The air inside the sweat lodge was close, dark, and hot with steam. Smoke Shield reached into the water bowl and cast droplets onto the hot rocks. After two days of hard play, his team was beginning to look like more than a bunch of overgrown boys with racquets. The passing was better and catches were made with grace instead of looking like a poor attempt at swatting mosquitoes.
Why couldn’t they have looked this good in the game?
The problem was that Fast Legs was still missing. Obviously he had hidden Red Awl’s body successfully. The Albaamaha would have combed that entire area as surreptitiously as possible at their first opportunity. Smoke Shield would have heard rumors of the wailing and funeral processions. At least Fast Legs had done that much. So, why . . . ?
“Smoke Shield?” his uncle’s stern voice called from outside. “Are you there?”
Smoke Shield made a face. How often in the past had he heard that tone in the old man’s voice? Now, what? Another lecture about how the wise always kept a little something in reserve in case Power didn’t favor them that day?
He sighed, collected himself, and stepped out into the cold day. It only took a glance to see that this was more than a gambling lecture. “What’s wrong?”
“Red Awl,” Flying Hawk said coldly. “Do you wish to become high minko someday, or just remain a buffoon for the rest of your life?”
He felt his heart begin to pound. “Do not call me a buffoon, Uncle. Buffoons don’t take towns like White Arrow without losing a warrior.”
“Fast Legs has been captured by the Albaamaha. They are holding him somewhere outside of Bowl Town. At least that’s Sun Falcon’s guess. It seems our Fast Legs was trying to kill Lotus Root. You remember her? The Albaamo woman who bit you on the lip while you were warming your ridiculous throbbing shaft inside her?”
Smoke Shield’s heart began to hammer. Fast Legs, you stupid imbecile!
“I want this taken care of,” Flying Hawk said, glancing toward the Men’s House to see who was within earshot.
“I will call the tishu minko, have him cry for the warriors and—”
“No.” Flying Hawk gestured at the Men’s House. “How many of your stickball players are in there? From the sound of it, nearly all?”
“Perhaps twenty.”
“Take them. Now. Cross the river and start up the west bank. As you reach Basswood Creek, spread them out. You need to sweep the entire forest like a game drive. Find Fast Legs, get him back, and kill the people holding him. Do it efficiently, mercilessly, and quickly. As soon as you do, find a way of disposing of the bodies. Bury them, burn them, sink them in the river. I don’t care. But I don’t want any evidence left behind. Then, when you are done, you leave as many warriors as Sun Falcon requires in Bowl Town.”
“But I can’t—”
“You could start this mess; now you can finish it.” He leveled the mace. “And if you cannot do this thing, and do it with the same brilliance you showed at White Arrow Town, I will tell the Council everything. How you ignored their will and spurned the direct orders of your high minko. Do not cross me this time, because by the blood of my brother, I will ruin you!”
Flying Hawk turned, stalking back toward the Great Mound.
Smoke Shield stood stupidly, a slow resentment beginning to burn in his chest. He stomped into the Men’s House, seeing his warriors lounging, smoking, dipping food from the pot of mashed beans and smilax root. “Get dressed. Get your weapons. We have work to do.”
“What work?” Greenbriar asked. “I was thinking we did pretty well today.”
“The Albaamaha are on the verge of revolt at Bowl Town. They have taken Fast Legs captive and are torturing him. I have just received our orders from the high minko. There is no time.”
He stared at their stunned faces, some holding food only halfway to their mouths.
“I said now,” he barked. “Move!”
The camp was a good one, as was indicated by the broken pottery, the ash-stained soil, and the old fired rock from countless hearths before theirs. The canoes were pulled up above flood stage if it rained hard upstream. Most of the grass had been mashed flat in the months since it had gone dormant in fall. Firewood necessitated a bit of a hike into the forest, but could be had for the taking once past the scavenged area.
The waterway consisted of a narrow winding channel that was deeply cut into the yellow soil. Most of the route was overhung with trees, branches, and vines. But as the major link between the Tenasee and Horned Serpent Rivers, enough traffic moved through that most of the offending logs, branches, and shrubbery had been cut away.
Trader looked back at the low hut they had constructed for the Contrary.
“You two men are different,” she had told them. “You have no need to fear a woman’s moon. But I do.”
That had been uttered no more than a moment after the last of the Yuchi had waved and vanished on the path leading back over the divide to the place where they had stashed their canoes.
The parting had almost been sad, the Yuchi lingering, offering advice, fingering the pieces of shell, bits of copper, and Oneota figurines they had been given for their service. Each would have been more than happy to have labored for days without compensation, just to have the honor of saying they had helped the Seeker, the Contrary, and Trader make the journey up to the winding headwater. Then they had worked like slaves to portage the heavy packs and canoes the hard day’s travel over the divide trail.
After making sure the canoes would float, Trader had led the way here, to this streamside camp. Once sure it would fit their needs, they had lashed the fallen walls of a hut together, and covered it for the Contrary’s privacy.
“So,” Trader asked Old White, “do you fear a woman’s moon?”
He shrugged. “Must be something to it. A great many people have ways to avoid it.” He paused. “On the other hand, I’ve been amongst folk who could care less. They never seem to sicken or be tainted by it. I have heard women say that they enjoy it. It’s their free time when they don’t need to fuss over babies, cook for the men, or do hard work. Instead they can sit inside, catch up on the news with friends, and do whatever makes them happy.”
Trader placed his pipe stem between his lips. “That may be. I think I’d worry though. Even if I didn’t believe it, I’d still be suspicious.”
“You were raised with the notion. It becomes part of the souls the way a log is part of a wall. No matter what, you will always believe that a woman’s Power is separate, distinct, and in opposition to a man’s. It always goes back to the white and the red. A man’s semen is white, the color of order and harmony. The woman’s blood is red, the color of chaos and creation. The two major Powers of life, always sawing back and forth in an attempt to find balance.”
“And you, Seeker? You were raised believing that, too?”
Old White smiled faintly. “Yes, even when among the peoples who don’t pay any attention to a woman’s monthly cycle, I still get the soul shakes.”
“How many peoples have you known? Did you keep track?”
“Too many to count,” he said. “And you get out along the western ocean, there’s a different people in every bend of the creek. Good country, too. Food everywhere, just for the picking up. Climate’s nice. No winter until you get up north. The mountains run right down and drown themselves in the sea. Beautiful land. People there live in towns like we do, but they fish, go out on the ocean and hunt whales, seals, walrus.”
“Whales I’ve heard of. What are the others?”
Trader sat rapt as Old White tried to explain, then drew the beasts in the dirt with a stick.
“They could be like our Spirit monsters.” Trader gestured with his pipe. “Perhaps that’s where some of our legends come from.”
“Perhaps,” Old White agreed. “But unlike your Horned Serpent, they don’t crave copper.” A pause. “Yes, I’ve seen some amazing things. Way up in the Western Mountains, I’ve crossed ridges with oyster shells cropping out of the rocks. Way up there, higher than any mountain you’ve ever seen, and a half year’s walk from the ocean. Oyster shell. The peoples who live there were as baffled by an oyster as you are by a seal.”
“You’ve led a wonderful life, Seeker.”
The old man shrugged it off. “A lonely one at times.” He glanced down at his feet, wiggling them in his moccasins. “These have carried me farther than any living man. Some of it was glorious, some downright miserable.” He tapped his carved wooden pack box. “I keep my memories in here.”
“Do you do that with some incantation?”
Old White smiled wistfully. “No. And if anything ever happens to me, I entrust the box, and the memories, to you.”
Memories in a box? Trader sucked on his pipe. He didn’t think so. All those marvelous things were locked away in Old White’s head. And if he was right about going home to die, who would ever know the stories, sights, and places locked in the old man’s souls? No one, at least not until a person died and found Seeker’s ghost in the Land of the Dead. Even then there would be such a collection of souls around Seeker that it wouldn’t be worth the effort to fight the crowd in order to hear the stories.
“Have you given any thought to what we’re going to do when we reach the Chaktaw?” Old White used the Yuchi pronunciation of the name.
“Depend on the Power of Trade, I guess. Why wouldn’t they honor it?”
Old White pointed at Trader’s face. “You have the markings of a Chief Clan tattoo on your face.”
“It was never finished. I killed my brother before they could complete the job.”
“It still says Chief Clan.”
“I’m just Trader.” He stared at the fire. “If anyone questions it, I’ll talk about my time among the Natchez. About Trade up the Father Water. It’s not like they can trick me by asking questions about local politics. I don’t even know who the clan chiefs are these days.”
Old White arched an eyebrow in acceptance. “What about when we reach home?”
“What were you thinking?”
Old White stared at the fire. “I was thinking we’d just be ordinary Traders. Camp out below the palisade, listen to the gossip. No one will know me.” He glanced at Trader. “They might not even know you. You told me you’re not an identical twin, and ten summers have surely changed you. The sun has left you darker; the weather has aged your face.” He paused. “Thing is, but for the tattoos, we’d pull it off smartly.”
“I’ll give some thought to explaining the tattoos. I’ve seen the like over most of the country. The cheek bar, the forked eye. As you noted so aptly, mine was never finished with the intricacies that make the Chief Clan tattoo so distinctive.”
“Learned the design from Cahokia,” Old White noted. “A long time ago. Maybe it won’t be an issue. Maybe tell them you got it among the Caddo.”
“I speak pretty good Caddo.”
“After we’re there for a while, if it seems wise, maybe we’ll have the tishu minko call the Council. By then, assuming that no one recognizes you, Bullfrog Pipe will have delivered his message. We’ll have a feel for how your message has taken root. Then, when the Council rituals are done, we’ll tell the entire story. We can give them something to talk about for a long time to come.”
They would indeed. He glanced at the war medicine box, and thought about the copper it contained. We’ll both leave them talking.
“Split Sky City is a big place. It’ll be pretty easy to disappear into the crowd. If my return is the talk of the place, we can take steps to avoid anyone recognizing me.” Trader shot a sidelong look at Old White. “You’re Chief Clan, too. What if someone recognizes you?”
“They won’t. It was a long time ago.”
“Why have I never heard of you?”
“Because I’m dead.” Old White smiled at Trader’s expression. “At least that’s what everybody thinks.” He glanced at his heavy fabric bag, a thoughtful expression on his face.
“But you never got tattooed.”
“Wasn’t there that long. I was just a boy.”
“Stolen?” Trader asked. “You were captured in a raid?”
Old White stretched. “I think I’ll turn in.”
“You’re not going to tell, are you?”
“No. Not yet.”
“Will you tell me why?”
Old White stared absently at his feet. “Part of the deal I made with Power once. That, I think, you can understand.” He glanced at Trader. “I learned some things in Rainbow City. I think you’re in for a surprise, too. But that’s another thing I think Power wants you to find out on your own.”
“What surprise?”
“Oh, you’ll find out when we get there.”
Smoke Shield looked at the score of warriors who crouched around the fire. Each and every one had been part of the White Arrow Town raid. He could see the admiration in their eyes as they watched him. It vied with the worry and disquiet that had accompanied their rapid departure from Split Sky City. He had allowed them to speak to no one—not even wives or family.
Some feral instinct had led Smoke Shield to order his warriors out by ones and twos, each with the story that they were headed out in different directions to hunt. Each had been told to wear hunting clothes, to carry their war clubs and shields sacked, so as to elicit no undue comment.
The rendezvous was here, at Tie Snake Spring. Little more than a seep, the spring lay under a ridge in a recessed bowl eroded out of the exposed sandstone. The trickle of water was home to a stand of tall oak, hickory, and beech. In the sheltered bottom, he had built a great fire and waited for his warriors to assemble. As they listened, he outlined the plan that had come to him as he had trotted, fuming, up the trail.
No, this wasn’t a punishment as Flying Hawk had intended, but an opportunity. Power had practically breathed the plan into his souls.
He paced before the flames, studying each man. They waited, fully aware that something big was happening.
“Do you trust me?” he asked, worried that he might have shaken any faith they had in him during the solstice stickball game.
One by one, they nodded.
“Good,” he told them. “Because I am the man who led you to victory at White Arrow Town. I am the man who planned and executed the attack.”
“War Chief?” Bear Paw asked.
Smoke Shield turned to the wide-faced burly warrior. “Yes?”
“Is it true that the Albaamaha have taken Fast Legs?”
“It is. He was on the trail of the man who killed the captives.” He added, “Your captives, taken at White Arrow Town.” Now, to lay the seeds of his plan. “These are dangerous times, my friends. The Albaamaha are cunning. You all witnessed their perfidy when we captured the traitor, Crabapple, and made him divulge how he would have led us into disaster. You have felt the burn of Albaamaha treachery when you looked upon the dead captives, robbed away from us by a sneaking Albaamaha plot. In you, and you alone, I can confide what Fast Legs and I discovered.”
He measured their response, seeing frowns and uncertainty coupled with curiosity. “What we are about to do must be done with great care and caution.” He pressed his palms together, as if in stern deliberation. “What would happen if we attacked the Albaamaha outright?”
“They would rise in revolt,” Three Scalps said softly.
“Correct.” Smoke Shield smiled. “So here is what the high minko has ordered us to do. We are to sweep north as if in a game drive. In the process, we are to find and free Fast Legs. Now, if we do this as Sky Hand warriors, it will inflame the Albaamaha even more. We will play into the hands of the malcontents, drive them to irrational action, and have a major uprising on our hands.”
“So, what do we do?” Bear Paw looked perplexed.
“You all have seen Chahta arrows? You have seen how they dress?”
All around the fire, warriors nodded.
“For this action we shall become Chahta. We shall paint our arrows in their colors. Wear our hair in their style, and paint our faces in their triangular designs. When we leave a corpse behind, it shall be under their sign, carved into a tree. A few survivors will be allowed to escape, and they will carry the word that it was Great Cougar, the Chahta war chief, who has made this raid.” He looked around. “When we attack, each man is to affect the Chahta accent. Slur your words the way they do. Speak disparagingly of the Sky Hand.”
He noted the surprise, unease building behind their expressions. “Oh, yes, I see your hesitation. You think that by doing this, you will spurn the Power of our ways, anger your Ancestors. But think about this: In the end, we strengthen ourselves! Do you believe that Power is so simple it does not recognize the ruse? Do you think for a moment that our souls are not shining and pure in our motives? I tell you, yes, they are! By the cunning of our plan, we shall stand out, attract Power to our cause with the results we achieve!”
Some were nodding to themselves.
“Think of it! We will deal the Albaamaha a blow! Shake their confidence in themselves, remind them who keeps the wolves from their doors! At the same time, we eliminate the discontents, behead their leadership, and clear the way for war against the Chahta in the Council. Once the Albaamaha are cowed, desperately seeking our protection, we can strike with our full might against the Chahta. Once we have broken them, they, too, shall be as the Albaamaha.” He thumped his chest. “Servants! Yes, I say servants. They shall toil in their fields and pay us tribute! We shall rule the Horned Serpent River Valley. And you, my fine champions, shall see your relatives sitting atop their mounds.”
He could see the gleam that had come to their eyes as they imagined it. Each and every one had lost a relative at some time in the past to Chahta warriors. If he could lead them to believe that retribution could be had for all past slights, and offer them the hope of greater prestige, they would be his.
“That is the future . . . if we can pull off this charade. But it will be difficult. When we strike the Albaamaha we will only attack isolated farmsteads and ambush individuals out away from their villages. You must show no mercy, remembering instead Crabapple and his treason. The lives you take in the next couple of days will save hundreds of others. You are forestalling a revolt. You must keep that in mind. By killing a few Albaamaha, you are removing the risk to your families, your kin, and clans.”
He turned slowly, meeting their eyes, one by one. “Are you brave enough? Do you have the hearts to make this come true? Can you, great Sky Hand warriors, act like Chahta for just two days? Can you convince yourselves enough to convince the Albaamaha that they are being killed by Chahta warriors?”
One by one, they nodded, expressions set with resolve.
“Then let’s get about it. You all have your paints; it is time we become Chahta. Then, when this is all finished, we will share our people’s rage over this terrible incursion into our territory.” He gave them a grim smile. “Do this thing, prepare the hearts and minds of our people, and I shall lead you all to the greatest glory. In the end, we shall rule as did the great lords of Cahokia.”
They were nodding to each other. Yes, they believed him.
The Albaamaha shall rue this day!
Paunch was asleep, Dreaming of steaming dishes of pumpkin and sweet squash. He was sitting at home, in his tight little house, a fire crackling before him. To one side, a freshly roasted turkey had been browned in the fire; the aroma of the meat carried to his nostrils.
“They are coming,” Whippoorwill’s voice intruded.
Paunch stared down at the feast, but each time he tried to reach out, his arms might have been made of stone. Try as he might, it took all of his effort just to lift his arm, and when he did, it rose ever so slowly, as if stuck in thick pitch.
“You had better wake up. It’s time,” Whippoorwill’s voice intruded again.
Paunch blinked, his mouth awash in saliva.
The cold leached back into his body, masked by the pleasure of the Dream. He could sense the pangs in his belly, as insistent now as they’d been when he struggled to reach those tantalizing dishes.
He groaned, rolled over in his filthy cape, and stared out at the morning. Their camp lay on a rise, just below the crest of a low ridge. They had moved here, closer to the Horned Serpent River, figuring on robbing isolated Chahta fish traps. Morning sun lanced through the high branches, indicating the time was just after sunrise. Somewhere an ivory-billed woodpecker hammered a staccato against resistant wood.
“Did you say something?” He glanced at Whippoorwill. She sat, back straight, hands neatly in her lap. Her long hair hung down to frame her oval face. She had a faint smile on her lips, a Dreamy look in her large eyes.
“They are coming,” she replied simply. “It is time.”
“They who? Time for what?” When she went eerie on him like this, it set his nerves on edge.
“What we’ve been waiting for.”
He stared at her. “Waiting for? I’ve been waiting to go home! I’m cold to the bone, hungry like I’ve never been, and my joints hurt. I’m starting to believe the Chikosi square would come as a relief. It would be painful, sure, but they’d feed me until it came time to die.”
“You will eat soon enough.”
He growled to himself and sat up. His hair was full of sticks and bits of leaves. Their fire had burned down to white ash. He mumbled to himself and reached for the small gourd they kept water in.
After gulping the cold liquid, he stood, shivered, and stretched. “I don’t see how you can sit there so calmly after all we’ve been through.” Then her words sank in. “Who’s coming?”
“Sitting calmly is the best way to wait,” she told him simply. “They are already here. All around us.”
“Yes, right.” He walked over to the edge of their small camp, pulled up his shirt, and reached behind his breechcloth. He sighed as he urinated behind a fallen log. “All around us.” What could that mean? He stared out at the forest, surprised to catch movement out of the corner of his eye.
He squinted, rubbed his eyes, and stared harder. His sharpening vision was enough to make out a partial face, one eye peering past the bole of a tree.
“Someone’s out there,” he said nervously, refastening his clothing and ducking down. “We’ve got to go.”
“That is correct,” she told him in a knowing voice. “They’re here. If you run, they’ll kill you.”
“Who?” He peeked over the log to find a Chahta warrior peering back at him. “By Abba Mikko! They’ve found us.”
“Just surrender. It will be all right.” She was perfectly composed as she said, “They smelled the fire.”
“Gods, do you know what they’ll do to us?”
She nodded serenely. “Of course. I’ve seen it all.”
“What? When?”
“When this all started. Come, gather your things and let’s walk out to meet them. Do not resist.”
“Blood and muck!” He felt something sink down in his empty gut. As he stared this way and that, he could see other warriors, each creeping forward, wary, arrows nocked in their bows.
“We give up!” he cried, raising his hands high. “We’re not armed. We’re just . . . just out hunting!” With no weapons? How did he explain that?
He stood, scared like he had never been. Watching as the warriors closed in around them. To his dismay, Whippoorwill just smiled, as if nothing in the whole world was going terribly wrong.