Night, like a hot and damp blanket, lay over the city. The sky was overcast; a haze of smoke pressed low to mix with the mist rising from the marshy swamps and stagnant oxbow lakes. Occasionally dogs could be heard barking in the distance, the sound of it carrying on the thick and pungent air.
The figure moved with athletic grace as it left the Avenue of the Sun, following the beaten path north around the eastern side of Black Tail’s imposing ridge mound. Draped in spectral black from head to knee, the hooded figure strode with familiar ease through the darkness, passing the temples, council houses, and low burial mounds that crowded the area.
On the northern edge of the clustered buildings, isolated atop the low terrace overlooking Cahokia Creek, rose a grassy, rectangular platform mound. Weeds now grew around the long-abandoned protruding and charred timbers that still littered the flat top, evidence of an ancient fire from which there had been no recovery. Offerings including cornhusk dolls, small balls of tobacco bound in colored fabric, painted sticks, and beaded feathers had been laid around the mound’s sides.
That such offerings continued to mysteriously appear along the flanks of the forbidden mound was a subtle reminder that the ancient beliefs stubbornly burned in the hearts of the city’s oldest inhabitants.
The figure in black paused, a darker shadow in the night, and stared at the ghostly hump of earth. Then it turned, following a trail through the grass to a small trench-wall house with a weathered split-cane roof.
While it, too, might have appeared abandoned given the flaking clay on the walls and unkempt surroundings, a faint red glow could be seen around the burlap fabric hanging in the doorway.
The figure paused and considered the offerings that had been placed around the building’s walls. Little bundles, crude figurines, offerings of food, and both tobacco and kinnikinnick to be smoked. Here, too, the old believers made their offerings.
“Some things die slowly,” a reedy voice called from inside. “Yes, they still offer their devotions. How curious that you’re surprised.”
A hand extended from the black fabric and pulled the door hanging to one side. Then the figure entered. The room was small; a bed of coals glowed in the puddled-clay hearth dug into the dirt floor. A single sleeping bench was built into the back wall. Bags upon bags of herbs and dried plants hung from the ceiling poles and walls. A couple of battered wooden storage boxes and a mismatched collection of chipped and cracked brownware pots and seed jars lined the walls. Large utilitarian baskets filled one corner.
The solitary occupant sat before the low fire; a round bundle of brown cloth the size of a cow bison’s heart was clutched in her lap. Wrinkles upon wrinkles lined her age-ravaged face, her jaw undershot. White hair, thin and loose, seemed to float on the hot and steamy air. A threadbare brown smock hung from skeletal shoulders where fragile skin sank around her stick-like bones.
But the eyes shining in the red light were anything but feeble, almost burning in their dark intensity.
“I didn’t think you’d come yourself. Though it is fitting that you’d do it in the dark of the moon on a cloud-black night.”
“In all things there are beginnings and endings.”
She smiled, exposing toothless pink gums. “But which is it? The Natchez is dead. The gaming pieces are cast. Now we wait to see how the players will move. An ending for you and yours, or a beginning for yet another twist of the Spiral?”
“That answer lies in the wind, and in the inherent character of the human heart.”
“What if you have misplaced your trust in hearts and Power?”
“Then in every ending there is a new beginning. A truth you discovered so long ago. Devoured and reborn. You survived wounds, wars, and foaming-mad chiefs. Every move the Four Winds Clan made against you. You are finally failing, Priestess. What then for the Bundle?”
She studied him, the Power of her gaze reflecting the passion in her soul. “Not only do you make alliances with the Underworld, but with me as well?”
“Endings and beginnings. The Four Winds Clan has forgotten you. Nor do I have any intention of reminding them. I know your time is limited. An inevitable ending. For a beginning, I would ensure that the Bundle goes to someone responsible. Someone who understands its Power and sanctity.”
“And if I choose differently?”
“This threat from the south? This foreign and different Power? The ending of which we speak could be for all the Spirits, Dancing, and Dreaming. Cahokia’s Spirits, ways, and practices can be replaced as easily as Petaga’s were. Different gods, new names for Power, and oblivion for your Spiral and the knowledge of our ancestors. In the coming struggle, the Bundle may make the difference.”
She closed her eyes, thin chest expanding as she inhaled. “Endings and beginnings. Full circle. Once again the Spiral brings you to my door. Very well. Assuming we defeat this rogue god and its minions, when the time comes for me to hand the Bundle over, I shall bring it to your palace.”
The black-clad figure inclined his head, touching fingertips to the hidden forehead. “My deepest respects … Priestess.”
“And to you.” A flicker of a smile played at her lips. “Hard to believe we would have come to this, you and I.”
The black-hooded figure turned then, slipping out into the night.
In the wavering light of the embers, the old woman played her bone-thin fingers over the fabric, closed her eyes, and sighed.