People of the Weeping Eye (North America's Forgotten Past) (35 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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The thought came to her:
Heron Wing is a respected leader.
When the women finally took a break and dished out the savory fare, Heron Wing said, “A bit of bread won’t hurt. It can keep the hunger pangs at bay while you starve yourself. Hold out your hand.”
Morning Dew remained motionless, unwilling to risk losing her nerve.
Heron Wing reached out, took her hand, and placed a piece of walnut-laced acorn bread in her palm. For long moments Morning Dew fought with herself.
In the end, rather than look like a fool, she lifted the bread to her mouth. After the first bite, she ate ravenously.
Just submit.
Heron Wing’s voice echoed over and over in the hollow between her souls.
 
 
S
moke Shield blinked awake. How long had he slept? He glanced at the dim light and climbed to his feet. Gods, every muscle ached. With his foot, he slid the chamber bowl out from beneath his bed and relieved himself. Leaving the bowl in the middle of the floor for Thin Branch to attend to, he wrapped an apron around his waist and pulled his hair back. Finally he tugged moccasins onto his feet and grabbed a neatly folded blanket from the pile Thin Branch had left him.
Stepping into the palace hallway, he made his way to the main room with its hanging masks, trophy skulls, and the great hand-eye carving. A fire burned in the hearth, and Flying Hawk sat atop his three-legged chair. He was listening to a scout give his report. Seeing Smoke Shield, the high minko motioned him over and dismissed the man.
“You slept well?”
“I did. What time is it?”
“Late afternoon, I’m afraid. I’m surprised you’re up this early.” The high minko’s keen eyes hid a smile. “But then, I suppose you have things to see to?”
Smoke Shield deflected the question. “Who was that?”
“A scout. Freshly come from the Chahta lands where he’s been nosing around.”
“And?” A slow smile crept onto Smoke Shield’s face.
“Where are you off to?” Flying Hawk tried to distract him by pointing to the blanket.
“The river … and a bath. I smell of sweat and the tchkofa’s smoke. Then I’m ordering a fire kindled in my room and a meal delivered.” He paused, conjuring a confused look. “Oh, and I think there’s a slave that I need to inspect.”
“Drawing it out, aren’t you?” Flying Hawk asked as he stood from his stool. He winced, massaging his left knee, the one that pained him so often these days.
“The best things in life are taken slowly. I have waited a long time for this.”
“I’m sure you have.” He walked over to pick up a buffalo robe. “Mind if I accompany you? We need to talk. And not just about the scout’s report.”
“I am always honored, Uncle.”
Together they walked out into the day. Thin Branch was sitting in the sunlight, one of Smoke Shield’s copper pieces in his hands. The slave used a piece of cloth to polish the beaten metal. Seeing Smoke Shield, he leaped to his feet.
“My pot is full. Oh, and I would like a feast delivered to my room. I want a good fire, with a bed of coals. Make sure everything is in order and looking its best. Then, when you are sure I will be pleased, send for the slave.”
“Of course.” Thin Branch nodded, taking his work and hurrying inside.
Passing through the northern gate, Smoke Shield could see the long shadow cast by the great mound and high palace. It fell like a gloomy spear point across the north plaza and the steep-walled gully that cut to the east. Beyond it, the river looked cold and dark. The fields in the floodplain beyond lay brown and winter fallow. Wisps of blue smoke rose from the lonely Albaamaha farmhouses.
The view never ceased to astound him. From this height, Split Sky City seemed to dominate the entire world.
As they made their way down the long stairway, Flying Hawk said, “The scout tells me that the Chahta are in complete confusion. There is talk that they might abandon White Arrow Town completely. Some argue for immediate retaliation. To discourage that, I have sent additional scouts out with the orders that they are to be seen at places such as high points, or from across the river. Then they are to vanish, leaving the Chahta with the knowledge that we are watching, and any attack will be discovered the moment it’s launched. After the bloody nose they’ve just received, I don’t think they want to chance another.”
“What else are the Chahta saying?”
“Others are clamoring for a peace initiative. They would like to see some settlement reached whereby we leave them alone. I imagine that over the next moon they will extend feelers to see if we are amenable to such doings.”
“Are we?” He remembered the long Council session. His own clan leaders had sounded as fragmented as the Chahta appeared to be.
“That depends,” Flying Hawk mused as they stepped onto the plaza. “The third thing being bandied about by the Chahta is an alliance with either the Natchez or the Yuchi. Obviously they would prefer an alliance with the Natchez. That faction is hoping they can talk them into mustering enough warriors to seriously threaten us.”
“And again, what do you think?”
“I think the Great Serpent—the Natchez ruler—would be a fool to attempt any such thing. To seriously hurt us would take a large number of warriors. He would have to send this large war party all the way from the Father Water to attack us. They would need to capture one of our towns with its supplies intact just to keep such a large force fed. That attack would have to come as a complete surprise.”
Smoke Shield grunted. “Most improbable given that they’d have to send at least a couple of hundred warriors. Moving such a large party of men quietly and quickly would be very difficult.”
“And if they didn’t succeed,” Flying Hawk continued, “warriors would get strung out on the trails, making them easy prey for an ambush. No, I think the risks are too high, and the Great Serpent knows them full well. When it comes right down to it, why would he wish to involve himself in a war with us? We’ve offered no threat, no reason for him to pick a fight with us.”
“I agree. I also don’t think he’d want to weaken his towns by stripping them of warriors. Assembling that large a force cannot be done in secret, and he has his own problems with the Tunica and Caddo. They’d take the opportunity to raid.”
“I think you’re right.” They passed the burial mound where, for generations, the Chief Clan had laid their dead. “Bless us, Ancestors,” Flying Hawk called, and touched his forehead.
At the end of the ridge they followed a winding path that descended the steep slope to the river. “What of the Council meeting?” Smoke Shield asked.
“What of it? You heard. Most want to take a wait-and-see approach to the Chahta. After thinking about it, I agree. What point is there to risk more of our warriors in raids? The Chahta are warned now, wary, and have scouts of their own out and about. We won’t catch them by surprise again; and trust me, they would make us pay if we sent even a large force into their territory.”
Smoke Shield shrugged as they descended to the confluence of a small creek with the river. “I have no need to prove anything else to the Chahta.”
“No,” Flying Hawk said dryly. “You have what you went for.” He paused, eyeing Smoke Shield as he stripped. “I just hope you don’t see some pretty Yuchi girl next week.”
“I don’t need any Yuchi girl.” Smoke Shield laid his
clothing atop his blanket; the chill immediately caressed his bare skin. He stepped into the water and lowered himself. Cold leeched into his muscles and bone; his scrotum tightened into a hard knot.
Flying Hawk laid his clothes to one side and splashed in, whooping as he settled in the water and began rubbing himself with handfuls of sand.
“What of the Albaamo traitor?” Smoke Shield asked.
“No one can find this Paunch. His entire family has vanished like smoke.” Flying Hawk scrubbed his face. “I’d give a copper gorget to find whoever warned him.”
“There is always his lineage. If we put the coals to some cousin’s balls, I bet he’d sing loud and hard. Then he’d tell us where Paunch went to, or at least who would know.”
Flying Hawk ducked his head, rinsed his face, and sputtered as he wiped the water away. “I considered that. Too much chance of spreading animosity. We’d get too many innocent … Correct that. We’d get too many who weren’t part of the plot. Doing so would just incite their relatives and drive more Albaamaha into the ranks of the dissatisfied.”
“We have to do something.”
“In time, War Chief. For the moment, the Albaamaha are satisfied. We have done what we are supposed to: We killed the people who killed their people. And, you did it in a most impressive manner. Any doubts the Albaamaha had about our strength, cunning, and prowess are laid to rest. The tishu minko has had warriors seeing to the redistribution of food to Alligator Town. Depending on the length of the winter, some bellies might be pinched, but we’ll do what we can.” He wagged a finger back and forth. “Even if it means emptying some of our own granaries to put food in Albaamaha bellies.”
“And the traitor?”
Flying Hawk studied him with keen eyes. “You want him, don’t you?”
Smoke Shield narrowed his eyes. “He could have gotten us all killed. He could have spoiled everything.”
“Ah. Then I give him to you. Find him and do what you will with him. But quietly, Smoke Shield. I said,
quietly
. You’re the clever plotter. I don’t care what you do. Just don’t set off the Albaamaha in the process.”
Smoke Shield grinned. Oh, this would be grand fun. “What do you think about this Red Awl? I’ve always had my suspicions about him.”
“Why not Amber Bead, if you’re going to look that close to the Council?” Flying Hawk wiped water from his face.
“I think he’s an old fool. He has been part of us for so long, I think he considers himself half Sky Hand. No, if I had to choose between the two of them, I’d suspect Red Awl.”
“Just be careful.”
“Always.” Smoke Shield cupped water in his hands to rinse the last of the sand away. Then he stood and sloshed to shore, using the blanket to dry himself. He fought shivers as he wrapped his clothing around him. How odd. He should be tingling with excitement. Instead, a calm assurance possessed him. Had that come with age? Or the knowledge that now, having won, he could take his time, anticipate every delightful joy that Morning Dew was going to provide him?
And then there was the matter of the traitor. That would take some thought. Hate it though Smoke Shield might, Uncle was right: It would have been far better to have kept Crabapple alive for the moment.
He watched Uncle dry and dress himself. Only when one saw him naked like this, shorn of his finery, did the old man seem frail. Skin sagged from muscles gone slack. The old man’s ribs could be seen, and his belly had sagged. Not like on some, but it hung out far enough to hide his genitals. The legs, once muscular, looked more like desiccated juniper, curving and angular.
Someday soon, I will be high minko.
And when he was, changes would be made. Certain members of the Council had served beyond their time. And yes, Uncle might counsel patience for the moment, but there was no reason Sky Hand chiefs couldn’t eventually sit atop Chahta mounds.
And I will appoint them.
What was hereditary leadership for, if not to use?
He turned, staring up the trail where yellowish sandy dirt was exposed in the cuts. How much time would Thin Branch need? From long experience the slave would see to the chamber pot, fire, and feast first. Only when he knew everything was just so would he send for the slave.
When she arrived, he would be waiting.
“War Chief,” Flying Hawk said after he draped the buffalo hide over his shoulders, “I was thinking. About the—”
“Uncle, if you will excuse me, I have to go.”
“I see.” Flying Hawk was watching him through knowing black eyes.
Smoke Shield turned. As quickly as the excitement built he was on his way, legs pumping as he started up the trail to the great mound.
He cast a glance back, aware that Uncle was still watching him. The old man’s sharp gaze had never wavered. He knew that look. It had always communicated disapproval.
S
unset cast dying light over Split Sky City. The palaces, high atop their mounds, glowed in the ruddy light. Smoke from a thousand fires rose into the still air, creating a haze. A chill had spilled over the city, rolling down from a cloud bank in the north. The high thunderheads had been painted with yellow, orange, and deeper purples.
Morning Dew was vaguely aware of this as she cast occasional glances out the doorway. She sat like a statue, thankful for every breath, every heartbeat that she was spared what everyone seemed to believe was inevitable. She had used that time to reflect.
On a full stomach, with her body clean and her long black hair combed to a sheen, a part of herself had returned. Once again she could think, and Heron Wing’s words that morning had taken root.
If I am not amusing, challenging, or difficult, he will grow tired of me.
She had known men like that. Seen them, full of joy with some new adventure, or love, and then watched that excitement fade as it grew commonplace. Her beautiful dress, the red fabric clean, the pearls replaced and the quillwork bright, lay folded atop one of the sleeping benches.
If only I had donned something else that morning.
But as Heron Wing had said, no one could reverse a river’s flow.
She waited until Wide Leaf stepped outside, then asked softly, “Why did you help me?”
Heron Wing—inspecting her son’s breechcloth for holes—raised an eyebrow. “Power ebbs and flows. As you have so recently discovered, fate can change in an instant. Once, years ago, it might have been me who was carried off during the worst of the Yuchi raids. I don’t know the ways of Power, of fate, and why things happen, but they do. I once knew a man who was the exact opposite of Smoke Shield. I try to live my life in a way he would approve of.” She smiled wryly. “And perhaps it is because I just don’t like my husband.”
“Thank you.” Her voice still sounded small.
“Morning Dew,” Heron Wing added, “you are a slave. But remember that you are also a matron. There are things you owe to yourself, to your clan, and your people. To be a good matron, a woman must use all the talents at her disposal. She must be responsible, first and foremost. Especially to herself. I have given you the best advice I could.”
“I have thought about that.”
“Good. I hope you have more courage and intelligence than your brother.” She raised her eyes, meeting Morning Dew’s across the low fire.
Morning Dew swallowed hard.
“Greetings,” a voice called from outside. “It is Thin Branch. I come with a request. The war chief would see his slave.”
Morning Dew gasped in spite of herself. Her heart began to pound.
“If you will wait, Thin Branch,” Heron Wing called, “she will be right with you.”
“Of course,” he said easily.
Heron Wing placed the piece of clothing to the side, standing and rounding the fire to pick up the dress. “It would be easier to dress if you were standing.” She said it so reasonably.
Morning Dew swallowed hard, climbing weakly to her feet. She fumbled at the brown dress as she pulled it off. Heron Wing exchanged it for her repaired red dress.
Morning Dew’s hands shook as she tried to pull it over her head. It took her two tries, but she tugged it down over her hips.
Heron Wing straightened it on her shoulders, then took a tortoiseshell comb and did her hair, fluffing it so that it spilled down her back, full and glistening.
“You are a matron, and a woman,” Heron Wing insisted. “Remember what I have told you.”
“Yes.”
“Go do what you must.”
Morning Dew nodded, hating the way her muscles trembled.
She stepped through the door, seeing Thin Branch standing with two muscular young men. He obviously expected to have to drag her again.
No. I will walk on my own.
She swore that, and somehow managed to walk past him with her head up, teeth clenched to keep her chin from quivering. She took the lead, heading toward the plaza, walking along its northern edge. Thin Branch and the guards followed close behind her. She could see the high palace, the last of the sunset having bled away to leave it purple in the light. By taking the route she picked, she could avoid the squares, could avoid Screaming Falcon’s glazed eyes.
Behind her, she could hear Thin Branch’s footsteps. It seemed but the blink of an eye before she stood at the foot of the long stairway. She hesitated, heart pounding, breath short in her lungs. When Thin Branch stepped up and placed a hand on her arm, she shook it off, and took the first step.
She had never climbed anything so high. Her mouth was dry, lungs half out of breath at the top, but she forced herself to step through the gate and into the yard. The guardian posts, with their eagle heads, seemed to glare at her. Above them, the palace rose to a high point. She started forward, trying to muster enough saliva to swallow.
At the great door, Thin Branch hurried past her to take
the lead. With knotted fists she followed him through the great room with its crackling fire. She barely registered the tripod seat with its cougarhide coverings, or the huge Seeing Hand with its single staring eye hanging on the back wall.
Thin Branch led her into a long hallway and stopped at the first door, calling, “War Chief. I bring your slave as requested.” Then he held the hanging aside.
From some unknown well, she spurred her muscles and managed to walk into the room. It was large, filled with pots, ornately carved boxes, and the trappings of an influential and highborn man. A crackling fire burned in the clay hearth in the center, bowls of food arranged beside it. Smoke Shield stood beside the bed built into the north wall. The white apron he wore was stainless; his hair, freshly washed, hung loose about his head. His face was unpainted, the tattoos around his eyes and the black bar across his cheeks denoting his status. Firelight cast a black shadow over the scar on the side of his face. He stepped over and seated himself cross-legged on folded deer hides near the fire. Two drinking gourds sat to either side of the bowls of food.
“Leave us,” Smoke Shield ordered. The door hanging dropped as the slave left.
For a long moment, Morning Dew waited, arms straight at her sides, her stomach tied like a terrible knot. She had locked her knees to keep from trembling, every muscle in her body tight.
“You are even more beautiful than I remember,” he said, getting slowly to his feet. He walked around her like a Trader inspecting a prize copper plate. She couldn’t stop herself from flinching as he fingered her hair.
“Relax,” he told her. “We have all the time in the world.”
Her hard swallow was audible.
“Do not be afraid.”
She made herself nod.
When he stepped around in front of her, a gleaming
curiosity lay behind his eyes. She could see the anticipation, the excitement he could barely control.
A voice in her head said,
This is a very dangerous man.
“Do—do you want me before or after you eat?”
He laughed. “Oh, I’ve waited long enough for this night. I think we can eat first.” He gestured. “Please, be seated.”
She sat too quickly, hurrying so her legs didn’t buckle. He laughed again, fully aware of her fear. He seemed to savor every moment as though feeding on her distress as surely as he would on the food before him.
She bowed her head, eyes on the floor.
“Hard, isn’t it?” he asked. “One moment you’re the great Screaming Falcon’s wife, matron of the White Arrow. The next you’re here. Slave to the man you wouldn’t even deign to look at, what? Six moons ago?”
“Things change,” she said simply.
“Oh, indeed they do.”
She closed her eyes, and her lungs felt starved. Unbidden, the memory of the slave women kneeling before her in White Arrow Town filled her souls. What had she sworn that day? That she would never become someone like that? She ground her teeth and made herself look up. “What do you want with me?”
He was toying with a deerbone stiletto, rolling it between his fingers. “That’s a good question. But it seems to me that I already have everything of yours. Your husband, your brother, your holy man. And,” he added, “you.”
She nodded, stilling the panic that ran like terrified mice through her bones. “Very well, what would you like me to do?”
Again he laughed. “You could tremble, or maybe scream. That would be entertaining.” He paused, and seemed to be thinking hard. “No, how about this: I want you to fall madly in love with me. I want you to worship me. Yes, that’s it. I want you to look at me with eyes that tell me I’m the only man in the world for you.”
She managed a shrug. “I’ll try to the best of my ability to do as you wish.”
Smoke Shield gave her a sidelong glance. “I’d expect more from a conquered matron. Seems to me you should be plotting revenge.” He lifted the stiletto. “Perhaps, in the throes of my passion, you could slide this between my ribs?”
She gave him a slight smile. “No, I don’t think so. It wouldn’t be prudent. Your people would burn me to death in retaliation.”
“So … what then?”
“I shall try and fulfill your wishes. That’s all. I will do whatever you tell me to.”
A cunning smile bent his lips. “When I lay with a woman, I want her to scream. I want to hear her moaning with passion.”
“Then I shall scream and moan.”
But not in passion for you, beast.
He dimpled his thumb with the stiletto tip. “I remember one time, I wanted a woman …” Moving like a panther, he slipped next to her. She tensed, feeling the point of the stiletto pressed at the angle of her jaw. “I had to keep a knife tip at her throat the entire time.”
She took a deep breath, flutters of fear at the pit of her stomach. “I am yours to take however you wish.”
He backed away, slapping her hard. The force of the blow knocked her onto her side. She blinked at the hot sting in her cheek. Gods, how she wished she could just cry, let herself sink onto the mat, and sob like a wretch. Somehow, she propped her arm under her, straightening to see the rage on his face. She clawed her hair back, turning her other cheek, waiting for his blow.
He chuckled, tossed the stiletto to the side, and crawled back to his place. “This is not the way I imagined it would be.”
“Tell me what to do.”
“Fill my bowl.”
She ladled cornmeal, roast rabbit, and some squash
as he pointed to the dishes. Then she sat, eyes focused on his muscular chest as he half lifted the wooden bowl. “Go ahead,” he said. “Eat.”
At his order, she helped herself to several of the bowls, taking small bites. “This is very good,” she told him.
“I ordered the best.”
“I thank you for sharing it.”
His probing stare carried its puzzlement. Finally he said, “You’re not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“That woman I saw last summer in White Arrow Town.”
“I am no longer that same woman.”
“So, who are you?”
“Your slave.”
“Please look into my eyes when I’m talking to you.”
“Is that better?” The effect was like looking into the eyes of a lustful cougar. After the first moments, she began to see the thoughts racing there.
He asked, “Tell me, how do you think your husband is going to die on the square?”
She knotted her fists, saw his smile at her discomfort, and made herself relax. “He will die well. He’s a strong man, and will do everything he can to make sure you know it as you burn, beat, and cut him.” Gods, how could she say this so matter-of-factly? “He knows what is coming, and will make it a contest between you and him.”
He reached under his bed, withdrawing a long slender object the length of his arm. A narrow sleeve of weasel hide encased a slim stone sword. Smoke Shield held it up, inspecting it in the light. “Only the finest flint knappers can make these. Do you know what it is?”

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