Nine Strikes had won his name in battle against the fierce Pacaha, a Nation north of the Natchez territory and on the Father Water’s west bank above the confluence with the great Western River. On his first battle walk it had taken him nine strikes with his war club to dispatch an imposing Pacaha warrior.
His entire life had been spent in preparation for the responsibility of rule. His maternal aunt was the White Woman, the matron in charge of the Natchez Nation. His older brother served as the Great Sun, the hereditary high chief of the Quigualtam lineage of the Sun Born, the chosen rulers of the Natchez confederacy who were directly descended from the original first Great Sun. Since he was a child, Nine Strikes had made offerings to the Stone, the actual remains of that first Great Sun. Power had turned the hero’s body into stone in order that it would never corrupt or decay. To this day it sat in the center of the Natchez Nation’s most sacred space, a reminder of the virtues and courage necessary for a ruler of his people.
As Nine Strikes, followed by his slaves and musicians, entered his house it was with a feeling of great satisfaction. Tomorrow he would dispatch a messenger—along with the Morning Star’s cloak—to his brother and aunt, informing them of the great honor he had won for the Natchez people.
Out of respect for his ancestor, Nine Strikes had created a small altar—a raised clay platform with a stone carried from his homeland. Still dressed in his Horned Serpent costume, and carrying the magnificent feathered cloak, he faced west, toward the altar, bowed, and called, in the traditional greeting of his people, “Hau. Hau. Hau.”
Only then did he rise and place the cloak atop the intricately carved wooden trunk that held his personal effects.
“Do you need anything else, Sun Born?” asked his commoner servant.
“That will be all. My most sincere appreciation to all of you. Your music tonight was an inspiration. I could not have Danced so well without it. Get a good night’s sleep. I’ll see you all in the morning.”
He watched them bow and touch their foreheads in the faint light cast by his smoldering fire. Then, yawning, but still feeling euphoric, he turned and stepped through the cane-mat doorway and into his personal sleeping quarters.
In the gloom he stopped short, wishing he’d waited to dismiss his servants until after he’d had their help removing the heavy and cumbersome costume. He wasn’t thinking well. Tired. Exhausted from the exertions of the Dance.
He smiled as he began tugging on the laces that bound the costume to his body. He had Danced well, as if the Power of Horned Serpent had flowed into his blood and bones.
“I wouldn’t take it off,” a soft voice said out of the darkness.
“What? Who’s there?” Nine Strikes turned, the costume tail catching under the bedposts and almost tripping him.
“There are worse fates than being devoured by the Horned Serpent,” the voice continued. “At least it’s a glorious end.”
“I don’t—”
The shadowy form lunged.
Nine Strikes, his vision restricted by the fanged serpent’s mouth, never saw the lance that thrust between the costume ties and sliced deeply beneath the hollow of his ribs.
Then, somehow, he was on the floor, the heavy costume supporting his weight, the pole of the spear propping his body as it cut and pulled at his innards.
“Tell the White Woman I…” The words seemed to vanish in an endless gray haze.…