People of the Weeping Eye (North America's Forgotten Past) (28 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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From a small sack, Blood Skull removed a piece of dried turkey meat. This he offered to the fire, a gesture of respect for the gift of food. Then he extended the sack to Smoke Shield, who also tossed a piece into the fire before eating.
“I would never have believed we could do such a thing,” Blood Skull said. “I thought you were mad to suggest it.”
“Then why did you agree to the plan?”
Blood Skull shot him a sidelong glance. “In all honesty, it was to see if I could save anyone when it went wrong.”
Smoke Shield chuckled. “I’m glad to know you think so highly of me.”
His second shrugged. “When you changed the plan, I thought surely we were doomed.” He glanced out at the warriors in their shelters. “I thought one of them would panic, flounder, start to drown and scream.”
“They didn’t.”
“No. And for that, I’m very proud of them.”
“Since we are speaking honestly …”
“Yes.”
“You don’t like me, do you?”
“No.” Blood Skull paused. “But in the grand pattern of things, I don’t suppose we have to like each other. Our duty for the moment is to work together for the best interests of our people.”
“Can we do that?”
“It depends.” Blood Skull took the offered turkey meat and chewed reflectively. Swallowing it down, he
took a drink from the water gourd. “When it comes to war, no man can doubt you. I hope your leadership is equally as competent.”
“But?”
“As a man you worry me.”
“How?”
“I’m not sure your ‘appetites’ won’t cause trouble.” Blood Skull shot him a wary glance.
“I shall be careful where I eat.”
“I pray that is so.”
After the awkward silence, Smoke Shield shifted on the log. “I compliment you on the way you captured Screaming Falcon and the woman. No one could have managed that better.”
Blood Skull grinned. “Me? I only had to deal with a dwelling and the Men’s House. How you got Biloxi out of his palace, that was a miracle if I ever saw one.”
“I’ve worked harder getting quail out of a bush.”
“Well then, bird hunter, I have saved the best for last.” Blood Skull reached for the fabric pack and pulled the covering from a beautifully carved wooden box. Inset shell, mica, and pearls glistened in the firelight. The image of a falcon stared at Smoke Shield with a single glowing pearl eye.
“Gods! Is that … ?”
“The single crowning achievement of our raid: White Arrow war medicine, War Chief.” Blood Skull’s wide smile split his face. “With this, our victory is complete!”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Smoke Shield gazed raptly at the captured war medicine taken from the White Arrow Town Men’s House. “With that, we have captured their heart, as well as their rulers.”
Blood Skull ran his fingers over the carved wood. “This is the same medicine young Screaming Falcon carried on the Alligator Town raid. Perhaps it makes up for the loss of our war medicine when Makes War was captured so long ago.”
“Perhaps.” Smoke Shield gestured dismissively.
“But, returning to your captives, it was brilliantly done. I have been thinking …”
“Yes?” Blood Skull shot a suspicious glance at him, as if surprised that he wasn’t more enthused about the war medicine.
“When we return to our glory, I would like to make a present of High Minko Biloxi to you.”
“That is an extraordinary gift, War Chief. What could I possibly offer in return? It is tradition that the war medicine be placed in the Men’s House where—”
“I think it would please my uncle if you were kind enough to offer Screaming Falcon to him. He would be eternally grateful.”
“And you.” Blood Skull’s voice dropped. “What would you be grateful for, War Chief?”
“Perhaps one of your captives … ?”
Blood Skull gave him an evaluative stare. “Of course.” He chuckled. “Then, I suppose it wasn’t just happenstance that you picked me to capture the great White Arrow war chief and his wife.”
“Never accuse me of happenstance.”
“From this moment on, War Chief, I assure you, I shall never make that mistake.” He watched Smoke Shield through veiled eyes.
What was going on behind that thoughtful face? Smoke Shield could almost see the man’s roiling thoughts. It was as if he were rethinking a great many things.
Finally, he begins to see me for the brilliant leader that I am.
He fought to keep a smile from his face.
Rain continued to patter on the shelter. Smoke Shield bit the last piece of turkey in two and dropped the final morsel into the flames. “Thank you, Turkey, for sharing your strength and sustenance with us.”
Blood Skull, too, offered his last piece to the fire. “Think they’re behind us?”
Smoke Shield rubbed his hands before the flames. “I doubt it; but that’s why I left three scouts to keep an eye
on our backtrail. Even if the Chahta should kill one, the other two should give us time to flee.”
“They must think we hit them with hundreds of warriors. In all my life, I’ve never seen such a panic. You should have seen the palisade gate; it was like shooting deer in a surround.”
“I would have liked to have seen that.” He shrugged. “Someone had to stay behind and blow the horn.”
“I have to tell you, I was sorry to hear the sound of it. I think that if we had kept after them, we’d have run them clear to the Natchez.”
Smoke Shield shook his head. “We would have lost someone. Maybe more. When our warriors got into the trees, they’d have been split up. Some Chahta would have had sense enough to stop, step behind a tree, and kill one of ours when he ran past.”
“I would hope that in your position, I would have had the same good sense.”
“I’m sure you would,” Smoke Shield said smoothly. “Now, our bellies have something to chew on; so why don’t you and I go see what this supposedly lost Albaamo was doing? I want to know why he wanted to get to White Arrow Town before we burned it.”
“That is a good question.” Blood Skull asked, “Do you think he’ll talk?”
“Oh, I’m sure. I don’t plan on doing anything to his tongue.”
O
ld White’s Illinois escort led them to a town that had been built on high ground above the north bank of the Mother River. The canoe landing was little more than a narrow sand strip a bow shot up a small creek. As the men piled out of their canoes, Old White wasn’t surprised to see each carried a war club of the type common in the northeast: a curving thing with a heavy wooden ball on the end. Bows, arrows, and a bloody—very fresh-looking—scalp accompanied the party.
“Welcome, Trader,” the leader cried as he helped to pull Old White’s canoe ashore. “I am Three Bucks, war chief of Lightning Oak Town. We are the Crane band, of the Sky Moiety. You have probably heard us referred to as the Illinouiek, or Illinois. We call ourselves the Inoca.” He shook the bloody scalp. “As you can see, it was a good day.”
“Not for someone,” Old White pointed out.
Three Bucks laughed again, turning. Evidently he translated for his warriors, because they burst out in guffaws.
“I am called Old White. Some know me as the Seeker. The woman with me is Two Petals.” He paused, aware that their absolutely male attention was focused on Two Petals as she stepped out of the canoe. “She is a Contrary. A woman of great Power.” He raised his voice. “Do you
understand
?”
“Yes, yes.” Three Bucks seemed puzzled, then added, “Ah, a
manitou
.”
“That is correct. We have come from Silver Loon, at Cahokia.”
That got the man’s attention. “You had dealings with the witch?”
Old White lifted his Trader’s staff. “Three Bucks, I want you to understand, it might be wise if we did not stay long. This woman draws Power.”
Three Bucks nodded, translating to his men. Someone asked a question.
“Is she your wife?”
“She is.” The lie might serve him well here. Prestige accrued to a man married to a
manitou
among most northeastern peoples.
“Yes, I am,” Two Petals agreed in a singsong voice. “Wife, wife, wife, forever.”
“You must be great to marry a woman with Power.” Three Bucks seemed slightly incredulous.
“So it is said. You indicated that you would like to Trade?” Old White reminded.
“This way.”
Old White reached into the canoe, removing one of the smaller packs Silver Loon had given them. Without a word, he handed it to Two Petals. To his relief she shouldered it, though she kept working her hands. Cramped no doubt from the death grip on the rope.
People were already running down the hill, calling in excited voices. Shouts of glee went up as Three Bucks lifted the scalp.
“Bees,” Two Petals whispered. “Swarming around. Please, don’t let them sting me.”
“Not if I can help it,” Old White muttered.
In reply to the shouted questions from above, Three Bucks turned to Old White. “They want to know if you are captives.”
He shot Three Bucks a sidelong glance. “Have they never seen a Trader’s staff before?”
“Be at ease. I have told them you are guests. In our town, all are treated with respect once they pass our
gates.” He shot Old White a sidelong glance. “That is, if they come in peace.”
“Oh, we do.”
A steep forest path led up the silty slope to a cluster of cornfields on a high terrace. The town itself had been constructed on a small knoll. To defend Lightning Oak Town, a log palisade rose behind a deep ditch that forced attackers into the unenviable position of having to attack uphill while the defenders rained arrows down on them from gaps between the logs. Entry was through a narrow passage that forced attackers to run a gauntlet of arrows released from no more than an arm’s length.
Once inside, the town consisted of forty houses, several granaries, a charnel house, men’s house, several menstrual lodges, and what passed for the Council House. A tall log structure with bark-covered roof had been erected atop a low rectangular earthen mound. From its ridgepole a rudely carved eagle glared out at the world through painted wooden eyes. Even in light of the dilapidation of Cahokia, the place was shabby at best.
They were greeted by a larger crowd, the women dressed in deerskins, fox and wolf capes hanging from their shoulders. They had pulled their hair up tightly to their heads. The men, hair shaved in roaches, their skin dabbed with red or yellow paint, had deer- or buffalohide hunting shirts, some with bear-claw necklaces, others wearing bone beads dyed different colors. Dogs ran about, barking, wagging tails, and sniffing. To the rear, an unadorned collection of women and girls—slaves, no doubt—wore simple brown dresses, their expressions wary. Most stood with arms crossed under their breasts.
Shouted questions brought laughing responses from the men. The Inoca women immediately began singing, clapping their hands, and Dancing. The men took up the chorus. Someone brought a sapling, perhaps the height of a man, and Three Bucks tied the scalp to it. He led his war party forward in a shuffling half step; his voice, too, added to the song.
“Happy, aren’t they?” Old White asked Two Petals.
“Sad. Their hearts are like a stormcloud on a sunny day.” She looked to the side, saying, “I wish you wouldn’t say things like that.”
“Like what?” Old White asked.
“I was talking to her.” She pointed over by the side of the palisade. “To that old white-haired woman.”
Old White saw no one of that description. In fact, no one stood where she pointed. “You see a woman there?”
“Yes, that one. That old woman. She says that the Inoca are rootless. That’s silly. People don’t have roots. Not with feet like those.” She pointed at the Dancers who were rising, ducking, and prancing.
“Just between the two of us,” Old White offered dryly, “I wouldn’t mention to the Inoca that you see people they don’t.”
Two Petals gave him an annoyed look. “How am I supposed to tell the difference?”
“Just ask me if I can see the same person you do before you start talking, all right?”
“It’s hard to think,” she told him, pressing her hands to her ears and squinting. “How can you even hear with all these thoughts in the air? They keep pulling at me, buzzing all the time. They’re all bees. So busy, so happy.”
All eyes turned toward the Council House when an elderly man stepped out of the doorway. A clutter of feathers stuck out of the roach atop his head; both sides of his shaved scalp were tattooed with parallel lines of circles. His long shirt was made of finely tanned buffalo calf hide adorned with brightly dyed quillwork. The man’s arms and legs were tattooed with bands and flattened chevrons. He lifted a long-stemmed pipe high over his head. The crowd went silent as he began chanting a Song of thanksgiving, his voice rising and falling in the cool air.
At the conclusion, the people took up the Song, women and men forming concentric rings around the war party. They Danced and clapped in unison, all the while
casting curious glances at Old White and Two Petals. Every so often, one would break ranks, trotting forward. Three Bucks would lower the scalp so that they could touch it. Many grasped it just long enough to spit on it, or revile it with a curse.
After every man, woman, and child had taken their turn, Three Bucks threw his head back in a long ululating cry and headed toward the Council House. People fell into ranks, men separate from women, and the whole procession marched along.
Old White followed the war party, waiting as Three Bucks climbed the low earthen ramp to face the old man. In a loud voice that all could hear, he began a long narrative, periodically emphasizing each warrior in his party. Gestures added to his oratory, bringing hoots of delight from the people.
“Recounting the raid, I would guess.” Old White glanced at Two Petals. She seemed to be engrossed in the performance, her eyes wide.
“They have sparks flying around their heads,” she said. “Why don’t they catch fire?”
Since he saw no sparks himself, he shrugged. “Just their nature, I would guess.”
She clasped her hands to her breast, spinning around in a circle. “So many souls, all crowding around! They are a wave. I’m riding on top of a wave!”
Old White glanced nervously at her, wondering what fed this sudden, heady joy.
Finally, Three Bucks pointed to them. From the gestures, a man throwing a rope, other men pantomiming furious paddling, and the laughter, Old White caught the gist of their rapid journey upriver. Three Bucks pointed back and forth to Old White and Two Petals, the word
manitou
cropping up both times. When it did, the crowd uttered a hushed, “Aahaa.” Expectant looks were cast in their direction.
When Three Bucks finished with a barked, “Whoa!” the crowd was silent.
The old man lowered his pipe and turned his attention to Old White and Two Petals. In Trade Tongue, he said, “I am High Buffalo, leader of these people. You may call me Chief. You are welcome in Lighting Oak Town, Traders. Your arrival has come on a very auspicious day. We have avenged ourselves on the sneaking cowards at Flat Board Town. Just a moon past, they ambushed and killed a young woman at the canoe landing when she went down for water.” He indicated the dangling scalp. “Now they know the price of their actions.”
“We are honored to arrive here,” Old White replied. “We are Traders, traveling under the Trader’s Staff.” He lifted it high. “We come only in peace, and would Trade with the people of Lightning Oak Town.”
High Buffalo cocked his head. “Why would my war chief call you
manitou
?”
Old White pointed at Two Petals. “This woman, great chief, is a Contrary. When she speaks, it is backward of what she means. When talking to her, she will do opposite of your words. Power rides her shoulders. Because of that, and because we are strangers, we would not wish to have misunderstandings with your people.”
High Buffalo turned his inquisitive eyes on Two Petals. “Is this true?”
“Not a bit,” she answered, a pained look on her face as she glanced around at things Old White couldn’t see. “He lies. No truth will come from Old White’s mouth. Mine, either.”
“I shall send for our Priest. He is secluded in the woods close by, praying for the success of our warriors. He will be most interested to meet you.” Then he addressed the crowd in his own tongue, pointing back and forth between Old White and Two Petals. The word
manitou
kept repeating.
Nods and softly uttered words met each proclamation.
When he had finished, High Buffalo gestured for them to come forward. “We extend our hospitality. Tonight, we shall feast. Come, join us.”
Two Petals immediately turned, heading back for the gate. People scurried out of her way. All except a couple of dogs who obviously didn’t know any better. Mutterings rose from some of the people as they scattered, none wishing to be too close to the
manitou.
“Two Petals,” Old White called. “He wants you to go away. Far from the interior of the Council House.” She immediately stopped, nodded, and retraced her steps.
“This is true?” High Buffalo asked. “She is truly
manitou
?”
“Oh, very true,” Old White told him.
High Buffalo scrambled out of her way as she walked through the door. Old White hurried after her, pausing only long enough to ask High Buffalo, “Is there anything you would like her to do? Any Power objects she should stay away from?”
“Ask her to sit on this side of the fire, please.”
Old White ducked into the Council House. The large room was illuminated by a crackling fire. He caught a quick glimpse of deer horns; the splayed hides of birds, foxes, and raccoons; and lines of animal skulls hanging from the walls. War shields, weapons, and a line of scalps also could be seen. He hurried past Two Petals, who was staring around at the walls, and pointed to a place on the rush matting beside the hearth. “Do not sit on this spot.”
Two Petals obediently sat there, her eyes still on the stuffed birds, shields, bows, arrows, and buffalo and deer skulls that lined the walls. “Listen to the noise they make.” She pointed at a flattened cougar hide pegged to the wall. “He says he can’t hunt that way. Anything he eats has to be flat, too.”

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