Smoke Shield looked back at the soft soil. His tracks stood out perfectly as he left the collapsed remains of the Albaamaha farmstead. He could see the woman’s body, sprawled half out of the doorway, her dead arms reaching for the corpse of her little girl. The child lay where he’d struck her down, the back of her head caved in from the blow of his war club.
On either side, one of his warriors trotted, eyes searching the forest for additional prey. They did look like Chahta, their hair up in the side-sitting bun affected by the enemy. Their painted faces were done up in the Chahta pattern of red and black. Painting the arrows to resemble the Chahta’s had been easy. Restitching their moccasins was a little more time-consuming, but the tracks looked right, and would have fooled him had he found them on a forest trail.
Smoke Shield’s advantage—as he’d laid it out to his warriors—was that they knew the lay of the land, and how to approach the isolated farmsteads. That knowledge allowed him and his warriors to avoid the commonly traveled trails, to sneak through the thick patches of forest, and to remain unseen.
He’d seen the resistance in Bear Paw’s eyes the first time they’d chanced upon a lone Albaamo man. Killing him had gone against the grain, but once that first one fell and they took his scalp, the subsequent killings had been easier. The added advantage lay in the Albaamaha’s belief that Sky Hand scouts would have given a warning had a raid been imminent. None of their victims was suspecting a thing.
He had ordered no farms to be burned and wanted no smoke to give away their location. Others would stumble upon the dead soon enough. Hopefully, by the time the alarm was raised, it would be behind them, long after the fact.
He saw it all in his mind, as if he were Eagle, looking down upon the land. Four separate parties of five were moving north, attacking farmsteads, then hurrying on after taking scalps and mutilating the dead. Speed was essential.
His warriors would loop wide around Thunder and Burned Wood Towns, keeping to the forest and seldom-used trails. Similarly they avoided the hamlets where numerous Albaamaha lived, having no hope of overcoming that many people in such a short time.
“Minimize the risk of discovery,” he had told his men. “Strike and run! We want to be well ahead of pursuit. Remember that the alarm will be raised at any moment. Pursuit will be coming behind us, and these are our people—Sky Hand warriors motivated to find the intruders. You know their hearts as well as I do. Our only hope is to be ahead of them, to have time to become Sky Hand again before we finally meet up with them.”
And that was the beauty of it all. No one would ever know. In the confusion, his warriors would look as if they, too, were searching for the Chahta.
But that was later, after they had finished their sweep. After they had found Fast Legs, and rescued him from his tormentors.
They took one of ours! The knowledge festered like a deep splinter. It drove him onward, fueled his rage at each Albaamaha farmstead. After all these years, had the Albaamaha learned nothing of Sky Hand vengeance?
He trotted on. Another farmstead lay just past this belt of trees. The place had been built at the edge of the fields, easy to approach. As he glimpsed it through the boles, he smiled. Smoke was rising from the fire out front. He could see a man, a woman, and three or four children. The woman was pounding corn in her mortar, the pestle rising and falling in time to a rhythmic thump, thump, thump.
He broke from the trees, with Bear Paw and Lightning Arrow on either side. The dogs began to bark, but by then he was racing around the house, his bow drawn. They had no chance.
The journey down from the hills had been difficult in places. Trader, Old White, and Two Petals periodically had to step out and wade, dragging the canoes through shallows, until the channel deepened. But as the terrain opened into swampy bottoms, the route had grown easier. Now, with the confluence of several streams, they had both current and enough draft to make the descent into the Horned River Valley easy. The soils here had taken on a yellow hue where they were exposed in the river bank.
Trader leaned his head back, drawing the familiar scent of the swamplands into his nostrils. Beyond the trees and backwaters, the gum, bald cypress, and tupelo gave way to oak and hickory.
They passed the first small Chahta farmstead, waving and calling greetings as they passed. Old White had made sure to hold his staff high, the white feathers waving. Despite calls to make land and Trade, they passed on, leaving the disappointed family staring after them.
“Well, we passed the first Chaktaw,” Old White called. “No one’s shot at us yet.”
Trader grunted, glancing at Swimmer. “And to think we were worried about the Yuchi.” He shrugged as he took a stroke with his paddle. “You think we should have at least stopped for news?”
“I suspect we’ll find out soon enough,” Old White responded. “What do you think, Two Petals?”
She didn’t react where she sat, facing backward in Old White’s canoe.
“Hey, Contrary!” Trader called. “Are we headed for bad times among the Chaktaw?”
“The worst,” she replied. “It will all be so simple.” She glanced his way. “They think he’s in two places, you know.”
Trader scowled at Swimmer. “Now that was a big help. He’s in two places? Which ones?”
Swimmer gave him a knowing look before he deigned to lift himself up on one of the packs and scratch at a persistent flea.
Evidence of settlement continued to grow. Here and there they passed lines of sticks protruding from the water where fish weirs had been constructed. An occasional canoe was pulled high on the bank next to trails that led into the forest, probably to farmsteads built farther back, where the soils were better for growing corn.
At midday, they rounded a bend and almost ran full-tilt into a canoe carrying two young men. Swimmer barked happily, his tail wagging as he sniffed at the air, trying to suss out the newcomers. After fending off a collision, Trader called, “Greetings!” in Mos’kogee tongue.
“Greetings yourself!” one of the youths replied, looking them over with interest. “You are Traders?”
“That we are . . . from the far north by way of the Father Water to the Tenasee. We are in Chaktaw lands, correct?”
The second youth nodded. “You have been in the north. The proper pronunciation is Chahta. I am Crawfish and this is Bobwhite. We live near here.” He cocked his head. “You speak our language well, but with an accent.”
Trader nodded, glancing at Old White, who had nosed his canoe close. Two Petals seemed oblivious.
“It’s been a long time. I’m out of practice.”
“How far to the next town?” Old White asked. “We would greet the chief and Trade.”
The boys grinned to each other. “A half day. It’s Feathered Snake Town. The chief is White Bear Mankiller. You’ll see the landing on the right. A lot of canoes. Then it’s a short walk up the trail.”
The second boy gave the first a pleading glance, only to have his friend shake his head. “No. We can’t go with them. Uncle would skin us if we don’t check the fish traps.”
Trader grinned, reached into one of the closest packs, and retrieved a beaded turtle effigy, its top done in brightly dyed quill work. This he tossed across. “For your information. If your family can spare the time, we will see you at Feathered Snake Town.”
The two boys almost capsized as they squabbled over the stuffed leather turtle.
“We’ll be there!” the second promised.
When they had left the boys behind, Trader was still grinning. “Let’s hope all the Trade goes like that.”
Old White used his paddle to parallel Trader’s course. “They didn’t seem uneasy at the sight of strangers.”
“They’re still little more than boys. When I was their age, I never worried, either. The young think they’ll live forever.”
“Hmm!” Old White grunted. “I remember being a boy. Forever is shrinking by the day.”
The next canoe they encountered was occupied by two fishermen, their craft piled with a folded net. They, apparently, had no demanding uncle, and immediately changed course to travel with the Traders to Feathered Snake Town.
“What is the news?” Old White asked. “We’ve been up north, and only heard rumors.”
“We are at war with the Chikosi,” one of the men replied. “They attacked White Arrow Town, downriver a ways. There have been meetings with the chiefs, all trying to decide how to respond. Most vote to ambush the trails; others wish to carry the fight to the Sky Hand.”
Trader glanced uneasily at Old White, who seemed to be digesting the information.
“What brought it on?” Trader asked, trying to sound only mildly curious.
“Our warriors attacked one of their towns. They retaliated.” The fisherman shrugged. “How do these things ever get started?”
The second said, “It’s downriver. Maybe it won’t come here.”
“Great Cougar might have something to say about that.” The first shrugged. “I just fish and farm. The warriors, they live in the towns. Out here, we just want to be left alone.”
By the time the sun was slanting in the sky, Old White and Trader had collected a small flotilla of canoes, all interested in the Traders from the north, anxious to hear the news, spend a night with relatives at Feathered Snake Town, and, if possible, Trade. Several of the young men, anxious to bear word, sped ahead, paddles flying.
When Trader nosed his canoe into the landing, it was already crowded with people. More were on the way, appearing one by one on the heavily traveled trail that led up from the landing to disappear into the trees.
Willing hands laid onto Trader’s gunnels, dragging his birch-bark craft high onto the bank.
“Easy, Swimmer,” Trader coaxed. “These are friends.” But he noticed that none of the Chaktaw were anxious to get too close to the growling dog.
Old White’s canoe was similarly hauled up onto the beach, and the old man climbed stiffly from his seat, raising his staff high and calling out in Mos’kogee, “We come under the Power of Trade, and would see your chief. I am Old White, called the Seeker. With me is Two Petals, the Contrary. This man is Trader.”
Trader stepped out, flexed his cramped legs, and lent Two Petals a hand. She turned, staring at the crowd. In Trade Tongue, she said, “When the world changes, there is no thunder, only the wonder of it. Look, they don’t know their lives are about to be altered forever. That’s for the future. It lies between them and me like a fine net.”
One or two, who perhaps understood Trade Tongue, stared awkwardly at her.
Trader sighed, and said, “We are pleased to be here.”
The crowd parted; a muscular man of perhaps thirty winters stepped through. He wore his hair in a warrior’s bun pierced with a multitude of miniature white arrows. To have earned such honors, this was no ordinary warrior. One hand held a polished war club that sported two copper blades inserted into the wood. A red apron hung about his hips, the point falling between his knees. His face was tattooed in a forked-eye pattern, his cheeks and chin done in black diamonds. A bobcat-hide cloak hung around his shoulders.
He stepped forward, hard eyes on Old White. Then he turned his inspection to Two Petals, and finally Trader. He seemed to hesitate as he studied Trader’s tattoos. In a perfect accent, he asked, “You are Sky Hand?”
Trader shook his head. “I am called Trader. Recently from the far north. I have lived among many peoples. Your friends among the Natchez, the Caddo, and Tunica know my name. We come under the Power of Trade, and would stop here for that purpose.”
The warrior considered, glancing sidelong at Swimmer in the canoe, then taking mental note of the packs. He seemed to be adding up the validity of the claim. Fact was, spies, if that was what he assumed them to be, would not carry a wealth of northern goods.
“From the far north?” the war chief mused. “Have you things from there to Trade?”
“We do,” Old White replied, holding his staff a little higher.
“Forgive me,” the warrior said. “I am Great Cougar Mankiller, of the Red Arrow Moiety. I am war chief of the Chahta. It has been some time since Traders such as yourselves have come among us. Let alone from such a great distance. Further, relations with the Chikosi have become a little strained. Just today we captured two Albaamaha spies.”
Two Petals smiled wistfully, saying, “Hello, my sister.”
“Our purposes are only dictated by Power,” Old White assured while shooting the Contrary a sidelong glance.
“And where do you come from, woman?” Great Cougar asked Two Petals. She stared openly at the crowd, as though seeing them through some transparent veil. She kept reaching out with questing fingers, as if encountering something only she could see.
“She does not speak any tongue of the Mos’kogee,” Old White told him. “Sometimes she will answer in Trade Tongue, but being Contrary, her answers and responses are backward.”
“What is her native tongue?” Great Cougar asked, looking somewhat unnerved by Two Petals’ continued preoccupation with the space before her.
“Oneota, War Chief. A people of the north.”
“I have heard of them.” He glanced again at Old White. “And which people do you come from?”
“Many,” Old White replied. “I am known as the Seeker.”
“The Seeker?” Great Cougar lifted an eyebrow. “There are stories about a man called the Seeker. They say he has traveled the entire world. The Caddo speak of him with reverence. It is said that only last spring he was with the Natchez.”
“The Natchez high chief, Spotted Serpent, made me welcome during my journey upriver.”
“I have heard stories of that.” Great Cougar smiled suddenly. He turned, ordering, “Inform Chief White Bear that we have guests. Prepare a feast. Someone fetch two warriors to guard the Traders’ possessions. Make sure their belongings are undisturbed.” Turning back he remarked, “As Traders, you will wish to have certain packs taken into town. My people will bear them.”
“We are honored and humbled,” Old White said, bowing slightly.
Trader shot a glance at the thick fabric bag that held the war medicine box and his precious copper. Just leave it here? Take a chance that Great Cougar’s warriors were as good as their chief’s words?
“Dance with the Power, Trader,” Two Petals said suddenly. “Just tuck your desires to your chest. Spin around and around with them until all is lost. The tighter you clutch wealth, the sooner it will slip away.”
Trader gave her a worried glance, seeing curiosity behind her eyes. Entrust it to Power? Just like that? Then he remembered the image of his arcing lance on that last cast of the chunkey game.
He called Swimmer to his side and considered the pack he wanted, letting his finger hover over the bag that hid the war medicine box as if in indecision, then pointing to another. After it was lifted out by a burley Chaktaw, they formed up, walking up the bank and into the trees. People followed along behind and on both sides, chattering excitedly.
Trader forced himself not to look back at his canoe with its hopefully guarded cargo.
I must be mad to trust a Contrary.
Just beyond the trees, where the high soils were better drained, they crossed into an open patch of fields dotted with small farmsteads. The bean and squash vines had already been burned in anticipation of planting season. The trail led across the floodplain to a palisaded town now silhouetted against the evening sky. Behind the walls, several high roofs could be seen, and the carved images of Woodpecker, Falcon, and Cougar rose from the center poles, darkly silhouetted against the sunset.
Trader followed the war chief through a narrow defensive entry to the town. Inside he found the usual clutter of steep-roofed houses, ramadas, standing mortars, and granaries. Men, women, and children accompanied by dogs flooded into the open spaces, surprised and delighted by the arrival of Traders. More than once Trader growled a command at Swimmer to keep him close. It was a constant chore since his dog wanted to pee on every passing post or wall.
They wound through the houses and stepped out onto a plaza, its clay surface swept clean. A stickball ground, chunkey court, and two ominous wooden squares lay between him and the palace atop its man-high mound. In the middle stood a single pole, representing the Tree of Life, its red and white spirals barely visible in the fading light.
They climbed the wooden steps that led up the low mound to the palace and passed through the palisade. Two guardian poles stood in the narrow courtyard and had been carved and painted to resemble snarling panthers. Great Cougar motioned them to wait as he stepped to the open doorway, calling, “Great Chief White Bear Mankiller, I come to announce the arrival of Traders.”
“Let them enter and be welcome,” a voice called from inside.
Trader followed Old White and Two Petals into the warm interior. There a blazing fire in the middle of the room illuminated a man seated on a three-legged stool covered with the traditional cougar hides. He was old, white-haired, with a lined face. Upon his head rested a beaten copper headpiece formed in the shape of a falcon, its wings spread. A stone war club lay heavily atop his white apron, the latter arrayed so the point hung down between his knees. Necklaces of white shell beads draped his breast, and a bearskin cape was thrown back over his sagging shoulders.
The wall behind him was adorned with a panther relief. Real cougar teeth had been inset in the jaws, and claws reached out from the grasping paws. Copper inlay added to the effect, the entire thing meticulously carved.
Around the room, benches were set against the walls. Masterfully carved wooden boxes had been neatly stowed beneath them along with pottery and baskets. The matting on the floors was new, clean, and covered here and there with hides.
Old White stopped just before the fire, lifting his staff and calling out the traditional greetings before invoking the Power of Trade. Then he made introductions, and finally handed a bag of tobacco to the war chief, who in turn carried it to the chief on his stool.
“The Seeker?” White Bear said in amazement. “You are actually him?”
“I am, Great Chief.” Old White bowed.
“Spotted Serpent has told me of you. He says that you relate the most remarkable stories.”
Trader glanced to the side as the packs were deposited. People were filing in, taking places on the benches around them. Some, to Trader’s amusement, were scuffling, trying to get a better vantage. One look from Great Cougar was all it took to chasten them. At least until he turned his glance on others.
A muscular young man emerged carrying a heavy stone pipe, also carved to represent a crouching panther. This he carefully placed on the matting before the chief; then the man inserted a long and ornately carved stem. The chief handed him the sack of tobacco, and the young man shook the leaf into the bowl in the animal’s back. Careful not to touch it with his fingers, he used a small wooden pestle to tamp the bowl. Next he lit it with a twig kept to the side for that purpose.
White Bear stepped down from his stool, took the stem in his mouth, and drew. As he exhaled he raised his head, Singing his prayer for health, Power, and good fortune.
Old White and Trader followed the ritual. Then, to everyone’s amazement, Two Petals walked to the pipe, took the stem, and blew with all her might. Burning tobacco erupted from the bowl, sending sparks and embers in a cascade.
The young man stared in horror before he came to his senses and began stamping the smoldering leaf out with his foot.
The silence was complete, everyone staring in disbelief.
“Thank you, Contrary,” Old White said smoothly. “Power has received your gift.”
White Bear’s mouth hung open, his eyes on Two Petals.
“Wait! This is not an offense to Power! Hear our words!” Trader cried, stepping forward. “Our apologies, Great Chief. She is Contrary, and follows the rules of that Power. I would have you understand that if you speak to her, anything she says will be backward. If she is happy, she will tell you she is sad. When hungry, she claims to be full. Should you find her speaking to empty space, it is to someone, something, that we in this world cannot see.”
“This is true?” White Bear asked. “You are Contrary?”
Two Petals looked absently around the room. “It’s all lies. There’s no such thing as a Contrary.” She sniffed. “Whatever that smell is, it’s awful. I wouldn’t feed that swill to a raccoon.”
At the sudden looks of consternation, Old White simply sighed.
For his part, Trader sniffed, catching the odor of venison, steamed mussels, and sweet corn on the air. Old White stood easily, adopting a faint smile as he translated Two Petals’ words for anyone who didn’t speak Trade Tongue.
White Bear’s mouth worked, as if searching for words. He walked forward and stared incredulously at Two Petals. In Trade Tongue he said, “We only serve filth here. If you want good food, you’ll have to go elsewhere.”
“I wouldn’t touch good food if I was full to bursting,” she replied. Then one of the women at the side of the room caught her attention. She pointed at the woman’s abdomen. “It’s a boy.”
The woman, who apparently didn’t know Trade Tongue, gaped when White Bear translated. She placed a defensive hand on her stomach. “You know?”
When Old White translated the woman’s question, Two Petals shrugged. “Contraries know nothing. Nothing at all. But that boy is going to marry well.”
“So, it’s really a girl?” the woman asked after the translation, then glanced at the man beside her. “I just realized myself. How could she know?”
“Don’t know a thing,” Two Petals insisted. “Actually, I don’t even know a great many things.”
Sensing incipient panic, Trader glanced down at Swimmer and spread his arms wide. “I think we should stop this for now. The Contrary’s answers can be disconcerting in the best of times. And,” he laughed, “sometimes a man may not want his wife pondering too deeply on the meaning of her words.” Some of the men chuckled; the women looked less sure. “The Seeker and I will make the Contrary available to any who wish to speak with her later.” He looked around, adding, “And in a more private setting conducive to maintaining marital bliss.”
“I concur.” Old White raised his staff. “It can be upsetting when she tells a person that their toenails will grow backward.” He sighed wearily. “And believe me, traveling—as Trader and I do—in her company is not without its travails.” He used his staff to point at the packs. “We have brought Trade from the north. Our goods include furs, medicinal plants, some copper nuggets, pigments, and crafts the likes of which you have rarely seen. Among our Trade are relics obtained in far-off Cahokia. If your chief agrees, we will be happy to Trade tomorrow morning in the plaza.”
“We are honored by your offer to Trade.” White Bear was staring at the charred places in his matting.
“But, there is more,” Old White told them. “I am Old White, the Seeker. The stories you have heard are true. I have crossed the world from ocean to ocean. I have lived among peoples so distant their names have never been uttered among the Chahta.” He raised a finger. “But I warn you now: These stories are not freely given, but in Trade.”
“Trade for what?” Great Cougar asked skeptically.
Old White turned, inclining his staff toward the war chief. “Why, in Trade for some of that wondrous cooking all of us but the Contrary are delighted to smell. For food, and of course in Trade for your kind hospitality.” He smiled. “If I conduct myself correctly, we shall all believe ourselves the better for the bargain.”
Trader lifted an eyebrow. It had been smoothly done.
White Bear clapped his hands. “Then let us begin with black drink. We will follow it with a feast, and then, Seeker, you had better be as good as the stories say you are.”
Old White smiled.
Trader knew it would be like shooting carp in a mud puddle. Then he cast a nervous eye toward Two Petals. If she’d blow backward through a lit pipe, what would happen if someone offered her a sip of the sacred black drink?