Read People of the Weeping Eye (North America's Forgotten Past) Online

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

People of the Weeping Eye (North America's Forgotten Past) (45 page)

BOOK: People of the Weeping Eye (North America's Forgotten Past)
9.62Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
“More than ten winters.”
“Why did you leave?”
“I had my reasons.”
“And I have mine. Why did you leave?”
Trader swallowed hard, his heart racing. He could see
the warning look on Old White’s face. “I killed a man,” Trader blurted.
“Ah, there.” The blind man made a tsking sound with his tongue. “So, you come from the far north, a Chikosi man, with goods to Trade, and a secret that causes your heart to hammer.”
Gods, does he see into my souls?
“Maybe I see more than you think,” the blind man told him. “A good reason not to tell lies.”
Trader’s loud gulp carried.
“We are concerned about the Contrary,” Old White said. “Just past the palisade gate, she lost her balance and fainted.”
“Sister Datura doesn’t train a person to their Powers; she only grants Visions of the potential. Has she no trainer?”
“At the time, we didn’t know she needed one.”
“This Chikosi Trader told you that, Seeker?”
“We had not encountered Trader at that time.”
“Then
you
sent her to Dance with Sister Datura?”
“A medicine woman did.”
“Who?”
“I knew her under the name Silver Loon.”
“Ah, the Cahokia witch.”
Old White evidently saw no need to reply.
“Curious, isn’t it, that she would simply help a Contrary to find her path, then set her free to blunder through the world?”
“There were complications.”
“Aren’t there always? Describe these … complications.”
“Black Tooth had designs on the Contrary. Unfortunately, none of them conducive to helping her with her Powers.”
“And Black Tooth is dead?”
“He is.”
“One shouldn’t treat Power with disrespect.”
“I agree.”
The blind man stood so still he might have been carved of wood, no expression on his ruined face. But Trader had a sneaking suspicion that his souls were in a frenzy behind that calm exterior.
“We wish no trouble,” Old White finally said. “Our business lies in the south.”
The long silence continued.
Trader had begun to fidget. Swimmer, reading his unease, had started to creep along on his belly, eyes fixed anxiously on the door.
You and me, dog.
“Tell me why you are going to Split Sky City, Seeker. Tell me plainly, under the Power of Trade that you claim you are bound by. This thing I would know.”
Old White took a deep breath. “Power is calling us there.”
“Did the Contrary tell you that?”
“No. I first heard the call from the
Katsinas.
They are a—”
“I know who the
Katsinas
are.”
Old White turned curious eyes on the blind man.
“Tell me, Seeker, after all that you have seen, do I really surprise you that much? Rainbow City is tied to the world as thoroughly as any other place. Traders still pass through here with great regularity, and have for years. My body does not let me travel, but other men, such as yourself, do; and they impart a great many things. Did the
Katsinas
tell you to find the Contrary?”
“No, they only told me to go home. That the way would be long, and I should follow the route I was required to.”
“Then where did you learn of the Contrary?”
“She called to my Dreams. At the time I was in the Caddo lands. To obtain more information, I stopped to ask the Forest Witch her opinion. She thought I should go north, though it was several seasons out of my way.”
“Now the Forest Witch appears in your story. You know a great many Powerful women, Seeker.”
“I have had an unusual life,” Old White said dryly.
The blind man asked, “Why does Power want you, a Contrary, a murderer, and the Chikosi war medicine in Split Sky City?”
“I can only guess at the reasons.”
“Tell me your guess.”
Old White straightened, evaluative eyes on the Kala Hi’ki. “I think we are called there to right an old wrong. For reasons I do not understand, Power is out of balance. We are being called there to restore the harmony.”
“Why, out of all the Dreamers,
Hopaye,
and chiefs available to it, would Power call you from across the world?”
Old White nodded as if he’d anticipated the question, a wistful smile on his lips. “Because I have seen the many ways and forms of human beings. I have lived at the edge of the ice with the Inuit. Among the Azteca I watched the construction of a great mound of human bodies. I have talked with the Chumash about Traders from across the western ocean, and seen the bearded white man among the Pequot. While with the Tequesta, I watched them hunt whales by driving stakes into their blowholes. My feet trod the ruins of the White Palaces in the land of the
Katsinas,
and these eyes saw the To’Odam canals filled with roaring floodwaters. Dead Cahokia has cast the shadow of its great mound upon my souls. I know the hearts of the poorest farmer and the greatest rulers.” He hesitated. “Something terrible is about to happen at Split Sky City. For reasons I will not share—even with you, great Kala Hi’ki—I must restore the harmony.” He paused, then added softly, “Power has called me home to die.”
Trader stared, aware that his mouth hung open.
Who is this man?
A runner dressed in a brown shirt appeared at the door, whispered to the war chief, and stepped out to wait.
The war chief motioned the man to stay and crossed
the room to whisper a terse question into the Kala Hi’ki’s ear.
The blind man nodded; then he turned his head toward Old White. “My chief is anxious to know how we should dispose of you.”
“We mean the Children of the Sun no harm,” Old White insisted.
“Meaning and doing are two different things.”
Trader felt fear sweat growing clammy on his skin. This could turn either way. The blind man’s face showed no emotion as he spoke rapidly in his tongue. The war chief barked a sharp reply, and turned, walking out of the temple.
“For the moment,” the blind man told them, “you shall live. But I warn you: Be very, very careful.”
 
 
S
moke Shield’s canoe floated on the calm backwater. He had chosen a partially silted-in channel of the Black Warrior River for this rendezvous. Stands of cane surrounded him, many of the stalks showing scars where they had been cut and carried off for building materials. People tried to keep from cutting all the cane, but year after year there were more people, and fewer canebrakes to go around.
A cold wind had blown down from the north, and his breath frosted before his mouth. He had wrapped his body in a warm beaverhide hunting shirt tanned with the hair on. Thick moccasins hugged his feet and calves. A bearskin cloak lay folded on the canoe floor; weapons were laid close at hand atop it. For this outing he had left his war shield behind. Should the high minko ask, Thin Branch was to tell him that his master had gone hunting as a means of working off his anger.
“You heard the Council.”
Flying Hawk’s words lingered like the bitter taste of juniper berries.
“You heard
me. I am your high minko. We will wait, learn what we can, and then act. In the meantime, I do
not
want you kicking the Albaamaha anthill.”
“Oh, no, Uncle,” he whispered to himself. “But you did once tell me that the Albaamo traitor and the mysterious Paunch were mine to hunt.”
Hunt him, Smoke Shield would. In that process, who knew what might be uncovered?
Memories of the Council session replayed between his souls. They had humiliated him. To be sure, it was done with the Council’s usual polite tact, but they had thrown his insight to the dogs. How soon they forget. The victory at White Arrow Town was a thing of rapidly fading memory.
“How did I get in this position?” He frowned at the gray day. Once given, the high minko’s word was final. That the Council had gained such authority over the years was a weakness. How could a people maintain their strength if they succumbed to the notions of six different chiefs in addition to the high minko? That led the people in six different directions. In this case, they were pandering to the Albaamaha—the same Albaamaha who were plotting to cut their throats.
He frowned up at the scudding clouds. Flying Hawk would not be high minko for much longer. The man was old. The years now weighed heavily on him. Where had the fiery Flying Hawk Mankiller that Smoke Shield had once known gone to? He remembered his uncle stamping furiously around the palace. And, in those days of rage, people listened, nodded, and obeyed.
I always wanted to be like him: Strong. Sure of myself. Well, now I am. But what has become of him?
Leadership had faltered in the days after the great fire. Flying Hawk and his brother had been little more than boys. A cousin, Fire Sky, had been made high minko. He had been chosen because he was weak, easily manipulated. It was during his rule that authority had shifted to the Council. Then Flying Hawk had killed his brother.
For years after he had finally come of age, the Council had rejected him for high minko. Only after a daring defense of Split Sky City, when Flying Hawk destroyed most of a Yuchi war party and captured their war chief, had Flying Hawk finally been considered for the position. That, and they were running out of old men in the Chief Clan to fill the position.
The Council didn’t want strong leaders sitting on the high minko’s chair. Only after offering assurances had Flying Hawk finally been installed as high minko. The Council had considered him as a short-term solution.
They wanted my brother.
The memory stung Smoke Shield. He reached up to finger the deep scar in the side of his face, remembering the blow that had come with such fury. How he had tried to duck, realizing too late he had pushed too far.
For four days he had lain, his souls fluttering away into nothingness before returning to his body. Then had come the slow healing. He chuckled hollowly. All his plotting, his carefully laid schemes, and in the end all it had taken was a blow to the head. When he finally came to, it was to inherit everything that was due him.
He considered Flying Hawk. Was the old man still on his side? The Council session left him wondering. Gods, what could his uncle be thinking? Why—in the wake of Smoke Shield’s success against White Arrow Town—would the old man turn against him now?
A low chirp sounded in the cane.
Smoke Shield cupped hands around his mouth and chirped back, sounding like a mockingbird.
A canoe edged around the bend, Fast Legs paddling slowly forward. “War Chief,” he greeted softly.
“Is all ready?”
“It is. I found a stupid Albaamo farmer to deliver the message. Red Awl was packing when I left. If I’m any judge, he’s already headed upriver.”
“Then we should position ourselves. We don’t want to miss him.”
“Yes, War Chief.” Fast Legs glanced back over his shoulder. “You’re sure he had something to do with the traitor?”
“I have my sources. I am looking forward to speaking with Red Awl. Being the
good
Albaamo that he is, he’ll welcome our company on the way upriver. Then, at Clay Bank Crossing, we order him to shore. Most of the hunting parties have trickled back from the high country. Sandstone Camp will be secluded enough for our little visit.”
Fast Legs glanced up at the sky. “This weather is closing in. We’ll have a little cold rain, then who knows? Snow?”
“That will be fine.” Smoke Shield reached for his paddle. “Come, we don’t want to miss the loyal Red Awl when he passes.”
They took positions at the mouth of the backwater.
Smoke Shield could feel the cold settling on the river; a worried breeze blew down from the north. Rippling waves marched across the swirling water.
“I would never have guessed Red Awl,” Fast Legs muttered, blowing into his hands to warm them.
“His rise among the Albaamaha wasn’t by accident. He’s a hothead, promising more than he can deliver.”
“I would have suspected Amber Bead before Red Awl.”
Smoke Shield smiled grimly. “My guess is that we were all supposed to. But think about it: Amber Bead is an old man. He’s been cowed for so long all he wants to do is keep the peace.”
“Shh!” Fast Legs raised a finger to his lips. “Here he comes.”
Smoke Shield craned his neck. Emerging around the downriver bend, a low dugout canoe could be seen. A man was paddling. But that was definitely a second figure in the bow.
“Who’s with him?” Smoke Shield asked.
“Chaos! He’s brought his wife.”
His wife? Yes, that’s undoubtedly who it was. Lotus Root was a pretty woman with long legs and a narrow waist. A quick spirit flashed in her dark eyes, and her smile was backed by straight white teeth. The ribald saying was that Red Awl had everything: status, prestige, the respect of both his people and the Sky Hand—and the saucy perfection of Lotus Root in his bed to boot! Smoke Shield remembered her well; perhaps her fiery spirit would provide what that limp-spirited Morning Dew had not.
BOOK: People of the Weeping Eye (North America's Forgotten Past)
9.62Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Just Crazy by Andy Griffiths
Nice & Naughty by Cat Johnson
Seb by Cheryl Douglas
Just Like Heaven by Barbara Bretton
Summer by Maguire, Eden
The Floating Island by Jules Verne
Did Not Finish by Simon Wood
Wasted Words by Staci Hart
Cold Blue by Gary Neece