People of the Weeping Eye (North America's Forgotten Past) (55 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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With that, Born-of-Sun gave a knowing smile, turned, and trotted toward the palace ramp to prepare his ritual greeting of the sunrise.
“If I lose by a finger width,” Trader mused as he bent to pet Swimmer, “people will say it was a close decision, made by Power, between perfectly matched equals.”
 
 
M
orning Dew panted for breath, squeezing through the press of bodies like an eel through swamp grass. Didn’t these stupid Chikosi know anything? Scores were never made while being squeezed in the middle of a pile. The ones who scored were the fast ones on the outside. She broke free of the morass of pressing, kicking bodies and trotted backward, eyes on the mass of battling women.
“Go south!” Heron Wing called.
Morning Dew shot her a quick glance, understanding immediately. The south was unprotected, only a few Old Camp Moiety women there, and those the fat ones, out of breath, who didn’t like the notion of fighting for the ball.
Morning Dew turned, sprinting in that direction, her racquets clutched in her hands.
This is madness!
But then she had stared dumbfounded that morning when Heron Wing handed her two well-made stickball racquets crafted of fine hickory. “You do know how to use these, don’t you?” Heron Wing had asked, as if she already knew the answer.
I am Chahta, of the White Arrow Moiety. My mother’s blood runs in my veins,
Morning Dew had asserted in her head as she took the racquets.
What sort of matron would I be if I didn’t?
More to the fact, she was Sweet Smoke’s daughter; and no woman descended from her mother’s loins could help but be trained in the use of stickball racquets. From the time Morning Dew could walk her mother had insisted that she not only know the game, but excel. “You will be the matron one day. Part of earning the people’s respect is being among the best.”
As a child she had had hours of practice and had been a cherished player in her moiety’s girls’ team. The women had cheered at the knowledge that she would be joining their ranks after her emergence from the Women’s House.
And now, here I am, playing for the Chikosi
.
“You are a slave,” Heron Wing had said wryly, a secret amusement behind her expression. “Affiliated with our moiety. And, given the pitiful performance of our men this morning, we can use all the help we can get.” With that, Heron Wing had given Morning Dew’s body a careful appraisal. “I am hoping that you carry your clan’s legacy.” Then she had winked. “Let’s see if you can show us a thing or two.”
That morning, the Hickory Moiety men had lost, their defeat humiliating. It didn’t help that five of the goals had been made by Smoke Shield. Morning Dew might hate him, but she had to admire his ability on the field. The man had moved like a panther, catching, throwing, fighting through the press when the ball was dropped.
In the end, however, Hickory Moiety had lost by five. Not even Smoke Shield could prevent that. Sensing opportunity, the celebrants from Old Camp had bet their winnings and more on the women’s game that followed.
The pile of wagered goods had shocked even Morning Dew: stacks of hides, pottery, shells, blankets,
pieces of worked copper, baskets of corn and beans and squash, clothing, and slaves.
It could be worse,
she had thought.
I could be there, too.
Instead she was here, in the midst of the fray, the score tied evenly at fifteen. Only five stakes on each side remained to be taken down as the score built.
Morning Dew slowed, staring back over her shoulder. She felt good, having not run like this since the day of her marriage. Throughout the game she had steadfastly refused to look over at the squares, now hidden by the throng of people watching the game who shouted, Sang, and leapt as the women struggled, gasped, and slammed each other for the ball. Nevertheless, Morning Dow could feel the oppressive presence of the empty squares, and what she had lost there.
So why am I playing for the Chikosi?
Heron Wing, Violet Bead, and several others milled about the edge of the press. In the melee, someone screamed in pain. Morning Dew had lost track of the ones carried or limping off the field, some with broken arms or legs, others streaming blood.
Head butting and striking with the racquets brought penalties. Anything else, provided it wasn’t too blatant, was just part of the game. The referees consisted of ten old women on the sidelines. They walked back and forth, each with a feathered stick. Any foul would be called by them raising their sticks, pointing at the offender. Head butting was a nasty two-point penalty here, while a purposeful strike with a racquet lost one. Touching the ball with a hand meant surrendering the ball to the opposing team.
Vigilant as Morning Dew was, she almost missed the ball when a woman eased out of the melee, wobbling on her feet as if injured, only to straighten and toss the ball to Heron Wing, who now stood well clear. Heron Wing pivoted, finding Morning Dew right where she should be. The woman pulled back, using her entire body to cast.
Morning Dew tracked right, leapt, and felt the impact of the ball into the pocket of her racquet. She turned, sprinting east toward the goal. The defenders, mostly to the north, came charging after her. She did a quick evaluation of the fat women in her way, feinted right, dodged left, and shot away from the first, only to follow suit with the second.
From the edge of her souls, she could hear the frantic shouts of the crowd. Glancing around, she could see no other players wearing Hickory’s white feathers or short dresses.
Dancing and darting, she slipped through the few women in her path. Closing from the side came no less than fifteen women, seeking desperately to intercept her.
Morning Dew broke left, sprinting for a hole, her breath tearing at her throat. Four red-clad opponents blocked her way. Using a trick her mother had taught her, she let them rush, knowing they would try to knock her off her feet, retrieve the ball, and send it back downfield. Instead, Morning Dew slowed, trying to look bewildered, and at the last moment, tossed the ball high over their heads, well above their reach. They stopped in confusion, eyes on the soaring ball instead of her.
Her speed carried her between them, and she used her momentum to slam one of the distracted women into her companion as she burst past. She had the advantage, well ahead of the others, who had to reverse direction, locate the ball, and retrieve it. On the run, Morning Dew swept up the ball and ran full-tilt for the goal, which filled her vision, ever closer as she raced.
She could hear bare feet pounding behind her, set herself, and with years of practice to back her, flung the leather-hide ball through the goal.
The crowd exploded as she trotted to a stop, chest heaving for breath. Four points left. Winded, she walked slowly back as the jubilant Hickory crowd screamed. Old Camp hissed and shouted insults.
She was still panting as she crossed the center line to
the cheers of her teammates. “Two goals!” Heron Wing grinned. “I was right about you.”
“Why am I doing this?” Morning Dew gasped, hardly aware of the women who crowded around her.
“You are a matron,” Heron Wing said simply. “It is your calling.”
My calling?
She glanced up as one of the old women was handed the ball. The ranks formed up on either side, leaving the old woman to look back and forth between the sides.
“Rest up,” Violet Bead said, leaning toward her. “I have a feeling we’ll need you again.” Then the woman gave her a pat on the back.
Morning Dew watched the ball sail high into the air. She backpedaled, fully aware of the futility of scrambling for the ball amidst that milling confusion of bodies.
She took a position midway back, glancing at the others around her; those fleet of foot, and quick with the racquets. These were the skilled players, the ones who left the bigger women to battle for the ball. The more aggressive women liked close quarters. It allowed them to jab an elbow into a longtime rival’s breast or “accidentally” backhand an opponent in a move that didn’t seem a blatant strike.
More and more women crowded into the mess. Heron Wing had taken a position on the south, Violet Bead and several other good players filling the gaps, knocking shoulders with Old Camp opponents who were also circling the fringes.
Gods, how long was this going to last? Morning Dew was almost breathing easily again when a woman rose above the confusion, lifted by her friends. She gave a halfhearted toss of the ball to a red-dressed player, who flung it hard at another. The receiver missed what should have been an easy catch, and turned, racing two Hickory women for the rolling ball. In that instant, Morning Dew could tell which way it was going to go. One of the Hickory women trapped the ball with her
racquet, scooped it up, and slung it eastward. Morning Dew couldn’t see who caught it as the press of women broke apart like a school of fish, racing off to the north.
“Pace yourself,”
Mother’s warning voice reminded from the past.
“Think first; run yourself to death later.”
The ball would always come back.
She glanced at the other women around her, they, too, taking the opportunity to prop their hands on their knees, breathing deeply. Her job now was to wait, to be fresh if the ball came back her way. When it did, she needed to intercept and fling it eastward again. In the meantime, she checked the tight cloth binding she had wound around her chest, ensuring it wouldn’t slip down.
When the ball came it was rapid, the Old Camp women having established a line, passing one to another. Morning Dew turned, heading to intercept when she was hit from the side. She stumbled, tripped, and hit the ground hard, glaring back. The woman who hit her had also tumbled from the impact. As the woman scrambled to her feet, she yelled, “Sorry, but you’re too good!”
Morning Dew found her dropped racquets, climbed to her feet, and charged off, too late to make a difference as Old Camp scored again.
Even up.
Cursing under her breath, Morning Dew limped to the forming line.
“What happened?” Heron Wing asked.
“Got knocked down,” Morning Dew said through gritted teeth.
“Take it out on Old Camp,” another of the women replied. Some clacked their sticks together in approval.
The game seesawed, point for point. Twice Morning Dew got the ball, passing it neatly. Once a woman dropped it, only to have an Old Camp player scoop it, then sling it west, where a goal was scored. They were tied at nineteen apiece.
“Last point,” Heron Wing said darkly. She shot Morning Dew a look. “You rested?”
“I am.”
“Go long. If we tag you,
you make that point
!”
Morning Dew watched the woman cast a quick look at the piles of goods wagered on the game. They rose behind the stakeholders like a small mountain.
“Nothing about moiety honor?” Morning Dew asked.
“That, too,” Heron Wing asserted as the ball was tossed to open the final play. Morning Dew went south, skirting the massed struggle over the ball. She wasn’t even halfway to her position when Heron Wing’s shout brought her around. The ball was already in the air, arcing wide.
Morning Dew broke stride, racing, too far away to intercept. Nevertheless, she had one chance before the nearest Old Camp woman would be on it. From a dead run, she batted the ball, half a heartbeat ahead of her opponent’s frantic strike. Racing after the rolling ball, she managed to scoop it into the air, run under it, and snag it in a racquet pocket. Then she turned, sprinting for all she was worth. A quick glance over her shoulder let her know the entire mob was racing after her. Before the distant goal four women waited, racquets ready.
How do I do this?
Thoughts raced through her. If she could pass them, get within range, the point would be hers.
Why should I?
This was Hickory Moiety’s game. All of their possessions rested on her. She could throw wide, send the ball out of bounds, or she could bobble a pass, trip, do anything, and the defenders would scoop up the ball. From them it would pass down that most able line of players to the Old Camp goal.
Trip!
she thought. Yes, that would be best. For the coming moons, she alone would know what damage she had done to the Hickory Moiety. In her souls, she was plotting the best way of doing it. Simple: overrun, stumble, and fall. By holding the racquet just so, she would make the ball roll straight for her opponent. It would all
be over. She could limp convincingly crestfallen to Heron Wing, and there would be no censure.
She was smiling as she ran headlong for the braced woman in her way. Behind her, the pursuing wave of players was pounding ever closer.
At the last moment, she twisted, feinted, and dodged past the defender. Her thoughts had gone silent. Breath tearing at her lungs, she raced for the goal. Driven by something she didn’t understand, she bulled her way forward. The last two defenders had backed, just at the edge of range.
At the last moment, an instant before impact, she recognized the Old Camp woman who had knocked her down. Reversing the racquet, she put her weight behind a low cast, firing the ball between the woman’s legs. That momentary act confused her opponent, drawing her to stare stupidly between her legs. Morning Dew lowered a shoulder, driving into the woman, knocking her sprawling.

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