FIRELIGHT FLICKERED ON THE KUKOFA ROOF AND WALLS. AT CAFAKKE’S order, a good load of dry wood had been carried in. While it would have been nice to think he’d done it on our behalf, it was actually for Fire Falcon and his warriors.
Pearl Hand and I sat on one of the sleeping benches, the rest of the Orphans lined up to either side while the dogs lay happily on the matting at our feet. Our packs were stowed safely under the pole beds. We’d been fed a stew of duck, catfish, and hominy, backed by freshly baked yellow-lotus bread. A bowl of tolocano had been sent by Cafakke, and this we passed back and forth, sharing.
Across from us, the Apalachee warriors had set up their own quarters. Normally they would have made themselves at home in the Men’s House. Unfortunately, Cafakke’s refuge in the swamp was too new for such a structure—let alone the complicated ritual that went into selecting its location, blessing the ground, ritually “hunting” the trees used in its construction, and all the necessary rites that attended the roofing, dedications, and final occupancy.
The Apalachee warriors across from us appeared uneasy with the arrangement. Normally, upon returning to the city, they’d be sequestered by the hilishaya, forced to fast, take sweats, drink button snakeroot and black drink, purge, and undergo ceremonial cleansing to rid themselves of the red chaos of war. Power needed to be balanced. But here, in the turmoil of de Soto’s invasion, they were still literally on the battle walk, following the rules of a war party.
For that reason, they didn’t socialize, ate only the food Fire Falcon’s second provided, and didn’t sit upon the earth out of respect. Nor would they lean against a post or tree. They sought to do their best to ignore the fire, since it hadn’t been kindled by the second or fanned with their eagle wing. I’m sure that deep down, they knew that no matter how hard they were trying, they couldn’t help but break the taboos of the war trail. Such things weren’t meant for city life.
“I think we should leave Cane Place town.” Wide Antler interrupted my thoughts, his eyes fixed on the central fire. “Our job is to hunt Kristianos.”
“Food’s better here,” Corn Thrower retorted, rubbing the thick bicep on his left arm. “And there’s a pretty young Apalachee girl who’s been making eyes at me.”
“That’s just my point,” Wide Antler growled. “We’re getting soft, losing our edge. Hot food every night . . . sleeping in a warm, dry council house like this? It makes us lazy, Corn Thrower. So what next? You and the girl will slip away, and next thing you know, she’ll be on her back. From then on, you’ll be dreaming of how soft she is, how she made you feel. Your mind won’t be on smarter ways to kill Kristianos.”
“I can do both,” Corn Thrower muttered defensively.
“No, you can’t.” Bear Paw shook his head. “As to being here? I have to say, I was ready for a little luxury. Maybe we need this every once in a while. It reminds us of what we lost.”
“I don’t need anything to remind me.” Blood Thorn crossed his arms. “Every time I close my eyes, I see it, relive it. She’s staring at me with those death-gray eyes, flies on her lips.”
He meant his dead wife-to-be. I wound my fingers into Pearl Hand’s. She was staring thoughtfully at the fire, flames mirrored in her dark eyes.
“We’d just killed five,” Wide Antler said. “Why? Because we were out there, breathing as one with the forest. Power was working through us. Each day we’re here, it’s draining away. Making us weaker.”
Walking Thunder hadn’t had his say yet. “And . . . what? If we stay here for a couple of days, we’re going to forget? Maybe become childlike and stumbly? I’m with Corn Thrower. Every now and then it’s all right to have a rest, eat something besides what we’ve shot that day.” He grinned. “Besides, I traded a Kristiano knife for an Apalachee war bow and better arrows than I could ever make.”
Corn Thrower nodded sagaciously. “That’s a good point. Things like that compound bow Walking Thunder traded for, we couldn’t make the like, not while we’re hunting Kristianos. The same with the hardwood war arrows.”
“Then let’s do our trading and leave,” Wide Antler said insistently. “I can feel my Power fading by the moment. We’ve got to stay pure, focused, and dedicated to the task.”
“Or?” Bear Paw asked. “We’ll forget, marry Apalachee women, and decide to grow corn?”
Blood Thorn snorted. “This will not last forever. Enjoy a warm dry bed while you have it and eat all you can. Sometime soon you’re going to be looking back on this kukofa of theirs with real longing.”
“The sooner, the better,” Wide Antler said stubbornly.
I figured it was getting too thorny. “Quiet, all of you. We’ll take the time we can get here. Blood Thorn and Wide Antler are both correct. Yes, town life makes people soft, but to keep the edge, we’ve got to have both rest and a chance for our souls to replenish. We do have to refit our weaponry, trade for clothing and food. We need to be reminded of what we still stand to lose.”
“These are Apalachee comforts,” Wide Antler grunted.
“Uzachile? Apalachee? We fight for all peoples. But more than that, you’re all forgetting something: We’re here at the high mikko’s request. We’re not leaving until he says we can.”
“But he’d let us go if you asked, right?” Corn Thrower asked suspiciously.
I agreed, not really sure. “He would. But I’m not ready to leave. Something’s happening, and the maimed warrior—the one Fire Falcon brought in—has my interest up. De Soto has never chopped up captives and sent them back as warnings. It says something about how he and his Kristianos are doing.”
“And how’s that?” Pearl Hand asked dryly. “He’s got the hundred soldados and cabayeros he left in Uzita to augment his ranks. His ships are in contact and resupplying him. The Apalachee might have burned half of Anhaica and enraged him, but it’s not as if he’s suffered any debilitating defeat. He’s stronger now than ever.”
“Maybe. On the other hand, you can’t exactly say he’s grabbed Apalachee by the balls. He doesn’t have the high mikko or Fire Falcon under his control. And they’re both smart and capable adversaries. The Apalachee won’t stand and fight, but they’re not fleeing like panicked quail. De Soto and his captains are probably concluding that this is going to be a long and drawn-out affair.”
She was framing her response when A’atehkoci strode in, shot me a smile, and beckoned from the doorway, saying, “Black Shell? Pearl Hand? the high mikko requests your presence.”
Blood Thorn mumbled, “Have fun.”
I didn’t like the increasingly suspicious look in Wide Antler’s eyes. He might have been the believer, but he really wanted to be out stalking rather than warm and cozy with a full stomach. It was something to think about.
We followed A’atehkoci across the small plaza, the cold air prickling my skin. As I exhaled, my breath frosted. This wasn’t a night to be sleeping out unprotected. I wondered how many of de Soto’s miserable captives would be feeding the puercos come morning.
I asked A’atehkoci, “More news?”
“Not yet.”
Then we ducked through the doorway and into Cafakke’s warm palace. A cheery fire illuminated the interior and sent sparks toward the high roof. Singing Tail’s body had been removed, the bloody matting replaced.
Fire Falcon sat on the edge of Cafakke’s bed. The Red Moiety mikko wore a tanned buckskin hunting shirt decorated with a falcon design on the front. He’d taken a bath, washing the grime of the war trail from his skin, and donned fresh clothing. His hair was pulled back and pinned with copper. Polished ear spools gleamed in the light.
Matron Pahlko perched birdlike beside him. She glanced up at our entry, her expression turning sour.
Back-from-the-Dead immediately pinned me with his unsettling gaze. The hilishaya wore a long cloak, striped lengthwise with broad red and white bands of cardinal and swan feathers. The thing would have traded for a fortune in copper. The priest sat on a large wooden box carved with images of Mother Spider carrying fire down from the Sky World. I tried to read his expression but gave it up as a lost cause.
“The traders, High Mikko,” A’atehkoci announced, lifting his staff of office.
“Thank you, Usinulo.” Cafakke sat in the middle of his bed, his back propped. He gestured us forward with his disease-mangled hand. “Find a seat. We are discussing how to respond to the monster.”
Fire Falcon was giving Pearl Hand a skeptical appraisal, his tastanaki’s mistrust of female Power evident. Don’t get me wrong. Women often went on battle walks, even among the Apalachee. Fire Falcon, however, didn’t know her.
Cafakke, to the contrary, was smiling as if we had just made his evening. It went away the moment we seated ourselves on the foot of his elevated bed.
He said, “The story of what the Kristianos did to Singing Tail is spreading like pollen on the wind. Those who hear are enraged—even more than they already were. People are ready to throw themselves upon the Kristianos and rip them apart with their bare hands.”
“Not advisable,” Fire Falcon replied. “I’ve been fighting them for three moons now. As was the case at Napetuca, it would be a massacre.”
Pearl Hand and I both nodded, not really knowing our status. Cafakke had called the four most important people in the Apalachee Nation to his bedside, apparently for an informal discussion of the situation. And here we were, two foreign traders, admitted to the inner circle?
“With the proper preparation,” Back-from-the-Dead said, “Power would swell and drive the people. Even the Spirits of the sky and earth would rise to devour the pollution in our midst. This is not a matter of warriors, High Mikko, but of sacred Power. This is a time to sacrifice, to purify our bodies, souls, and thoughts. If we attend to the rituals, spiritually prepare ourselves, Power will favor us. Cleansed of pollution, we cannot lose.”
“Yes, you can,” I said softly, fighting the urge to wince. I didn’t want to oppose the priest. But he was dead wrong. He gave me the same look he’d have given mold on fresh acorns.
“That’s right.” His voice turned hollow, sultry with threat. “Black Shell, the Spirit Flyer—the lowly, outcast trader that Horned Serpent himself carried to the Sky World. I remain in awe, barely able to comprehend the immense knowledge the Spirit World must have poured into you. Myself, I have dedicated my life to the study of Power, its ways, and how it ebbs and flows through all of life and Creation. I have charted the fortunes of people and Nations, watching how their piety and compliance to the rules of Power have determined their success, survival, or ruination. But now, just at this time of trial, you have come to finally set me—all of us—straight. All those years of study by me, my predecessors, and theirs before them were but a waste of time. I stand corrected and humbled by your mastery.”
Pearl Hand was biting her lip, fists knotted, eyes lowered. Good girl. You can rip his balls off later . . . when doing so won’t get our heads bashed in.
In as even a voice as I could muster, I replied, “Great Hilishaya, I am not here to humble you. Nor would I presume upon your vast knowledge. What I’ve been told by the Spirits is that we’re engaged in a battle between men, that Power is helpless. Why? I cannot say. That is a question for skilled hilishaya, such as yourself, to investigate and answer.” I met his hard glare with my own.
Cafakke and Fire Falcon were staring back and forth between us, Fire Falcon with a wary curiosity, Cafakke with a pensive pout on his lips.
A’atehkoci broke the impasse. “Power aside, let’s get back to the Kristianos. Should we back off on the attacks? Disengage our warriors? Perhaps create a buffer zone to decrease the risk?”
“No.” Fire Falcon was adamant. “Doing so would send the wrong signal. The monster would think he’d found a tool to use against us. He would assume we were afraid . . . that by additional mutilations, we could be intimidated.”
“Is that something we can use against him?” A’atehkoci asked. “Perhaps lull him into a false sense of security, make him careless?”
“Red Power would understand, High Mikko.” Back-from-the-Dead shot me a sidelong glance, as if daring me to disagree. “To mislead the enemy before striking, that is a legitimate use of Power as long as it is atoned for in the end.”
“We have to keep the pressure on,” Fire Falcon said stubbornly. “As it is, they haven’t had time to catch their breath. They are constantly harassed, rebuilding what we burn, guarding their animals, and moving around only in strength.”
“You don’t want them getting comfortable,” Pearl Hand said in agreement. “You’ve already told us that their slaves are dying by the tens. If they feel it is safe, they’re going to start making sweeps to capture more slaves. I don’t think you want that for your people.”
“No, we do not,” Pahlko stated fiercely. “Already families are scattered, people disheartened. They look to us for a solution. That we cannot drive the invader out is bad enough. If they hear that we’ve ordered the warriors back, and the Kristianos start raiding for slaves with impunity, people will lose all hope.”
“Tastanaki”—Cafakke’s expression hardened—“continue to fight them as you think best. You are there, watching and evaluating. You see the spirit reflected in the eyes of our warriors. You know their hearts.”
“Then we will continue to pick away at them.” Fire Falcon stared thoughtfully at his hand, as if trying to read the future in the lines of his palm. “If we make them miserable enough, they’ll fondly look back at the Uzachile lands and return there.”
“Some option.” Pahlko smoothed her mulberry-fiber dress with a wrinkled hand. “Like having a den of piasas next door. You never know when they’ll creep over in the middle of the night, murder you, and drag off your family.”
“We need them to leave,” Fire Falcon declared. “Convince them that the fight will never cease as long as they covet Apalachee lands. Seen that way, perhaps they will go inflict themselves on someone far away.”
Cafakke looked at Pearl Hand and me. “You have followed them from the beginning. What are the chances of this?”
“Good, I think,” Pearl Hand answered. “But you have the richest land they’ve yet seen. Compared to the peninsula, your fields are fertile, your woodlands more productive, and the weather is better.”
I added, “The best thing would be if you could burn all the granaries. As soon as they run out of food, they leave.” I frowned. “Is there any chance that could happen?”
Caffake studied me through narrowed eyes. “If we get the chance, yes. But it may be too late. As we speak they are looting the surrounding towns, carrying back all the corn they can find.”
“And there’s no gold,” Pearl Hand pointed out. “They obsess over gold.”
“Oh yes.” Cafakke cocked his head. “You remember the trader White Mat? Did you know that Kristianos caught him?”
This was a surprise. “White Mat? I’ve known him for years, traveled with him a couple of times. He would have walked up to the first Kristiano he saw, trader’s staff in hand, and formally announced he’d arrived under the Power of trade.”
“And Ortiz would have clapped an iron collar around his neck,” Pearl Hand finished. “Why do you bring it up, High Mikko?”
“He had a youth with him, Periko.” Cafakke frowned. “I was introduced to the boy while I was held captive. He’s a northerner, speaks with a Guale accent. White Mat was teaching him the ways of trade.” He paused. “Periko told the Adelantado that a great deal of gold could be found in Cofitachequi. He said that the statues of the ancestors were covered with it, that war axes were made with it, and that pearls were everywhere.”
“Copper maybe,” I snorted derisively. “But gold? I’ve been to Cofitachequi. Seen the statues . . . all painted wood. There’s no gold. How old is this Periko?”
“Maybe fifteen summers.” Cafakke shrugged a round shoulder. “You should have seen the Kristianos. They crowded around, showing the boy rings and jewelry, saying something about meesmo.”
“Lo mismo,” Pearl Hand said. “‘The same.’”
“The boy kept saying yes.” Cafakke made a gesture with his hand. “Why would he say there’s gold in Cofitachequi?”
“Maybe an occasional nugget,” I said, imagining the scene through the eye of my souls. The Kristianos would have been falling all over Periko. The stupid kid probably ate it up like forest honey on a corn cake.
“High Mikko, I was born Chicora,” Pearl Hand added, “but sold to Cofitachequi as a girl. De Soto will find no gold.”
“But we will not tell him that,” Back-from-the-Dead said insistently. “Perhaps Power has sent this gullible young man to lead the Kristianos away.”
“What this boy Periko can convince Kristianos to believe may or may not be important.” Cafakke stared wistfully at the fire. “Our more immediate concern, and the actual reason I called you together, is that Singing Tail gave me a message from de Soto. The monster said that if the attacks didn’t cease, he would demonstrate his wrath just after the new moon.”
“That’s four days from now,” Back-from-the-Dead said, a distant look in his spooky dark eyes.
“The attacks will not stop,” Cafakke stated bluntly. “Neither I nor the tishu mikko is surrendering.” He glanced at us. “You two know de Soto best. What could this demonstration be?”
“Expect something terrible.” I made a face.
“At Napetuca it was to murder anyone who fought against him,” Pearl Hand added. “It broke the spirit of the Uzachile. People fled like terrified deer. But that didn’t stop the attacks.”
“How many Apalachee captives does he hold?” I asked.
“Maybe eighty or ninety,” Fire Falcon replied.
Pearl Hand glanced at Cafakke. “What would the reaction be if he marched them out and executed them?”
“Anger,” Cafakke and Pahlko said in unison. Fire Falcon nodded his agreement. Back-from-the-Dead’s scowl darkened, his forehead lining, as if he could see it in his mind.
“When de Soto was at Napetuca,” I mused, “he had some of the Southern Timucua on his side. It gave him an advantage in understanding the Uzachile.” I remembered “Ears,” the guy who wanted Pearl Hand so badly. Ears had converted to the Kristiano god, taken to wearing a little wooden cross hung on a thong about his neck.
Fire Falcon’s gaze narrowed. “We’re not Uzachile.”
“That’s my point,” I answered. “He doesn’t have any fawning Apalachee to advise him. He can’t know your hearts. But his slaves are dying off?”
“Three to four hundred over the last moon alone,” Fire Falcon said after reflection.
“That’s half!” I marveled.
“But he’s taken maybe ninety Apalachee as replacements,” Pearl Hand said.
The look Fire Falcon gave me was cold enough to have frozen water. “In the coming days, another two hundred captives will be dead of starvation, exposure, or disease. By the end of the moon, double that.”
Pahlko fingered the wattle of skin under her chin. “If the beast doesn’t care about the lives of his slaves, if they are worthless to him, perhaps it’s because he’s not planning on leaving.” She glanced at Cafakke. “Why else would he just let them die? He’s here, has found our land. Maybe the need for porters is over.”
Back-from-the-Dead mused, “In the Beginning Times, Breath Maker watched the earth overpopulate, and the hero Morning Star was instrumental in the origins of death. But death must have a reason, be it war, illness, old age, soul theft, or justice. To murder masses through neglect is unthinkable.” He made a face, blanching. “I hate to think of the Power building against him. We need but wait. Like a dam, Power will burst and flow over him, sweeping away all but the memory of these Kristianos. And finally, that, too, shall fade.”
“We should be so lucky.” Pearl Hand flipped her long hair back.
Back-from-the-Dead continued. “And in the meantime, our people must fast. The strictest observances on the separation of Powers must be maintained. Men and women must not lie together. The dietary laws must be scrupulously obeyed: Fish must not be cooked in the same pot that once held a bird’s flesh. Roots like cattail and yellow lotus cannot be mixed with arboreal fruits like mulberries or nuts. No one must so much as allow water to drip into fire. Women’s things must be kept separate from men’s, even to the point of drawing a line down the middle of a house, men’s things on one side, women’s on the other.”
I watched their expressions, each of the Apalachee nodding, eyes sober. Cafakke said, “Usinulo, issue the hilishaya’s order. Make sure that no one violates any of the taboos. If they do, punish them.”
They still think Power can save them.
In as meek a voice as I could muster, I asked, “Isn’t there a problem?”
“And that would be?” Cafakke asked.
“De Soto landed almost a year ago. Power has had ample time to be insulted, polluted, and profaned by his actions. Yet he remains unpunished. Meanwhile, the Apalachee, one of the most devout peoples I know, are hiding in the forests. Their temples have been desecrated, the remains of the ancestors ignored, and the most sacred of ground is abused. For three moons now, the hilishaya, even the sorcerers, conjurors, and witches, have been casting their Power against the invader.”
“And your point?” Back-from-the-Dead grated out, loathing in his eyes.
“According to our beliefs, Power should already have swatted the Kristianos down like the vermin they are.”
“It will!” Back-from-the-Dead snapped back.
“When?” I asked reasonably.
“When it’s ready!”
Cafakke’s jaw was clenching. Pahlko’s expression had gone stiff. Fire Falcon had crossed his arms defensively. Pearl Hand reached out, laying a hand on my arm, silently requesting that I desist. I needed say no more.
“The tastanaki will be headed back to his camp in the morning. You and the Orphans may accompany him.” Cafakke shot me a look from the corner of his eye, no doubt grateful to get me away from Back-from-the-Dead.
He lifted his right hand, the disease-knotted fingers barely moving as he waved down Fire Falcon’s protest. “No, good Tishu Mikko. I trust Black Shell. Perhaps he and Pearl Hand will see something we do not.” He smiled. “And maybe he and his Orphans can kill a few more Kristianos.”
“We are in your service, High Mikko,” I added, and touched my chin in a sign of respect. “Any ihola’ka we obtain will be sent to you.”
Back-from-the-Dead was giving me that hollow look that communicated threat. I could tell that he, for one, would be just as happy to see me gone.
And so will the Orphans. Otherwise Wide Antler will end up causing some sort of trouble.
That was the problem with believers: They just knew they were right.