People of the Morning Star (14 page)

“What happened to me?” she whispered softly.

Rides-the-Lightning’s blind eyes studied her thoughtfully. “You now belong to Piasa, Lady. His Power fills you, runs in your veins.” He cocked his head. “When you Danced with Sister Datura, you didn’t want to come back to this world, did you?”

She shook her head. “I went looking for my husband.”

“You have my sympathy, Lady.”

“Yes, everyone’s sorry that he’s dead.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

She shot him an irritated glance.

As if he could read her expression through those opaque orbs, he added, “Those who go in search of the dead without making the proper preparations and taking the appropriate precautions must accept the consequences.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You need to eat something, Night Shadow Star. Rest here for a while. I will send a runner to the Morning Star and tell him that your souls have returned to your body.”

“I’ll tell him myself,” she retorted, unnerved by his wary manner. “He possesses my brother’s body, after all.”

“He’s indeed your kind.” The old man hesitated. “After a fashion.”

She forced herself to stand, swayed, and almost lost her balance. Her stomach knotted, twisted in protest, but stilled when she pressed her hand to it.

“Thank you for your service, Venerated Elder.”

He humbly replied, “It was my honor … great lord.”

The way he said it left her unbalanced. Her vision wavered and turned runny, as if seeing the temple’s interior from underwater. A peculiar elation filled her, and she blinked, trying to get her old self back. But her souls seemed to squirm around inside her, and faint echoes of visions—they had to be Sister Datura’s fading embrace—flickered behind her eyes.

Remember … you don’t have much time.
The voice sounded so clear. Her gaze sought the source, finding only mute priests who watched her with wary eyes.

“
Remember what?
”
She turned, searching the room. “Who spoke?”

Rides-the-Lightning’s sightless eyes peered intently at her as he said, “No one spoke, Lady. You are hearing the Piasa’s Spirit voice. You need to stay here and rest. It will take time to come to terms with this new—”

“I have to go.”

“It is not wise.”

She hesitantly walked to the great wooden door. Two young priests, staring at her with mouths agape, muscled the door aside. She stepped out into the night, thankful that a layer of clouds blocked the moon and a fine rain fell.

As she descended the polished wooden stairs of the temple mound, the hollow voice repeated, “
Remember what I showed you
…”

An image flashed between her souls, a man bending over a bed, bits of movement that ended in a gushing of blood.

As if of their own volition, her legs carried her forward, toward the great plaza.

“Go. Look into his eyes, before it is too late.”

Nine

The warrior known as Cut String Mankiller huddled in the claustrophobic darkness of the large wooden box. He made a face and wondered if he’d ever have feeling in his legs again. They’d gone to sleep several hands of time past, and now ached numbly. He forced himself to endure.

He was a blooded and honored warrior, after all. Since childhood he’d trained his body to ignore discomfort. As a boy he’d been forced to run for an entire day under the blazing midsummer sun. Only at sunset had he been allowed to spit out the full mouth of water he’d carried since morning despite a killing thirst. Had he given in to the temptation to swallow even a sip of the precious liquid, the punishment would have been merciless. Father had made him break ice in winter, and to crouch in the frigid water until, on the verge of losing consciousness, he was pulled out, and made to run barefoot across the snow.

As the bravest and most honored warrior in his lineage, this final duty had fallen to him.

“The fate of our clan lies in your hands,”
Uncle had said, some deep-seated worry hidden behind his hard brown gaze. The old man had cocked his head.
“You can do this thing? Succeed where others would fail, even though it will mean your life?”

Of course he could. And should he succeed, the greatest glory would be heaped upon him by his noble lineage. No man except the one chosen as the home for Morning Star would have more prestige and status.

And I myself might be chosen for that greatest of all honors.

A possibility not without reason.

Assuming he somehow managed to survive.

The time to act had been thrust upon them. Word was that Morning Star had already decided that Cut String, and families of his lineage, would be chosen to lead and establish a new colony in the far north. Allegedly the Morning Sun had chosen him because of his war record, and the land in the north was now open after the defeat of Red Wing town and its dissidents.

As Cut String well knew from his battle walks in the north, establishment of a town, let alone a priesthood to convert the wild tribes, would be a hard-fought and chancy thing.

And, finally, he had no interest in spending the rest of his life in the bitter and cold north, waging constant war on wild men. Cahokia was more to his liking. Who’d trade an overgrown thicket of forest for the excitement, color, and energy of Cahokia?

The time had come.

He fought the ache of blood-starved muscles as he lifted the lid high enough to see out into the great room. The eternal fire burned brightly, two young men dozing before it. Their job was to ensure the fire never went out. Glancing this way and that, Cut String noted a few of the benches along the walls were occupied by sleepers.

Carefully, he maneuvered the heavy box lid to the side and rose from the cramped interior. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he straightened his back. Propping his arms on the box sides, he lifted himself, knives of agony shooting through his legs as circulation was reestablished.

He glanced down at the box in distaste. The thing had been a gift from some Southern chieftain, its sides and lid intricately carved in designs of Horned Serpent. Shell, precious stones, and copper had been inlaid into the relief.

Cut String endured while blood flowed into his deadened limbs. With the stoicism of decades, he waited out the cramps, and then—in case his legs failed him—stepped carefully from the box. Should he fail, and another need it in the future, he carefully replaced the blankets he’d stashed beneath the closest bench.

Closing the lid, he reached for his battered war club where it rested out of sight behind the box. Lastly, he retrieved the remarkable, finely flaked, chert knife Uncle had provided him. As long as his forearm, it resembled a giant claw, the concave interior edge so sharp it would shave hair.

On cat feet, he progressed across the intricately patterned mat floor. His heart began to pound. The faint gurgling of his empty stomach seemed like thunder in the quiet room. But no one stirred.

He could hear the wind as it whispered through the high thatch and whistled around the Spirit Guardians on the roof. Thankfully, the Powers that guarded this place would only notice another Four Winds Clansman. One who had passed this way many times before.

Reassured, he slipped to the Morning Star’s doorway. Placing his weapons on the floor, he carefully lifted the door to the side, before retrieving them.

He couldn’t help but smile as he studied the dim outline of the great wooden bed frame where it had been built into the wall. A wealth of buffalo and bear hides topped a thick goose-down mattress. The Morning Star lay on his side, the length of his body curled around a sleeping woman.

Poor thing. Her night with the god was about to end badly.

Perched on the balls of his feet, Cut String crept to the side of the bed. He flexed his muscles, toned by lifting and tossing stones. God though he might be, Morning Star would be no match. And not even gods woke from deep sleep with a clear mind.

Like rattlesnake, he struck, slamming his war club down on the sleeping woman’s head. The pop-snap of impact accompanied the familiar caving of bone and brains under the blow. He turned loose of the war club, leaving its stone ax head still buried in the woman’s skull.

As Morning Star jerked awake, Cut String was on him. Cupping his left hand under the man’s chin, Cut String twisted as he lifted, pulling the head up against his chest; the angle clamped the mouth shut. Unable to scream, Morning Star thrashed, tangled in the fine blankets. Cut String placed the ceremonial knife’s keenly curved blade around his victim’s throat.

“I’ll see you soon, Morning Star,” he crooned, savoring this last moment before the god’s rich red blood spurted over his blade and hands.

The impact was similar to someone slapping him on the back, and for an instant he didn’t understand. Agony, like a spear of liquid fire, burned through his breast. Another impact, another slice of sharp pain. Then a third.

The knife slipped from his fingers, welling wetness rising hot in his throat. Stunned, he tasted blood. His strength vanished, and he toppled sideways onto the floor. Morning Star twisted away, crying out in fear.

Cut String’s mouth filled with blood, and he coughed, blowing the spray over his arms and the bedding. He tried to crawl, but seemed pinned in place.

Shot! I am shot!

A hand reached out of the night, lifting his weak head. His last image was of Night Shadow Star’s beautiful face, her dark eyes sucking the very souls out of his body, as she said, “Your souls will scream forever now. I give you to Piasa! He’s waiting…”

*   *   *

Irritation mixed with fear as Blue Heron’s litter bearers carefully worked their way up the slick stairs of the great mound. Not only did the rain continue to fall, but it made the climb treacherous. She swallowed hard as the litter lurched, and wrapped her blanket more tightly around her old body.

In the name of bloody pus, why didn’t I insist on climbing on my own?

As to the purpose of the summons from the Morning Star? And at this time of night? Without so much as an explanation? That truly scared her half to death.

Nothing, absolutely nothing good would come of this.

Living in proximity to a god was fraught with enough danger—especially a god who’d participated in exploits as colorful as Morning Star’s. In the Beginning Times, he’d killed his own father, then hung the dead man’s hand in the sky to mark the path to the Land of the Dead. He’d played chunkey with the giants of the Underworld—and won their heads. Angering a being with a record like that wasn’t conducive to a long or happy life.

Gods, tell me it’s not Night Shadow Star.

She’d taken it on her own authority to send the woman to Rides-the-Lightning. If anyone could call her souls back and tie them to that young and vibrant body, he could.

But in doing so, had she usurped the god’s authority? Was that what this was all about?

I’m the Clan Keeper,
she declared to herself. Adding aloud, “He told me to deal with her. It was his order.”

As if that would save her if something had gone wrong.

Tell me she’s not dead … is she?

So what if in life—before the resurrection—the body the god now occupied had belonged to
Tonka’tzi
Red Warrior’s firstborn male child? As a youth Chunkey Boy, his brother Walking Smoke, and Night Shadow Star had been close. Some said too close. They had shared games, jokes, and secrets. Nor had Chunkey Boy and Walking Smoke been averse to leading her astray. They’d committed enough mischief and downright evil deeds, in addition to teaching her the art of the bow, to play chunkey, how to fish, hunt, and trap.

For a terrible couple of years Matron Wind secretly made offerings to the Spirit World in the desperate hope that Night Shadow Star wouldn’t end up a two-Spirit, a
berdache
—a woman who dedicated herself to the male arts, as was common when male souls had been born into a female body.

But several things had changed that. First, Chunkey Boy’s grandfather—home to the god since the original resurrection—had died. Though barely twenty, Chunkey Boy had been chosen as the new host. In the elaborate ritual, he had been prepared and offered. Chunkey Boy’s human souls had been consumed when the god accepted and inhabited his body.

Second, one of the first things the newly reincarnated Morning Star had ordered was the expulsion of Walking Smoke. To this day, despite her best efforts, Blue Heron hadn’t been able to ferret out the details behind Walking Smoke’s exile. A detachment of warriors had surrounded the young lord, escorted him to the canoe landing, and paddled off downriver. Neither they, nor Walking Smoke had ever returned, and Morning Star had forbidden discussion of the matter.

And what I’d give to know the reason behind that!

At the same time Night Shadow Star had had her first menstruation. She’d entered the women’s house as the
tonka’tzi
’s wild daughter. When she emerged it was as a different woman in a changed world. In that short time, Walking Smoke had been banished. She had seemed more settled, withdrawn, and had taken her adult responsibilities to task. Even voluntarily joined her father and Matron Wind in the complexity of ruling Cahokia.