People of the Weeping Eye (North America's Forgotten Past) (9 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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“We’ve always been free, Grandfather. That’s the divine joke.” She paused, pointing down the hill. “There, can’t you see them laughing?”
The old man turned, half-afraid he’d finally discover the source of the whispers and cries. Far down the slope, winding through the trees, he could make out a line of warriors trotting past in single file. They had painted their bodies in red and black, the colors of war. The sides of their heads were shaved, the tops roached high, forelocks beaded. Gleaming copper ear spools caught the light. All carried bows, but their quivers were mostly depleted of arrows. Wooden and wicker shields hung from their backs. They hurried along, some sporting blood-soaked bindings on their arms, heads, and legs, obviously wounded.
A string of captives followed, outlying guards prodding them with clubs and spears. The prisoners were bloodied, men looking downcast and afraid, women staring about in doe-eyed disbelief. All had been stripped naked, and looking close, Paunch could see that each of the men had been scalped of his forelock, the exposed section of skull blackened with dried blood. Lines of it had trickled down their faces.
“Will they see us up here?” Paunch asked.
She stepped up beside him, emptiness in her eyes. “They see nothing but their victory.”
At the end ran a final warrior. He was young, strong-limbed, and agile. A bulky wooden box was strapped to his back like an awkward pack. An ornate thing, its sides had been intricately carved and inlaid with white shell; exposed wood had been brightly painted, and the bas-relief images it sported were clad in beaten sheets of polished copper.
“He carries the war medicine box, Whippoorwill,” old
Paunch noted. “A great deal of responsibility for one so young. Is he their leader?”
The girl narrowed her eyes as she watched the young warrior pass and vanish into the trees. “It is well that we can only see as far as our Dreams, Grandfather. That young man drowns in visions of glory, status, and honors. In the eye of his souls, he is already standing atop the Chief Mound in White Arrow Town. His bed is filled by a warm and willing woman, and all bow before him. In his Dream he is aging, surrounded by his many children. Chiefs from all over seek his audience and advice. He wears a wealth of shell, copper, and fine white fabric adorned with feathers of every color. His enemies tremble.”
The old man glanced back at the black smoke plume hanging over Alligator Town. “But that is not to be?”
“There is no more tragic a fool than the one who lives only in his Dreams.” She had fixed her depthless eyes on him. “The Dream becomes obsession, doesn’t it? It Dances behind our eyelids at odd moments, and swirls like a current … only to carry us to certain doom.”
“So the young man is a fool?”
She smiled, flashing strong white teeth. “He is the single stick in the beaver’s dam. Remove him, and the whole structure will disintegrate into a flood of brown water that will wash everything before it.” She arched an eyebrow. “Can you swim, Grandfather?”
“Then, you see the end?”
Her eyes grew distant. “The fool has made his play. His blood will run hot and red across the ceremonial sword and stain his lover’s fingers. Power is stirring. Old blood cries out for revenge. Forgotten passions simmer. Brothers must be crossed before all will be made anew.” She glanced off to the north. “My sister brings the father of my child.”
He shook his head. Whipporwill’s mother was long dead. There would be no sister. “The father of your child?”
“He thinks he can outrun destiny. But the net is closing as Power draws the lines tight.”
“And then we will be free?”
Her only answer was a bitter peal of laughter.
O
ld White considered Two Petals as he paddled out into the Father Water’s lazy current. Her clansmen had literally tossed the bound woman into the bottom of his canoe. She looked like a war captive: dirty, wild-eyed, and disheveled. Was this bound and gagged creature really the woman he had been looking for? The Dream had only come in fragments: Often the images had been so ambiguous. What if she wasn’t the Contrary that the Forest Witch had spoken of so many moons ago? Indecision ate at him.
He used his paddle to correct his course, aware of the slanting of the western sun. This late in the year, the great river ran smoothly, its surface placid for the most part. The current had a green clarity. When the sun was high, he could see the bottom, much of it thick with moss and water plants. On occasion he’d spot a great paddlefish or sturgeon gliding along the bottom.
As Old White followed his bow downstream, he cast mild glances at the willows that lined the shore. It was possible that one of Fast Palm’s warriors might have followed, heart set on taking a parting shot by launching an arrow in his direction.
He took another swipe with his pointed paddle and turned his attention on the still-trussed female. She reminded him of some huge fish, a trophy landed and dropped amidst the various packs, robes, and baskets that lay in the bottom of his dugout canoe. Wrapped in her rope, the gag in her mouth, she looked pathetic. Her
eyes fixed on his; passion and fire, like gleaming dark coals, burned behind her thin face.
“Would you like that gag removed?” he asked.
She shook her head violently, mouth working as if she was trying to spit out the dirty cloth.
Old White leaned forward, grasped the cloth, and pulled it free.
She rocked her jaw back and forth, made a face, smacked her tongue, and spit dryly to one side. “Delightful. Wonderful taste. Like cooking goosefoot bread on a greased stone.” Her gaze returned to his. “Worthless bastard of a crawfish hunter. You’re a pus dripper for sure.”
He cocked his head as the canoe rocked in time with her attempts to find a more comfortable position. His vessel was made of bald cypress from the southern swamps. The hull was wider than the girl’s shoulders, so she’d sunk down between the gunwales.
“When did the Spirits come to you?” He took another cut with his paddle, just enough to follow the current’s line as it bore them toward a cottonwood-screened bend.
Her eyes slipped sideways. “I’ve never seen Spirits. Not even that one over there. I can’t see Deer Man out there standing on the water. It’s impossible.” She frowned, perplexed. “Why doesn’t he sink? He has hooves for feet.”
“Deer Man?” Old White knew the Spirit. He’d seen him drawn in shell art, depicted on hides and cave walls. “Is he the only one, or are there more?’
“They don’t exist,” she whispered. “Not like my husband. Golden … shining. Wings of feathered fire. Diamond scales, gleaming quartz on his back and thighs. Shhhh! Shhhh! The rattle shook. Thunderous in its silence. He smiled at me. Like this.” She grinned widely, exposing her strong white teeth in a caricature. “His eyes, oh sunshine, what worlds they were. Fire and snow, turning and twisting like rope from his very gaze. It wound around me. Tied me up. Like this rope.” She bent
her wrists so that her fingers could claw impotently at the rope.
“He was old? Young?”
“Young.” Her head bobbed in a frantic nod. “Very young.” The saucy grin returned. “Spiked me with his rod, I tell you. Shot his warm seed like liquid fire into my sheath. When I looked down, I could see it. You know, inside. It glowed like copper in the sunlight, spreading through my hips, warming my bones.”
Old White tilted his head as he studied the girl. “His face, was it human with a nose and mouth, or birdlike with a beak?”
“Human.” She nodded assertively. “Most definitely human. Did I tell you that he smiled? Like this.” She repeated the wide rictus that displayed her teeth.
“So you said.” He took another stroke with the paddle. “What did he tell you?”
The grin faded. “That I would follow the backward birds. Like those.” She jerked her chin upward. Old White followed the direction of her gaze, seeing a high-flying line of ducks winging south for the winter.
“Ah, yes, south.” Old White nodded sagaciously. “And what will you find there?”
She turned serious eyes on his. “Ashes. That’s what’s usually left after a fire burns itself out. Nothing but ashes … gray … cold … and fluffy.” She puffed out her cheeks, blowing hard, as though at a long-abandoned fire pit.
Old White swallowed hard, nodding. “The world is full of ashes, isn’t it?”
“And rot, too,” she added. “Lots of rot. It’s because we’re food for Mother Earth, you know. Without the dead to eat, she’d starve to death, grow ever thinner and thinner and thinner, and finally the serpents and water panthers and turtles and worms would wiggle around inside her like maggots inside an old acorn. The ground would be all hollow. You could pound your foot on it and it would boom like a great drum.”
“Did you really witch that chief?”
“He wanted nothing to do with me. There wasn’t even a shadow of lust in his souls … had no desire to slide his shaft into my sheath, I tell you. Blackness Danced ever so brightly on his heart. Thought me way too smart and clever to let him drive his spear into my loins. But I’m ugly, and I know it. Be sure you’ll catch me wiggling on some man’s shaft just because he fancies me too quick!” She rocked her head from side to side. “Power shifts, good and evil. I told him he’d enjoy his meal. May he digest in peace.”
Old White tilted his head back, sniffing through his nostrils, taking in the scent of the river, of the fall-yellowed willows and leaf mats beyond the shore. “You really disliked him, didn’t you?”
“Loved the man, actually,” she snorted. “I hope you decide to slip yourself into me. I’d look forward to that.”
“Have you had trouble with that?”
“I’m too ugly. Too skinny. Men never stare at my chest or hips. Not when I’m clean. No appeal here.”
He arched an eyebrow. Beneath the smudges, baggy clothing, and layers of rope, she seemed to have a delightfully proportioned body. Were her hair washed and combed to a shine, and her face sponged of the filth that encrusted it, he had no doubt that any man worth his spit would glance more than once in her direction. Even the way her very round hips were wiggling against the ropes had an effect. If she could stir him, old as he was, think what she’d do to a young man still full of his juices.
“I’ve no interest in your body, Two Petals. Power sent me to you.” Old White stroked with his paddle and used the blade to steer. “Were I to untie you, would you try and leap out of the boat?”
She turned her shining eyes on him. Her voice dropped, as if straining from the effort to focus. Her face contorted as if with great effort. “What do you want, old man? Why did you come for me?”
“I’m headed south,” he replied wearily. “I have
something to do before I die. Somehow, I think it’s time to see to the ashes.”
She nodded, eyes losing their focus, a frown dancing lightly across her forehead. “Turn me loose, I’ll be over the side in a heartbeat. Treat me kindly, and I’ll be gone like a shot arrow. Give me pain, and I’ll stick by you until you begin to think we’re joined in one body. I promise none of these things.”
Old White pursed his lips, lowering his chin onto his chest. “I have no idea what Power wants with the two of us. For all these years, my travels have been alone. Why I should need you is beyond me.”
“That’s all right, little boy, I know everything!” she chirped excitedly; then her expression dropped to one of confusion, the frown in her forehead deepening. “No. That’s not right. I
know
I know everything.”
“You’re sure you won’t run away first chance you get?”
“First chance? On my word, I’ll run like a deer.”
He chuckled under his breath, and balancing, leaned forward, untying the knots that bound her so tightly. “Just don’t capsize us when you wiggle free. The water’s cold, and I don’t swim so well these days.”
“I’ll do my best to tip us over, for sure,” she agreed solicitously as she began tossing off the binding ropes. “And if I went over the side, I’d flounder and sink like a rock.”
A faint smile bent his old lips. “We’ll make quite a pair, you and me.”
“Just us, just us,” she chortled, making a face as circulation began to pain parts of her limbs. “Boring, boring, boring. He’ll never find us now.”
He’ll never find us?
“Who? Who is he?”
She cried out as she rubbed the blood back into her arms. “That feels so good! Like the caress of a lover!”
“Who will never find us?” he demanded in frustration.
“No one,” she answered simply, as if it were all forgotten. She had shifted, gasping as she bent her legs and
arms. With a deep sigh, she flipped over onto her stomach atop his packs, and hung her head over the gunwale. “Look, I can see through the air!”
Old White lifted his eyes to the heavens, where yet another V could be seen high in the sky. This time the faint tooting sounds told him the migrants were blue herons headed south. “Why me?” he wondered.
“Because of the future,” Two Petals whispered. “It’s completely forgotten about you.”
 
 
I
t was said that in the beginning times only water and sky existed. Crawfish brought mud up from the depths to establish the first land. A great buzzard had flown over the muddy mass, its huge wings beating down the valleys and raising the mountains with each stroke. And then the great serpents emerged from the Underworld.
Snakes were water beings. They called the rains and clustered around springs, passing between the worlds. Like all waterways, the Horned Serpent River had been created when giant serpents crawled down from the heights, their bellies dredging the channels. To this day, the water flowed, its movements mimicking the motions of those great serpents. One need but watch the river to see the coiling of its muscular currents and catch the shimmering of waves that caught the sunlight like scales.
Over the years, the Horned Serpent’s channel had cut its southerly path through rolling hills covered with pine and hardwoods. Its tributaries flowed past broken beds of sandstone and limestone that grayed and weathered in the sun. Below the forested ridges and hills, terraces protruded into the river’s course, forming flat promontories around which sluggish swamp waters had to pass. It was to these farmlands overlooking the floodplain’s rich soils that the ancestors of the Chahta People had come.
Like all Mos’kogee people, the Chahta divided themselves into moieties: the White Arrow and Red Arrow. In their movement east from the Father Water, they had established holdings along the Pearl River before moving into the Horned River Valley. The hills and valleys of the Horned Serpent were occupied by scattered groups of hunters and farmers. These loosely related villagers called themselves the Biloxi.
Working feverishly, the Chahta had ringed the old-growth forest trees, allowing them to die. During the dry days of fall they set fire to the dead trees. The following spring they labored amidst the blackened stumps, hoeing, tilling the ash-rich soil, and planting fields of corn, beans, and squash. In smaller gardens they grew tobacco, mandrake, ground potatoes, datura, and rattlesnake master.
At first the local Biloxi people offered little resistance; their lives consisted of mostly hunting with some farming. By the time they realized the growing threat, it was too late. The Chahta were firmly entrenched, their disciplined professional warriors invincible when matched against loosely organized hunters. Dispossessed, all but a few of the Biloxi retreated south, leaving their ancestral lands behind rather than confront the sharp blade of Chahta warfare.
Over time the Red and White Arrow moieties built six major towns that controlled the most productive farmlands in the valley. White Arrow Town was the strongest and most influential of these. The town’s location was high enough above the river to be safe from the periodic spring and summer floods that swept the floodplain, yet still close enough that slaves could easily retrieve water for the town’s needs.

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