People of the Weeping Eye (North America's Forgotten Past) (8 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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T
he old man—an Albaamaha elder known among his friends as Paunch—rested on a log and stared thoughtfully at the brown and somber day. The ridgetop where he sat high in the rolling hills west of the Black Warrior River bottoms was obscured by a thick forest that carpeted the uplands. Winter colors daubed the land in a mixture of browns, grays, and occasional greens where evergreens could be seen through the maze of trees. A somnolent breeze blew down from the north, its path marked by a faint whisper through naked branches and interlaced vines. Here and there worn gray sandstone outcrops peeked furtively from beneath a thick blanket of new-fallen leaves. They carpeted the uneven hilltop and made a resilient mat underfoot. Faintly spiced, the scent of wood, mold, and moisture carried heavily on the air.
The old decayed log beneath Paunch’s butt had been long softened by rot and was spotted with moss. It had been a huge black oak once, a virtual forest giant, and its fall had opened a small clearing in the trees that thrust up from the ridgetop. His single companion was a slender young woman who stood at the clearing’s edge, vacant eyes fixed on something far down the slope. He straightened his back and made a face as if in pain.
White hair had been pulled up into a bun atop the old man’s head. Star-patterned tattoos had faded, barely recognizable on his sunken cheeks. He clasped a furry bear robe around his shoulders, hair catching what gray light
managed to filter through such a cloud-packed sky. Beside his gnarly feet, two ceramic bowls rested on the leaf mat. The first was blacker than a cave’s heart; its polished slip had a deep luster, the finish so perfect that it reflected a dark mirror image of the world. Water covered the bottom of the luminous ebony pot, making the bowl’s dark recesses oddly bottomless. On the leaves beside it, its mate consisted of a simple burnished brown bowl, its sides decorated with the effigy of Tailed Man, prancing, his arms raised. The brown bowl contained a gray-white paste: a concoction of ground plant material and grease. The paste’s surface betrayed where two fingers had dipped lightly into the contents.
Paunch gave the slender girl a worried glance, then tilted his head back to stare upward. Skeletal trees seemed to finger the dull winter sky with their thin branches. Squirrel nests, mistletoe, and vines had captured clots of the fallen brown leaves. Grape and greenbriar wound up around the tree trunks like futile ropes. The effect was as if they were seeking to restrain the forest giants that reached so diligently for the sky.
The girl stood like a slim pole, her back to the old man. Her breasts were young and full; the rounded curve of her hips narrowed to long legs. The cape she clasped around her thin brown shoulders had been festooned with chevron patterns of yellow, blue, green, and red feathers. Belted around her waist, a white hemp-fiber skirt was decorated with a pattern of alternating ducks woven into the fabric. A rope belt clung to her waist; its intricately tied knot hung down the front to indicate her status as an unmarried virgin. Her feet were covered with fawnskin moccasins topped by dark beads crafted from freshwater clamshells.
She slowly lifted her eyes to the southeastern sky. There, through the pattern of branches, a plume of black smoke hung like a worm that inched off to the south. The thick winter forest combined with the curve of the hill to hide the source of the blaze.
“Alligator Town,” the old man said thoughtfully.
“Can you feel the flames?” She raised a hand, palm outward, as if to savor the sensation.
“No. But then, Whippoorwill, my powers were never like yours.” He glanced down at the two bowls resting by his feet. “You saw the fighting in your vision. The smoke comes from the right place.”
Whippoorwill’s long black hair shone as she nodded. “Surprise was complete. Many are dead. The Auntie People chiefs may succeed in feeding the survivors at Alligator Village, but bellies will be pinched this winter.”
“Only among
our
people,” the old man muttered sourly. “If there’s starvation, the Chikosi won’t feel it.”
Whippoorwill turned to study him. Her delicate and triangular face made her eyes look large. They glistened, dark and liquid, like midnight pools. Smudges of gray could be seen on her temples where bits of paste had flaked. She pursed her full lips. “What are you willing to sacrifice, Grandfather?”
“To be rid of them?” Paunch ran callused hands down his thin shins. “Anything.”
“How many would you starve?”
“Of my own people? None! I’d take it out of those filthy Chikosi mouths. I want to see their bellies gaunted up, their ribs sticking out like basket staves.”
“In order to win, our people must lose.” Whippoorwill’s gaze wavered as if unable to find its focus. She seemed to look through him, to see something beyond his world. “How long has it been, Grandfather? Are you sure that our people even care to be freed of the invader?”
Paunch narrowed his eyes as he struggled to see through the haze of branches to the distant smoke’s source. “They came in the time of my grandfather’s grandfather. The Albaamaha were spread up and down the Black Warrior River bottoms, living in villages, hunting, fishing, farming. Clans feuded with clans. Sometimes Pensacola raiders would come up the river and steal away women or children … take them off to
the gulf and make slaves of them. But villages protected their own.”
She listened intently, as if hearing the thoughts hidden behind his words.
“Their warriors came first,” he continued. “A large band of twenty canoes, they traveled down from the portage, down past the fall line. Two hundred warriors armed with shields, powerful bows, and deadly arrows—our people just watched them pass. No one would dare to challenge such a force. Especially unsophisticated hunter-farmers like we were.”
Paunch rubbed his lined forehead. “They knew where they were headed, of course. Their Traders had been through this country from top to bottom. They knew everything about us. We had sheltered them in our villages, told them of our petty squabbles, and shown them our best land. Among their Traders were farmers, men who knew corn and soil. They had picked out the bluffs a long time before those canoes came down the river.”
“I’ve seen these things.” Her expanded pupils made black pools. “The memories of my Ancestors cry within me. My eyes look through theirs. I feel their hearts beating within my own.”
“If they are showing you these things, then you know how the Chikosi established a camp on the heights that would become Split Sky City. You’ve seen how they erected their first fortifications and sent out parties of warriors to meet with our headmen. They promised us protection from raiders—an end to our petty feuds, and food for all in return for obedience. Many of our chiefs agreed and asked the bristling Mos’kogee warriors to intimidate their enemies and rivals. Those who refused stood no chance against such trained and disciplined fighters. Their farmsteads were burned, and the lucky ones were killed outright and left to rot in their fields. The unlucky were taken back to the bluffs. The tendons in their heels were severed so they couldn’t run away, and
they were put to work raising the high mounds even as more parties of Chikosi came traveling down the river.”
“Some of our people revolted,” she said in a breath-heavy voice.
Paunch shook his head. “We were like children shrieking at adults. They crushed any opposition. Those who obeyed without complaint were made headmen, given gifts and lands, and allowed to live in the shadow of Split Sky City.”
“Split Sky,” she said listlessly. “Even the name reeks of their arrogance.”
Old Paunch picked up the beautiful black pot at his feet and cradled it in his bony hands. He could see the curved image of trees and sky reflected in the polished mirror-black exterior. Water filled a third of it; his reflection mirrored in the dark depths of the bowl. His eyes appeared to be holes in his face, and he could feel tendrils of Power, as though the reflected image was from another world. “It is said that these Well Pots are doorways.”
“Oh, yes, Grandfather.”
“Does Sister Datura Dance in your blood now?” He shifted his gaze to the gray paste still visible on Whippoorwill’s temples. He had watched uneasily as she had scooped the mixture of ground datura seeds and bear grease from the brown pot and rubbed the concoction onto her temples. Sister Datura was a dangerous Spirit, one whose very touch could kill. Nevertheless, among those who courted Power, she granted the most awesome of visions.
“We are clinging to each other and swaying in time.” The girl’s eyes enlarged, as if to take in the entire world. She wrapped her arms tightly over her breasts, her hips moving slowly side to side. The virgin’s knot began to gyrate in a sensual manner.
“Take the Well Pot,” he coaxed gently, offering the bowl.
“Are you sure you wish me to do this? Seeing into the
worlds of Power is fraught with danger. The very act of looking can unleash terrible consequences. The balance between order and chaos will be shifted, changed. Once I have looked, there is no going back.”
“I must know.”
When Whippoorwill finally nodded, her face had gone pale, her eyes glassy with fear. Her arms trembled as he placed the bowl in her hands. He would remember how her long thin fingers embraced the smooth sides of the gleaming black pot. She seemed unbelievably fragile as she sank gracefully to her knees and gently laid the Well Pot on the cushioning mat of leaves. A low Song began deep in her throat, and she leaned over the bowl, looking down into its depths.
She froze, as if locked in place, her wide eyes staring down into the black water.
For long moments Paunch waited, his anxiety growing. Whippoorwill didn’t seem to breathe. Her hair swayed with the breeze, but even the pulse in her neck had ceased.
“Child?” he asked tentatively, only to reach for her in concern.
“Leave me!”
He drew back with a start, sure that the snapping voice had barked from beside him. He glanced back at the girl, fully aware that her lips had not moved.
Who called? From where?
But he and the girl were alone in the clearing.
Slowly, carefully, he retracted his hand and reseated himself on the rotted log to wait.
Hands of time passed. Daylight had begun to drain away. Still the old man waited. As many winters as he had lived, he knew how to conjure patience. Whippoorwill might have been a pretty statue, so motionlessly did she stare into the Well Pot.
The old man snapped his head around, catching the faintest of whispers by his right ear. Nothing. He reached out, fingering the empty air. Moments later he heard a
woman laughing, but when he turned only the lonely clearing met his eyes. Nervous, he began rubbing his hands together.
A disembodied scream curdled his blood. He bolted to his feet to peer this way and that. It had been so loud, so close.
“Where are you?” he whispered frantically.
Silence filled the forest as late-afternoon light filtered through the trees.
Close by a baby bawled in frustration and fear. He stiffened, back arched as he gaped.
Close, so very close. I should be able to reach out and touch the child.
No squalling infant lay on the flat leaf mat. He shook his head and clamped hands over his ears.
Someone laughed at him, the sound coming from down in the trees below. The sound pierced his flesh and echoed inside his skull. He turned, craning his neck as he peered through the trees.
“Where are you?” He lowered his head, cocking it to hear better.
“Right here, Grandfather,” Whippoorwill said behind him.
He whirled, seeing Whippoorwill, straight as a rod before the Well Pot, her eyes like shining lakes in the soft brown of her delicate face. The sounds stopped as if cut off, the world grown oddly silent.
“What … what have you seen?” His throat had gone oddly dry.
She fixed him with her eerie eyes. “The circle is coming full. Dreams are about to be shattered. I have seen murder and death. In the end, despite the blood, rape, and treachery, our schemes shall all come to naught. My sister is the key. She will Dance with Power and draw the monster into the coiled grasp of the Horned Serpent.”
Sister? She has no sister. What monster? And how is the Horned Serpent involved?
Paunch stared down into the gleaming Well Pot, trying to see into its depths.
From his angle, only a crescent of tree-furred sky reflected from the surface. “Then the Albaamaha shall be free?”

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