In the Dream, Morning Dew ran. The pounding of her bare feet on the hard clay plaza was to the beat of a thousand voices screaming their support. She could feel the crowd as she raced through White Arrow Town—sense them, like a giant living creature. The spirit of the moment gave her flying feet speed to rival a deer’s.
She knew this day! It had been the happiest of her life. This was the marriage chase, and behind her, Screaming Falcon was running his heart out in pursuit. She could feel his presence, sense the rhythm of his feet in time with the rapid beat of her heart.
With the agility of a cougar she threaded her way through White Arrow Town, rounding buildings, leaping baskets, and darting between buildings. The sunlight seemed to pulse with each tearing breath in her lungs. Still she ran, goaded by the roar of the crowd, jubilant in her speed and cunning.
The Dream was so real it filled her with a bursting joy. All the love that brimmed in her souls rose golden within her. Soon, as was inevitable, Screaming Falcon would lay his hand on her shoulder, symbolically claiming her as his bride. At that moment she would turn and shower the love within her on this most special of men.
From the time she had been a little girl, she had known that this day would come. She and Screaming Falcon had been born for each other. The joining of their lives would begin a mythic union. She knew the truth of that each time her eyes met his. The swelling in her heart, souls, and loins could not be denied. Together, they would bring their people to greatness.
Driven by her endless love, she ran, following the tradition of her people. The longer and harder the chase, it was said, the greater the resulting marriage. And this chase, she swore, would be the stuff of legends.
Onward she pounded, avoiding knots of spectators who had come to share the festive event. Among the crowd were Natchez chiefs or their representatives, renowned Traders, Priests, and the greatest chiefs among the Chahta: the noted high minkos. She barely glimpsed the joy in their eyes as she raced past, felt the pulsing emotion they exuded.
Screaming Falcon and I will remake the Chahta world! Had he not just sacked the Sky Hand’s Alligator Town? Had he not burned their southernmost holding and taken its chief and his relatives captive to hang in White Arrow Town’s wooden squares? Power favored the Chahta, and with it, she and Screaming Falcon would lead her people to new vigor, prestige, and influence throughout the land. Morning Dew would one day be the matron of White Arrow Chahta, and—with her warrior husband at her side—the world would kneel before her.
The very thought of it made her breast swell, her souls tingling in giddy anticipation.
Onward she flew, rounding the houses and granaries, sprinting down narrow gaps between the buildings, slipping left and right, trying to throw off Screaming Falcon’s pursuit. This day would mark the beginning of greatness.
Morning Dew rounded the base of the palace mound, scarcely throwing a glance at the high building atop the earthwork. Then she turned, running headlong down the center of the plaza. As Morning Dew passed the tall pole that represented the Tree of Life, she allowed her fingers to graze its wood, painted in red and white stripes. Arms pumping, she bolted straight across the stickball grounds.
She heard Screaming Falcon as he closed; his breath was blowing like a buffalo’s as his feet matched the cadence of her own. And then, as his hand dropped on her shoulder, she experienced a tingling rush that jolted her entire body.
Slowing, smiling her joy, she turned, intending to gaze into his face . . . and recoiled in horror.
The world went dark, as though a blanket had been thrown across the sun. She was but vaguely aware that White Arrow Town lay abandoned around her, the buildings nothing more than blackened posts jutting up from rectangles of gray ash. Her mother’s body lay to her right, arms and legs sprawled, hair spread over the blood-soaked ground. The ugly wound in Mother’s head gaped, seemingly alive with maggots.
Corpses littered the earth, broken, blackened with dried blood. Baskets were upturned, pots shattered, pestles and mortars lay on their sides. Dark oily smoke hung low over her head.
Her gaze fixed on Screaming Falcon’s face; a cry choked in her throat. He was staring at her, a hollow pleading in his wounded eyes. The swollen deformity of his broken jaw made his head oddly out of proportion. Filth and dried blood matted his hair, and his skin had a pale and sunken look where it wasn’t blistered from burning, or scabbed with dried blood.
She blinked, following his arms and legs to the corners of the heavy wooden square where they had been tightly bound with layers of thick rope so that he hung, sagging and spread-eagled like wild meat ready for butcher. Old bruises mixed with new, and trickles of blood leaked from long shallow slices on his naked body. Blistered flesh mottled with gray and red marked the places that burning torches had been thrust against his body. Where they’d burned the pubic hair from his crotch, the skin was puffed and weeping pus.
She took a faltering step, reaching out, her fingers seeking reassurance that this was no specter. Her eyes locked with his as she touched him. His pain and desperation flowed into her like a cold wave, staggering her on her feet.
“I am so sorry,” he croaked from a thirst-dried throat.
“Screaming Falcon?” she pleaded, aware of the chill where her hands rested on his chest. Then there was warmth, sliding down her fingers, trickling over her palms. She looked down, stunned by the blood that coated her hands with sticky darkness.
She was clutching something, a thing alive, that pulsed, spasmed, and then went still. No woman raised in a society of hunters could fail to recognize it. She clutched a human heart.
When she raised her eyes, it was to find Screaming Falcon staring at her through dead eyes, a look of disbelief reflecting from his damaged face. In a slurred voice, he said, “You and your pride brought us to this.”
Morning Dew threw her head back. The anguished howl started deep in her lungs, swelling, bursting from her throat with a hideous shriek. . . .
“Morning Dew!”
The harsh voice brought Morning Dew awake. She jerked upright, aware of the blanket falling from her shoulders. She sat on a pole bed built into a wall. “What . . . I was . . . Where are we?” Blinking to clear her souls of the images shredding her mind, she stared around the darkened interior of Heron Wing’s house. She knew this place: Split Sky City. She was a slave. Screaming Falcon was long dead.
Everything was where it was supposed to be. The pole beds lined the walls, dimly illuminated by the glowing coals in the central hearth. Overhead the thatch roof was lost in the darkness. She drew cool air into her starved lungs, aware of fear sweat cooling on her too-hot body.
“Morning Dew,” Heron Wing called again, her voice softer now. “You were Dreaming.”
Morning Dew rubbed callused palms into her sleep-heavy eyes. “Yes . . .”
“A bad one?” Heron Wing asked.
“I’m all right,” Morning Dew insisted. “Go back to sleep.”
“Mother?” Little Stone asked from his bed. “Morning Dew? You screamed. Is something wrong?”
“Everything’s fine,” Heron Wing insisted gently.
Morning Dew watched the woman across from her sit up. She could feel Heron Wing’s piercing stare through the dark. Sense the question that rose inside her.
“It’s all right,” Morning Dew added, laying her blanket to one side and swinging her feet to the mat-covered floor; anything to forestall Heron Wing’s next query. The split cane beneath her soles was warm as she stepped over to Stone’s bed. Despite the dim light she could see the little boy’s face, make out his wide dark eyes staring up at her. “I’m sorry I woke you.” She forced a laugh and lied, “I was playing stickball in the Dream. I just made a goal. You know how that is. I’ve heard you scream, too, just like that, when you made a goal.”
“I guess,” Stone answered. But she could hear the hesitation in his voice. Heron Wing’s son was just as smart as his mother. Nevertheless, little Stone worshipped Morning Dew’s ability as a stickball player, and an adoring gleam had filled his eyes ever since Morning Dew had won the women’s solstice stickball game for Hickory Moiety.
“Go back to sleep, Stone. Dream of stickball and all the goals you will make.”
She could barely make out his smile as she tucked his colorful blanket up around his chin. Then she retreated to her bed, thankful that Heron Wing’s other slave, Wide Leaf, was spending the night with her new Albaamo lover. It would save her from suffering the nasty old woman’s knowing gaze and thinly veiled comments.
Morning Dew reseated herself on the edge of her bed and pulled her blanket up around her shoulders. A quick glance told her that Heron Wing had lain down again. The woman’s blanket rustled, and the pole bed squeaked as she resettled her weight.
Screaming Falcon . . . we would have been so happy.
But her brother Biloxi and Screaming Falcon had precipitated disaster when they brazenly raided Alligator Town and burned it to the ground. The White Arrow Chahta had been doomed from the moment the first arrow was loosed.
She clamped her eyes shut at the first stinging tears. What fools she and Screaming Falcon had been. Barely past childhood, they had had no understanding of the Sky Hand. Not of their numbers, strength, or resolve. Knowing what she did now, Smoke Shield’s daring raid against White Arrow Town seemed like a bitter blessing. He had broken the White Arrow Chahta with a single blow. In the end that was probably preferable to a slow and lingering death. Pain was better ended quickly.
It was only after Stone’s sleep-breath purled in his throat that Heron Wing surprised her by stating softly, “There’s nothing you could have done, Morning Dew.”
“I know. Dreams are beyond a person’s control. I think Stone accepted the stickball story.”
“I meant about your husband. Before you screamed, you called out for Screaming Falcon. You couldn’t have helped him. You were Smoke Shield’s slave. Had you so much as set foot out of the palace, he’d have maimed you, then beat you half to death—if not all the way.”
“I know.”
“Suppose you had slipped away, managed to cut Screaming Falcon free. Your husband was weak, half-delirious, and captives cut down from the square can’t so much as walk until their circulation returns. You would both have been killed in the end: He would have died an even harder death. You would have had to watch it, and then suffer the same.” She paused. “For the time being, you may be my slave, but the future is an unknown river. Who knows what you will find at its end, Matron? Remember, I have my reasons for wanting you back with your people one day.”
“I know.” She took a deep breath. “They still don’t have any clue who killed my . . . the captives, do they?”
“No. Smoke Shield is sure it was the Albaamaha, which if true, may turn into a fire that burns us all. Personally, I hope it was some Chahta warrior who was lucky enough to slip in, kill the captives, and sneak away in that miserable fog.”
“You’d think we would have heard if one had.”
Heron Wing paused, then asked, “Morning Dew, when you were at White Arrow Town, did you ever hear of any Chahta plotting with the Albaamaha? Perhaps even the silliest rumor of any Chahta clan, no matter how obscure, treating with the Albaamaha?”
“No. We Chahta think even less of them than you Chikosi do. And, believe me, had anyone been inciting them, for whatever purpose, someone would have said something to Mother.”
“And among the Red Arrow Moiety?”
“War Chief Great Cougar has his own ways. But not even he would deal with Albaamaha.” She shook her head. “Not the man I know.”
“You know him well?”
“Well enough.”
“Would he have sent a man to kill the captives?”
“Had he been behind it, every Chikosi in the world would know. Great Cougar is never subtle.”
“My wish,” Heron Wing finally said, “is that we never learn who killed your husband, brother, and the others. It would be better as a forgotten mystery. But I fear that Smoke Shield will never let it rest. In the end, it could bring us all to grief.”
As if you knew the depths of grief! She winced; the very thought had been unkind.
“Grief,” she whispered, rubbing her hands as if to sponge them free of blood. “That’s all I have left.”
An orange-red morning sun hung low over the southeastern horizon and cast its gaudy light over Rainbow City. It colored the thickly plastered house walls, even softening the gray-black of old thatch on the high roofs. Under the crimson light the packed clay of the plaza, with its chunkey and stickball grounds, was made to glow. The sacred red-cedar pole, crafted from the trunk of a mighty tree, seemed to burn with an inner fire. High atop their mounds, the palaces and temples rose proudly against the sky. Even the smoky haze that rose from so many morning fires had a cherry hue. In the distance, beyond the packed houses, elevated corn cribs, and ramadas, the high city palisade made an irregular barrier against the distant sky. A fuzz of winter-bare treetops was barely visible in the distance.
What should have been a lazy morning was anything but. Long before the faintest glimmer of day, people had begun to gather before the two storage houses where Trader’s winnings from the fabled chunkey game had been stored.
Old White stood before one of the storehouses. Beside him were Trader and the Contrary, Two Petals. Trader’s dog, Swimmer, sat at Trader’s feet, ears cocked, watching the proceedings.
Old White was a weathered man, his hair almost snowy. It was said that he had been from one end of the earth to the other. That he had traveled more lands, seen more people, than any other man alive. To many he was known only as the Seeker—a man whose exploits bordered on legend. Nevertheless, he stood tall, his shoulders still broad. On this day he wore a buffalohide cloak that hung down to his knees. Through the open front could be seen a white fabric hunter’s shirt belted at the waist, where a large pouch hung. Over one shoulder he carried a sturdy fabric bag, some heavy object pulling down at the cloth. His right hand clutched a Trader’s staff made of supple ash, bent over at the top to form a crook, its end terminated in a finely carved ivory-billed woodpecker’s head. From the crook hung three white heron feathers. The staff had been carved to represent spiraling serpents, one red and the other white.
For the moment Old White stared thoughtfully at the river of humanity that had formed up along the plaza perimeter. He could see people stretching along the southern boundary in front of the Warrior Clan Palace, past the Men’s House, and on to the Winter Solstice Temple. From there they lined the eastern plaza edge along the river’s steep bluff, the Healer’s temple, and finally the high chief’s palace atop its great mound on the northeastern corner of the plaza. The crowd then continued east, edging the chunkey grounds, and extending past War Chief Wolf Tail’s house atop its low mound. The crowd was watched over by Yuchi warriors under orders to keep things civil and orderly despite the myriad of old rivalries and slights that always infected a population.
“How many?” Trader asked from behind him.
“One is as good as none,” Two Petals said cryptically. One got used to hearing cryptic sayings from her.
“Thousands.” Old White shrugged. “I hope we have enough to go around.”
“Never enough? Are you sure?” Two Petals asked some phantom only she could see in the empty plaza before them.
“There will be enough, Seeker,” the Kala Hi’ki said as he approached from around the storehouse. The old shaman was led by two of his white-robed Priests.
Old White shot him an appraising glance. The Kala Hi’ki wasn’t easy on the eyes. As a young man he had been captured by the Sky Hand and hung in a square. The Chikosi had tortured him for days, burning his flesh, gouging out his eyes, severing the fingers from his right hand, and carefully slicing thin strips of skin away. They had even cut the nose from the man’s face, leaving two oblong nostrils.
How the Kala Hi’ki had escaped was a long and involved story. Aparently the Yuchi had been cut down by Trader’s brother. Rattle had meant to blame it on Trader, but never had the chance since Trader killed him with a war club. Once the Kala Hi’ki was free of the square, it was said that Horned Serpent carried him down into the depths of the Black Warrior River outside of Split Sky City. Horned Serpent then bore him to the Underworld, where it healed his wounds and finally left his broken body where other Yuchi could find him.
Hideously scarred, with a white cloth wrapped around his blind eyes, the Kala Hi’ki stood placidly, his good left hand clasping the mangled remains of his right. The two younger Priests took positions to either side, curious eyes on the still-assembling crowd.
“You know,” the Kala Hi’ki added, “that people cannot receive a gift without giving something back. Right now they will be happy to receive something from your winnings on the chunkey match; but after they take it away, guilt will begin to eat at them. Power must be balanced. As the line shortens, it will lengthen again.”
“This could take all day,” Trader said with a sigh.
Two Petals softly said, “Days are such funny things. How can one last so long and be so short?” Her eyes darted around as though searching for something just beyond her vision. Her hands twitched in oddly synchronous movements. “It is already done. See, just over there. All finished. Like standing here tomorrow afternoon. No one around.”
Old White arched a white eyebrow, but was happy to see that the two young Priests no longer started to fidget when the Contrary was speaking in riddles. He rubbed his old wrinkled face and checked to make sure that his gray-white hair was still pinned tightly in the bun at the back of his head.
No time at all? He sighed as he stared at the crowd, feeling each of his fifty-some winters. An ache lay deep in his bones, in the small of his back, and in the stiffness that had settled in his knees. What a thousand desert suns had done to brown his skin, another thousand freezing blizzards had finished. Endless high Plains winds had lined his face, only to have the creases chiseled deep by unforgiving ocean breezes. Northern snow fields had etched the corners of his eyes into a squint that had fixed under shimmering heat waves rolling off desert pavement.
“Thinking of the past?” the Kala Hi’ki asked.
“Always,” Old White replied. “All that a man is comes from the past. What he will be in the future is only a fantasy, a Dream.”
“You did not need to travel to the ends of the earth to learn that.”
“No.”
“And they call you the Seeker?” the Kala Hi’ki asked. “I find that to be a divine joke.”
Old White turned, fingering his Trader’s staff. “I don’t see the humor.”
When the Kala Hi’ki smiled, the effect on his maimed face was gruesome. “What do you carry in that heavy canvas bag hanging from your shoulder?”
Old White looked down at the travel-stained fabric bag. “My past, Kala Hi’ki.”
“It is a heavy burden to bear.”
“What does my past have to do with my name being a joke?” Old White asked warily.
“Because you weren’t seeking. You have always been driven.” The Kala Hi’ki’s ruined smile thinned. “You enjoy keeping the secrets of your past, Seeker. Whatever terrible thing you did, it has hounded you from one end of the earth to the other. And the harder you run to escape, the closer it barks at your heels.”
An eerie shiver ran through Old White. “For a blind man, you see just fine.”
“I am the Kala Hi’ki.” The Yuchi turned his sightless eyes toward Old White. “Horned Serpent gave me the gift of life . . . and sight.”
Old White swallowed hard, remembering the time the Kala Hi’ki had removed the bandage from his face. There, exposed in the firelight, were two large crystals—allegedly gifts from Horned Serpent—embedded in the sockets where the man’s eyes should have been.
“If you can see that well, you know why I keep secrets. If you don’t, explaining won’t sharpen your vision.”
The Kala Hi’ki nodded. “You are a stronger man than I, Seeker. I would rather hang on a square again than bear your burden.”
Old White caught Trader’s suddenly sharpened expression. Old White waved it down. “All in time, Trader. Assuming we live that long.”
“Living is just dying. Only backward.” Two Petals frowned at something in the air above the plaza. “How can light just hang in the sky like that? Meanwhile, these people are happy to swarm around. Hungry as bees. Waves upon the shore, forever lapping and lapping. Can’t go meet my sister with all these goods piled in a warehouse. No, they’ve got to be turned upside down first. Can’t send a wooden bowl south if it’s in the north. She’d never know us for who we are. Seeds in the soil. Messengers can’t die until they’re sent.”
“What?” Trader asked.
“Forget it,” Old White told him, glad to have the subject changed. He raised his staff, and the waiting Yuchi grew quiet. He could feel the rising expectation in the crowd. At that moment, Born-of-Sun, followed by War Chief Wolf Tail, came striding across the plaza. The Yuchi high chief was dressed resplendently, fans of turkey feathers at each shoulder, the point of his apron hanging down between his knees. A bearhide cape was perfectly draped over his shoulders, and sunlight glinted off the copper headpiece pinned to his hair.
Born-of-Sun wore an expression of solemn dignity until he stepped close, winked at Trader, and shot Old White an amused smile. In a low voice he asked, “Are you ready for this? If we avoid a riot it will be a miracle.”
“Riot, riot,” Two Petals sang. “All is chaos.”
“Ready,” Trader replied. “Seeker? Do you wish to do the honors?”
Old White cried out to the crowd, “Greetings! I am Old White, known as the Seeker. With me is Trader, and the Contrary, Two Petals. As you know, we came to Rainbow City under the Power of Trade!” He took a breath as a cheer went up. “At the height of the winter solstice, you watched a great game of chunkey played between Born-of-Sun, high chief of the Tsoyaha, and Trader. The stakes were Trader’s life and freedom against his promise to seek peace and well-being between the Yuchi and Chikosi. The game was close, tied at twenty apiece, when Trader’s final cast shattered his lance upon the stone!”
People called out, stamping their feet, shouting in applause.
Old White lifted his Trader’s staff, the feathers waffling in the breeze. When the crowd began to quiet, he continued, “You Tsoyaha wagered everything on your chief, knowing Born-of-Sun was the finest chunkey player among you. Power, however, favored Trader in this contest among equals.”
A few hoots and jeers broke out.
Old White grinned. “Trader, the Contrary, and I are humble Traders, and it is not right that we three should hoard our winnings. Power seeks balance. We serve the Power of Trade. So we would Trade.”
“Trade what?” someone called.
“The goodwill of the Tsoyaha in return for this mountain of winnings!” Old White pointed to the two storehouses full of blankets, jewelry, pots of corn, beans, and dried squash. Wooden dishes, colorful fabrics, shell-inlaid wooden boxes, bows, lances, several canoes, rolls of matting, and the wealth of a nation lay piled within.
A roar went up from the crowd.
“What do you think, Kala Hi’ki?” Born-of-Sun asked.
“I think our children’s children will talk of this day, High Chief.”
Old White turned for the first of the presents, handing it to Two Petals. The piece was a finely crafted Illinois bowl. The artisan had carved it from a single piece of black walnut, thinning the wooden bowl and rubbing it with oils to accent the grain. The handles were in the form of a raccoon’s head on one end with the animal’s ringed tail protruding on the other. It rested on four lifelike feet; but for being wood, the toes and claws might have come from the real thing. He had obtained the bowl in Trade, given it away during the solstice celebrations, and now Trader had won it back. For a moment Old White stared at the intricate carving of the muzzle and admired the masklike face that had been so finely rendered. Wonderful workmanship. Then he turned to Two Petals. “Here. You do the honors. You’re Contrary: Say something . . . cryptic.”
“As if she could say anything else?” Trader asked from the corner of his mouth.
“You Dance with your feet on your head, Seeker,” Two Petals announced as she took the bowl from his hands. “Try and be rid of this bowl, Trader. It will finally rest with the one you love.”
Old White watched Trader roll his eyes and shake his head.