Child of the Dead (32 page)

He had located what he believed to be the village of the Horn People by a smudge of smoke. It hung over an area just above the river, in a setting that fit the description given him by Growers a day downstream. He then circled to come closer behind a low ridge, where he could watch from concealment.

Now he studied the setting … Yes, the large domed structures of a type he had not seen before … they fit the descriptions that he had heard. Each of those dwellings, the Growers had said, held several families … Maybe fifty people. Antelope was not certain he believed that. However, the domes did appear large enough.
Aiee, to live in the ground!
He shuddered at the thought.

He peered through the sumac thicket. It afforded thin concealment, but would allow him to watch, to get the feel of the village below. There was activity, though not much. The day was growing hot, and people who had been outside were now withdrawing into the earth lodges. Antelope thought about that. His own people would, on a day like this, lift the lodge covers and roll them up around the sides, to allow a breeze through the
dwelling. These Horn People seemed to go underground. It must be … yes, like a cave, a bit cooler.
Not worth the trade-off, though
, he told himself. To a man of the open prairie the thought of being trapped in an enclosed space was too much. He shuddered, and turned his thoughts to the concerns at hand.

It was not clear which of the lodges below might be the place where Mouse was kept. Actually, Antelope had no clear idea of what he was expecting. Some sign, some clue that would help him. It would do his heart good if he could determine which of the mounds below was the cage that held Gray Mouse. Then it might be that his spirit could reach her more easily.

Was she huddled there in the dark and smoky structure, crying to herself over her fate? He could not imagine Gray Mouse in such an attitude. She would probably meet whatever came with pride and dignity.
That
would be her way.

The last Growers he had visited had given him the lurid details of the Morning Star Ceremony. It had made his heart very heavy. The scaffold, erected over a period of several days, a pole at a time … A ritual before dawn, the maiden chosen to be the sacrifice tied to the rack … The sacred arrow that would pierce her heart and give her life to the Horn People’s god, Morning Star.

Antelope knew that he must stop this horror, or die trying. He had no plan, and the odds looked formidable. But there stuck in his mind something that a woman had said several days before. Something about “… she is your woman? … then there is no problem … it must be a maiden …”

In some way, could he convince the Horn People that Mouse was his wife? As he understood their ways, that would make Gray Mouse ineligible for their ghastly ceremony. But
how?

Evening was approaching when he noticed a flurry of activity around one of the mounded lodges below. Heavily armed warriors, painted ceremonially, took their places at each side of the entrance. Then a man dressed in a flowing cape stepped forward and stood waiting. From his garments and the deference that the others showed him, this appeared to be a holy man. Yes,
had not someone spoken of the Morning Star Priest? This must be the one.

Antelope thought for a moment of trying to creep down within range and see if he could kill the priest. The idea was immediately discarded. A childish thought, born of his desperation. But now someone emerged from the lodge … An old woman … Another, and then Gray Mouse stepped into the open and straightened to her full height. It was as he had imagined, tall and proud before her captors. She was dressed in fine buckskin garments, with lavish decoration. She was not tied. Somehow she had convinced them … Or possibly
they
had convinced
her
that there was no danger.

That thought made his blood run cold. He had wondered how it would be possible to carry a fighting, screaming girl up onto a scaffold and tie her into place. In some way, the Horn People must be able to persuade their victim to climb the scaffold to her death
willingly
. The horror of such a thing was almost overwhelming to him.

There were four of the black-garbed women surrounding Gray Mouse now. The thought struck him that maybe the time was
now
. But no, the ceremony was to be at dawn, it was said. There must be priestesses, women assigned to the needs of the captive. Yes, that seemed to fit. The group was walking through the village as if for a stroll. People from other lodges came out to watch. It did not seem to Antelope that this stroll was ceremonial in nature. It might be a prelude …
Could the ceremony be at dawn tomorrow?

He did not know, but the thought sent him running for his horse. He stripped the thong from its muzzle, swung to the saddle, and kicked the animal into a hard run. Straight into the village he rode. He was dimly aware that the priestesses were hurrying the captive inside. He was forced to concentrate, however, on the fact that armed warriors were pouring into his path, raising weapons in a very threatening manner. For a time, he expected to feel the stinging blows of arrows at any moment.

He pulled heavily on the reins, bringing the horse to
a sliding stop on its haunches. At the same time, he was raising his right palm in the hand sign gesture for peace. He still felt that a hail of arrows might be loosed at any time. His palms were clammy … The slightest misunderstanding could be fatal in the space of a heartbeat.

The sweating horse stood trembling, blowing heavily. Antelope sat, hand still raised. Now the priest came forward, the crowd of warriors parting to give him passage.

“Who are you?” the holy man demanded in signs. “Why are you here?”

“Honored One,” Antelope signed carefully, “I have traveled far, looking for my woman, who ran away. She is here, in that lodge!”

“You are mistaken,” signed the priest. “There is no woman here.”

“It is a mistake,” agreed Antelope, “but I have seen the woman, as I rode in. Let me tell you of her.”

“What is to tell?”

Some of the warriors were becoming restless. Antelope was very uneasy.

“Let me tell, Honored One. I am Antelope, of the Elk-dog People. This woman, I admit, is not of our people.”

“Then what is she to you?” demanded the other.

“My wife. Look, she is younger than I, no? I bought her … Her people are north, somewhere, maybe. I do not care. She wore a pendant, no? Red, yellow, and black? She left me and ran away. I was made to think she is trying to return to her people. But she belongs to me. I gave eleven horses for her.”

He could see that the priest was considering his story. Not completely accepting it, maybe. Antelope hoped that these Horn People were not too familiar with the customs of the People. Some of his story was exaggerated, and more like the customs of Head Splitters.

“Ask her!” he suggested. It could do no harm. It might be that Mouse would understand what was going on and agree …
Yes, it is as he says
. That would be good. If, however, she chose to deny what he had told them, it would still strengthen his story. An escaped
slave-wife, running away to return to her people, would be expected to lie.

An idea now seemed to occur to the priest. He turned and spoke to some of the others. Two warriors turned toward the lodge where Mouse was confined.

“They will bring the girl out,” he signed. “You will ask her.
In hand signs
.”

Antelope was not certain how this would go. Things were happening too quickly. There might be a little while when he would be able to say a few words, which must be chosen carefully.

Now the four priestesses were bringing out the captive, carefully surrounding her, and flanked by the warriors. Mouse looked him straight in the eye, and he was startled to see that she was haughty and aloof. There was recognition, no more. The little procession drew up before him and stopped.

“I have come to help you,” he said quickly. “You are my wife …”

“Silence!” signed the priest threateningly. “Use signs only!”

Antelope knew that this was a critical time. It must not go wrong.

“Mouse,” he signed, slowly and deliberately, “you must tell them you are my wife. Our lives depend on it.”

The priest looked annoyed, but did not interrupt.

Mouse stared at him for a moment, then signed calmly. “I will not lie for you, Antelope. These people have honored me.”

He had not expected anything like this. “These are not your people,” he blurted desperately, aloud.

“But they have made me a princess!”

“Only to kill you!”

The exchange happened quickly, so quickly that the warriors had no chance to stop them. But now they were separated, and the priest warned them, using signs.

“There will be silence! Signs only, or we will kill you both!”

Antelope nodded in understanding.

“It is as I said,” he pleaded in signs. “You must believe me.”
“You lie,” she signed bitterly. “You only want me for your bed.” Her eyes flashed defiance.

The thought occurred to him that this was going rather well now. If he could anger her, the reaction would be one which might convince her captors of her slave-wife status.

“Of course,” he signed indignantly. “Why else would I give eleven horses for such as you?”

He saw the anger rise, even through the confusion in her face. She did not understand, but this did not slow her rage.

“Son of a dung-eating dog,” she began aloud, “what …”

Now he held up a hand to stop her. “Hand signs only!” he warned.

There were chuckles among the onlookers, and he decided to push his luck. His charade seemed to be working. Only a little further reinforcement … He kneed his horse forward a step and leaned from the saddle toward her. The woman who stood between stepped aside to avoid the horse, and he now looked full into the eyes of the captive. There was still anger and defiance, but he thought that she had never looked so beautiful.

“Forgive me,” he whispered. He had taken his braided quirt from the saddle, and now struck her across the shoulders with it. There was probably very little sting through her buckskin dress, but it made a loud pop and she burst into tears.

“How could you?” she cried aloud. Among the People, for anyone to strike another was extremely rare.

“If you will not learn, the whip must teach you!” he signed, even as the warriors moved between them.

The priest spoke a few words and the escort removed Gray Mouse from the scene and back toward the earth lodge. Now the holy man turned back toward Antelope, his face dark.

“Enough!” he signed. “So it is true. You bought her. But important to Morning Star is only whether she has been with a man.”

The priest held up a hand. “Yet I do not know whether you tell truth,” he reminded. “The girl says
you lie. So, if you do, and she is a maiden, we kill you and keep the girl, for Morning Star to honor.”

Antelope’s heart sank.

“But how …?” he signed.

The priest nodded. “The women will tell us soon. They are examining her now.”

Y
ellow Basket had increasing doubts about the way things were going.
Maybe I am just getting old
, she thought as they hustled the Morning Star Princess back into the lodge. Yet she knew that it was more than that.

Now that she looked back, there must have been doubts in her mind as early as childhood. The first ceremony to Morning Star that she remembered clearly must have been when she was a girl of seven or eight summers. Oddly, she had not thought of that princess as a captive at all. She had been more impressed by the honor that was bestowed on the selected one. The finest of food and drink … the sequence of beautiful dresses, lavishly decorated. There were four women whose entire duty for a long time was to see to every slight need or desire of the Morning Star Princess. These women temporarily left their families to accept the honor of becoming the servants of the Princess.

As a little girl, Yellow Basket had longed to be a part of these celebrations. She envisioned herself as one of the priestesses, helping to manage the Morning Star lodge. All the occupants of the lodge, more than forty people in all, had been temporarily evicted. It was an honor, of course. They would stay with relatives in other lodges until after the ceremony.

Most of all, at the time of that first Morning Star Ceremony in her memory, Yellow Basket had envied
the Morning Star Princess. The young woman was of a neighboring tribe, a beautiful young woman with a proud demeanor and a friendly smile. She had smiled at Yellow Basket once, when the women had led her outside for the daily exercise. The little girl had been embarrassed by the attention, but thrilled to be noticed.
Maybe
, she thought,
when I grow up I can be as honored as this one
.

It had been confusing when the ceremony took place. Those events were, even now, a blurred memory. The beautiful girl, climbing the painted scaffold, the priest’s assistants tying her wrists to the poles …
Why is she tied, Mother …?
Hush, child
…
So she will not fall
.