A Battering of Shell

These local Muskogee—despite having been occupied by Moon Blade’s warriors for all these years—are still mostly forest hunters and plant collectors despite their corn, bean, and squash fields.

At the time of my arrival in Cofitachequi, only two small mounds had been built in the town. First was the palace where Moon Blade’s eldest son, Streaming Stone, was orata, or town chief. The second had been the low platform mound where I magically appeared in the ruins of the burning charnel house.

Streaming Stone had been just as awed as the rest, and fortunately, along with most of his warriors, spoke Cahokian. He had agreed to anything I asked, including the addition of another layer of dirt to expand my mound before I had my temple built upon it.

Within weeks most of the locals had abandoned their houses within an arrow shot of my temple. The reasons they gave for leaving were some of the most facile and trite of excuses. Fact was, no one wanted to be that close to me.

How can I blame them? Being in the presence of Power unnerves people.

Not that it ever stops them if they need something. I cured Streaming Stone’s son by his first wife, Blanket, of snakebite. Drove the evil Spirits of infection from old Bobcat Ear’s swollen jaw and relieved the blockage of Turtle Woman’s sheath so she could finally pass her infant daughter.

But people are people. When Throat Caller gave me a slave girl in return for cursing his lifelong enemy, Scoot, I conjured a spell that left Scoot choking to death on his own blood. Scoot’s brother was found dead a couple of mornings later after a terrible storm. He’d been trying to sneak into my temple with a war club, only be struck dead by lightning in the middle of the night. The burn along the left side of his body, his popped-out eyes, and the thick white foam bubbling from his mouth were full proof of the manner of his death. Not to mention that deafening crack of lightning that had brought everyone bolt upright out of bed.

That the lightning killed him on my doorstep without marking my temple made an impression.

In addition, people who called me a witch, accused me of evil acts, and demanded my removal from the community kept winding up dead of unknown causes.

Oh, and there was Diamond Moccasin. He actually made it into my temple a couple of days after his little daughter mysteriously disappeared. He, too, had figured to brain me in my sleep, but the voices warned me that he was coming. From deep in the shadows I drove a spear into his side as he lifted his club high to strike my rumpled and stuffed bedding.

I flayed the hide off his body and draped it on a framework that I posted outside my front door.

Another couple of houses moved away after that. Odd of them, don’t you think? It’s not like I had anything against them.

I digress. When one is given a message by Power, as I was that day in the swamp, one shouldn’t ignore it. The Thunder Beings had told me about Joara. And I could feel Night Shadow Star. Sense her purpose—even across the distance that separated us.

Therefore, I made my preparations. I had packed my Power items, including the cup I’d made from Diamond Moccasin’s little daughter’s skull. By the way, that’s tougher to do than you might think. A child’s skull isn’t grown together as completely as an adult’s. Lot of work to glue those bones together in a way that will let them hold water. But using a little girl’s skull to drink out of carries a lot more weight than just any old adult’s.

And besides, when I used the child’s blood to fill a well pot, I was able to see visions of Cahokia, particularly Night Shadow Star’s departure from the canoe landing. Who’d have thought she’d leave in a single canoe instead of at the head of a large war party?

One doesn’t carelessly throw away body parts from a child who can grant that kind of vision, so I ate her heart, liver, and tiny little ovaries. I’ve been trying to craft a flute from her leg bone, but the sound just isn’t right. That project might have to be abandoned in the end.

So, with my box packed full of the more delicate of my possessions, and having folded my clothing and placed it in a large basket, I make my way across the plaza to Streaming Stone’s palace.

As a plaza, it’s not much. The obligatory World Tree pole stands in the center, though its bald cypress trunk hasn’t been carved. The stickball ground is relatively flat and groomed, but the poor excuse for the chunkey courts is laughable. Word is that Moon Blade was buried with his chunkey stone, so Streaming Stone uses one crafted out of wood. Nor does the local game have the religious majesty that it has at home. Here it is more of a recreation and excuse to gamble.

I lose sight of the fact that at home the dirt farmers are religious converts, and here the Muskogeans are effectively conquered. This is a colony, maintained by Streaming Stone’s warriors, his alliances through marriage, and the fact that most of the old mikkos, oratas, and their families were murdered in the aftermath of the conquest.

Stretching back into the surroundings are the local houses, mostly bent-pole construction, bark-sided and similarly roofed, although the occasional split-cane or thatch roof can be seen. In addition, a “summer house” or ramada is attached. Like I’m familiar with in Cahokia, each has a small garden, and the dwellings here are grouped by lineage. An elevated corn crib is shared by every ten or fifteen families. The cornfields lie just beyond the houses, a mosaic of different-sized and -shaped plots that surrender to the forest. All told, perhaps a thousand people live in town, and another couple of thousand in the surrounding villages.

The day is marvelous, and I can look down the rise to the canoe landing where sunlight sparkles on the breeze-stirred water. On the far bank, the trees are dark green where they dominate the floodplain and stretch off into the haze-filled distance. Off to the west, thunderheads are rising into the pale blue sky.

I don’t make the foot of Streaming Stone’s low mound before the chief emerges and stands between the two pathetic Hunga Ahuito guardian posts at either side of the top of the stairs. He is in his late thirties, muscular, with keen eyes. He wears a cloak, Cahokian style, with the traditional apron that drops to a point between his knees. He has his hair done up in a bun secured by an arrow-split cloud headpiece. I can tell he rushed to pin it in place because it sits crooked.

“Greetings, Elder!” he calls in a much too jovial voice. “How may I be of service today?”

That he calls me Elder, seeing as how I’m at least ten years younger than he is, is a mark of the fear he has for me and my Powers.

“Great Mikko,” I tell him, “I gave you word of my need of transportation to Joara. I have made my arrangements and am ready to leave. Could you have a litter brought? My packs are waiting beside my door. Just a box and a basket.”

The conflict behind his eyes would be amusing if I were not in a hurry.

“Elder, with my deepest apologies. I’ve made the announcement—ordered it, in fact—but the people appointed seem to have vanished overnight. Gone.”

While not entirely unexpected, this infuriates me. “I thought you had this under control, Mikko. Call your squadron first. Have him assemble warriors to scour the town for able-bodied men. And if he can’t find any, I shall choose my own porters from among their ranks. If any hesitate, I shall initiate the growth of brown rot in their testicles and infect their shafts with pus. Those who carry me to Joara quickly and efficiently, I shall gift with the ability to win when gambling at hand game.”

I have to tell you, being considered dangerous and Powerful, for the most part, delights me.

There are other times when it is as bothersome as lice in pubic hair.