People of the Thunder (North America's Forgotten Past) (12 page)

The air inside the sweat lodge was close, dark, and hot with steam. Smoke Shield reached into the water bowl and cast droplets onto the hot rocks. After two days of hard play, his team was beginning to look like more than a bunch of overgrown boys with racquets. The passing was better and catches were made with grace instead of looking like a poor attempt at swatting mosquitoes.

Why couldn’t they have looked this good in the game?

The problem was that Fast Legs was still missing. Obviously he had hidden Red Awl’s body successfully. The Albaamaha would have combed that entire area as surreptitiously as possible at their first opportunity. Smoke Shield would have heard rumors of the wailing and funeral processions. At least Fast Legs had done that much. So, why . . . ?

“Smoke Shield?” his uncle’s stern voice called from outside. “Are you there?”

Smoke Shield made a face. How often in the past had he heard
that
tone in the old man’s voice? Now, what? Another lecture about how the wise always kept a little something in reserve in case Power didn’t favor them that day?

He sighed, collected himself, and stepped out into the cold day. It only took a glance to see that this was more than a gambling lecture. “What’s wrong?”

“Red Awl,” Flying Hawk said coldly. “Do you wish to become high minko someday, or just remain a buffoon for the rest of your life?”

He felt his heart begin to pound. “Do not call me a buffoon, Uncle. Buffoons don’t take towns like White Arrow without losing a warrior.”

“Fast Legs has been captured by the Albaamaha. They are holding him somewhere outside of Bowl Town. At least that’s Sun Falcon’s guess. It seems our Fast Legs was trying to kill Lotus Root. You remember her? The Albaamo woman who bit you on the lip while you were warming your ridiculous throbbing shaft inside her?”

Smoke Shield’s heart began to hammer.
Fast Legs, you stupid imbecile!

“I want this taken care of,” Flying Hawk said, glancing toward the Men’s House to see who was within earshot.

“I will call the tishu minko, have him cry for the warriors and—”

“No.” Flying Hawk gestured at the Men’s House. “How many of your stickball players are in there? From the sound of it, nearly all?”

“Perhaps twenty.”

“Take them. Now. Cross the river and start up the west bank. As you reach Basswood Creek, spread them out. You need to sweep the entire forest like a game drive. Find Fast Legs, get him back, and kill the people holding him. Do it efficiently, mercilessly, and quickly. As soon as you do, find a way of disposing of the bodies. Bury them, burn them, sink them in the river. I don’t care. But I don’t want any evidence left behind. Then, when you are done, you leave as many warriors as Sun Falcon requires in Bowl Town.”

“But I can’t—”

“You could start this mess; now you can finish it.” He leveled the mace. “And if you cannot do this thing,
and do it with the same brilliance you showed at White Arrow Town, I will tell the Council everything. How you ignored their will and spurned the direct orders of your high minko. Do not cross me this time, because by the blood of my brother, I will
ruin
you!”

Flying Hawk turned, stalking back toward the Great Mound.

Smoke Shield stood stupidly, a slow resentment beginning to burn in his chest. He stomped into the Men’s House, seeing his warriors lounging, smoking, dipping food from the pot of mashed beans and smilax root. “Get dressed. Get your weapons. We have work to do.”

“What work?” Greenbriar asked. “I was thinking we did pretty well today.”

“The Albaamaha are on the verge of revolt at Bowl Town. They have taken Fast Legs captive and are torturing him. I have just received our orders from the high minko. There is no time.”

He stared at their stunned faces, some holding food only halfway to their mouths.

“I said now,” he barked.
“Move!”

The camp was a good one, as was indicated by the broken pottery, the ash-stained soil, and the old fired rock from countless hearths before theirs. The canoes were pulled up above flood stage if it rained hard upstream. Most of the grass had been mashed flat in the months since it had gone dormant in fall. Firewood necessitated a bit of a hike into the forest, but could be had for the taking once past the scavenged area.

The waterway consisted of a narrow winding channel that was deeply cut into the yellow soil. Most of the route was overhung with trees, branches, and vines. But as the major link between the Tenasee and Horned
Serpent Rivers, enough traffic moved through that most of the offending logs, branches, and shrubbery had been cut away.

Trader looked back at the low hut they had constructed for the Contrary.

“You two men are different,” she had told them. “You have no need to fear a woman’s moon. But I do.”

That had been uttered no more than a moment after the last of the Yuchi had waved and vanished on the path leading back over the divide to the place where they had stashed their canoes.

The parting had almost been sad, the Yuchi lingering, offering advice, fingering the pieces of shell, bits of copper, and Oneota figurines they had been given for their service. Each would have been more than happy to have labored for days without compensation, just to have the honor of saying they had helped the Seeker, the Contrary, and Trader make the journey up to the winding headwater. Then they had worked like slaves to portage the heavy packs and canoes the hard day’s travel over the divide trail.

After making sure the canoes would float, Trader had led the way here, to this streamside camp. Once sure it would fit their needs, they had lashed the fallen walls of a hut together, and covered it for the Contrary’s privacy.

“So,” Trader asked Old White, “do you fear a woman’s moon?”

He shrugged. “Must be something to it. A great many people have ways to avoid it.” He paused. “On the other hand, I’ve been amongst folk who could care less. They never seem to sicken or be tainted by it. I have heard women say that they enjoy it. It’s their free time when they don’t need to fuss over babies, cook for the men, or do hard work. Instead they can sit inside, catch up on the news with friends, and do whatever makes them happy.”

Trader placed his pipe stem between his lips. “That may be. I think I’d worry though. Even if I didn’t believe it, I’d still be suspicious.”

“You were raised with the notion. It becomes part of the souls the way a log is part of a wall. No matter what, you will always believe that a woman’s Power is separate, distinct, and in opposition to a man’s. It always goes back to the white and the red. A man’s semen is white, the color of order and harmony. The woman’s blood is red, the color of chaos and creation. The two major Powers of life, always sawing back and forth in an attempt to find balance.”

“And you, Seeker? You were raised believing that, too?”

Old White smiled faintly. “Yes, even when among the peoples who don’t pay any attention to a woman’s monthly cycle, I still get the soul shakes.”

“How many peoples have you known? Did you keep track?”

“Too many to count,” he said. “And you get out along the western ocean, there’s a different people in every bend of the creek. Good country, too. Food everywhere, just for the picking up. Climate’s nice. No winter until you get up north. The mountains run right down and drown themselves in the sea. Beautiful land. People there live in towns like we do, but they fish, go out on the ocean and hunt whales, seals, walrus.”

“Whales I’ve heard of. What are the others?”

Trader sat rapt as Old White tried to explain, then drew the beasts in the dirt with a stick.

“They could be like our Spirit monsters.” Trader gestured with his pipe. “Perhaps that’s where some of our legends come from.”

“Perhaps,” Old White agreed. “But unlike your Horned Serpent, they don’t crave copper.” A pause. “Yes, I’ve seen some amazing things. Way up in the Western Mountains, I’ve crossed ridges with oyster shells cropping out
of the rocks. Way up there, higher than any mountain you’ve ever seen, and a half year’s walk from the ocean. Oyster shell. The peoples who live there were as baffled by an oyster as you are by a seal.”

“You’ve led a wonderful life, Seeker.”

The old man shrugged it off. “A lonely one at times.” He glanced down at his feet, wiggling them in his moccasins. “These have carried me farther than any living man. Some of it was glorious, some downright miserable.” He tapped his carved wooden pack box. “I keep my memories in here.”

“Do you do that with some incantation?”

Old White smiled wistfully. “No. And if anything ever happens to me, I entrust the box, and the memories, to you.”

Memories in a box? Trader sucked on his pipe. He didn’t think so. All those marvelous things were locked away in Old White’s head. And if he was right about going home to die, who would ever know the stories, sights, and places locked in the old man’s souls? No one, at least not until a person died and found Seeker’s ghost in the Land of the Dead. Even then there would be such a collection of souls around Seeker that it wouldn’t be worth the effort to fight the crowd in order to hear the stories.

“Have you given any thought to what we’re going to do when we reach the Chaktaw?” Old White used the Yuchi pronunciation of the name.

“Depend on the Power of Trade, I guess. Why wouldn’t they honor it?”

Old White pointed at Trader’s face. “You have the markings of a Chief Clan tattoo on your face.”

“It was never finished. I killed my brother before they could complete the job.”

“It still says Chief Clan.”

“I’m just Trader.” He stared at the fire. “If anyone
questions it, I’ll talk about my time among the Natchez. About Trade up the Father Water. It’s not like they can trick me by asking questions about local politics. I don’t even know who the clan chiefs are these days.”

Old White arched an eyebrow in acceptance. “What about when we reach home?”

“What were you thinking?”

Old White stared at the fire. “I was thinking we’d just be ordinary Traders. Camp out below the palisade, listen to the gossip. No one will know me.” He glanced at Trader. “They might not even know you. You told me you’re not an identical twin, and ten summers have surely changed you. The sun has left you darker; the weather has aged your face.” He paused. “Thing is, but for the tattoos, we’d pull it off smartly.”

“I’ll give some thought to explaining the tattoos. I’ve seen the like over most of the country. The cheek bar, the forked eye. As you noted so aptly, mine was never finished with the intricacies that make the Chief Clan tattoo so distinctive.”

“Learned the design from Cahokia,” Old White noted. “A long time ago. Maybe it won’t be an issue. Maybe tell them you got it among the Caddo.”

“I speak pretty good Caddo.”

“After we’re there for a while, if it seems wise, maybe we’ll have the tishu minko call the Council. By then, assuming that no one recognizes you, Bullfrog Pipe will have delivered his message. We’ll have a feel for how your message has taken root. Then, when the Council rituals are done, we’ll tell the entire story. We can give them something to talk about for a long time to come.”

They would indeed. He glanced at the war medicine box, and thought about the copper it contained.
We’ll both leave them talking.

“Split Sky City is a big place. It’ll be pretty easy to disappear into the crowd. If my return is the talk of the
place, we can take steps to avoid anyone recognizing me.” Trader shot a sidelong look at Old White. “You’re Chief Clan, too. What if someone recognizes you?”

“They won’t. It was a long time ago.”

“Why have I never heard of you?”

“Because I’m dead.” Old White smiled at Trader’s expression. “At least that’s what everybody thinks.” He glanced at his heavy fabric bag, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“But you never got tattooed.”

“Wasn’t there that long. I was just a boy.”

“Stolen?” Trader asked. “You were captured in a raid?”

Old White stretched. “I think I’ll turn in.”

“You’re not going to tell, are you?”

“No. Not yet.”

“Will you tell me why?”

Old White stared absently at his feet. “Part of the deal I made with Power once. That, I think, you can understand.” He glanced at Trader. “I learned some things in Rainbow City. I think you’re in for a surprise, too. But that’s another thing I think Power wants you to find out on your own.”

“What surprise?”

“Oh, you’ll find out when we get there.”