People of the Thunder (North America's Forgotten Past) (39 page)

“Close,” Two Petals whispered, turning her intense eyes on him. Her lips had parted in anticipation. “The truth Dances around like wind-whipped leaves.”

Old White shot her an irritated look. “I’ve asked
around . . . subtle questions.” Then he said softly, “Trader, I think he’s your brother.”

Trader gave him a hard look. “If that’s a joke, it’s not funny.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

Trader felt his heart skip. “Gods, you’re serious?”

“Don’t do anything rash. Think this through before you go pounding off to kill him again.”

Trader blinked, refusing to believe. “I hit him hard, Seeker. Crushed the side of his face. He wasn’t moving, not even breathing. His eyes were fixed.”

“Or so you thought.”

“What do you mean,
thought
! I was there!”

“You told me it was the middle of the night. How well could you see? The man known as Smoke Shield is Flying Hawk’s nephew. He hovered near death for four days after his brother hit him with a war club and fled into the night.” Old White pointed a hard finger. “You have been punishing yourself for years for something you didn’t do.”

Trader stared, his souls reeling. But when he glanced at Two Petals, he could see the truth of it in her eyes, in the eager expression on her face.

He stood, wavering on his feet.
Rattle isn’t dead. I didn’t kill my brother.

The first hot trickle of a tear slipped down his face.

Two Petals watched her feet as she walked down to the canoe landing. She was hardly aware of the few Traders who cooked over blue-smoking fires beneath the ramadas. They watched her with only mild interest, their attention on the fish, clams, and breads that they cooked.

She didn’t return the stare. No, her eyes were fixed on her feet.

Steps were a marvel. Each time one of her feet touched the earth, it was contact, a distinct moment in time. Like the beating of her heart, it marked that one instant of existence. Looking back in the damp ground, she could see the smudges where her moccasins had marked the earth.

Carefully, she stepped backward, placing her foot just so, shifting her balance to the position she had once held.

Why does time not move backward with me? Why can’t I retrieve that moment in the past?

It puzzled her, because in the Dream, she had seen all of this unfold. Lived it backward.

“The rules of the souls differ from those of the flesh,”
one of the voices told her.

She had ceased to look around for the sources of those disembodied speakers. Better to just accept them. She didn’t need that confusion, not now that all of the
threads were so closely woven. All that remained was for Power to pull the weave tight.

When her souls looked into a future that was her Dream past, she could see it all rushing toward her.

“Are you ready?”
a musical voice asked.

This time, she knew exactly where it had come from. She raised her eyes to the river, stepping carefully as she walked to the water’s edge.

“Trader knows now.”

“Good,”
the voice told her.
“Are you being a great rock? Allowing the souls to wash past you?”

“Yes. The Kala Hi’ki taught me well.”

“He is a good man. He sees through my eyes.”

“I think he misses you.”

“His souls will return someday.”

“I know.”

“Are you frightened?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t be. All of your questions will be answered.”

She blinked her eyes, seeing a swirl out in the current, a sucking curl of water that reflected the early-morning light. She stepped into the cold waves, feeling the chill waters of the river trickling through the threads in her moccasins.

“Not yet,”
the soothing voice told her.
“But soon.”

She nodded, her heart beating urgently in her chest.

“He comes.”

“I know.” She stood there, watching the current. The river seemed to flex like a living thing. When she closed her eyes, she could feel the power of it. Could sense the life it sheltered, like glowing Spirits. Her souls could almost touch the fish, the water plants, and turtles sleeping deep in the mud. The water insects burrowed, and crawfish, clams, and mussels glowed like a thousand stars. They were nothing compared to
his
presence.

“Soon,” she whispered, half in dread.

“You have other concerns now.”

“Yes.”

She heard the man’s feet as he approached along the beach. Where her steps had been light and careful, his pounded, as though hammering anger into the earth. Then she caught the easy sound of his breathing. She knew the moment he saw her, felt the hot curiosity in his eyes as he appraised her, and slowed to a stop. When he addressed her, she couldn’t understand the words, but understood his intent.

She turned, but even though she had been forewarned, the impact of his eyes made her gasp. “I am always all right,” she managed to say, her souls reeling. As a woman, she should have admired his muscular body, the broadness of his shoulders, and the way his perspiration gleamed in the morning light. It accented his corded muscles, and gave his skin a faint glow. But all of it drained away as she looked into his eyes.

She swallowed hard. Looking beneath his eyes, she could see his souls twisting, knotting themselves around a fire that she could barely comprehend. They matched the deep scar on the side of his head, misshapen and maimed.

He spoke again, the Mos’kogee words like so much gibberish. But she felt the irritation behind them, mixed with barely hidden lust.

“Power is twisting around you,” she said in Trade Tongue. “It curls, reaching, only to pull back.”

He threw his head back, laughing. “Now, that’s a smart woman if I ever heard one.” His switch to Trade Tongue was facile. “I haven’t seen you before, and your accent is foreign. A Trader’s wife, are you?”

“No. I am no man’s wife. But I have come here to meet my husband.” She indicated the river. “He waits for me. Just out there.”

Smoke Shield shot a disbelieving look at the water. “He must be a fish.”

“No, a fisher.”

He cocked his head, amused, his eyes narrowing as he studied her dress, took in the rope belt at her slim waist. His gaze lingered on her round hips, and she could feel his interest pique as if he could see through the material to her warm sheath.

“So that is what it is like to see through your eyes,” she said. “There is no tree, only bark. No river, only water.”

“Is that so? And what do you see?”

“What I have never seen before.” She shook her head. “Even stones have friends.

He stopped, uncertain. “Stones?”

“You are not even a rock. There is only you. All the world is you.”

He laughed it off, oblivious. “I would love to continue this fascinating talk, but I must meet with my warriors in the Men’s House.” He paused, allowing his Dreams to feast on her body. “But if you would care to, let’s say, converse more, I may have time this evening.” He jerked his head toward the city. “At the high minko’s palace. Ask for me. I am called Smoke Shield, war chief of the Sky Hand.” His smile curled with desire. “The guards will pass you; and I promise, it will be well worth your time.”

“I shall see you forever,” she told him, feeling the swelling of Power as it stretched between them. “Nothing shall stop it now.”

“Tonight then?”

“Your Dreams will wrap around me all night long,” she promised. “I will Dance, stepping lightly around your souls. You will take me, over and over, that I promise.”

His grin spread. “Smart woman. I shall Trade a great deal if you are as talented as you think you are.” Then he turned, muscles bunching as he started up the canoe landing, resuming his run.

“Oh, what a Trade you will make, my lover.”

“We’ve got to
hurry
!” Stone pleaded. He stood in the doorway, his stickball racquets in his hands. “Morning Dew”—his voice rose to a pitch—“they’ll be
waiting
!”

“Yes, yes, I’m coming.” She reached down, using a stick to rearrange the coals around the base of a pot. The body of a duck floated in the water, along with bits of sassafras root, wild licorice, and large chunks of lotus root. She looked up at Heron Wing. “Don’t let this boil over. You know how foamy lotus root gets.”

“I won’t.” She waved her away. “Go on. You’ll have more than one frantic little boy if you’re late.” She chuckled to herself as Morning Dew picked up her racquets and ducked out the doorway.

Heron Wing sighed.
I am going to miss her when she finally goes.

She shot a measuring look at the duck in its pot. Not even steaming yet. She turned, replacing Stone’s things. Why did little boys scatter so much in the simple act of preparing for a stickball game?

“Lady?” a pleasant voice called from beyond the door. “Would you have time for a word?”

“Clan politics? Marriage counseling? A property dispute? What is it this time?”

“Trade,” the man said.

Trade? That was a curious switch. “Enter. Unless you would prefer I step out.” Some men were hesitant about being seen in a married woman’s house. Their wives tended to get the wrong idea.

He ducked inside, and she turned, seeing a tall, white-haired man, his hair pulled up in a tight bun and pinned with a copper arrow. His ears drew her immediate attention. The lobes had never been pierced and stretched for ear spools. His face sported no tattoos
to designate clan or people. Despite his age, he was well muscled, fit looking. But for his weather-beaten face she’d have placed him in his midforties. The face made him look sixty. He wore a heavy fabric shirt, done in odd zigzag patterns she’d never seen before. It was belted at the waist, from which hung a large pouch.

He studied her with kindly eyes, as if taking her measure. She lifted a no-nonsense eyebrow.

Then he glanced around the room, his gaze stopping on the raccoon bowl. He stepped over to it, running a gentle finger along its smooth curve.

“Quite a bowl,” he said.

“Supposedly it’s from up north. Made by a tribe called the Illinois. It was then Traded to the Yuchi by a man named Green Snake. One of our northern Traders obtained it from them.”

“Things do get around,” the man noted dryly. Then he looked at her. “You are Heron Wing?”

“I am. And you are?”

“I am known as Old White.”

“I see, Old White. And what did you want of me?”

“Trade,” he said reasonably. Then he frowned at the bowl. “Green Snake? The Trader?”

“Yes,” she snapped, stepping over and protectively tucking the bowl under her arm.

He gave her an amused look. “What would you take for that bowl?”

“It is not for Trade.” She felt herself begin to bristle. “Did you want something? If not, I have a busy day to attend to.”

He chuckled. “Oh, the ways of Power.”

She hadn’t expected that. “Power?”

“How do you know Green Snake?”

Was it just her, or was he teasing her? “From a long time ago.”

Then the man sat down, almost sprawling, as if he owned the place. His eyes settled on the duck. “That looks like it is going to be delicious.”

“Perhaps you should take your Trade elsewhere.” She arched her back, nodding toward the door.

“Were I to do that,” he said softly, “you would learn nothing more about Green Snake, the ways of Power, or the curious twists of fate.”

She felt her tension drain away to leave confusion. “Who are you?”

He glanced toward the door, saying, “Before I answer that, tell me, will Smoke Shield be back anytime soon?”

“No!” The anger was back. Old White seemed to read her souls like tracks in mud. She flushed. “I think you should go.”

“Actually, I came to offer Trade for the woman known as Morning Dew.” He paused, adding sincerely, “And I must confess to being slightly curious as well.”

“Morning Dew?” She stared, confusion rising.

He reached into his pouch, producing a long white pointed thing. “This is something called a walrus tusk. Probably the only one in the south. It comes from a creature that lives in the ice-bound wastes of the far north. Well, in the ocean up there, actually.”