Flying Hawk made his way to the tchkofa, touching his forehead respectfully as he passed the guardian posts at either side of the entrance, and climbed the wooden steps. With each, his knee grated and burned. At the palisade on the summit, he nodded to the guards and passed the clan totems staring down at him with baleful eyes.
He entered the dim tunnel that led inside the main room and walked around the circumference to his stool. The eternal fire was burning in the central hearth, and offerings had been placed on the altar.
Once he had settled himself on his stool, a young man motioned, and Vinegaroon, minko of the Old Camp Moiety and Skunk Clan chief, emerged from the covered hallway that led to the Old Camp council room on the south. At the same time, Tishu Minko Seven Dead, chief of the Raccoon Clan, led a procession from the northern hallway and the Hickory Moiety’s room.
The moiety representatives filed to their respective sides of the chamber and seated themselves. The young Priest, dressed in white, knelt, tamped tobacco into the Eagle Pipe bowl, and lit it.
Flying Hawk, as high minko, took the first puff before offering a prayer to invoke Power. He asked it to guide him in finding a solution to the current problem.
Then, one by one, the others took the pipe stem and exhaled smoke toward the high smoke hole, letting it mingle with the sacred fire’s as it rose to the sky beyond.
This was the part of being high minko that Flying Hawk liked least. Any squabble among the moieties that could not be brought to a satisfactory conclusion eventually ended here, in the tchkofa, to be decided through an appeal to his authority. Mostly it involved property, divorce, or some petty boundary dispute.
He glanced at Blood Skull. The man was Seven Dead’s brother, the second war chief, and Smoke Shield’s sworn enemy. Flying Hawk detested him. “It is my understanding that you represent the accused.”
“Yes, High Minko.”
“And, Vinegaroon, you represent the aggrieved party?”
“That is correct, High Minko.” Vinegaroon rose and pointed to a short man who looked uneasily in every direction except toward Flying Hawk. “This is Fine Clay, a man of the Hawk Clan. I believe you are familiar with his work?”
Hawk Clan specialized in the finest pottery made at Split Sky City. While they made cooking vessels and other utilitarian pottery, they were most noted for the fine ceremonial ware used in rituals, for gifts and Trade, and for purposes like burials, weddings, and other special events. The Hawk Clan potters sought out the finest of clays, ground, and washed it. They made their own temper, and mass produced bowls, jugs, jars, and other ceramics. Each was carefully decorated, incised, and fired according to rituals and processes that were strictly guarded by the clan.
“I know his work,” Flying Hawk agreed. “I have one of Fine Clay’s jars, one that has Flying Serpent depicted on the side.”
For the first time Fine Clay looked up and smiled.
Vinegaroon cleared his throat, saying, “The matter before us today concerns one of Fine Clay’s molds.”
“I don’t understand,” Flying Hawk said. “I thought the molds were the property of the clan.”
“That is normally the case.” Vinegaroon clasped his hands before him. “However, Fine Clay made this mold, ground it out of stone, and used it to make a certain style of jar.”
“Explain this.”
“Yes, High Minko. You’ve seen how many of Hawk Clan’s bowls are quickly and efficiently produced? Instead of making each one by taking clay and flattening it with a paddle and anvil, the potter makes a mold, usually a half or third of the finished pot. In a mold the clay can be formed quickly and exactly each time, and to the same dimensions. Each piece of the pot is then removed from the mold and joined to its mates, perhaps a bottom, top, and neck. Only three seams need to be joined to create the whole.”
“I am familiar with the process. What seems to be the trouble here?”
Vinegaroon spread his hands wide. “Fine Clay made a new mold. Ground it from stone, and formed it for his own purposes.”
“I went to the hills up north,” Fine Clay interjected. “I collected the stone myself. Then I ground it down, High Minko. I made it just so. When it was finished, I didn’t like it. So I Traded it to Burnt Hand.” He pointed to a man sitting beside Blood Skull.
“I see.” Flying Hawk glanced across at Burnt Hand. “Is that correct?”
“Yes, High Minko.” Burnt Hand made a gesture, and Flying Hawk could see the scar tissue on his left hand for which he’d received his name. “The trouble is that now he wants it back.”
“No,” Fine Clay insisted. “I don’t. The Clan does. They say it’s theirs.”
Flying Hawk looked at Vinegaroon, who pointed to Black Tail, the Hawk Clan chief who had sat quietly so far.
Black Tail sighed, and rose to his feet. “High Minko, Fine Clay is a member of the clan. He knows that what we make is unique. Of course, any simpleton can craft a pot. We offer the finest pottery available. We do not dispute that Fine Clay made the journey on his own to find the stone for his mold. He put days of labor into grinding it to the shape he wanted.”
“I didn’t like the way the jars looked when I was finished,” Fine Clay muttered. “Then, when Burnt Hand saw the finished jar, he liked it. I Traded my mold to Burnt Hand for seven white shell-bead necklaces.”
“And where are the necklaces now?”
Fine Clay spread his hands wide. “They were a gift to Redbud’s family.” At Flying Hawk’s raised eyebrow, Fine Clay added, “She’s a Crawfish Clan woman. My wife. The seven necklaces were a wedding gift.”
Flying Hawk nodded. The seven necklaces were now scattered far and wide, having been distributed to who knew where among the woman’s relatives. “So Hawk Clan wants the mold back, but ownership of the mold is at question.”
Black Tail shifted uncomfortably. “High Minko, Fine Clay knew perfectly well that any mold he made would become property of the clan. That is our way.”
“But no one liked the finished jars that came out of the mold!” Fine Clay protested. “I didn’t even like them. The balance was wrong, the neck too high and thin. They were”—he made a face—“ugly!”
Flying Hawk sighed. “If no one liked the way the jars looked, why does anyone care if Fine Clay Traded off the mold?”
“Because,” Blood Skull interjected, “Burnt Hand gave the mold to his cousin in High Town. Now she’s making jars on the mold. Her jars are being Traded up and down the river. When we sent a runner to ask if she’d give the mold back, she said no. It was hers now.”
Flying Hawk shot a look at Black Tail. “You’re telling me that now this woman is making jars, and you want the mold back?”
“That is correct, High Minko. It wasn’t Fine Clay’s to part with in the first place. The mold belongs to the clan.”
“Even if you don’t like them.”
“Even then.” Black Tail crossed his arms.
Flying Hawk leaned back on his stool and straightened his leg to ease the pain in his knee. “Fine Clay, did you ask anyone if you could Trade the mold?”
The man stiffened indignantly. “Why should I? It was my mold. I made it myself. I got the stone for it. I collected the sand, did the grinding. My clan did none of that labor. Worse, when I finished it, they made fun of the jars.”
“They were ugly jars,” Black Tail insisted.
Flying Hawk turned to Blood Skull. “You say the jars are in demand now?”
The warrior spread his arms helplessly. “People seem to like them. They are being Traded up and down the river. The workmanship is good, and while they tend to tip over easily, they are different enough that they stand out.”
Flying Hawk considered the claims. “Very well, it will be settled this way. The mold will be returned to Hawk Clan.”
“What?” Fine Clay cried. “Why?”
Flying Hawk gave him a narrow-eyed squint. “Because you are a member of your clan. You may have quarried and shaped the stone molds, but your clan taught you the skills. I don’t care that they didn’t like the jars that came from it. From now on, when you make something, you owe part of that skill to the people who taught you the craft.” Then he pointed to Black Tail. “Hawk Clan, however, will send seven strings of quality white shell beads to Burnt Hand in repayment of the Trade. And as to Burnt Hand’s cousin, Hawk Clan will send her all the jars she wants, made from those very same molds. In return, you will receive a tenth part of all her Trade.”
Black Tail threw his hands up. “Why give her anything?”
“Because,” Flying Hawk growled, “they are your molds, but you didn’t like the jars. Burnt Hand’s cousin, on the other hand, realized that people liked them. For that, she is to be rewarded. The tenth part of her Trade is to pay you back for the labor of making her jars.”
“A tenth isn’t enough,” Black Tail protested.
Flying Hawk leveled a finger. “Hawk Clan let this thing grow out of control. Perhaps next time your—”
“High Minko!” a warrior cried, bursting through the entrance. The man was out of breath, sweat running down his face. “It’s the Chahta! We’re under attack!”
You are not holding your racquet correctly,” Morning Dew told little Stone. The boy insisted on clutching his racquets the way he would an ax. “Move it forward in your hand like so.” She repositioned the little boy’s hand on the polished handle. Since the day she’d made the winning goal in the great solstice game, he’d taken to staring at her in outright adoration.
At first she hadn’t been sure what to make of that, but how could even the most hardened woman ignore such a look of worship in a boy’s eyes?
“It’s harder to hold,” he insisted after trying a couple of swings.
“That’s because your muscles aren’t used to it.” She smiled down at him. “You must trust me on this. A racquet is a living thing. It must be gripped firmly, but not so tightly that you squeeze the life out of it. Here, let me show you.” She took the racquet from him, showed him how her fingers laced around it, and how it seated in her palm. “There, see? Now, watch. Do you see how by twisting my wrist I can make the hoop turn?” She flicked the racquet this way and that. “The racquet must become part of you, an extension of your arm. It must be flexible, capable of easy control.”
He took the racquet back, trying to mimic her motions.
“That’s the way.”
“Holding it this way is hard.”
“That, my young warrior, is why you must practice. My mother made me hold my racquet for hands of time.” She smiled at him. “I hated her for it. My arms hurt, but you know what?”
“What?”
“There are times in life that you must work steadily, bored the entire time, and with your muscles aching.” She knelt to eye level with him. “What you must always keep in mind is that for that one moment of glory, you must pay with boredom and practice. The harder you work, the more you dedicate yourself, the greater you will be when that final test comes.”
He avoided her eyes, staring stubbornly at his little racquet.
“Stone, you can’t help it. It’s just the way life is. You have been told the stories, how everything worthwhile requires your dedication. To be young is to have souls like butterflies. They want to flit this way and that. It’s hard, at your age, to keep that concentration when so many other things distract you. It’s even hard when you are grown. But to win at stickball, to triumph at the end, you must cling to this one thing. You must believe in yourself and know that you will grow proficient very slowly.”
“I will?”
“You can become the greatest stickball player in the history of your people. But only if you carry your racquet with you at all times. Learn to live with it in your hand. Not today, but within a moon, you will be amazed at how you can outplay your friends. Only after all that time will the rewards become apparent.”
“All right.”
She rose, patted him on the back, and turned to see Heron Wing standing in the doorway. The woman’s eyes were thoughtful, a curious smile on her lips.
Morning Dew looked down at the basket of laundry she had been carrying up from the river. Still wet, it had been heavy. And, yes, perhaps she had looked forward to taking a moment to rest as she talked to the boy.
“Sorry,” she said. “Stone distracted me.”
Heron Wing nodded. “Feel free to distract yourself like that any time you wish.” She glanced after her son, who was trotting out past the pestle and mortar, his racquet clutched diligently as Morning Dew had shown him. “I hope he listens to you. When I tell him things, the words flow out of his ears like water through a hole in a pot.”
“You are his mother.”
Heron Wing shrugged. “And you are his hero.”
“For the moment.”
Heron Wing looked after her son. “I am hoping he will be a good chief for Panther Clan when he becomes a man. He’s a bright child. I think he inherited his father’s cunning, but I hope that I can influence him to use it for our people in better ways.”
“Let us hope he finds your wisdom.” Morning Dew bent, picking up the wash. It had been her first task since leaving the Panther Clan’s Women’s House. For four glorious days she had sat close to the fire and allowed herself the luxury of thinking about the last three moons. Her biggest surprise had been relief that had crept unheralded into her life. In that space of time she had been plummeted from the height of authority and prestige to the depths of despair. She had found a courage she didn’t know she had, and then been rescued, brought here, to this foreign woman’s house. To her surprise, she had realized that she admired Heron Wing.
Now, looking at the woman, she wondered, Will I ever be as great as she is?
“Yes?” Heron Wing asked, reading her expression.
“Nothing.”
“It must have been something. You were looking at me with the strangest eyes. Almost a longing. Is something on your mind?”
“Does it bother you that Pale Cat sits on the Council and you don’t?”
Heron Wing looked startled. “Why should it? I’m proud of my brother. He’s a voice of reason on the Council. Actually, it amazes me that he can serve as Hopaye, fulfill his duties to the Council, and still be such a good uncle to Stone.”
“You Chikosi amaze me. I know of no other people who keep their women so removed from leadership. Among the Chahta, women sit in our Councils.”
“As does Night Star in ours.”
“But she is the exception, partially because of her age, partially because she’s a dwarf.”
Heron Wing arched an eyebrow. “Then, you think I should sit on the Council?”
“As capable as your brother is, you would be a better voice for your clan.”
“You have decided this, have you?”
“Sometimes people are blinded from being too close to things. Only when viewed from the outside does the shape of an object become clear.”
“And what about your own people, now that you’ve had a chance to—”
The hollow blare of a conch horn carried on the clear morning air. Heron Wing turned, staring south toward the high minko’s palace. There, at the gateway, stood Seven Dead, the horn held high to his lips.
“Warriors!” his faint voice called. “Chahta raiders are west of the river!” Then he started down the steps, taking the steep stairway three at a time.
Chahta! Here! Morning Dew stared off to the west, unable to see past the houses, palaces, and palisade. Her heart began to race, excitement building within her. Rescue!
“Not so fast,” Heron Wing said firmly. “Think this thing through.”
Morning Dew gasped, turning anxious eyes toward Heron Wing. “My people.”
“Yes, but how many?” Heron Wing propped a hand on her hip. “Tempting, isn’t it? Were I you, I’d be thinking that I could run, take a canoe in the confusion, and duck into the forest west of the river. Maybe, with a little luck, I could find those raiders.”
Morning Dew bit her lip, having just thought that very thing.
“But then,” Heron Wing added, “if it was a big war party, the scouts would have seen them coming. Slipping a small party past the scouts would be easy. But hundreds of warriors? The kind of war party necessary to deal us a real blow? No, that kind of force would have been detected. Were I you, I would decide that by the time I could reach the forest—assuming I could find a fast-moving, small force—they would be long gone. Another thing to consider is that this might be a false alarm. There may be no Chahta out there, just some nervous scout’s imagination. Either way, in an unfamiliar forest crawling with warriors, how would I avoid recapture by those hundreds of Chikosi scouring the woods for Chahta?”
“I would have thought of that.” Morning Dew sighed. “You’re right.”
“Yes, and I would stay here, knowing full well that when my time comes, I would finally go back to my people with my heel tendons uncut.”
Morning Dew dropped the basket, almost spilling the contents she had worked so hard to wash. “Why? Why do you care?”
Heron Wing smiled, amused at her distress. “Because you have just begun to discover yourself, Morning Dew. Take a while longer. Learn a little more about yourself. You have the time now, and soon events may not leave you with such a luxury.”
As the raid progressed, Smoke Shield was firmly convinced that Power rode his shoulders. They were closing on their quarry. The broken hills west of Bowl Town were the perfect place to hide. Thick timber, deep drainages, and broken ridges filled the land. While hidden nooks and crannies lay in every direction, the main trails were few and far between. Anyone wishing to hurry could only follow a few specific routes; otherwise they would become bogged down in rugged country, hampered by brush, deadfall, and steep slopes.
The first clue came from a forest trail. Here the leaf mat had been disturbed. Too many feet had been up and down the trail in recent days. Smoke Shield crouched, fingering the damp leaves. Around him, silent as cougars, his warriors settled into watchful wariness, their dark eyes searching.
Which way? Smoke Shield looked back down the trail toward Bowl Town. No, that would lead back to town. Whatever the people traveling the trail were after, it was farther west. He rose, pointed, and began easing down the trail, sniffing the breeze for telltale hints of smoke.
As he went, he noticed that here and there individuals had stepped away, the signs of travel lessening. He stopped, cocking his head as he searched the surrounding trees. The ridge here had flattened, but to the north and south, it fell off in steep ravines. His practiced eye immediately noted that the ground under the hickory, walnut, and pecan trees had been thoroughly collected. None of the fall nut crop remained atop the leaf mat but for occasional moldy or squirrel-chewed specimens. Nor did piles of deer scat indicate the animals had browsed heavily here. That meant the nuts had been collected long ago, probably just after they fell in the fall.
So if people weren’t splitting off to collect nuts, what were they doing?
Hiding their trail, of course.
He smiled grimly, motioning his warriors forward in an arc. He had almost grown used to their appearance, could almost make himself believe he was Chahta himself. So far all had gone as he had planned. Only that morning had they allowed an old Albaamo man to “escape” after hearing the warriors call Smoke Shield “Great Cougar” in a mangled Chahta accent. By the time the morning sun rose, he and his warriors would appear at Bowl Town, dressed once again as Sky Hand. No one would be the wiser as he joined forces with Sun Falcon to search the forest for Chahta raiders.
As the ridgetop continued to widen, the trail virtually disappeared.
Close! He signaled a halt, cocking his head, listening. To the north, a squirrel chattered a warning call. Disturbed by a man? Who knew? He turned in that direction, using hand signs to line out his warriors.
His heart began that familiar excited beat in his chest. A euphoric feeling, almost elation, danced about his bones and muscles. Every sense seemed sharper. Step by step, they made their way forward to the lip of the ravine. One by one his warriors lined out, dropping low, peering over the steep edge. Below him lay a tangle of fallen trees, most covered with moss. Grape and greenbriar wound up from the brown forest floor in a maze-work of thick vines. A mockingbird called in the distance, and sparrows tweeted.
He could see nothing. Perhaps the squirrel’s call had been a ruse?
At the point of rising and turning back, a signal was passed down the line from Bear Paw’s position. Makes Calls—a warrior of the Raccoon Clan—caught Smoke Shield’s attention. He pointed to his nose, and made the wiggling fingers sign for smoke.
With the grace of a panther, Smoke Shield rose, crept low across the ridge, passing his warriors, to Bear Paw, who gave him a smile and shrug, repeating the “smelled smoke” sign and pointing down into the steep ravine.
Smoke Shield turned, signaling his warriors to start down. They eased over the edge, each taking his time, placing a foot, checking the purchase, and lowering himself. A cottontail broke cover, bouncing and darting down the slope.
The warriors stopped, each studying the ground below them, bows at the ready, arrows nocked.
The faint wiff of smoke came, only to be lost as the breeze eddied through the trees.
Smoke Shield slowly resumed the descent. At the bottom, they found a trail winding among the roots, leaves, and dead saplings. Here a great many feet had trod. Smoke Shield aligned his warriors and started forward.
He caught the first glimpse of the hut, a shabby thing made of branches bent over and covered with bark. A fine blue haze rose through cracks in the roof. He caught a faint snatch of voices; then the forest resumed its normal winter silence.
Smoke Shield signaled for his warriors to spread out, then crouched, waiting for them to move slowly and surely into position. Periodically he cast glances behind him, ensuring that no traveler came walking up the trail behind him to sound the alarm.
He could feel the first cooling of perspiration as he waited, heart thumping in his chest.
Yes, this is it. He could almost smell Fast Legs’ sweat and fear from inside the little hut.
At that moment, a man walked out, calmly stepped to the side, and opened his breechcloth to relieve himself. He stared out at the forest, unconcerned. The man was an Albaamo, wearing a brown hunting shirt, his hair in a poorly tied bun.
Smoke Shield crouched lower, hoping that none of his warriors were visible.
Finished, the man fixed his clothing and turned back to the door, scratching just behind his ear as he ducked into the low hut.
Moments later, a robin chirped from up the ravine, Bear Paw’s signal that he had reached his position. Smoke Shield raised himself, catching a glance of War Heart where he waited in his position. The man nodded, and Smoke Shield gave him the signal to advance.
He watched as one by one his warriors filtered down to surround the hut.
Flat on his back, Fast Legs panted for breath. He stared up at the daylight filtering through cracks in the bark roof. In the agonizing time since the Albaamaha brought him here, he had memorized every feature of the ceiling. He knew each bent branch, and the knots of twine that bound them together. When the Albaamaha dropped hot rocks on his belly and twisted his broken leg, he grunted as he studied them, forcing his screaming brain to imagine the intricacies of the knots.
Weary, he blinked, wishing desperately for a drink of water, knowing the futility of asking. His leg had been turned into a repulsive thing, fragments of bone lancing out through bloody and bruised flesh. It had swollen hideously, and pus leaked from the punctures. The smell of it had caused him to throw up.
Now, he tried to remember it as it had been, whole and muscled, the smooth skin intact. No matter what, he would never walk again, never run like the wind.
I am a dead man. The knowledge did little to soothe him. Even if he survived this terrible hut, the evil infection that had slipped into his leg would finally kill him. He would die, fevered, crying out as his souls slipped in and out of his body.
“Just kill me,” he whispered again.
“When the time is right,” the big Albaamo told him. “Red Awl was my brother. You foul weasel, he tried to work with you. For that, I will make you suffer until the end.” He raised an eyebrow. “Of course, if you promise to tell your story to the mikkos, we will be happy to tend to your wounds. We have potions, things you can drink to deaden the pain.”
Fast Legs drew another breath. Gods, he couldn’t take this much longer.
“All right.” His voice sounded like something far away, the hoarse rasping from another throat than his. “I’ll tell you everything.”
“Smoke Shield planned this?”
“Yes. The whole thing.”
“Why?”
“To find the Albaamo who killed his captives. He knows you sent Crabapple to betray us to the White Arrow Chahta.”
“And if he fights us, the Chikosi will unite behind him?”
The second Albaamo, a small wiry man, had crouched beside him. The man grinned as the big one spoke.
Fast Legs jerked a quick nod.
“And where is Red Awl’s body?” the first asked.
“In a backwater.”
“You will show us where?”
“Yes.”
The man straightened, saying, “You will tell the mikkos everything?”
“Yes.” What did it matter? He was dead anyway. No matter what he said, the Albaamaha would suffer in the end. Sky Hand warriors would put them down, hunt every last one of them to earth and kill them.
The man chuckled to himself before saying to his companion, “You see? They’re not so tough. A man hanging in the square has the crowd to play to, but out here, alone, deep in the forest, there is no one to impress.”
He turned, made a half step, and grunted, bending slightly.
Fast Legs stared in amazement at the bloody arrow that protruded from the man’s gut. He watched the Albaamo reach down and wrap his fingers around the feathered shaft. The man stared in disbelief. Then a second arrow drove deeply into his chest. He turned, dazed, and toppled. Fast Legs screamed as the man’s body landed on his broken leg.
Unable to see, Fast Legs heard the thin Albaamo shriek as he ran for the door. The fellow’s shadow darkened the entrance; then a meaty snap—the impact of a war club—could be heard.
The dying Albaamo lying on Fast Legs kicked, whimpered, and writhed. Fast Legs blinked in the half-light, still trying to understand. He froze, staring at the silhouette that loomed over him. He knew that hairstyle: Chahta.
Then the impossible happened: The enemy warrior spoke in Smoke Shield’s voice. “So, old friend, you would tell them everything?”
Fast Legs swallowed down his dry throat. He could feel the dying Albaamo’s warm blood leaking onto his body, trickling down his naked sides.
“I’m sorry,” Fast Legs gasped.
“So am I,” Smoke Shield said, straightening.
Fast Legs tried to gather enough breath to scream as the war chief’s club rose, hanging for a moment against the patterns of light cast by the ceiling. Then it arced down, blasting lightning through Fast Legs’ brain.