I HAD ONLY TRAVELED THIS WAY ONCE. TO THE SOUTH OF THE foothills lies a huge forest of pines, the soil poor. But the country we were fighting our way through was rougher than I remembered. In the end we kept descending ridges, struggling through trees, clambering over roots, weaving through vines, until we skirted just north of the frontier farmsteads in the Ocute valley. From there I set my bearings and followed the fall line, where foothills with sluggish and brush-choked drainages vanished into the pine barrens.
Each day we rose just before dawn, ate, packed, and started walking, seeking our way through the maze of game trails that led east-northeast. Old fires and tornados left patches of deadfall covered with brush, vines, and saplings that had to be crossed or skirted. Streams had to be waded, the packs carried across before the dogs could swim them, and swamps avoided. When nightfall came, we cooked whatever we’d shot, collected, or harvested and fell into our blankets, dead to the world.
We said little, our effort spent on ducking branches, wiggling around grape and greenbrier, or stepping over roots. When I stopped once for a breath, it was to look around at the endless forest, wondering if people really did exist, or if they’d become an imaginative image spun of the forest itself.
Flowers were everywhere, the trees budding with vibrant green life. The smells of nectar, new leaves, leaf mat, and damp soil filled the world. At times we almost cringed from the noise; bees, wasps, dragonflies, cicadas, crickets, and humming insect wings vied with squirrels, chickadees, robins, mockingbirds, crows, jays, waxwings, siskins, cardinals, and so many others. Turkeys and passenger pigeons were plentiful, and we shot opossums, beavers, raccoons, and even a spring bear.
Then we came to the river. In the mountains to the west, its headwaters were dominated by the Tugalo Nation. Where we emerged on the floodplain below the fall line, the leaf mat beneath the trees had the telltale signs of abandoned farmsteads long surrendered to the wild. No structures remained; people had left there at least a couple of generations past. Nevertheless, faint trails took us to a curving oxbow. A long-abandoned city covered with second-growth forest lay across spring-swollen waters.
“Pearl Hand, do you know that place?” I pointed to the tree-studded ruins of the town opposite us.
“When I was traded south, it was along the coast. I heard talk. Several Nations once flourished up here. They were said to be a ruthless people. One of their priests supposedly became evil, and the last inhabitants weighted his body with stones and tossed him into the river. Even as his body sank, he turned into a giant snake and dived into the depths, the ropes and rocks slipping from his body. The people left, but where they went, no one knows.”
Blood Thorn continued to scowl at the water. “Either we find a canoe or grow wings. Upstream, or down?”
I looked up and down the water course, only to have my bit of Horned Serpent’s brow tine pull to the right. “Down.”
Moving back from the willows, water oaks, and bald cypresses that lined the bank, we discovered an old trail worn into the ground.
Not that following it was easy; more than once meanders of the river had washed away whole sections, and in other places the vegetation had grown so thick as to leave the trail impassable. But by evening, we emerged on yet another abandoned town.
From the growth of the trees, I estimated it had been at least one hundred years since the place had been inhabited. Two mounds—one cone shaped, the other a chief’s platform mound—rose to either side of a small plaza.
We walked across grass and spring flowers, feeling the irregularity of old house floors. Occasional burned timbers poked up from the vegetation.
Climbing the chief’s mound, I saw where a good-sized palace had once stood; burned timbers, like faded ghosts, haunted the heights. Perhaps the palace had been overrun and torched by enemy warriors. Maybe the chief died, his people in poor circumstances because of an early frost, corn blight, or a raid that had burned their granaries. They would have set his palace afire, spiritually cleansing it along with its dead master.
Blood Thorn kicked a large ceramic pot from a slump in the side of the mound. Human bones spilled from within the stamp decorated urn.
“Forgive me,” Blood Thorn told the burial, touching his forehead in respect. Then he knelt, carefully replacing the bones and doing his best to re-cover them.
Where rainwater had run, charcoal, stamped pot sherds, and bits of burned bone could be seen. I led the way down to the river as the dogs sniffed around.
What had obviously been a canoe landing was overgrown, the river slowly eating away at it. I took a deep breath, smelling water, mud, and spring-green vegetation. Off to the west, black and ominous clouds were packed against the mountains. From the looks of it, it was raining by canoe-loads up there.
“Water’s going to be a lot higher come morning.”
That’s when Pearl Hand parted the brush to my left. “Black Shell? Look.”
I waded in after her, to where a canoe lay inverted on a support of rotting logs. Pulling back the haw bushes, I could see the rounded bottom was weather checked and gray, with a long crack in the middle. “It’s been here awhile.”
With Blood Thorn’s help, we muscled the thing out of its resting place. The workmanship was excellent, and while mushrooms and mold had found places to lodge, the inside looked serviceable. All but that crack in the bottom.
“We can seal that with pitch,” Blood Thorn announced. “The problem is paddles. Are there any back in the brush?”
I pushed my way back into the thicket, looking under the rotting logs. “Nothing we can use.”
“We can make something to serve,” Pearl Hand called as Blood Thorn trotted off in search of pine pitch.
By the time I’d retrieved the Kristiano ax from Gnaw’s pack, Pearl Hand had returned with two charred timbers. We had them split and formed into paddles long before Blood Thorn was back with a clutch of resin balls.
“It’s a long way back to the pine,” Blood Thorn panted.
I glanced to the west, where the setting sun silhouetted the tops of the angry clouds. “Even if we have to set up camp in the dark, I’d like to be across.”
“You know”—Blood Thorn dropped his hardened sap into Pearl Hand’s pot—“it’s going to be days before anything we cook in this pot doesn’t taste like pine sap.”
“Pine isn’t a bad taste,” Pearl Hand answered shortly. “It’s the film it leaves on your teeth that drives you crazy.”
She proceeded to stir the mix into a gummy mess. Then came the laborious job of dabbing it into the crack.
“It won’t last long in the water.” Blood Thorn stared skeptically at the patch job.
“All we have to do is get to the other side.” I started unlacing the packs from the dogs. If this went wrong I didn’t want them to drown under the weight.
In the deepening dusk, Pearl Hand declared the job done. Wading out into the river, we floated the craft, seeing only a little seepage. Just as quickly, the dogs were loaded, the packs stowed, and we shoved off. I grimaced at the water lapping barely a hand’s width below the gunnels of the overloaded dugout.
The current immediately grabbed us; we paddled and prayed, driven by the fear of swamping and drowning. The dogs, oblivious, happily wagged their tails, ears pricked, eyes agleam.
“Downstream,” I said reasonably. “But stay toward the north bank. If we sink, we can toss the packs over the brush and pull ourselves up by the branches.”
I kept glancing at the sloshing water growing ever deeper around my feet. The river seemed to be climbing the sides of the hull.
“There,” Pearl Hand called from the bow. “The bank’s lower.”
As we drove in, she stepped out to battle the brush and hold the craft in place. Bark bailed out, the others after him. It turned into a churning mess, dogs wading, shaking, clawing at the cattails, and finally wiggling through. One by one I handed the packs to Blood Thorn, who handed them to Pearl Hand.
The canoe was filling fast. With the last quiver of arrows handed over, I let the vessel go and stood there, watching it spin slowly away in the current, a dark and lonely silhouette against the silvered water.
“Thank you,” I whispered. “And to the long-gone craftsman who made you, may his ghost smile in return for our gratitude.”
Then I struggled through the maze of cattails to find Pearl Hand and Blood Thorn.
“We’re not done yet, people,” I said reluctantly as I looked around the marshy surroundings. “This whole area could be underwater by morning. Our best bet is to make it to that city.”
Silly me. It was almost dawn by the time we’d stumbled our way to the ruins. But with first light, I was proven correct: The river was over the opposite bank.
“Who were these people?” Blood Thorn wondered. We sat on the lip of the tree-studded chief’s mound, a light rain falling. Just climbing the steep sides left a person breathing hard when he finally reached the summit. Once there, the flat top was a long stone’s throw in length and nearly as wide. Kicking around in the leaf mat and dead saplings turned up charred timbers.
A total of six mounds could be seen, and the view of the river from this high perch must have been stunning before the trees reclaimed it. Anyone arriving by canoe would have been left in awe, not only of the high mound but of the great palace that dominated it.
A large defensive moat had been excavated below river level around the town—an impassable barrier before the few rotting bits of palisade. Back in the forest, hidden by trees, was the barrow pit from which dirt to build the mounds had been removed. After all these years, the onetime excavation now formed a sizable lake.
Given the number of mounds, the amount of land contained within the town, and the extent of the abandoned cornfields around it, many thousands of people must have lived in the vicinity, the total augmented by those in Canoe Town, as we called the ruins we’d found across the river.
Behind us, beneath a ramada we’d thrown up, Pearl Hand busied herself over a fire. I could smell turkey cooking, and the dogs had feasted on a couple of raccoons I’d found back in the forest.
Looking out at the flooded river below us, I said, “Nations rise and fall. Like people, each has a life of its own. Maybe this is the town Pearl Hand spoke of, the one where the priest turned evil. Or maybe the soils lost their fertility after years of cultivation.”
Turning my attention to the chunkey court—it was barely visible in the grass—I imagined feathered and decorated players rolling their stones, casting lances. All the while a crowd yelled with delight or dismay as a priest called out the score and the game master twisted a stick into the earth.
Were their bones resting in this very mound? Perhaps just below where I sat? From the way the river was eroding the bank, even the great mound upon which we sat would eventually be consumed. When the last bit of earth surrendered to the river, who, then, would recall the greatness of this place?
“Maybe the town just wore out,” Blood Thorn mused. “It’s hard to imagine. I’ve never seen a city this large.” He slapped a hand to the high earth where we perched. “Nor can I imagine the amount of work it took to build this.”
“I’ve seen bigger,” I told him. “And soon so will you, in Cofitachequi. But there have been even greater cities. The ruins of Cahokia are said to overwhelm anything now in our world.”
“How did they do it?” Blood Thorn gazed around at the surrounding mounds and the wide ditch just off to our east. “Even in Uzachile, with all of our people, it’s all we can do to keep the palisades up, the buildings repaired. I’m not sure my people could build the likes of this.”
“Blood Thorn, what men build, they inevitably destroy.”
“Makes you sad, doesn’t it? That we carry the plantings of greatness and ultimate rot down in our souls?”
“Nothing is forever,” I replied.
“Except the sun and the Spirit Beasts.” He had such simple faith in his eyes.
But I remembered Piasa’s fear when it came to de Soto and his god. Not even Spirit Beasts could count on forever. At the heart of things, they depended upon people. Living human beings, just like the ones who had once raised, then abandoned this city to the wilderness.
For four days we followed the ghost of an old trail that led from the river north across the swampy bottoms and finally to the divide. Along the way we found the remains of old towns, villages, and farmsteads, now little more than revitalized forest.
Once we crossed the low divide, I kept us heading east-northeast; we found no trails beneath the endless spreading trees. Skipper hobbled along in obvious pain. I kept lightening his pack. Pearl Hand—growing ever more introspective—watched him with worried eyes.
“What is it?” she asked one night.
“His joints are failing,” I answered glumly. “Pack dogs have a good life, all things considered. But everything comes at a price. Trade dogs wear out faster than their town-bred cousins. I’m afraid Skipper’s time is coming.”
“What will we do when it does?”
“Find a young dog to take his pack.”
She gave me a penetrating look. “He’s not that old.”
“Maybe it’s that sideways gait of his. Maybe it’s because his bones aren’t as strong.”
She considered that and petted Skipper on the head. He looked up at her with adoring eyes, tail thumping. “Come Cofitachequi,” she told the dog, “we’ll find someone else to bear your load.”
I nodded, remembering Napetuca—and Skipper wading into the fight with the Kristiano war dogs. Yes, he’d be taken care of, even if it meant our own bellies would be empty.
Then I studied Pearl Hand’s grim expression. “That takes care of Skipper. What’s wrong with you? The farther north we go, the more worried you get.”
With a grim smile she waved me off. “It’s nothing.”
Sure, nothing. Maybe it’s just this endless forest. Walking in the perpetual shadows was even getting to me.
The sepaya brought me awake, almost vibrating on my chest. I blinked, staring around. A whip-poor-will called in the night, the breeze stirring high branches. The perfumed odor of forest, leaves, flowers, and damp earth filled my nostrils.
Pearl Hand wasn’t in bed. She sat staring at the gleaming red embers in the fire through large dark eyes. The glow illuminated her sadness, accented by the set of her full lips, the hollows of her smooth cheeks, and the tumbling veils of thick black hair that framed her face and high brow. I could see her slim fingers absently twirling a thick twist of her long hair.
Blood Thorn snored lightly—a dark shape wrapped in his blanket. The dogs were shadowy blotches where they slept among the packs.
“What’s wrong?” I asked softly. “It’s the middle of the night.”
She turned. “Husband?”
“Yes?”
“I need to speak to you.”
I sat up, pulling the blanket back. “Whatever it is, we can deal with it.”
She surprised me when she said, “Life is but a series of cycles: Beginnings lead to endings. Endless circles that carry a person back to face who they once were. The past clings fast to a person as if it were a cloak woven of a spider’s web.”
“Uh . . . excuse me?”
“When we reach Cofitachequi, I need you to trust me.”
I rolled my shoulders and yawned, still sleep addled. “What are you talking about?”
“When I left Cofitachequi, it wasn’t under the best of circumstances. Things happened there. Things that I . . .” The words died in her throat.
“Pearl Hand, I don’t—”
“The young are cursed with terrible passions. I . . . I’ve been dreading this. Going back there.”
“Then we won’t go.”
Her dark eyes sought mine, appearing as black holes in her pale face. “We have to. We’ll never have a better chance to destroy the monster. I know that. You know that.” She smiled in a futile attempt to mask the bitter irony. “But I must ask something of you.”
“Anything,” I told her in a kind voice.
She hesitated and I knew her well enough to realize she was trying to find the right words, to predict my reaction. She finally took a breath, saying: “Can you trust me?”
“Of course. Why do you ask?”
“If you play your part, follow my orders without question, I may be able to get you into the very heart of Cofitachequi.”
“Why are you talking like this?”
Her smile grew sad. “Because the destruction of de Soto’s life may very well come at the cost of my own.”
“But you can’t—”
“Shh!” She placed her fingers on my lips. “We made our bargain with Power long ago. Our lives, hopes, desires, and dreams were surrendered to fate. Just tell me that you trust me, that you will let me do this my way. Promise me that you will not interfere or argue.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“Cofitachequi’s rulers take themselves very seriously. As traders it might take us a full moon to be granted an audience. If you let me do this my way, I can have you face-to-face with the Cofitachequi mico himself within a day of our arrival. I know them. How they think. How to use their arrogance to manipulate them.”
“You can do that?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Pearl Hand, you’re not telling me everything.”
“I asked you to trust me.”
“But I—”
“Then please do so.”
I nodded reluctantly.
My first warning of trouble was when Squirm scented the air, stopped short, and began growling, his hackles rising. The other dogs immediately responded in kind, sniffing, barking, and informing me in no uncertain terms that something dangerous was lurking in the brush to either side of the stream crossing we approached.
I gave the sign to stop and pulled my trader’s staff from its quiver. Raising it, I called, “Greetings! I am Black Shell, a trader.”
I hadn’t even gotten the words out when Pearl Hand pushed by me, speaking fluently in Cofitachequi dialect: “In the service of the Cofitachequi mico, you are ordered to come out—bound by the white Power of peace—and show yourselves.”
A young man rose from the brush, an arrow drawn. Pearl Hand stepped forward, a haughty set to her head. Or at least as haughty as she could pull off given the spiderwebs in her hair and her travel-stained clothing.
Blood Thorn was behind me, stock-still, waiting to see what unfolded. The dogs had their ears pricked, fixed on the hunters, their muscles quivering with the desire to spring on the newcomers. I ordered them down.
One by one, the three remaining hunters rose, until an older man—bow at the ready—stepped out onto the trail. Head cocked, he inspected first Pearl Hand, then me, and finally Blood Thorn. A faint smile crossed his lips as he took in Blood Thorn’s Timucua hair pom and his unusual tattoos.
Pearl Hand continued. “I travel in service to the Cofitachequi mico. The traders who accompany me come under the white Power. In the name of the Sun Ruler, I command you to lower your weapons.” She paused. “Or aren’t the four of you bright enough to figure out that two men, a woman, and four dogs are a poor excuse for a Hichiti raiding party?”
“Forgive me, Oreta,” the older man said, bowing his head out of respect and lowering his bow. “I am called Turkey Track, son of Clay Woman, of the House Clan, of the Tight Cloth Moiety. These others are my male kin: Red Cat to my right, Fox Tail, and the young one is known as Rabbit.”
Oreta? Invoking nobility was risky business.
Pearl Hand arrogantly said, “With me is Black Shell, of the Chicaza. This man is Blood Thorn, of the Uzachile. They come under the Power of trade and bind themselves by its rules.”
Turkey Track inclined his head to Pearl Hand. “How can we be of assistance to the oreta?”
I shot a curious glance at Pearl Hand. Blood Thorn and I might have been no more than ornaments.
“We come from the south,” she snapped, “with important word for the Cofitachequi mico. I must be taken to him immediately.”
Turkey Track and his cousins reacted visibly, touching their foreheads. With great care, Turkey Track wet his lips. “Perhaps the oreta has not heard. He who was above all of us has sent his souls to live among the ancestors. His sister has taken the chair and is now Cofitachequi mico.”
“We had not heard.” Pearl Hand’s expression narrowed. “Our hearts are both saddened and happy. While we grieve for the loss of so great a man, we rejoice that his souls are now returned to the company of his ancestors. What was the manner of his passing?”
“A terrible illness, great Oreta.” Turkey Track now appeared uneasy. “It came upon us a year ago fall, perhaps from the coast, since such dark afflictions seem to breed there. Our healers and priests tried everything, but the pestilence remained unchecked until recently.”
He gestured to his companions. “Like so many, we fled to the forest. Entire towns are abandoned, the fields fallow. To ensure survival, many have taken to full-time hunting. Only recently have the survivors begun returning to their homes, cutting weeds, preparing fields. It is our hope that whatever the evil, it has sated itself, or been vanquished by the sacrifices made by our holy people.”
I studied them. The Cofitachequi dress in finely tanned buckskin pants and wear decorated hunting shirts of either buckskin or myrtle fabric. They prefer soft-topped moccasins and favor long capes during cold weather. The hunters we’d encountered had obviously been out for a while; their clothing sported dried blood splotches on the sleeves and greasy spots on the fronts.
Their bows, however, looked first-rate, the staves varnished, their quivers full of turkey-feather-fletched arrows. Each man had a butchering kit hanging from a belt pouch.
Pearl Hand turned to me. “Did you understand that?”
“You’ll be surprised, Oreta, to learn that even with my limited comprehension of Mos’kogee, I managed.” I tried to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.
Pearl Hand turned her dark eyes my way, saying in Timucua, “You promised.”
I stiffened, feeling dumb. Yes, wife. Do it your way. But as a Cofitachequi oreta? She’d be found out the moment we set foot in Telemico.
Turkey Track shifted uneasily. He might have seen thirty winters and was of average height, with bad teeth. Red Cat looked younger, his flat face weather browned. A crow feather was stuck sideways in his hair. Fox Tail was easy to spot; he was the one with the scar on his cheek. Young Rabbit had an awed look and couldn’t seem to meet anyone’s eyes.
“Any news of de Soto?” I asked.
Pearl Hand formally asked, “What have you heard about the Kristianos coming through the forest from the south? From the Ocute.”
Turkey Track’s eyes widened. “We have heard nothing. Our apologies, Oreta. Outside of other hunters from our clan, you are the first strangers we’ve seen in over a year.”
I nodded, smiling at Turkey Track and his friends. “Oreta, please ask them if they would camp with us tonight. In return for a piece of trade, we’ll share our meal and get directions to the capital.”
Pearl Hand dismissed me with a look, her crossbow hanging from her back. To the hunters, she said, “You will accompany us for the rest of the day and guide us on the quickest route toward Telemico. We will share our food and reward you for your service.”
“Yes, Oreta!” Turkey Track touched his forehead respectfully. Moments later we were following them back along the trail.
“What’s going on?” Blood Thorn asked. “I only caught a couple of words. As different as Toa is from Apalachee, their speech is almost incomprehensible. And what’s with Pearl Hand? Is she trying to insult them, or what?”
“Beat me with a stick if I know, but I promised her that I’d let her do this her way.”
I slipped past Gnaw so I could lean close to Pearl Hand as we splashed across the creek.
I asked as casually as I could, “Why are you acting like a snotty, spoiled bitch? And posing as an oreta will get us only as far as the first local mico before someone exposes you as a fraud.”
She shot me an irritated look. “We’re in Cofitachequi now. Can you act like one of their nobles, Black Shell?”
“What about just saying: ‘We’re here under the Power of trade and want to tell you about a monster coming up from the south’?”
“Tell me. Last time you were here, did you enjoy the Cofitachequi mico’s fine hospitality?”
“I was barely let in the gates.”
“Then shut up . . . and let me do this my way.”
“Want to at least tell me the plan so I can play along?”
“Just be yourself.”
I dropped back, frowning, aware of the tension in her shoulders and the way her feet pounded the trail. What, by Piasa’s balls, had come over her? Then I realized. She’s scared half out of her skin!
I let Gnaw crash through the grass and resume his place, then glanced back at Blood Thorn. “Just follow Pearl Hand’s lead.”
“Oh?”
“She’s got a plan.”
“Which is . . . what?”
“If I knew what, it wouldn’t just be her plan, would it?”
“So you’re as baffled as I am. That’s reassuring.”
We camped that night in a mulberry grove. Before I could get her off to one side for a talk, Pearl Hand rummaged through Bark’s pack. She pulled out a trade dress, shell, and jewelry, and left us under the lengthening shadows beneath the beech and gum trees. I watched her disappear behind the rushes that bordered the creek.
Blood Thorn began plucking our fowl while Turkey Track’s hunters produced a chipped and battered brownware pot. After filling it with water they added mulberries, knotweed seed, and wild onions. Red Cat produced a rabbit they cut into quarters and chucked in with the stew.
“You have traveled far with the oreta?” Turkey Track asked casually.
I turned my attention to sorting through our packs, seeking a proper bit of trade in return for their service—assuming Pearl Hand didn’t drive them off first with her sham superiority. “From down in the peninsula. We’ve been keeping an eye on de Soto.”
“He’s the new Kristiano?” Turkey Track gave me a wary, sidelong glance.
“He is.”
“Ah.” He nodded to himself. “That makes sense. She serves her lady well. No one would expect a woman spy.”
Now I understood exactly . . . well, nothing. “She serves her lady?”
He shrugged, a calm acceptance in his sober brown eyes. “The Cofitachequi mico. She has been the Sun Ruler since her brother’s death. Having lost her son, she has only herself to rely on. There are her two nieces, of course, but neither is old enough for the responsibilities.” Even as he said it, I could see him wince. “Please do not repeat that.” He indicated the rushes where Pearl Hand had disappeared.
“Absolutely not.”
Now it began to fit together. Turkey Track and the others thought Pearl Hand had been sent on a spy mission by the Cofitachequi mico. I wondered what else was lurking under the surface and how it played into Pearl Hand’s game.
“Pearl Hand is not who we always thought she was,” Blood Thorn mused in Timucua.
“I think the oreta farce is going to fall flat the moment we’re out of the forest.”
Blood Thorn laughed out loud. “And here I always thought you were so smart.” Then he gave my shoulder a pat. “Come on, wily trader. She’s your wife. Are you really that dense?”
Was I? Pearl Hand spoke the language of the nobles. And just where—idiot trader—had she learned that? Her mother had originally sold her, and to whom would that have been, the Chicora being a subservient people to the Cofitachequi Nation?
Somewhere here, she’s afraid she’s going to run into her old owner. Probably some influential mico in the court at Telemico. She’s scared to death that he’s going to recognize her . . . and the gods know what circumstances under which she left his household!
I was considering that when Pearl Hand emerged from the rushes. She’d wiggled into a striking white trade dress. The thing clung to her like a second skin, emphasizing every curve of her perfect body. Her hair, combed glossy, hung in raven waves over a white swan-feather cloak. Her lips were reddened with ocher, a black mascara darkened her eyes, and she wore a wealth of shell necklaces from the trade pack. On her chest rested a whelk-shell gorget carved in the rattlesnake design.
I’d always thought her a great beauty, but decked out like this? She was stunning.
All eyes turned her direction as she came striding up, back straight, head high. In the silence around the crackling fire, she ordered, “Black Shell, find me something to sit upon that won’t stain the fabric.”
She was using that formal stilted speech. I shot a glance at Squirm, who was lying at her side. Naw, he’d never obey a command to bite her.
Instead, I rose and walked off in search of an appropriate log to make a chair out of.
“Just wait until we get under the covers tonight, wife,” I promised in Timucua as I placed her “chair” before the fire.
She gave me her most ravishing smile, the one that melted my bones. In Timucua, she replied, “Sorry, husband. A high-ranking Cofitachequi oreta would never share her bed with a lowly foreign trader. You’ve become the hired help.”
“But, I . . .” Hired help?
“Doesn’t mean you can’t dream about me tonight.” Her eyes flashed; she was teasing me for all she was worth.
“I could have just left you with Irriparacoxi way back when.”
“You’d have been so bored.”