People of the Thunder (North America's Forgotten Past) (60 page)

As he neared the top, he looked back at his city one last time. People still threaded their way toward the huge crowd at the landing. He couldn’t see that from here; the bulk of the mound and palace blocked the view. It was better that way.

When he looked up, Flying Hawk started. A man was standing on the top step. He looked young and muscular, with shining black hair and dark glinting eyes. As their gazes met, Flying Hawk staggered; Power flashed between them.

The man smiled, flipping back a sleek cloak of midnight feathers. Sunlight seemed to beam from his flesh. Flying Hawk had to squint against it.

The man took one step down, his feet clad in snow-white moccasins, and his long hunting shirt might have been made of the finest tanned leather. A scarlet belt snugged his waist, and a war club hung there.

“Who . . . Who are you?” Flying Hawk rasped. But he knew: the Spirit Being from the night he’d seen the great Seeing Hand weep.

“I have gone by many names, High Minko. Once I was known as Raven Hunter, but that world is long lost. Among your people, I am the Blood Twin, the boy born of First Woman’s menstrual blood as she bathed in the Sacred River just after the Creation. The red Power runs in my veins and is shed from my wings.”

He lifted the arms beneath the raven cloak, only to spread large wings that seemed to suck the very light from the air.

“Gods!” Flying Hawk cried, raising an arm in defense.

“One of them, perhaps,” Raven Hunter replied with amusement. “But do not be afraid. I have come to grant you your greatest wish.”

While every bit of remaining sense told him to run, some odd attraction compelled him to climb those final steps. He stopped just below Raven Hunter. The pain in his knee had faded, and his breath returned, as fresh in his lungs as it had been in his youth.

“What do you want from me?”

“Nothing. Everything.” Raven Hunter lowered his inky wings. “For most of your life you have served me.
But Power ebbs and flows.” He looked out over the city, a faint smile on his lips. “I encouraged the growth of red Power among the Sky Hand. It began when Makes War went off to fight the Yuchi, and, well, you know the story.” He chuckled. “But the white Power, too, will pass, and finally, Split Sky City will fade as Cahokia before it.”

Flying Hawk lowered his eyes to the wooden steps. The next one had turned, shifting in the soil. He could see where rot had softened the wood. “Then, nothing is left for me.”

“Nothing here,” Raven Hunter agreed. “But I am curious: If I could grant you one wish, what would it be? What one thing would you change?”

Flying Hawk swallowed hard as he was flooded with memories. He saw again the great fire; the flight in the night to Kosi Fighting Hawk’s; his youth; the murder of his brother; the first man he killed in war; his wife’s death; confirmation as high minko; Smoke Shield’s wound; the struggle for authority; and those final moments when Horned Serpent dragged his nephew below the waves.

Of all the mistakes, which one would he undo?

And then he knew. He stared down at his hand, seeing the angular rock, could feel its rough surface, gripped so tightly. The sunlight changed, grass beneath him, a dead buffalo hunched to his right, its sides bristling with deeply embedded arrows. His brother was staring up at him, horror reflected in his eyes.

Flying Hawk released the rock, letting it fall from his fingers.

The world seemed to swim, shimmering and wavering like heat waves above a great fire.

When the world came back into focus he was perched on the high step. Raven Hunter watched him with knowing eyes that sparked of midnight.

Flying Hawk blinked at the hot tears welling in his eyes. “I would see Acorn again. I would have him laugh, and place his arm over my shoulder as he did when we were young.”

“I, too, know what it is to fight with a brother.” Raven Hunter’s voice was warm with understanding. He opened his great black wings in invitation. “Come. Acorn awaits you.”

Flying Hawk placed his foot on the rotted step, shifted, and felt it roll under his weight. Then Raven Hunter’s wings closed around him, cloaking him in darkness. He felt himself falling. . . .

I am free!
The thought filled Heron Wing as she walked down the path at the head of the Sky Hand delegation. Beneath her feet, new grass was springing up. Green shoots rose in the Albaamaha fields, weeds mostly, but the fields lived under late-afternoon sun. A warm breeze was blowing up from the gulf, white puffy clouds marching before it. In the distance, the trees had softened where flowers and the first buds tipped the branches. The living forest contrasted with the forlorn farmsteads. She could only hope that one day soon, they would be full of men, women, and children—that life would return to normal.

She glanced to either side, seeing Seven Dead, Blood Skull, Green Snake, and Old White—or did she call him Hickory now? Just behind, Night Star was borne on a litter, and Vinegaroon—his alligator-hide cape gleaming on his shoulders—followed in his rolling gait.

Of those requested, only Flying Hawk was absent. His twisted body had been found at the foot of the Sun Stairs. From the looks of his broken bones and splotches
of blood here and there on the steps, he’d fallen the entire distance from a dislodged and rotten wooden step just below the summit. When they had lifted his battered corpse, a single, midnight-black raven feather had been found beneath him.

Everything is changed.

Flying Hawk was dead. Her souls stumbled over it all: the Council session; Green Snake and Old White; shouted accusations; the revelation of the medicine box; and then the wondrous copper.

And what, in the name of Breath Maker, happened at the canoe landing?

She shook her head, remembering the swirling of rainbow colors in the water, the canoe rising bow first into the sky, and the Contrary’s graceful dive into the depths. Once she would have felt relief at Smoke Shield’s death. Now, his last scream would haunt her.

One does not abuse Power.

Shifting the long leather sheath she carried, she glanced at her hand, rubbing the tips of her fingers where they’d traced the deep grooves in the canoe’s stern. It was as if giant teeth had gouged out the hull. The gashes had been deep, exposing fresh wood. How did one explain that?

Heron Wing glanced at Green Snake. He’d remained oddly reticent about what he’d seen down there in the depths. When she asked, he’d smiled, a faint shake of the head his only answer.

As people began to slowly disperse, someone had run down calling that the high minko was dead. So they had gone, determined the cause of the accident, and watched Pale Cat supervise the removal of the body. She had found Stone in the company of Wide Leaf, and Swimmer had appeared to follow in Green Snake’s footsteps.

In the confused aftermath, one of the scouts had charged into the city, crying, “The Chahta come! It’s
Great Cougar at the head of a huge body of warriors! He sends a white arrow, asking that only certain people meet with him!”

The Chahta? Asking for her? On impulse, Heron Wing had made a quick trip up the bloodstained stairway to Smoke Shield’s room. She now carried the thing she had taken, and could sense an eerie presence within the leather.

Gods, how brave you were.

Now she traveled to meet the enemy—herself, the requested chiefs, Green Snake, and Old White. Across the field she could see where Great Cougar and a few others waited less than a bow shot beyond a huge body of warriors.

Heron Wing glanced back. The river was still between them and Split Sky City. The few warriors left were scrambling to organize some sort of defense. They’d be no match for the force arrayed at the edge of the trees.

“Do we have any chance, War Chief?” she asked Blood Skull.

“Not against so many,” he answered bitterly.

His promotion sat him well, she thought. But now, glancing at the massed Chahta ranks, she wondered how long he’d have to enjoy it. The other chiefs, so animated after the morning’s events, now walked in cowed understanding of their desperate plight.

Beside her, Old White was smiling, one of his Trader’s packs on his back. He carried his Trader’s staff, the white feathers fluttering. The Seeker, at least, seemed completely at ease. To her right, Green Snake had a pensive look, as if his souls were still lost in the swirling waters of the Black Warrior River. Periodically, she could hear the click of the two crystals he carried in his hand. Ignored at his side, Swimmer coursed back and forth, nose to the ground, tail swishing.

Gods, will Stone be all right?
If worse came to
worst, Wide Leaf would ensure her son’s safety—even if she had to disguise him as an Albaamo boy. Heron Wing glanced again at Green Snake.

I can marry you now.
But the Chahta might have other ideas about that. To herself, she murmured, “I might like being Morning Dew’s slave.”

“She would treat you well,” Old White said mildly. “But, let us see.”

“You have another trick up your sleeve, Seeker?”

He grinned. “Always.”

Great Cougar stood in front of four warriors, all with arrows nocked in their bows. A wicked-looking war club with copper blades filled his hands. He wore a gleaming copper gorget on his breast in addition to a breechcloth with a white apron, its point falling between his knees. The Chahta war chief had painted his face half in red, half in white. That, Heron Wing thought, might be prophetic: War or peace, the man could go either way. It would depend on his demands.

To her surprise, it was Old White who took a couple of quick steps to gain the lead, calling, “War Chief! Look at the sun shining on that gorget! It fits you proud.”

“Hello, Seeker.” Great Cougar smiled. “Imagine finding you here. Were the Albaamaha worth the Trade?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised!” Old White brazenly walked up to the man, smiling as if at an old friend. “Perhaps, when we bring this all to a conclusion, you would join me for a meal? I’ve been thinking about that shell cup you showed me. Obsessed by it, actually.”

Great Cougar couldn’t stifle his laughter. “Seeker, you amaze even me. We’re here to talk war, not Trade.”

“Ah, but they’re the same, aren’t they? Each is but a method of obtaining something. In Trade it is Power, or an object. In war there is honor, land, revenge. One is white, the other red.”

Blood Skull glanced anxiously at Seven Dead. “Does he speak for us now?”

Old White waved him back. “Later, War Chief.”

“Where is Smoke Shield?” Great Cougar asked.

“Dead.” Old White made a dismissive gesture. “It seems that Power finally caught up with his scheming. It’s a tale for later, and one that tops all of my feeble attempts.”

“You asked for us, War Chief,” Blood Skull interrupted. He stepped forward. “I am Blood Skull Mankiller, war chief of the Sky Hand. This is my brother, Seven Dead, our tishu minko. What do you wish to discuss?”

“Where is High Minko Flying Hawk?” Great Cougar asked.

Before Blood Skull could speak, Old White interjected. “It seems that he took a bad fall this morning and bounced down the length of the Sun Stairs. The man never did seem to keep his mind on repairs.”

Blood Skull shot Old White an irritated look, saying, “The high minko’s body is being prepared for burial. A runner has been sent requesting that Sun Falcon Mankiller, of the Chief Clan, travel to Split Sky City as soon as possible. The Council would like to discuss the possibility of him assuming the high minko’s chair.”

Great Cougar shot a measuring glance at Green Snake. “I have been told that you are Smoke Shield’s brother. Wouldn’t you be the new high minko?”

Green Snake stepped forward, his preoccupation with the morning fading. “Greetings, War Chief. I am a Trader. Not a high minko. But it will be my honor to offer advice to whomever the Council confirms.” Then he smiled as if at an old friend. “It is good to see you again. I would compliment you: The charade at Feathered Serpent Town was brilliantly done. It would have worked, but Old Woman Fox was desperate to Trade for the return of her granddaughter.”

Great Cougar narrowed an eye. “I shall have words with the woman.”

“She did no harm, and served Power in her own
way.” Trader waved in dismissal. “But I would take it as a personal favor if you would let her know that we shall be returning her Trade. We did not get the opportunity to use it as she requested.”

“You would return it?” Great Cougar asked. “Even given who you really are?”

Green Snake nodded politely. “I am bound by the Power of Trade. You received the White Arrow war medicine?”

“Gods!” Blood Skull spat, face darkening. He looked murder at Green Snake.

Great Cougar couldn’t mask a satisfied smile. “Trader, your actions on our behalf are worthy and appreciated. That is why we are talking now . . . instead of burning Split Sky City. Had Matron Morning Dew not insisted with such fierce determination—and threatened to walk off with half of my warriors—we would have charged across your flattened palisade at first light this morning.”

Blood Skull and the others gasped.

“Then the great Morning Dew serves all of us well,” Old White added. “But enough of blood and burning. Trader and I would like to offer restitution for the dead at White Arrow Town. As I understand it, Smoke Shield started this by acting like an arrogant fool last summer. If you will offer something to appease the dead at Alligator Town, we can make a satisfactory conclusion to the trouble between our people.”