“Face it. People just don’t trust you anymore.” The words echoed between Seven Skull Shield’s souls as he pondered his new status among the thieves and con men along the waterfront. Gone was his fame as the ribald seducer of young married women. The joking familiarity among equals had been replaced by dissembling double-talk. Old friends now watched him through wary eyes filled with distrust.
Saddled with a sense of disquiet, he drifted through the shops and warehouses on the outskirts of Chief War Duck’s long plaza at River Mounds. On the day after the Busk, the normally vibrant passages between the buildings remained subdued, people having feasted, frolicked, Danced, and sung through most of the night.
When he arrived at Wooden Doll’s immaculate dwelling, he wasn’t surprised to find her servant, a young woman called Newe, sitting outside the door. Of all the slaves Wooden Doll had taken in Trade for her services, she’d kept this one. A barbarian girl, Newe had been captured far up the River of the Northwest at the foot of the distant Shining Mountains.
“She busy,” the girl said, not bothering to rise from the mat before Wooden Doll’s closed door.
Of course she’d be busy. The Busk was the most sacred ceremony practiced in Cahokia. For four days prior to the cooking of the green corn and the relighting of the sacred fire, men and women segregated themselves, fasting and purging, spending hours in the sweat lodge, and abstaining from the simplest of pleasures. During those four days of ritual purification, the most heinous of taboos included so much as a covetous glance at someone of the opposite sex.
A line would have formed at Wooden Doll’s door the moment the first ear of boiled corn was pulled from the Morning Star’s pot.
Seven Skull Shield glanced in the direction of the slanting sun, obscured as it was by peak-roofed storage buildings.
“I’ll wait.”
He plunked himself down in the shade of Wooden Doll’s ramada, his back to one of the support poles. Newe wasn’t known for being chatty. Perhaps that was the reason she hadn’t been Traded off with all the rest.
By the time Wooden Doll’s door opened and a Pacaha Trader stepped out, the evening had turned to gloom.
Seven Skull Shield rose, dusted off his butt, and was told by the slave girl, “You wait,” before she vanished into the house.
A moment later, Wooden Doll herself appeared, leaning against the door frame. She wore only a white fabric wrap that did little to hide her high breasts or narrow waist, and left her long legs exposed. “So, Skull, what brings you to my door this time?”
He gave her his best grin. She was beautiful, her long black hair hanging down below her shapely bottom. The wry smile on her soft lips sent a pang through his heart. He wanted to reach out and run the backs of his fingers along the line of her triangular jaw. Her knowing eyes locked with his.
“I could tell you it was a stolen cloak, but that would only be the excuse.”
She gave him a weary smile. “Come on in.”
Her house was neat as always, ample wood piled beside the door. A low fire burned in the central hearth, sufficient to fill the high roof with enough smoke to deter the mosquitoes while providing enough light to illuminate her possessions, all of which were remarkable and worth a small fortune. Her storage boxes were intricately carved and inlaid. Ceramic jars, vessels, and storage pots echoed the skilled hands of the finest potters in the known world. The floor mat—new and masterfully woven of cane slats—had been replaced during the Busk. In the rear, her bedding was plush and thick with bear and beaver hides, the blankets dyed with the brightest of colors.
Seven Skull Shield seated himself on the edge of her bed, trying not to think of the Pacaha Trader who’d just left. Trying harder not to think of his once-secure world—the one whose demise left him feeling looted.
Wooden Doll crouched by the fire. The wrap stretched to expose the rounded curves of her buttocks. She lifted a red-and-white Nodena bottle and poured two cups of mint tea before rising and walking over to hand him one.
With a sensual movement she flipped her hair back and seated herself next to him. He thought he could drown in her soft gaze.
“A Natchez chief was murdered.”
“I’ve heard.” Her voice might have been like a caress. “Heard your Keeper was hot in pursuit of the murderer.”
“I’ve been talking to people.” He sipped the tea. Sighed hard. “It’s not the same. They think I’m different. Changed.”
“Are you?”
“Pus and rot! I’m still me.”
Her delicate laughter sent a shiver down his bones. “Skull, you’re mixed up with the Four Winds Clan. After that business last spring? What do you expect people to think? You’re one of the Keeper’s spies.”
“I am not.” He rubbed his muscular arm and scowled.
“Then what are you?”
He took a deep breath. “She’s…”
“Yes?”
“A friend.”
Her laughter was deeper this time. “It is said the Keeper has no friends, only those she uses as tools and those destined to hang in the square.”
He studied the cup he held. “So, they think I’m a tool?”
“That, or destined for an early and most disagreeable death. Most are betting on that last part. You’re no longer one of them. They think you’re nothing. A clanless fool. A clever thief that the Four Winds will discard as soon as his usefulness is at an end.”
He set the cup on the floor and stood. “Then I’ll be on my—”
“That’s what they say,” she corrected, patting the bed. “Here. Sit. Talk to me.”
Grudgingly, he lowered himself to the soft bedding.
“Tell me, Skull, what’s this really about?”
“What do you think of me?”
No guile lay behind her dark eyes as she said, “I think the Keeper is an incredibly clever and dangerous woman, and I think she sees through that clownish act you wear like an old basswood fiber shirt. You saved her life over in Evening Star Town, didn’t you? You were the one who located the Tula, kept the city from war and chaos.”
He shrugged uncomfortably.
“I know you, Skull. Better than anyone alive. From the top of your head to the bottom of your toes.”
“Then, why do I feel so…?” He shook his head, trying to find the words.
“Betrayed?” Seeing it hit home she nodded. “People are who they are. You must be who you cannot help but be. But for the moment let it go. Tell me about this Natchez and his mysterious cloak.”
He gave her a fleeting smile. “Crazy Frog had himself carried all the way to the Great Plaza to find me, warn me. Didn’t know it was going to be the Natchez. But this morning? Lady Night Shadow Star knew. Then she showed up to see the body.”
He paused, remembering the way she’d moved through the room.
“Ah, I know that look. Is she that enchanting? Forgive me, but you go sticking your rod into that one, I’m changing my bet on how soon you end up hanging from a square while Four Winds warriors burn your body into a cinder.”
“Trust me, she’s the kind to be enjoyed from a distance. As soon as you start to lose yourself in fantasy explorations of that body of hers, she fixes you with those crazy eyes, and your rod shrivels like a persimmon in the fall.” He frowned, changing the subject. “Trouble is coming. The Natchez was just the beginning. I…”
“What?”
The words came unbidden from his mouth. “Pack everything you own. We can hire a canoe. Go somewhere far away. Maybe among the Caddo. Winters are warm there. We could live well for the rest of our lives, be exalted and honored people. We could—”
She was shaking her head, a wistful smile on her lips. “No, my old love. Once, maybe. If you’d been different. And I had been someone I’m not. But that day is long past. And, like I said, I know who you are. And who you will forever be.”
“Who is that?”
“You said that trouble is coming. And if there’s trouble, you’re going to be right in the middle of it. Your greatest strength, and most dangerous failing, is that you can’t turn down a challenge. A skunk can’t rid itself of its stripe.”
He tossed down the last of his tea and rose. “Then I’d better be about finding that Spirit-cursed cloak.”
“It’s dark out there.”
“I’ll find a place down by the—”
“Stay with me.”
“I didn’t bring Trade.”
She rose and let the white fabric fall from her shoulders, the curves of her muscular body illuminated in the firelight. Her slender fingers untied the belt at his waist before she slipped his shirt over his head.
In her sensual way, she molded herself against him. Breasts soft against his chest, hips pressing into him, she wrapped her arms around his neck.
As his loins began to tingle she stared into his eyes and said, “We can pretend, Skull. Just for one night. We can imagine what it would have been like if we could have run away all those years ago.”