“PEARL HAND STAYS WITH ME,” I SAID, GRABBING HER ARM AS SHE turned to follow the others. “We live as one, sharing thoughts and responsibilities.”
Cafakke shot another look at the waiting hilishaya, then he gave the two of us a long and thoughtful appraisal. Finally he said, “When you first came here, I thought the woman little more than an affectation. Do you truly trust her that much, Chicaza?”
“With my life, High Mikko. And more. Power joined us for a reason.”
Pearl Hand cocked an eyebrow and added, “Do you always underestimate women, High Mikko?”
He chuckled, amused at the tone in her voice. “Only those who arrive in the company of scurrilous traders like Black Shell. Have you ever considered giving him up to become a high mikko’s woman?”
In the driest voice she could manage, Pearl Hand replied, “I’ve been one. There’s not much to be said for it.”
I shot a glance at Cafakke’s wives. Their reactions ranged from shock to amusement.
Cafakke just lifted a skeptical eyebrow as Pearl Hand gave him a wicked smile. She added, “With Black Shell, I am more than an evening’s diversion. As proven by the ihola’ka in those bags we brought.”
“You make your point with precision and skill, Mankiller Pearl Hand. I stand corrected . . . and humbled.” At his words the people in the room shifted uneasily. He waved them down, saying, “I’ve followed your actions since you arrived here. Your successes surprised even the tastanaki.”
Tastanaki? That was the supreme war chief and Red Moiety tishu mikko, Fire Falcon.
Hands on my hips, I called up every bit of courage I possessed and said, “You didn’t call us here to be congratulated by your war chiefs.” I glanced at the priests. “The usinulo said something about the great hilishaya wishing to see us.”
Back-from-the-Dead’s smile tightened, his eyes like polished obsidian.
Cafakke replied, “He shall have his chance. Meanwhile, I have news. You are aware that more Kristianos have come from the east? A party of perhaps one hundred or more? They arrived here muddy, travel-worn, and exhausted, having moved faster than word of their approach could have been sent. Do you know who these men are or where they came from?”
Pearl Hand gave me a knowing glance. “Muddy and travel-worn? The ones de Soto left behind in Uzita?”
I considered it. “If he’s evacuated his base camp at Uzita, the Adelantado is obviously not planning on returning south.”
“No, he’s not.” Pearl Hand shot a look at Cafakke. “Generally, Kristianos raid for a season, then leave. That or they try to build a permanent town. In the past these have always been on the coast, where their ships can deliver supplies or they can evacuate if fortune turns against them.”
Cafakke made a futile gesture with his misshapen hand. “The other news I have is that the invader’s great boats have arrived off the coast to our south and are sheltering in one of the bays. An expedition of another hundred Kristianos and cabayos has marched off to meet with them. As we speak they are returning with supplies and additional men.”
He paused, staring at the two of us. “I spent but a few days with them. You are said to know them even better. Are they planning on staying here? Fighting a war of attrition to drive us out of our country? Or is this just reinforcement before they go somewhere else? How do I tell?”
Pearl Hand asked, “What are the slaves doing?”
“Dying.” Cafakke shifted his bulk. “The Kristianos are working them to death. From dawn to dusk they labor building fortifications around Anhaica. They receive little food and are made to sleep naked in the open. Rain, snow, wind, it makes no difference to the Kristianos. To keep the slaves from giving up, they turn dogs loose on them. Terrible dogs that literally tear a human being apart. Then these vile animals the Kristianos brought with them—”
“Puercos,” I muttered.
“Yes,” Cafakke said. “Puercos. They eat the bodies of the dead slaves. And then the Kristianos eat the puercos. It is disgusting. Inconceivable.”
He gestured his futility. “The Kristianos look like men: two arms, two legs. But they act as if they have no souls, no responsibility to the world around them.” He shook his head, brow furrowed. “As high mikko, I have passed judgment on the criminally insane. I’ve interrogated and executed evil sorcerers. Such individuals appear when Power has been abused, or due to witchcraft or the violation of taboos. But an entire army of them?”
I nodded. “That’s what the Kristianos are: a vile, invincible army of pollution, rolling across our world.”
Pearl Hand crossed her arms. “I’ve never heard it stated so succinctly.”
Cafakke gave a weak smile, glancing at the waiting hilishaya. “I worry now that the monster plans to stay in Apalachee. In addition to the fact that he has no respect for Power or the ways of decent men, working his slaves to death indicates that he isn’t concerned about transporting all of his baggage anywhere else.”
Pearl Hand frowned. “Are they building great palaces? Large buildings?”
“No. Mostly digging fortification ditches, cutting and setting palisade posts. That and replacing the buildings we’ve managed to burn.”
“Burn?” I asked.
“On occasion we’ve been able to sneak close and set fire to the buildings in Anhaica by throwing firebrands over the walls at night. And periodically an archer lands a pitch-fired arrow in something burnable. Last time, with the wind right, we managed to set fire to half the town. It keeps them busy, off balance, and, we hope, wishing they were someplace else.”
“Hence the endless woodcutting parties.” Pearl Hand looked thoughtful. “But how many of your people have the Kristianos captured?”
Cafakke gave her a flat look. “Perhaps a hundred. Not as many as they would have liked. We’ve learned to keep out of their reach. Some Apalachee were captured, then managed to escape. The stories they tell have passed from lip to lip. Most of my people now believe an immediate death is better than a lingering one in a Kristiano collar.”
“If they were planning on staying,” Pearl Hand mused, “they would be marking off land, adding to the palaces. At least, that’s how they acted among the Chicora. And, after following de Soto all these months, we know he leaves as soon as the food is eaten.”
I added, “I think he’ll go when the weather warms. More than anything, Kristianos desire gold. It obsesses them. That doesn’t mean, however, that he wouldn’t leave some Kristianos here as he did at Uzita. Especially if the floating palaces are in the bays.” I frowned. “But it would mean splitting his forces.”
“Gold?” Cafakke adopted an incredulous expression. “Would someone explain its value? They asked me about it over and over, even showed me pieces just to make sure I knew what they were talking about. It’s a worthless metal.”
“Not to them,” Pearl Hand said. “Think of how we value copper, then increase its worth by a factor of ten, and you might begin to understand how the Kristianos lust for it.”
Cafakke’s puzzled look deepened. “But there’s no gold. I told de Soto that to his face. Every now and then someone wears a nugget for decoration. Otherwise it’s just a rock. Mica has more reflection, and copper has Spirit Power. It can be worked and polished. What possesses these idiot Kristianos, anyway?”
“A red rage of chaos,” I muttered, noticing A’atehkoci as he entered discreetly. He gave Cafakke a nod that all had been taken care of.
“Even red Power abhors abomination,” Back-from-the-Dead announced, eyes unblinking. The effect reminded me of an owl’s fascination with a caged rabbit.
Pearl Hand added, “High Mikko, when the Kristianos begin to clear and plant fields it will be a sign they’re staying. This they did among my mother’s people when they sought to build a permanent town. If they are not farming they will most likely move on this spring.”
“Provided they have anyone left to carry their supplies,” Matron Pahlko growled from the side. “The dead slaves are just left in a rotting pile, food for crows and those hideous and hairless little puercos they brought with them.” She made a face. “The whole thing is an affront to Power.”
“Abomination,” Back-from-the-Dead growled again.
Cafakke looked at the man, then at Pearl Hand and me. “In addition to my questions, the great hilishaya has his own curiosity.” He made a gesture, encouraging the priest to step forward.
As I met Back-from-the-Dead’s glittering eyes I experienced a tickle of unease. Medicine and Power people have always unsettled me. They concern themselves with forces and teachings that would make anyone nervous.
“I am known as Back-from-the-Dead,” the great hilishaya said. “I speak with Power, hear the Song of the Spirits, and chant with the souls of the dead. Curious stories are being passed about you.” He pointed the turkey-tail mace in his right hand at me. “And about this woman. And about the Timucua who follow you. Even your dogs are spoken of. One is said to belong to the Spirit World, but I saw no such animal upon your arrival.”
How do I describe the way he talked? It was as if each syllable were alive and every word weighted with a meaning that went beyond the here and now. And the control in his voice was an eerie thing, as if it contained a perfectly choked threat. One that, if let loose, could lash a man’s soul.
He hadn’t received his name by accident. Only the most Powerful of hilishaya could send their souls to the Underworld, Sky World, or Land of the Dead and return. The stories I’d heard claimed that Back-from-the-Dead’s souls turned themselves into serpents when they traveled to the Underworld, thereby becoming a match for the tie snakes, piasas, and other creatures of the lower realm. When he flew to the Sky World, his souls supposedly turned themselves into an eagle that could outmaneuver lightning, buck the winds, and perch atop the rainbows.
Most frightening of all, he had died many times. When the souls leave, a person’s heart stops and the lungs cease to fill. The eyes go vacant, and the skin grows cold. During this time the physical body is in great danger. If left too long, the corpse begins to decompose, and the souls will be unable to reanimate the flesh when they finally return. Or the flesh might be witched, infected, or otherwise “occupied” by other Spirits. Sometimes, by mistake, the corpse is burned, buried, stripped of flesh, or otherwise processed for a funeral, leaving the desperate souls nothing to return to.
As to the traveling souls themselves, a host of things could go wrong: They could become confused, disoriented, and might lose their way back from the Spirit World. Even worse, they could be captured or devoured by Spirit Beasts. They might become enamored, tricked, or otherwise seduced to stay in the Spirit World. But whatever happens, if they don’t return in time, death is final. Even the most Powerful of priests, shamans, and sorcerers approach such journeys with trepidation.
Believe me, I knew.
Back-from-the-Dead apparently had few such fears. According to the stories, his souls had spent as long as a quarter moon roaming the Spirit World while his abandoned body lay clay-cold and limp. It was said his own assistants shivered when in his presence and feared his Power, authority, and temper.
I began to understand why. In his eyes was a hollow emptiness—a dislocation from the world around him that seemed to suck at a man’s souls.
“I am Black Shell of the Chicaza, great Hilishaya. I cannot be responsible for the stories told about me.”
“You are, however, responsible for the ones you tell about yourself.” His voice—ever so precise—seemed to create a shimmering in the air.
This could go very wrong. “Stories? Those I tell during trade serve as entertainment in exchange for hospitality. Stories are accepted as what they are: beings with lives and an existence of their own. They have their own Power, the whole being more than just the combined parts. Some exist to create laughter, others, sorrow. We teach and learn through stories. They explain the world . . . or expand it. Through them, we touch other peoples’ souls, lives, and imagination.”
At the narrowing of his eyes, I hurried to add, “But you are interested not in stories, but in Power and what it wants with me.”
As his gaze invaded mine, I flinched from the sucking sensation it created. His tones became more precise, vibrating between my souls. “It is said that you are Horned Serpent’s being.”
The effect was as if cold air had filled the room. Something unseen, like a ghostly hand, caused a constriction around my throat.
He’s testing, seeking to intimidate me. Why?
I ground my teeth, clenched my fists, and stepped closer to Back-from-the-Dead. He apparently hadn’t expected that, for his lips bent in a slight smile. At the same time he raised the turkey-tail mace as if ready to counter a blow.
Looking into his black eyes, I saw the layers of his being, partially haunted, yet driven by a thrilling ecstasy I could barely perceive. There, too, lay a deep hunger—that of a predator too long denied a kill.
I gave him the slightest of smiles. “Horned Serpent chose me long ago.”
“Why?” The question sliced like an obsidian blade.
“I am akeohoosa. Dead to my family.”
“A curious fate for a Chicaza noble, don’t you think?”
“Horned Serpent told me it was a gamble.”
“Why would Horned Serpent have wagered on you when so many others could have been chosen?”
I could feel his Power, reaching out, trying to wrap around my own. Like being smothered with a sooty blanket, the sensation wasn’t pleasant.
Ever try to flex your souls, like tightening muscles? I tried as I replied, “I asked the same question.”
“Where did you ask it? And of whom?”
That threw me. “High in the Sky World, great Hilishaya. At the entrance to the Path of the Dead. I asked Horned Serpent.”
He cocked an eyebrow ever so slightly. “You flew to the Sky World? Or did you jump through the portal—the constellation we call the Seeing Hand?”
Sensing the trap, I managed a dry chuckle. “Neither. I was carried.”
“From this world?”
“No, from the Underworld.”
“And how did you get there?”
“I was dying in a lake outside Napetuca. The Kristianos chased us into the water. For two days I paddled around with the others. The water felt warm at first, but after two days? The chill ate into us, sapped us of warmth and hope. Others surrendered, but Blood Thorn and I held out. On the second day, most of the Kristianos had left, and we tried to make our way to shore.”
The rest of the room was hanging on each word, but I kept my eyes locked on Back-from-the-Dead’s. In a way I couldn’t comprehend, we were wrestling, grasping, struggling against each other.
“I remember sinking,” I said softly. “That’s when Water Panther reached up and dragged me down to the Underworld.”
“Why would the Piasa bother himself with a trader?” The words were ever so soft.
“I’d made a trade the first time I traveled to the Underworld. Anhinga and Snapping Turtle were witnesses.”
Slyly he asked, “What did the Piasa want out of your trade?”
“To kill me.”
“Yet, here you are? Alive in this world?” His words were poised to strike, sensing the coming of a lie.
“Even Spirit Beings are bound by the Power of trade,” I answered with invincibility. “Water Panther wants my life but has offered nothing in return for it . . . yet.”
“How does that make you feel?” The black pool of his eyes seemed to expand, sucking me in. The faintest smile lay on his thin lips.
“No one makes a bargain with a Spirit Being and isn’t scared soul-sick. Not if he has any sense anyway.” I paused. “The Piasa wasn’t exactly happy the last time I saw him.”
“That doesn’t explain how you got to the Sky World.” Back-from-the-Dead had retreated, seeking another path of attack. “Carried, you said?”
“After the Piasa left, I was talking to Snapping Turtle and Anhinga. Horned Serpent grabbed me from behind.” I shrugged. “He carried me through the tunnels, past the roots, then out, across the gap between the edge of the earth and the Sky World. He leaped through the Seeing Hand. The rest was a frightening blur.”
“He carried you in his hands?” Back-from-the-Dead asked with a softness that belied any threat. “Or did you ride on his back?”
“Horned Serpent has no hands. He pins you in his jaws with long and deadly fangs.”
“And that is when you asked why he chose you?”
At my nod, Back-from-the-Dead’s voice dropped to a whisper, as if in that misleading feint that comes before a surprise attack. “What was his answer?”
“‘A priest,’ Horned Serpent told me, ‘would have been blinded by the Spirit World.’ Preoccupied with the ways of Power. Unmoved by the realities of war with the Kristianos.”
I took another step, my face but a hand’s breadth from his. I met his haunting, soul-sucking look, battling it, imagining I was seeing it through Horned Serpent’s great crystalline eyes. “By priests, he spoke of Spirit Dreamers like you, Hilishaya. You’re absorbed by the Spirit World. Even as we speak, it fills your souls and stares out of your eyes, sharing your vision. But against the Kristianos and their weapons, war beasts, and heartless god, you are impotent.”
For long moments, we stood, toe-to-toe, locked in a silent struggle. His Power coiled and rolled, trying to slip between my souls, to find a hold that would give him domination. Against it, I had only the hard shell of certainty, tempered by my own ordeals in the Spirit World.
“How did you return from the Sky World?” The words coiled around me.
“I don’t know.”
Victory clung to the corners of his mouth where little lines deepened. “You don’t know?”
Just tell him the truth, Black Shell. “The last thing I can recall”—the callous act failed me, and I couldn’t stop the soul-deep shiver—“was terror. Numbing, consuming terror.”
Back-from-the-Dead’s eyes enlarged as if they’d fill his face.
I knotted my fists, took a deep breath. “He bit me, crushed me . . . The sensation of my bones snapping, my body compressed and breaking . . . Dying. Eaten alive . . .”
“Eaten alive?” he said mockingly. “Did he spit you out, perhaps finding lowly traders distasteful?”
The warmth came from my medicine bag, as if that fragment of Horned Serpent’s brow tine had taken on the heat of a hearthstone. I let the sepaya’s Power roll through my chest, swelling my souls as my gaze bored into his. “Distasteful? I wouldn’t know. My last memory is of my neck popping like an old root. I remember the sensation of my head being pressed through my chest . . . the snapping of my ribs, the bursting of my heart. And after that? Only blackness until I came to, lying in cattails and covered with mud.” I pressed closer. “You doubt me? Look into my eyes, read my souls, Hilishaya. Truth is there.”
Uncertainty weakened his voice for the first time, and he backed away. “Why were you devoured?”
I straightened, willing strength back into my sagging souls. “I was given a choice: I could walk away, follow the Path of the Dead to my ancestors. I was already there, having only to pass Eagle Man’s challenge where the road forks. Or I could go back and undertake the seemingly hopeless battle against the Kristianos.”
“And you chose . . . ?”
“Pearl Hand remained behind. I love her. More than life itself. And the Kristianos must be fought . . . no matter the cost.” I smiled, perhaps out of partial delirium. “And even as I made my choice, I saw Fetch—the Spirit dog of whom you’ve heard—telling me it was right.”
“You knew Horned Serpent would devour you?”
Bitterness laced my laughter. “Had I, I’d have chosen to stroll on down the Path of the Dead. Nothing, and I mean nothing—on earth or in the Spirit World—can prepare you for the terror, pain, and horror of being eaten alive.” Want to try me on that, you spooky hilishaya?
The twirling worlds behind his glistening eyes must have read my souls, because his expression changed. His gaze lowered, fixing on my chest. Slipping the handle of his rattle into his waist sash, he reached out with his left hand, palm toward me, fingers straight. As it neared the sepaya hanging on my chest, I could feel the energy. It seemed to burn, like a white-hot cooking stone.
Back-from-the-Dead’s hand hovered above the little leather bag. How long did we stand so? I couldn’t guess, but finally he pulled back, working his fingers as if they were covered by something oily.
“I will speak with you again,” he whispered hoarsely. Then he turned and plucked the rattle from his sash, shaking it as he began to sing, voice booming in the too-quiet room. The words, the lilting melody, were unlike anything I’d ever heard. Invisible fingers stroked my skin.
The other hilishaya began shaking their rattles, their voices rising to join his. As Back-from-the-Dead headed for the door, the younger priests followed in single file. All eyes were upon them as they ducked out one by one, leaving the room in absolute silence.
I swallowed dryly, drained, as if I’d been balancing for days on the knife’s edge of disaster. A cold shiver ran through me, slightly countered by the dying heat from my medicine bundle.
A man could get into such trouble over the love of a woman, a dead dog’s blind faith, and loathing hatred for de Soto and all he represented.
“What just happened here?” Pearl Hand asked nervously.
“I’m not sure.” I managed another dry swallow and felt sweat trickle down my neck. When had it gotten so hot? Only when I puffed an exhalation did I realize it hadn’t. My breath fogged in the cool air.
“You’ve been tested,” Cafakke declared, but his usual insouciance was missing. “And whatever the great hilishaya expected, it was not what you just told him.”
I grinned, desperate to cover my unease. “Somehow, I don’t think he gets many invitations to supper or social gatherings.”
Blood and pus, I hate fooling around with Power.