People of the Weeping Eye (North America's Forgotten Past) (22 page)

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Authors: W. Michael Gear,Kathleen O'Neal Gear

BOOK: People of the Weeping Eye (North America's Forgotten Past)
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“You have made such great strides already.” Two Petals raised her hands. “Look at the magnificence that surrounds you!” And with that, she turned on her feet, eyes gleaming as she inspected the exposed logs, and sooty spiderwebs hanging from the ceiling.
Old White gaped, watching her. She seemed oblivious of the decay, as if lost in a vision that only her shining eyes could see. He blinked, looking again at the cracked plaster, the spilled pottery, and dusty wooden boxes scattered around the room.
Everyone else, it seemed, was staring at her young body. Her high breasts were pointed, the nipples taut. Her slim belly, navel, and the dark triangle at her pubis would have drawn any man’s attention.
Old White started forward, gripping his Trader’s staff as if it were a war club. Her next words brought him up short. “All in time, Elder. Wait. Dance with me.”
Silver Loon placed a restraining hand on his shoulder, whispering, “This is a thing of Power. Do not interfere.”
“Dance with you?” Black Tooth demanded. “Oh, you and I shall Dance, all right. Here’s how I do it. I put you on my staff, and you wiggle. You’ll like it. I swear!”
Again the room broke out in laughter.
She had tilted her head. “Can you hear them Singing? Their voices are so beautiful.”
“Singing? Who?” Black Tooth cocked his head. “I
hear only the wind, and your silly prattle. You’re crazy, girl. Lost your souls.”
“Gone, gone, gone,” Two Petals agreed. “Flown like birds, right up to the sun. How right you are.”
“Well, no matter. You won’t need souls for what we’re going to do next.” He lifted his maimed left hand, beckoning. “Come here, little bird. Let me have a taste of that sweet body of yours.”
At his order she began to back away.
“Ah, running at last? Maybe your souls aren’t as gone as I think.” He chuckled. “Go ahead, run away. It’ll be sport.”
Instead, she started toward him.
Old White would have rushed forward but for the tightening of Silver Loon’s hand on his shoulder, and her whispered, “Watch. And learn.”
“That’s more like it.” Black Tooth fixed gleaming eyes on Two Petals.
“I can see through your skin,” she said. “Meat and bones. The blood races backward through your veins. I see deer meat spitting unchewed from your mouth. Backward, you’re all backward.”
“Enough of this,” one of the men said. “Take her, and let us watch the sport of it. I’ll wager a prime fox hide that you can’t make her moan with pleasure.”
“She hasn’t the wits for that,” another chimed in.
“Wits, wits,” Two Petals said, closing the distance to Black Tooth. “No, I’ve no wits at all. Watching this from tomorrow, seeing, feeling the Power.” She hesitated. “I see Seeker and me leaving. I see us climbing into his canoe. There are so many packs, all filled with wealth. And your people are hiding, fearful of Power loose upon the land.”
Black Tooth threw his head back, breaking out in peals of amusement.
“You see this, do you?”
“Oh, yes. And many other things. Like what you wish most.”
He stared greedily at the tuft of her pubic hair and licked his lips before adding, “I’m sure you know what I want now.”
Raucous laughter burst out among the watchers.
“Then I will give you what you wish most,” Two Petals said.
Black Tooth, grinning in anticipation, laid his mace to one side. He hitched his war shirt up, exposing his rising manhood, and reached out for Two Petals. She took his hands.
Old White broke free of Silver Loon’s grip and charged forward. He was filling his lungs to scream, “No!” when Two Petals drew a deep breath and blew into Black Tooth’s face.
The big man started, blinked, and froze. For a moment, the room was still. Then his arms pulled loose from Two Petals’ and fell to his sides. The look of amazement remained fixed, his eyes like stones popped out from his skull. Imperceptibly at first, he began to lean, gaining momentum as he crashed to the floor, upsetting the tripod. It fell with a muffled clatter, the bear hide settling around it.
“That’s what it’s like to live forever,” Two Petals said simply.
The loud man stepped forward, bent, and touched one of Black Tooth’s staring eyes. No reaction followed as the man placed his hand over Black Tooth’s open mouth. He looked up. “He’s dead!”
Old White stared in disbelief. “What happened here?”
Silver Loon’s voice carried in the chill air. “She blew the souls out of his body. Poor fool had no idea what was happening.” In a lower voice, she added, “I think she saved your life, Runner. See that you use what’s left of it wisely.”
People backed away, mutterings of “witch” on the air.
“She is no witch,” Silver Loon called, stepping forward. “Two Petals, don’t come near me.”
The young woman turned, eyes gleaming, and walked calmly to Silver Loon, who handed her the blue dress. “Do not wear this.”
Two Petals blinked, seemed to focus, and took the dress, slipping it over her head. Around the room, people were backing away.
Silver Loon turned her attention to the room. “Tell me what happened here.” At the silence she added, “You know me. Tell me, or it shall go ill with you next time any of you need my help.”
One of the women, gray haired and wearing a smudged brown dress, stepped forward. “One of the guards saw them arrive before the storm. Black … That dead man.” She pointed to Black Tooth, afraid to say his name and draw his ghost to her. “He wanted to know who had come. What they wanted with you. When two of the young men from Duck Foot Village carried the girl to your house, they learned it was the Seeker, with a young woman. Black … That dead man wanted the wooden pack the Seeker carries. He thought it would be filled with Powerful … things.”
Old White narrowed an eye. “I am a Trader. Protected by the Power of Trade.”
The woman swallowed hard. “That dead man didn’t believe in the Power of Trade. He … He thought he was the new lord of Cahokia.”
“
The
lord of Cahokia,” Two Petals asserted. “Lord forever.”
“We are leaving now,” Silver Loon told them. “Do not interfere with us.” She pointed at Two Petals. “The Contrary will know.”
Old White was still staring back and forth from Black Tooth to Two Petals. The young woman suddenly smiled, the effect like sunlight bursting through clouds. “I’m so full I could burst. Can’t eat another bite. Whatever you do, don’t offer me another morsel of food. I won’t take it.”
“I wouldn’t think of it,” Silver Loon said. “I have
freshly baked acorn cakes in my house.” She hesitated, smiled, and added, “But you’re the last person on earth I’d offer any to.”
“Then let’s just stay here.” And with that, Two Petals turned, heading for the door. “I’m sure glad I have these warm shoes on.”
Old White stared at the moccasins he’d stuffed in his belt. “But …”
“Later,” Silver Loon told him as she grabbed his sleeve and propelled him toward the door.
 
 
T
he sun stood at its midpoint by the time Old White, Two Petals, and Silver Loon loaded the canoe with packs. Silver Loon, for reasons of her own, had loaded them with provisions; then she had added additional packs filled with a wealth of worked shell, galena beads, copper gorgets, carved mica, tool stone, and finely flaked hoes from the quarries downriver.
The day had warmed, snow melting beneath the morning sun. A break in the weather was definitely welcomed.
“You could come with us,” Old White suggested for the final time.
“Once, long ago, old lover, I would have.” She looked back at the bluff, dominated by the great mound and the tall structure on its heights. “But that was then. My place is here, now. The people will need me with Black Tooth gone.”
“We have lots of time,” Two Petals agreed. Her eyes were fixed on the northern horizon, somewhere far beyond the bushy cottonwoods that had sprung up on the opposite bank.
“No,” Silver Loon whispered. “We don’t.”
“Then we should be getting started,” Old White said,
and bent to push the canoe into the murky water of Cahokia Creek.
“Do not forget, the Illinois are at war with each other at the confluence of the rivers. Be careful making your passage. Make sure they see your Trader’s staff.” Silver Loon gave Two Petals an uneasy glance, then fixed on Old White. “I think you’re going to be in for a most interesting time.”
When he looked back, Silver Loon was still standing on the abandoned canoe landing, watching him as he left her behind for the last time.
W
hen it came to forest hunters, only the panther stalked with more stealth and cunning than the Sky Hand. Smoke Shield firmly believed that as he watched his warriors filtering through the trees. Beneath their feet, the leaf mat betrayed no sound.
Smoke Shield cocked his head, unable to hear the slightest rasp of clothing against the hanging grape and greenbriar vines. No stick snapped under a moccasined foot; no acorn or pinecone rattled when kicked by a careless foot. Instead his men might have been smoke, so silently did they pass through the uncharted maze of tall trees.
The day was cool, a breeze whispering in the high lacery of winter-dead branches. Here and there a squirrel chattered, and sometimes birdsong trilled, but Smoke Shield and his grim warriors had been born of the forest. It was here, more than in Split Sky City, that they were at one with their surroundings.
So far, all had gone as he had prayed it would. Power favored them. They had made their way across the uplands dividing the Black Warrior from the Horned Serpent River, trotting single file past the leaf-blanketed sandstone atop the ridges. Like a disjointed snake they had descended down one of the many drainages that led to the banks of the Horned Serpent. At the river they had paused, tying their weapons and provisions inside watertight hides. In a line they had swum the river, pushing their bobbing packs ahead of them.
On the far shore, they had followed the plan, leaving their weapons, shields, war clubs, and war shirts inside the packs and donning simple hunting shirts, some spattered with deer blood to signify successful hunters.
As a measure of their dedication, his warriors had followed the rituals of the war trail perfectly. No warrior sat during the daylight hours, no matter how weary he might be. At night, they rested on a stump, rock, or log, but never upon the ground. It was forbidden for a warrior to lean against a tree for any purpose. If a man had a persistent itch, he would use a stick to scratch. When urinating, or defecating, it was done in a manner to be least offensive to the Earth Mother, generally on a piece of bark or pile of leaves. No warrior would look directly at a crow or squirrel, lest it run to warn the enemy. No morsel of food was consumed unless given to a warrior by Blood Skull’s hand.
Smoke Shield should have been keeping his own souls pure, but Morning Dew’s supple young body kept slipping into his thoughts. How well he remembered the disdainful expression she’d given him when he’d tossed a pebble at her feet to attract her attention. He’d smiled, an offer of his affection, and then she’d looked at him the way she would green fuzzy mold on good corn.
In his souls’ eye, he worked it all out. She would be bound, wrists before her, her head down. But he didn’t want her as some dirty captive. No, he would have Thin Branch bathe her, wash her hair, and comb it to a glossy black sheen. She would be dressed in a fine white dress, one that was tied at the shoulders. Flower petals would be rubbed on her skin to sweeten her scent.
First, he would stand over her, taking his time, admiring her as she waited. All the while, she would know what was coming, have plenty of time to dwell on it. Then, when she first began to entertain hopes that he might just walk away, he’d reach down and sever her bound wrists. Perhaps she would resist, or she might rise, expecting that she was to be set free. That’s when
he would smile, reach out, and untie the laces at her shoulders. The dress would slip free, falling down her perfect body.
At that moment she would know beyond any doubt. He could see the knowledge behind her dark eyes as he undressed and pointed at the sleeping bench.
His hands were smoothing her skin, feeling her shudder. Her expression would almost be as much reward as mounting her. There, lying atop her, he would take his time, let her savor his hard rod against her smooth thighs. Then slowly, carefully, he would pry her legs apart.
Throw her from your mind!
He’d almost stepped full on a stick. Cursing under his breath, he shook himself.
Fool! She could destroy you, and never even know it!
Angrily, he forced himself back to the forest, to the task at hand.
But she will be mine.
With each step, Smoke Shield’s heartbeat quickened. Closer, ever closer. He had to focus, sharpen his senses on now, and let the future care for itself.
This was enemy territory, and they avoided the main trails. Instead, he depended upon the keen eyes of his warriors to spot any threat first. If possible, they would seek to avoid any discovery, but, if not, they would approach casually, as though having nothing to hide, and hope to dispose of the opponent before an alarm could be given.
Two days,
he thought.
Two risings and settings of the sun, and we will be in place.
That last would be the most dangerous time of all, as they made their final approach to White Arrow Town. Fortunately, he knew the country, had hunted there as a guest of the White Arrow. And swimming the Horned Serpent had given him an idea: one that would significantly cut their risk of discovery. He knew of a trail, a path used by slaves on their way to fill jars at the riverbank.
He glanced at the warriors filtering through the forest.
Will they have the courage to do this thing?
If they didn’t, if even one man failed …
No, don’t think it
.
In the event of disaster, it would be he who hung from a wooden square while the White Arrow women used sharp chert stones to slice his flesh from his body.
 
 
A
chilly wind blew down from the north as Trader fed another section of wood into the crackling fire. He had put in at an overgrown canoe landing after following a small creek for several bow shots. The ruins of the abandoned village on its low rise made the perfect place for a man who wanted to camp alone and unnoticed. Willows had started up downstream, and where once the sand would have been beaten down, rushes now covered the landing and hid his canoe. He had cleaned out the mess and placed his camp inside the corner of two walls that remained standing in an abandoned house. There, protected from the wind, his fire was screened from the high bluff rising immediately to the east.
According to local legend, the village had been called Sunflower, for the major crop grown there. The people had been like so many others: descendants of the once-mighty populations of Cahokia. They had even built a low platform for their chief’s house, and their dead rested in a conical mound just to the west. Then a terrible witch had come and cursed them all. After their souls were witched, the population had been decimated, until the few survivors fled. Since that day, none of the locals would come close to the place.
It was a good location. Over the years the creek had deposited enough high ground to leave the village above the spring flood. Immediately to the east, a narrow valley
cut through the high bluffs, exposing sandstone that had weathered into a dark gray. From the heights, one had a good view of the river and woodlands to the west. For a man who didn’t believe in the Power of local witches, it was the perfect place to stop. Trader and Swimmer would have no unwelcome visitors come snooping in the middle of the night.
For fuel, Trader used the roof fall, breaking it up into lengths. Now he enjoyed the reflected heat, extending his hands to the cheery warmth. Swimmer lay curled next to the packs, his nose on his paws as he watched Trader through curious brown eyes.
Evening had deepened into night, the sky partially obscured by high clouds. In the open patches stars blinked and shimmered. The land was only slightly illuminated by the sliver of moon to the east. Trader had a duck spitted over the flames, and the skin was just beginning to brown. Swimmer watched it, dividing his interest between the bird and Trader’s preoccupation with the copper.
“If I can peel off more of this stone,” Trader told him, “it will make this a lot easier to lug around.”
He propped the heavy slab against his left leg and studied the stone. Rot it all, he wasn’t an expert on working copper. On the other hand, he’d spent enough time in the copper lands to know the procedure. They used granite mallets to crumble the softer rock around the metal. It was time consuming, and one didn’t want to hammer the stone into the malleable copper.
Trader began tapping away with a river cobble he’d picked up in the north. He had to be careful. The only rock along the river was sandstone, limestone, or shale; none of it durable enough for his purposes.
“There,” Trader cried as a piece chipped away. “See? Another couple of moons, and we’ll have a clean slab of copper worth a high minko’s palace.”
Swimmer gave him a skeptical look.
Trader had just repositioned the stone when Swimmer
leaped to his feet, staring down toward the creek. A low growl grew in his throat.
“What is it?” Trader let the slab fall and reached for his bow and arrows where they lay to one side.
Swimmer’s growls grew louder.
“Shhh!” Trader gestured for silence, but Swimmer, for once, didn’t seem inclined to obey.
“To the right!” came a voice from down the creek.
Trader dropped to his knees and clamped a hand around Swimmer’s muzzle. The dog squirmed in his arms.
“This is madness,” a man’s voice announced. “We should have stopped in the daylight.”
“Don’t want to camp here.” The voice was a girl’s.
“That’s what I was afraid of. I can’t see a thing.”
“To the left.”
“Now we’re grounded,” the old man complained from beyond the willows.
“I said left. Left, left, left,” the girl chortled.
“All right, to the right it is.” A pause. “At least we’re moving again.”
“Now right.” The voice came from the darkness just beyond where Trader had pulled his canoe up in the rushes.
“But that’s the bank.”
“Don’t want to land here. Not the right place for us.”
“If you say so.”
Water sloshed. The man’s voice declared, “I’m probably going to step into quicksand and sink out of sight.”
“Drown here, you will,” the girl insisted.
“Huh, footing’s good enough. But why I let you talk me into splashing around in the darkness is beyond me. We could have sunk ourselves fooling around like this. And who knows what kind of trouble we’re getting into.”
“The worst,” the girl assured.
Trader could hear the rushes bending and rasping on clothing. Swimmer might have had eight legs as he
wiggled in ten directions at once. Trader managed to keep the worst of his growls and woofs muffled.
“There’s a canoe here!” the man called, surprised. “Birch bark from up north. Just a moment. Bottom’s wet. It’s been in the water recently.”
“No one here that we want to see,” the girl added firmly.
“Now why doesn’t that reassure me?”
Trader sighed, letting Swimmer go. The dog barked anxiously, bounding down toward the commotion in the rushes. Trader hesitated. Did he go after Swimmer in hopes he could keep the dog from a swinging war club, or try to hide his copper?
“Who’s there?” the man’s voice called.
Trader made a face, glancing back at the flickering glow of his fire. No, too late. “I’m called Trader. Don’t hurt my dog.”
“As long as he doesn’t hurt us,” the man answered. “We’re friendly. I travel under a Trader’s staff.”
Another Trader—the situation was growing worse. He’d recognize the copper immediately, and he’d know its value.
I could kill them.
He nocked an arrow, calling, “Come on in.” At least he’d see what he was up against.
The rushes parted, Swimmer backing away, his tail wagging as he barked and bounced around. In the half-light of his fire Trader made them out: An old man, white haired, holding a Trader’s staff, was followed by a slender young woman.
“I am called Old White. Some know me as the Seeker. The young woman is Two Petals.” He seemed to choke on the words. “A Contrary.”
A Contrary? Trader squinted at the girl. Most Contraries had the reputation of being older individuals who dedicated their lives to the service of Power. And the Seeker? He’d heard of him: the stuff of legends related
around fires, a man who traveled the ends of the earth just to see what was there. Trader had never thought him real. But maybe this was a trick? Had Snow Otter told someone of the fabulous copper? Even now were tens of pursuers fanning out on the river searching for him?

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