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

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BOOK: People of the Weeping Eye (North America's Forgotten Past)
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“We come under the Power of Trade, High Chief.” Old White spread his hands. He told the long and involved story of their travels. At times, Born-of-Sun nodded; at others, he might have been a motionless lump of wood, showing no reaction whatsoever. Old White ended, saying, “We would only pass through your country and Trade for portage to the Chaktaw lands.”
For a long time, Born-of-Sun studied the pipe he held. “You have heard of the trouble brewing down there?”
“We have,” Old White agreed. “It may well be that same trouble is what calls us to Split Sky City.”
Born-of-Sun ran a finger down the snake-shaped stem of his pipe. “Let me explain my dilemma. Once, in the time of my grandfather, the Chikosi caused us a great deal of trouble. We were at war constantly. Chikosi warriors, led by a Powerful war chief, caused many of my people to abandon their towns along the Tenasee River east of us. Some moved back north; others came here. Where our fields once grew corn, only weeds and brush flourished.
“My people believed that Power had deserted them. In response, we conducted a great purification here, at Rainbow City. For a whole moon, we fasted, purged, and cleansed our bodies and souls.
“Disaster befell the Chikosi when Power favored us. They sent their high minko to fight us. We captured him and his war medicine. For a time, we persevered. Then the Chikosi raised a new war chief, Bear Tooth. Power favored him in war, but not in life. Some years later their great palace burned in the night; and War Chief Bear Tooth died along with the Chief Clan matron. Their Power was broken, their leadership weakened. In the following years, we beat back the raiders and retook our lands. Once again our towns to the east flourished. Today, I rule those towns. They are my responsibility to
care for and protect. Now you want to take the same war medicine we captured back to them and restore the Power?” He paused, giving Old White a hard stare. “Give me one good reason why I would want the Chikosi returned to their former strength?”
Old White spread his hands helplessly. “Great Chief, I can only tell you that Power calls us there. A darkness has been growing in Split Sky City. Now we hear that they have delivered a serious blow to the Chaktaw. Even I do not know Power’s ultimate purpose in carrying the war medicine box and the Contrary to Split Sky City.”
“And you, Trader?” Born-of-Sun asked. “It is reported that you are Chief Clan, that you are in line to be high minko. Despite the fact that you like dogs, is there a reason I should allow you to assume the leadership?”
Trader ran his fingers through Swimmer’s fur. “I have no reason to wish for war with the Tsoyaha. It disrupts the Trade.” He glanced up. “I have seen many things during my years on the river, High Chief. Many people believe they can accumulate Power through war. Some do; most do not. I have watched nations eaten away by raids, their numbers dwindling until they are mere shadows of who they once where. Why should I wish that for my people?”
Born-of-Sun spread his fingers, as if letting something go. “We do not live on Trade alone. And no matter what a chief may want, his actions are determined by the will of his people. Are you trying to tell me that if the Chikosi Council demanded that you make war upon us, you would tell them no? Think about that. Your personal desires must come second to the politics of your people. Saying one thing—while you enjoy my hospitality, and surrounded by my warriors—will be far different than what you will say while facing a united Council. If they appoint you at all, they will be suspicious. Until you prove yourself, you will be in a weak position. I am told that you have been gone from them for ten summers. Yes, you have seen much, and learned
a great many lessons on the rivers. But they have never left the Black Warrior Valley. They have only your word on these things. Why should they trust a stranger’s counsel? What promises will you have to make to enjoy their support?”
Trader sighed. Somehow, he hadn’t quite thought that through. “I only know that Power wishes for us to go to Split Sky City.”
“Power comes in many forms,” Born-of-Sun said softly. “I would be much happier if you gave me your oath that you would take your Trade east along the river, or back north. I will even help you to take it west, to the Father Water. Could you give me such an oath?”
Old White slowly shook his head. “That option is denied us, High Chief. Even your Kala Hi’ki understands that. Whatever Power wishes us to do, it must be done at Split Sky City.”
“Then I am back at my impasse, Seeker. My responsibility is to the safety and security of my people. Somehow, I think I would be better served if you were hanging in the squares.” He considered them thoughtfully. “But I, too, serve the will of Power.” He frowned, lost in thought. “Your arrival here was auspicious. We are Tsoyaha, and you arrived just before the solstice. Perhaps it is best if we let Mother Sun decide.”
“How would this be done?” Old White asked warily.
“I will play Trader for your futures,” Born-of-Sun replied. “A game of chunkey, at midday on the solstice. We will play to twenty. And Mother Sun shall decide the merits of who should win. If I win, I will know that your journey to the Chikosi is not in the best interests of my people. Should you win, we will know that your actions there will not bring harm to us.”
“And the wager?” Trader asked.
“If you lose, you shall forfeit your Trade, the war medicine box—including that fabulous piece of copper I have managed with such difficulty to hear about—and your fates shall be mine to determine.” He arched an
eyebrow. “Trader? Outside of your possessions and lives, what will you wager for?”
Trader considered that. He had a talent for chunkey. But then those finely polished stones he had seen resting in the beautiful box with their associated lances suggested that Born-of-Sun was no novice, either. What offering would Power favor?
He reached over to give Swimmer a reassuring pat. “Great Chief, I think you are a wise and thoughtful leader, as well as a good man. I don’t think that humans can know the many ways of Power; it shifts and flows. The proud lords of Cahokia learned that.”
Trader stared thoughtfully at the beautiful carving on the rear wall. What wager would best suit his purposes? Wealth? He had that. He glanced at Born-of-Sun’s calculating expression. No, he needed something more, something Power would favor.
And then he knew.
Trader cleared his throat. “If I win, High Chief, this is what I want from you: You will send a messenger to Split Sky City, telling them of this great game of chunkey we played in the name of peace. Once the story is told, the messanger is to announce that Green Snake and the Seeker are returning home to their people to restore the balance of Power. Old White, the Contrary, and I will Trade fairly for labor in making the portage into the Horned Serpent River. And after that, you and I shall enjoy a friendship that lasts until the end of our lives. On that I stake my life and fortune.”
 
 
P
aunch stared at the collection of nuts he and Whippoorwill had looted out of a squirrel’s cache. He had cracked the shells using a crumbly piece of sandstone, then dug the meats out with a sharpened stick. That—along with shriveled grapes, some rosehips, and occasional
hickory, walnut, and beechnuts—made a thin stew. Earlier in the morning—using a bent branch for a throwing stick—he had missed a rabbit by a mere finger’s width.
They camped under the trees on a bluff overlooking the Horned Serpent River. The vantage was possible because a summer tornado had toppled the trees on the slope below. Deadfall made for an ample supply of firewood, the branches having cracked when the trees fell.
This day the sun shone, warming the forest for the first time since the snowfall. A breeze blew up from the south. It teased Whippoorwill’s long black hair as she sat on the Y of a fallen branch and watched him with those knowing dark eyes.
“It’s not as easy as you thought, is it?” she asked.
“What’s that?”
“Being free.”
He stared at her, seeing her worn dress, smudged with dirt, torn here and there.
“It beats hanging from a square.”
“You needed the wilderness, Grandfather. You have missed the reality of life.”
“Reality? Like that bunch of warriors who barely missed catching us yesterday?” He winced, remembering how close the Chahta had come. But for a handy log, nothing would have kept the keen-eyed warriors from seeing them.
“Power sent them past us,” Whippoorwill said easily. “The time isn’t right yet.”
“Time? Time for what?” He hated it when she did that.
“Time for us to meet them.”
“Them? Them who?”
“My sister comes,” she said reasonably.
He stared at her across the tiny fire. It put out just enough heat to boil the stew, not enough smoke to be seen, and the smell of it would be carried out over the valley in a way that wouldn’t alert any snooping warriors to their presence.
“Just once couldn’t you say straight out what you mean?”
“I always say it straight.” Her eyes seemed to expand. “You just aren’t ready to listen yet.”
“Try me.”
“When the time is right, I will.” She turned her head, looking to the north. “You are hearing with a clarity you have not had for a long time. Soon you will hear without letting your passions get in the way.”
He shot her a nervous glance. “My passions are just fine, thank you. I only hope that no one has placed any blame on Amber Bead.”
“He must be who he is.”
“As if he could be anyone else.”
“Oh, he could be. It’s just that he won’t.”
He grumbled to himself, wishing for a warm house and a bowl brimming to the top with squash, corn, and sunflowers simmering in a venison broth.
S
moke Shield dabbed at his lip and made a face. The bite was healing; the scab starting to itch and peel. He glanced around at the fourteen chiefs who sat around the tchkofa fire. Twice a year the chiefs made the journey from their towns along the river to Split Sky City: once in the Moon of Greening Corn for the Busk, and then again for the winter solstice. This was their opportunity to air grievances, to collaborate on the divisions of labor necessary for town projects, to hear the high minko’s plans for the next six moons, and most important, to settle disputes.
Smoke Shield found the proceedings boring.
Flying Hawk had the floor and had disposed of several of the topics he wished to address.
“Finally,” Flying Hawk said, “we must discuss the condition of the Split Sky palisade. Many of the pine logs are rotted out. We have six sections that are in need of replacement.”
Groans came from the surrounding chiefs.
Flying Hawk made a calming gesture with his hands. “Yes, I know. The stocks of mature pitch pine have been already harvested from the surrounding forests. One of the tishu minko’s clansmen who understands such things has made a survey of the local pitch pine. He thinks only one-third of the necessary poles can be obtained from the pine groves. The other two-thirds, over two hundred logs, must come from somewhere else.”
“Where is the best stand?” Wildcat, from Great Corn Town, asked.
“The tishu minko’s cousin thinks that a stand in the hills below Alligator Town is the best source. The trees need to be felled, limbed, and carried down to the river. He figures it will take a crew of twelve men per tree a half day to fell, limb, and slide the logs down to the river. Then they have to be floated upstream. With five hundred workers we could do this in three weeks from the harvesting of the trees to their delivery here.”
The chiefs looked uneasily at each other.
“Assuming Split Sky could send two hundred and fifty Albaamaha, each of the towns would have to contribute somewhere around ten to fifteen men each, depending upon their populations.”
Wildcat frowned. “High Minko, you must know, the Albaamaha are going to resist sending that many men away for hard labor. If we have problems with weather, it could turn into over a moon away from their families.”
“And we are already looking at food shortages,” War Squirrel, the new chief of Alligator Town, added. “I am the first one here to know the advantage of good fortifications given what we just suffered, but, High Minko, can the palisades last another year? If so, it would reduce the strain on both the food resources as well as the political situation with the Albaamaha.”
Smoke Shield cleared his throat and stepped forward before Flying Hawk could find some way to avoid recognizing him. “The Albaamaha do not need to be treated as if they are somehow special. We tell them to send workers, and they send them. Or else.” He looked at the chiefs, one by one. “Somewhere along the line we have forgotten that the Albaamaha serve us. They are not here to send messengers to the enemy, or kill our captives under our noses. We
tell
them what to do, and they do it.”
Sun Falcon Mankiller, chief of Bowl Town, stood. “War Chief, perhaps you are unaware of feelings among the Albaamaha. Even as I was leaving, rumors were flying
around the Albaamaha farmsteads in my territory. Stories that Red Awl—who comes from our town—was lured away, captured, and killed. I did not have time to discuss this with my Albaamaha chiefs to determine the source, but if there is any validity to it, I face a terrible problem.”
Sun Falcon looked around at the other chiefs. “Have any of you heard rumors of this? Does anyone here know of such a thing being done to Red Awl? Because if you do, and such a deed has indeed occurred, we must all take measures.” He looked at Flying Hawk. “High Minko, as my chief, do you have any information about Red Awl?”
Flying Hawk frowned, his gaze fixed on the four logs that fed the sacred fire. “I do not. While the Council has been concerned about the Albaamo courier we captured, they have ordered—with my blessing—that no one incite the Albaamaha. If anything happened to Red Awl, I swear on my Ancestors that I know nothing of it.”
“Thank the gods,” Sun Falcon said with a sigh. “Hopefully Red Awl will appear and give everyone an explanation of his absence.”
Smoke Shield stood stiffly, a tingling of unease at the base of his spine. “Pardon me, but do we
fear
the Albaamaha? Forgive me, wise chiefs, but who controls our warriors? And what if this is some Albaamaha plot? Red Awl has vanished into the hills, probably to consort with his friend Paunch, and we are to take the blame?” He spread his arms wide. “By doing so, are we not playing into some Albaamaha plot? Who knows? Maybe that was why my bow and arrows were stolen while I was traveling. Some Albaamo will turn up with a silly story. Perhaps it will be that I slew Red Awl, shot him with that very bow, or something equally insane. I say if the palisades need to be rebuilt, we place our demand for the workers to cut and transport the timber. Perhaps sweating Albaamaha with calluses on their hands will have less free time to dream up stories that do nothing but sow discontent.”
Wind Town, the northernmost Sky Hand settlement,
lay in the flats just downriver of the fall line. Black Buffalo, the town’s Hickory Moiety chief, stood, his hard eyes on Smoke Shield. “War Chief, it is easy for you, who live here surrounded by Split Sky City’s high walls, to make ultimatums. We, who survive on the borders, cannot be so brash. Across the mountains from me, the Yuchi are very real. My Albaamaha are my ears and feelers. We depend on each other, knowing that if we are attacked, we have only ourselves. True, I can send a runner and know that Sun Falcon will dispatch any warriors he can spare from Bowl Town; but help from Split Sky City will come too late. By the time a runner travels to you, you assemble warriors, and they run full-tilt up the trails, they will arrive a full two days later. Not to mention exhausted. I
need
my Albaamaha as much as they need me.” He looked at War Squirrel. “Some of us rely on that relationship. We have survived only because we work
for
each other.”
Calls of agreement came from the other chiefs.
“The Council understands this,” Flying Hawk told them. “That is why we have backed off from accusing the Albaamaha of anything, even with proof that an Albaamo runner was sent to warn White Arrow Town.” He raised his hands. “For the moment, you must trust us. We are listening, learning. If it does turn out that some Albaamaha plot is discovered, we will not act rashly.” He shot a warning look at Smoke Shield. “For the moment, if you could simply broach the topic of the palisade to your Albaamaha, let them consider it for the time being, I think that will be sufficient.”
Smoke Shield swallowed the angry retort that was building in his throat.
The old man is placating them!
His eyes narrowed.
There are ways. Even these whimpering chiefs can be made to understand the threat.
It was just a matter of creating the right circumstances.
 
 
T
wo Petals studied the empty cup she held and waited for the Spirits in the tea to take effect. She stood in the great room of the temple. The Kala Hi’ki—blind eyes wrapped in white cloth—seemed to be observing her, his ruined face expressionless. Outside in the plaza, a hundred drums were thumping while thousands of voices rose in Song to mark the first of the Yuchi solstice ceremonies. She swayed on her feet, as though the rhythm of the voices, the music, and the Dance outside were a physical presence pressing against her. The first soothing fingers of the tea began to massage her souls.
So many people. So many souls.
She tried to shut them out, to stop the movement. Her first impulse was to press her hands to her ears. Instead, she concentrated on the intricately carved relief of the two great rattlesnakes on the west wall. The daylight shining through the east-facing door illuminated the red, black, and yellow chevrons, and gleamed off of the polished copper eyes.
“What are you seeing?” the Kala Hi’ki asked.
“The snakes curled about each other.” She leaned over the pole bench, running her finger down the wood. “What are the black circles on the snakes’ sides?”
“Openings,” the Kala Hi’ki said. “The passages that allow Power to slip between this world and the next. Snakes are beings of great Power. They move without legs, and shed their skins. We treat them with utmost respect.
“You are from the north; you have different origins and beliefs than the Tsoyaha. People are like leaves. They come in different shapes in the north, south, east, and west. Among our peoples here in the southern lands, and in particular the Tsoyaha, the snake is a master of water. He calls the rain and coaxes water from the Underworld through springs. Those are the black openings represented by the dark ovals you see on the snakes’ sides. Then, finally, the waters flow together, following the Spirit of the great ancestral snakes that crawled over the earth just after it was Created by
He-Who-Sits-Above: the one we call Gohantoneh. When the earth was still wet mud, just after Crawfish brought land up from the bottom of the oceans, the great serpents crawled down from the heights. The land was like wet clay, and where the giant snakes crawled, they called the waters after them. It was in this way that the rivers were formed. Even today, when you look down on rivers from high places, you can see the Spirit of the serpents as the waters flow.”
She asked, “Why is there an opening between them? I mean, the way it’s cut out around their heads?”
“Ah, that is the passage from this world into the Underworld. Anyone journeying into the Underworld must pass between the snakes’ heads. There, they will be judged. The weak, or those who are not worthy, will be devoured. Only the greatest Dreamers can pass.”
“Have you done that?” she asked, aware that Old White had entered the room.
The Kala Hi’ki was silent for a moment. Then, in a low and reverent voice, he answered, “I have.”
From outside, a great shout could be heard, thousands of voices rising in the morning air. Two Petals turned toward the sound, feeling the weight of those countless souls pressing around her.
“The games have started,” Old White noted.
“How do you feel?” the Kala Hi’ki asked Two Petals. “Can you sense them?”
She closed her eyes, nodding, aware of the calming effect of the tea. It eased the incipient panic at the edges of her souls. The movement of the world had settled, slowing. Time seemed to weave around her.
“It is better.”
“Good. Now, I want you to concentrate. You are a great boulder in a slow-moving river. Let the world wash around you. We have practiced this; now you must actually do it. Let the world flow around you. Remember that you are the rock. All those thousands of people cannot wash away your sides. Instead, they part, moving
to either side, flowing past you. You are not of them, but separate, compact, and impenetrable.”
She nodded, falling into the mantra of his soothing voice.
I am a rock. The river of souls and time flows around me.
“Do not let them distract you.” The Kala Hi’ki’s voice came from a distance. “You can look at the water, observe it. But you are stone, impermeable, and water can only pass around you.”
She nodded.
“Are you a rock?” the Kala Hi’ki asked. “Are you solid, contained within yourself?”
She smiled, saying, “Yes.”
“Good, then let us go out. You will be a rock, and observe for me. You will tell me only what you see. For this moment you are my eyes. You are
only
my eyes. Eyes of stone. Eternal, strong, and impervious to the river of sounds. You will allow the souls of others to wash around you. The current of time passes, but it does not affect your great weight.”
She nodded, willing her souls to be stone.
“If you are stone, take my hand. Lead me to the doorway.”
She reached out, taking his maimed hand in hers. Walking carefully, she passed Old White and led the Kala Hi’ki to the doorway. The sunlight was bright, and she squinted as they stepped outside. The sound of the people smashed against her. She staggered at the weight of it.
I am a great stone. It washes around me.
She swallowed hard, looking inside, feeling herself grow solid like the rock he insisted that she be.
I am a rock.
She took a step. And then another. With each, she let the roar of the crowd wash around her, over her. In the blinding light she made her way to the palisade gate at the mound top.
BOOK: People of the Weeping Eye (North America's Forgotten Past)
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