value in exchange for an even greater one.
He closed his eyes, remembering the thick slab of copper. It ran through the rock in a sheet as thick as a man’s meaty palm. The metal had gleamed wickedly in the firelight. Snow Otter could feel it calling to him from across the lodge. Such wealth! The likes of which he had never seen in all his life—and he, a copper Trader of no small means. Possessing that sheet of copper would make him the wealthiest man among his people. Travelers would come from all over, providing him with gifts and offerings just to see it. And eventually word would
spread down the rivers and still more Traders would come from as far away as the distant gulf, each bearing unimaginable wealth. Each would offer something, competing, fed by lust for that thick slab of copper. In their frenzy, they would pile goods before Snow Otter the likes of which no chief of his people had ever seen, let alone a clan leader such as himself.
So much to gain. So much to lose.
He glanced over at the robes where Trader lay sound asleep next to Snow Otter’s daughter. Power permeated Trade. He could feel it in the air, almost a tangible thing. The shell gorget on his chest seemed to weigh heavier than his thoughts. His palms were damp and sweaty. He would have to be most careful. Both his wife and daughter could be trusted to keep their tongues. Compliance, if not complete understanding, had been in their eyes when he’d ordered a feast, plying their guest with food and drink. His daughter had swallowed reluctantly but nodded assent when he’d whispered in her ear that her best interest would be served by offering herself to the Trader.
“And not just once,” he had insisted, waving his finger before her face. “Do you understand? He’s a young man. Use your hands, your mouth, whatever. He should have three or four vigorous couplings in that strong body of his.”
The fact that she’d complied had pleased him; that she had erupted in moans and sighs three different times had shocked him. A father shouldn’t know such things about his daughter.
He swallowed hard. If the thing was to be done, it was better done now. The Trader should be in deep sleep, his belly full, his manhood depleted, his souls lulled by a sense of satisfaction.
You are defiling the Power of Trade!
The thought rolled around in his head as he carefully lifted his blanket and eased out from beside his wife’s warm body.
Reaching under the bed, he found the long copper
knife. The corded handle felt solid and firm in his sweaty grip. Heart pounding, he tiptoed across the lodge to his daughter’s bed. This would have to be done just so. He needed to slip the blade straight and true, driving it up under the sternum to pierce the heart. Pressing the man down into the bedding, he could keep the bleeding to a minimum. With one hand on the man’s throat, the cries could be smothered. Then, he need only drag the corpse outside, down to the canoe landing, and a short paddle later, he could drop the stone-laden Trader over the side to sink in the night-black waters of the lake.
Power will find a way to punish you for this!
He stilled the voice in his head. Rot it all, he’d find a way to make it right with Power. As a rich man, he could assuage the gods. Far more worrisome would be if other people found out. Such a thing could ruin the Trade. Cause his people to be boycotted, avoided for years, should word leak out. In defense, his own people might murder him, sending word down the rivers that the vile Snow Otter had been punished for his misdeeds.
So do it right!
He filled his lungs as he stopped before his daughter’s bedding, and carefully reached for the blanket with his free hand. The miracle was that no one seemed to hear his pounding heart. Fear ran electrically down his nerves and muscles. His mouth had gone so dry that his tongue stuck to the roof.
As if lifting the cover from a serpent’s lair, he eased the blanket away from the still form. Even as he did, he knew something was wrong. The shape wasn’t right.
In the dim glow of the fire, he could make out his daughter’s slight form. She was curled on her side, dark hair a tangle on the bedding. Her breathing indicated that she was sleeping most soundly. Where the Trader should have been lay two familiar and bulky fabric bags—the ones his wife used to store hickory nuts beneath the sleeping bench.
Trader was gone.
W
here did the People come from, you ask? We Albaamaha know the truth. Watch me as I reach down. See this black earth that I claw from the ground? See how moist it is? Smell it; is it not rich? We are of this land, unlike these silly and pretentious
Chikosi.
Let them babble away in their Mos’kogee tongue about being born of distant mountains. We, the Albaamaha, come from here. From this soil! This earth I hold even now in my hand.
“Down south, just over there, across the hills, flows the Albaamaha River. Back in the first times, just after the earth had been raised from the waters, a great tree grew. The World Tree that the
Chikosi
perverted into their Tree of Life. The World Tree’s roots wound deeply into the ground, sucking nourishment from the Below Worlds. Its branches reached high into the sky, caressing the winds, clouds, and Abba Mikko: He-Who-Sits-Above-and-Never-Dies.
“Our people lived in a great cave way down inside the earth. They had been molded and formed of clay, made into the shape of people. It was down there, deep in the earth, that they found the roots of the great World Tree growing along their cave walls. In the Council House they talked about the roots and wondered what they portended. After many days it was decided that they should investigate.
“It took those first People a long time to find pine-knot torches. As you can imagine, such torches are rather rare deep in the Below Worlds. But when they had
enough, they lit them, and began climbing up along the roots. The journey wasn’t easy. Climbing, as you know, is strenuous. Nor was the way without risk. The Below Worlds are filled with terrible monsters. Tie snakes would dart out of the shadows and drag people back into the darkness. Witches left poisoned food, and when some people ate it, they became paralyzed and had to be left behind. No one knows what the witches did with them. At least four different water panthers preyed upon the people.
“Four times they made camp, lighting fires in the shape of a spiral to ward off evil beasts and malevolent little people. In the light of the fire they could see Cannibal Giants in the gloom, but the flames kept them away.
“Finally, after the fourth camp, they climbed out into this world. Some, the Albaamaha, emerged from one side of a huge root. The others, who would become the Koasati, climbed out on the other side, which is why to this day we are so similar in all but the pronunciation of a few words. It was coming out on either side of that root that separated us.
“And then the first Albaamaha looked up. What they saw amazed them. The great trunk of the World Tree towered above the mouth of their cave, its base so huge it took days to walk all the way around it. Then they saw the branches stretching out in all directions. Finally there was the sky with all of the thousands of Star People. Sister Moon glowed down from the west, almost full. They had never seen such bright light.
“Ah, I can see your expression. You can guess, can’t you? Yes, they emerged at night, first felt the wind on their faces, and sucked the cool smells of the forest, river, and rain into their nostrils. Here, they thought, was paradise.
“The people Danced and celebrated. They clapped their hands, Singing their thanks for the new world they had found. They were so loud that Owl looked down, saw them, and cried, Hoo Hoo Hoooo Hoo.
“What did you ask? Of course panic broke out. People
screamed, fearing this new beast that hooted from the high branches. Some froze in fear; others scattered, running this way and that. But many of them ran back into the cave. So great was their fear that they charged heads and heels back down the way they had come, never to return again … .
“Hmm? Oh, sorry. I lose my thoughts sometimes. Thinking, you know … thinking about all those Albaamaha who fled back down into the Below Worlds. What do you think happened to them all? Do they still remember us? Do they tell stories down there in the deep earth, remembering those of us who stayed in this world?
“I agree; it’s an unsettling thought. We look down at the ground, and somewhere, four days’ journey into the earth under our feet, someone is looking up with equal curiosity. I tell you, what a difference that owl made. In frightening so many people into fleeing back down the cave, those of us who remained
—
us and the Koasati
—
are so few as a result.
“Hmm? Pardon? Of course things would be different today. These Mos’kogee would never have been allowed to settle in our lands. Instead of scattered farming villages, they would have found a strong and thriving population capable of resisting their incursions. Rather than coming here, they would have looked elsewhere for a place to settle. This land
—
from which we sprang in the beginning
—
would have remained ours, and ours alone!
“You see, it all goes back to that owl. Even today the owl’s haunting night call still raises the chill-flesh on our skin. It’s a portent. A sign that somewhere, someplace, ill is befalling someone. No matter what, should you ever hear an owl hoot in the night, be sure to touch your most sacred objects. You never know when it might be hooting for you.”

Other books

Undeniable (Undeniable series) by Claire, Kimberly
The Cassandra Project by Jack McDevitt
Murder at McDonald's by Jessome, Phonse;
Trust by Cynthia Ozick
Magician by Raymond Feist
The Devil's Cold Dish by Eleanor Kuhns
Flow Chart: A Poem by John Ashbery
Conviction by Cook, Leah