Wet Bobcat led the weary party up the wide and well-traveled creekside trail. The air shimmered with humid heat. It seemed to silver the various greens of hickory, sweet gum, red and white oak, sassafras, and beech trees. He filled his nose with the familiar scents of home, the sweet grass, the blossoms of fall flowers and rich red earth.
Fields ripe with corn, goosefoot, knotweed, beans, and squash were ready for harvest, and greetings had been called from the farmsteads they passed.
Rounding a bend he could see the immense mound of earth. Heart of his Nation, and second in size only to the Morning Star’s mound, it was topped by the Natchez confederacy’s famous walls. Above them, temple roofs, the World Tree, and the Great Sun’s palace speared up toward the sky.
Home.
Behind him a chorus of sighs broke from his men. They were laughing now, the sensation of elation having risen during the entire long journey down the Father Water. With each day, and Cahokia farther behind, spirits and souls had recouped.
Yes, it had been a failure. But now that the gamble for Cahokia was lost, what an incredible story it was to tell. “Honored Men,” that is what the Great Sun would make each and every one of them.
Celebrated for their attempt, they’d each marry Sun Born; their children would be the next generation of nobles. Wealth, status, honor. It was all theirs to claim. The only Natchez failure, after all, was that incredible chunkey game. Lost to the Red Wing on that fatal last cast.
“We won’t mention the Little Sun’s last moments,” Wet Bobcat reminded. “As of now that memory is forgotten. All that matters is that he knelt, and the Red Wing struck from behind. The Little Sun died as a Sun Born lord should.”
“Agreed,” Bitter Wood growled, then added, “Are those warriors emerging from the gate? It looks like they’re lining the approach to the city gate.”
“That youth we sent as a runner from the canoe landing has surely delivered our message. He has no doubt told the Great Sun, the Great Serpent, and the White Woman of our arrival.” Spearing Beak almost chortled.
“We’re getting a hero’s welcome,” Two Throws chimed in.
“Let’s look like we deserve it.” Wet Bobcat stiffened his back, head held high as he strode majestically past the ranks of warriors on either side of the road.
At the great gate, he bowed his head in humility and entered, climbing the stairway to the mound top where the plaza opened to the Natchez palaces and temples. The lightning-scarred World Tree pole dominated the center of the elevated plaza.
To Wet Bobcat’s delight, the warriors had formed a box around them as they approached a party of Sun Born in the plaza center. The man in front wore the Great Serpent’s high headdress, carried the traditional shield and war club. He had painted his face in red and black—a curious choice since it indicated violence and death.
Only when Wet Bobcat came to a halt before the party did he realize that the Great Serpent—as the high war chief was called—was not Fire Moccasin, the man who’d sent him to Cahokia at Horn Lance and Swirling Cloud’s behest, but Sky Stiletto, a cousin to the recently deceased White Woman, High Pine. Nor was the White Woman, who now stood among the Sun Born behind the Great Serpent, the same Sacred Oak who had ruled when they’d left, but a cousin who’d been named Thread Woman.
“Where is Fire Moccasin?” Wet Bobcat asked, breaking protocol.
“His name is no longer spoken,” Sky Stiletto told him coldly. “Is Swirling Cloud with you?”
“He is dead. Are you truly the Great Serpent? And where is Sacred Oak?”
“I am the Great Serpent. The name of the woman to whom you refer is no longer spoken. Among true Natchez, those names, along with that of the man I asked you about, are forgotten. As if they never existed.”
“I don’t understand.” Wet Bobcat shot a sidelong glance at the box of warriors surrounding him and his small party. The looks he got in return were hard, filled with disgust.
“It was only after you went north with the Itza and his servant that we learned the extent of their treachery. How they murdered our beloved White Woman, our Great Sun, and even in Cahokia, assassinated Nine Strikes before he even knew of his brother’s heinous murder. You were part of it, confidants of that foul man whose name is forgotten. You, all of you, are loathed among the Natchez!”
Wet Bobcat’s heart was hammering, a fear sweat breaking out on his body. Behind him, his men were gasping in disbelief.
“How do you know this?” he cried. “What proof do you have?”
Against the black-and-red face paint, the Great Serpent’s narrowed eyes looked even more deadly. He made a motion with his hand, and an Honored Man stepped forward. With a flourish, he unrolled a familiar crimson-feathered cloak.
“But … No! How did you get that?” Wet Bobcat almost whimpered, tears of disbelief forming behind his eyes. “It was stolen!”
Too late, he realized what he’d said, what it implied. The feeling was like his stomach and guts had dropped out of his belly.
“A Trader from Cahokia, an Anilco man named Water Bird who is well-known among us, said he had been sent by Notched Cane, a trusted servant of the Four Winds Clan Keeper and the Morning Star himself. The Trader brought the cloak along with fine pieces of copper, exquisite fabrics, and remarkable wooden carvings. These he gifted to the Natchez people, along with the cloak, explaining that the Morning Star had presented the red eagle-feather cloak to the Little Sun Nine Strikes at the conclusion of the Busk. He said that Nine Strikes had been murdered by a man named Swirling Cloud to keep him from knowing that he had become the new Great Sun upon his brother’s poisoning. Adding to our horror we heard that to hide his perfidy, Swirling Cloud placed a black feather in the dead Little Sun’s mouth, seeking to blame the death on the black witch!”
People gasped, most of them making warding signs with their fingers.
“He told us the Morning Star was aggrieved that he had not been able to protect Nine Strikes, and sent the gifts to the Natchez people as a gesture of his respect and a measure of how appalled he was to discover that not only Nine Strikes, but so many beloved Natchez had been assassinated by Horn Lance, the Itza, and Swirling Cloud.”
Wet Bobcat fell to his knees, words frozen in his throat.
Given Sky Stiletto’s expression, something foul-tasting might have been in the man’s mouth. “We investigated the Cahokian’s words. And found them to be true. Sun Born murdering Sun Born. Invoking the name of the black witch! The ultimate abomination. Now you come here, the last of the abomination, marching with pride after being part of the most reprehensible act in Natchez history.”
“But I … But we…” Wet Bobcat lifted his arms, a desperate emptiness in his chest.
“Take them,” the Great Serpent ordered. “Escort them deep into the forest just over the Choctaw border. Bury them alive beside the corpses of those whose names we have forgotten.”
“No! You don’t understand! We didn’t—”
But hard hands reached out to grasp him by the shoulders. He felt his weapons being torn away, along with his pack and belt. They wrenched his hands around behind his back, binding them tightly.
He cast only a single glance back as he and the rest were marched away. It seemed as if the sunlight burned more brightly red as it bathed the crimson-feathered cloak.