People of the Weeping Eye (North America's Forgotten Past) (30 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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Her knees buckled. She hit the ground hard. Behind her, Biloxi was sobbing. Hard hands grabbed her from behind. She heard Biloxi’s squeal as a blow landed. While she was dragged like a limp deer to a pole, two warriors drove her brother before them with smacking blows of their war clubs. The crowd shrieked, whistled, and jeered.
“It won’t be so bad,” mocked one of the warriors dragging her. “At least you don’t have to hang.”
Numb with terror, Morning Dew shivered as they bound her to a pole capped with a raccoon head. As tears streaked down her face, she watched Screaming Falcon as he was tied spread-eagled to the square opposite her. The rhythmic chant of the crowd became clear:
“Burn them! Burn them! Burn them!”
She choked on the sobs in her throat. Her vision narrowed, as if she stared down a long tunnel. Gray haze closed in from all sides. Her last thought was of falling … .
O
ld White blinked his eyes open and found them gummy. The Council House had been smoky, and the feasting, stories, and Dancing had lasted until late. He yawned, shifted in the finely tanned buffalo hide he’d been provided, and stared up at the smoke-hazed ceiling. The Inoca had been exemplary hosts, and memories of the evening played between his souls.
After the smoking of the pipe, invocations had been made to the “Master of Life,” as they called the Creator, and to the numerous
manitous
that filled the Inoca’s Spirit world. Three Bucks had given a long oratory about the raid, and the scalp had been passed from hand to hand before being given to the murdered woman’s bereaved family. Then endless bowls of stewed puppy—an Inoca favorite—had been followed by boiled squash, sunflower soup, roast venison and duck, hominy corn, and berry bread made of white acorn flour.
His Trade had been brisk as he dispensed pieces of worked shell, quartz crystals for scrying the future, and pieces of mica from the goods Silver Loon had given him. In return, he had amassed a collection of the striking wooden bowls the Inoca crafted. Each was thin walled, the deep dish carved in the shape of an animal. His favorite was the rendition of Beaver, its eyes inlaid with mussel shell. The booty had filled a large net bag.
Two Petals had been a sensation, the center of attention. Possessed of a frantic energy, she had almost vibrated, smiling, laughing while people asked her
questions to hear the backward response. One by one they listened in awe, trying to decipher the meaning of her words. Things like, “The answer lies in the heart of a blue stone” or “Do not fly when the rain is falling.” Each of Two Petals’ pronouncements seemed to have great meaning as they were translated for the Inoca.
Old White had been awed himself, amazed at the Power that energized her. The look on her face had been euphoric.
For once, no one seemed interested in the stories the Seeker could tell about strange peoples he had visited, or the things he had seen. In retrospect, it had been rather pleasant to just sit, listen, and watch the rapt faces of the people.
Now fatigued from having slept poorly, and not for long, he stretched, yawned, and sat up. Scratching under his stringy gray hair, he looked around and froze. Two Petals’ bed had been rolled and was missing. The net bag filled with carved bowls was also gone. Not quite in a panic, Old White climbed stiffly to his feet, slipped his wooden pack over his shoulder, and retrieved his Trader’s staff.
He emerged into the day, the stone in his cloth bag banging reassuringly against his thigh. The sun was already high, and as he looked around the village, he could find no sign of Two Petals. Anxiously, he made the rounds inside the palisade, greeted only by several curious dogs and two wide-eyed little boys who giggled, then ran.
Old White hurried to the gate, passed through the narrow gap, and then down to the canoe landing. He couldn’t shake the memory that not a moon past, a young woman had been killed by raiders there.
As he stepped out of the trees, he slowed. Two Petals was sitting primly in the canoe, facing backward, the net bag with its bowls rising prominently atop the load.
“What are you doing here?”
“This is not the time to leave,” she told him, not even
turning her head to look at him. “No indeed, I think we should dally all day. Eat their food, laugh, and drink.”
“Why? Are we in trouble?” He searched his memory for anything they might have done to sour their welcome.
“With the Inoca? Oh, yes, terrible trouble. That’s why we should stay. We should just be late, and forget journeying to Split Sky.”
“We should?”
“If we don’t stay, the Inoca will want to be rid of us forever.”
Confused, Old White muttered under his breath, “Just once, I would love to have a straight answer out of you.”
“All of my answers are crooked.”
“Ha! Got you. For once, you told it just the way it is.”
She gave him the same look she’d give an idiot.
Old White hesitated, glanced back toward the village. “It is considered rude to just up and leave.”
“Of course. No one thinks the ways of the
manitou
are mysterious.”
Well, that was a point. He could imagine how the story would grow over the coming moons.
“The manitous came. Spent the night performing wondrous deeds, and in the morning, they were gone, leaving only their gifts.”
Old White bent down, arched his back, and began shoving the canoe. “You don’t want to get out and help an old man, do you?”
With Two Petals’ help, he pushed the craft into the slow waters of the stream. Stepping in, he took inventory. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed. Too many times, he had returned to one of his canoes only to find it stripped. Here, the Power of the
manitou
seemed to have been all the protection they needed.
As they nosed out into the Mother River’s current, Old White bent to his paddle. Today, he would miss the strong warriors and their rope.
“Too bad,” Two Petals told him from the bow. “We just missed him.”
“Who?”
She pointed over his shoulder. “Not that man.”
He shot a glance behind him, seeing a solitary canoe hugging the bank as its occupant paddled upriver. A black-and-white dog stood atop one of the packs, ears pricked, watching them with interest.
“Trader?” Old White said aloud.
“No, he’s long gone. Headed to the gulf.”
Old White stroked only hard enough to keep them stationary with the bank as Trader closed the distance. When he finally drew up, it was to the accompaniment of Swimmer’s happy barking. The dog bounced from pack to pack.
“Hush,” Trader ordered, and Swimmer, good dog that he was, stood with his tail waving.
“This is a surprise,” Old White said by way of greeting. “I figured you’d be in a Michigamea Council House about now, trying to figure out how you were going to keep that copper from staying behind with the chief.”
Trader refused to meet his eyes, instead focusing on one of the packs in his canoe. “I spent a lot of time thinking about that.” He frowned. “And I thought a lot about how Two Petals knew where to find my camp that night … how she knew about the copper. All of it … it just doesn’t make sense.” He looked around, eyes settling on the far bank. “I’ve been up and down the river, seen a lot of things. Heard a lot of stories, but nothing like this.”
“I’ve been a lot of places, too,” Old White replied. “More than you. For some years I was even able to talk myself into believing that Power didn’t exist. That everything that happens in life is just random, luck, or coincidence. The truest of things are those that we try so hard to discredit, but cannot. For reasons I do not understand, we’ve been chosen. Something’s happening, something that wants us to go home, Trader.”
“Not you two,” Two Petals interjected. “Split Sky City is the last place you have to go.”
Trader glanced at her for the first time, then lowered his eyes. “I killed my brother. That’s why I left.” He sighed. “I’m Chief Clan—expected to set an example for the rest of the people. From the time we are children we’re taught to control ourselves, to act with restraint, and to be virtuous. We are supposed to balance rage with thought.”
“And you were only human?”
“My brother …” He hesitated. “We were twins. Not identical, mind you. Not in looks or behavior. We were completely different. He was the one who could never control his passions. He was the red brother, the plotter and schemer. Everyone looked up to me.”
Old White nodded. “Oh, I know about twins. They tend to run in the Chief Clan.” He didn’t want to ask yet, didn’t want to hope. There would be time for that.
Trader gave him a hesitant look. “I suppose you are thinking about heading down the Tenasee, past the Kaskinampo to the Yuchi towns? Trading for a portage into the head of the Black Warrior?”
“It would be a little easier to portage to the head of the Horned Serpent. Follow that down, then back up the Black Warrior. We’ll see when we get there.” He glanced at Two Petals. “Is there any special way you
don’t
want to go?”
Two Petals had been making faces at Swimmer. “No way at all.”
Trader glanced over his shoulder. “Well, we might want to be at it. I spent most of yesterday afternoon hiding in the rushes. Something happened back there. It was like kicking a wasp’s nest. Warriors were canoeing back and forth, searching the trails. I waited until dark to make my way upriver.”
“A warrior was killed in a raid. We spent the night with the happy raiders.”
“Then it might not be smart for a couple of canoes full of strangers to be caught in these parts.”
“Might not indeed.”
Trader shot him an uneasy look. “I don’t know how this will turn out, but I’m with you.”
Two Petals’ voice came low and ominous. “Don’t worry. We will be
perfectly
safe.”
Trader looked sick. “I feel so much better.”
 
 
A
low call from the darkness outside his house brought Paunch awake. He blinked, tried to pull his wits from the Dream where he’d been casting a net from his canoe, and sat up. To his surprise, the fire in the hearth was crackling; yellow tongues of flame illuminated the inside of his humble sapling dwelling.
Sitting demurely before the fire, Whippoorwill wore a plain brown pullover dress. Her long hair hung about her like a cape. She held a stick with which she prodded the fire, but showed no reaction to having heard a thing.
Did I Dream it?
But no, another call came from outside. “Paunch? Are you there?”
“Yes. Here. Who is it?” By Abba Mikko, he could see only darkness between the gaps in the door hanging. At that moment, Cherry Root, Amber Bead’s nephew, ducked through the door. He wore a thick blanket around his shoulders. His feet were wrapped in fabric against the chill. He puffed, like a man who was very cold.
“What time is it?” Paunch demanded.
“Middle of the night,” Cherry Root told him, panting and rubbing his arms. “I have a message from my uncle. He said to tell you: There’s news. Crabapple was caught. Smoke Shield tortured him. They know everything.”
A terrible emptiness opened in his gut. “Everything?”
“That’s what my uncle said. He told me to repeat every word so that I got it right. Oh, and he said one other thing.”
“What was that?”
“Run.”
Paunch closed his eyes against the sick sensation. “Whippoorwill, get your things. We must warn your mother. She and Berry must hide. They will search each of us out.”
“Why?” Cherry Root demanded. “What is this all about?”
“Your uncle didn’t tell you?”
“No, no one has told me anything.”
“Trust me, boy, you don’t want to know.” Paunch tried to make his sleep-foggy head work. “Does anyone know you came here?”
“Uncle swore me to secrecy. He just said to hurry.”
“And well you did.” He paused. “Did anyone see you?”
“No! It’s the middle of the night!”
“Then be home and in bed before morning. And don’t let anyone see you getting there, either.”
“But I’m cold. Can’t I just warm up before—”
“No. Go now, and quickly.” He stood, reaching for his breechcloth. “And for your sake, Cherry Root, if anyone asks, you were home asleep. All night. You know nothing about me. Do you understand? Your life may depend on it.”
“But what is this—”
“I
told
you. You don’t want to know!” He hurried to the baskets at the side of the room. Frantically, he stuffed his things in his pack. Any article that he might need. “By Abba Mikko’s breath, boy, believe me, you’ll live a longer, far happier life if you forget that this night ever happened. Now, go!”
He was fumbling, dropping things in his panic. Cherry Root’s exit went almost unnoticed. “Whippoorwill, you must pack, too.”

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