People of the Thunder (North America's Forgotten Past) (37 page)

Heron Wing lowered her voice. “There was nothing you could have done.”

Morning Dew nodded, her heart pounding in her breast. “A woman came up beside me. She might have just popped out of thin air. She reached out, touched the square, and then she looked at me. Her eyes, by Breath Giver, Heron Wing, it was like seeing into another world, dark and endless.”

“Did you know her?”

“No. A complete stranger. And when she spoke, it was in Trade Tongue, with a hard accent. “She talked about their blood. The captives’, I think.” She shook her head, as if to rid it of the echoing. “The woman told me someone was coming.” She couldn’t stop wringing her hands. “I asked her who. She said . . . she said, ‘The final knot.’ And then this kind-eyed old man told me the woman had mistaken me for someone else. He
spoke to her, used some language I’ve never heard before, and led the woman away.”

“Did you know them?”

“No. I’ve never seen them before, and believe me, you’d know that woman. I’ve never seen eyes like that. She wore an oddly cut dress.”

“Foreigners? Traders perhaps?”

Morning Dew wrinkled her brow. “I don’t know. Perhaps.” She stilled her hammering heart. “I just hope I never have to see her again. Once in a lifetime is enough.”

And those accursed squares have already cost me enough!

Trader sat in the sunlight before their house. Dealing with the endless thoughts, memories, and worries was like a whirlwind in his breast. Swimmer, sensing his disquiet, kept insisting that they play stick.

Trader would pitch it out, Swimmer charging after it, an occasional bark of joy bursting from him. The dog then leapt on the prize, turning, tossing the stick about and chomping it. As he pranced back—tail whipping back and forth—a look of pure glee shone in his eyes. Spitting the stick out at Trader’s feet, Swimmer would stare up with a hawkish intensity until Trader did the whole thing over again.

In the days after their arrival, Trader had spent most of his waking moments protecting his precious goods from the rain. During that time, he had little chance to consider the implications of where he was. Then they had moved, packing their load to the house. Now, for the first time, he had absolutely nothing to do but sit. Paunch was hiding inside, fearful that some passerby would stop, point, and scream at the top of his lungs, “There’s the traitor!”

Swimmer flung the stick at Trader’s feet. Or at least came as close as a dog could to flinging it. Now he crouched down, eyes fixed intently, his tufted ears pricked in anticipation. Even his whiskers were quivering.

“Don’t you ever give up?”

Swimmer tensed, quivering, eyes agleam, anticipating the throw as Trader picked up the chewed, slobbery stick and drew his arm back. Then Trader tossed it, sending it end over end. The dog’s feet hammered the ground like a running buffalo.

“So, here I am,” he mused. “And it’s entirely unlike I expected.” Nevertheless, he could feel his heart thumping with anticipation. He needed only scent the smoke, cooking food, the tang of the latrines, and the pungent aroma of the forest drifting in over the palisade to know that he was back.

What a difference he felt from that night he’d fled in panic. While he couldn’t remember the exact route he’d taken, it had been just over there, cutting past the corner of the Skunk Clan mound.

He looked up toward the high minko’s palace. “There, but for my brother’s plotting, I would be sitting today.” Except there would be no preparations for war with the Yuchi.

My fault.
Why in the name of Power had he asked Born-of-Sun to send that messenger?

“How could I have known?” He glanced down as Swimmer dropped the stick on his foot.

What had changed since those heady days among the Yuchi? Some part of his courage had evaporated as he drew ever closer to Split Sky City.

A test? Perhaps. Power loved to test people, to see what they’d choose.

The problem was that nothing was working out like he’d planned. The idea had been to learn what the people were thinking, who was in charge, and then reveal himself in a grand show. He had imagined addressing the tchkofa, handing out wealth like some magical sorcerer, and seeing forgiveness in the eyes of his people. Instead, he was sitting in the sun, scared half to death at the prospect of facing anyone.

No, that was only part of it. The other part was knowing that Heron Wing was here, somewhere.

It’s been ten years. Why am I still terrified of seeing her?
But he was. If she gave him the wrong look, it would be like driving an arrow straight through his breast.

I couldn’t stand that.

He should have been obsessed with Two Petals. He had never known a woman like her. Each night, she slipped into his blankets as soon as Old White had gone to sleep. She seemed obsessed. He simply couldn’t understand her desperation to please him.
Insatiable.
He made a face, amazed at the arts she had developed to coax his exhausted shaft into yet another frantic joining. In the moon since they had first lain together, she had developed techniques that brought him to a frenzy of release. Last night he’d almost bitten his tongue in two to keep from waking the others with his cries.

But for the life of him, he couldn’t fathom why she did it. It had nothing to do with love. When he awakened in the morning, she acted as if nothing had happened. He was just Trader, somehow peripheral to her life. Then, that night, she would become something else, another person.

“He’s a good dog.”

Trader looked up to see Squash Blossom walking over with another dish in her hands.

“I pulled him out of the river. He was half-drowned, clinging desperately to a raft of driftwood.” He reached down, managing a single pat on the shoulder before Swimmer wiggled away, taking another position to alternately watch him and the stick.

“I’ve made squash bread,” she said, beaming proudly.

“I’m still stuffed from breakfast.” He sniffed, catching the odor of it over that of the city. “But I’d share some.”

Needing no other invitation, Squash Blossom seated herself in the Sky Hand fashion, knees together. She was a little heavy, probably because all she did was cook. Her husband, Trader had learned, was a stone carver who left early each morning and returned late. Maybe to keep from blowing up like an overinflated fish bladder? They had three children, two boys and a little girl who peeked shyly around the house at him.

Trader took a piece of the hot squash bread, ripping it from the loaf and juggling it to keep from burning his fingers. He blew on it for the space of several heartbeats, and managed to pop it into his mouth without frying his tongue.

“Excellent,” he said between chewing. “I can’t tell you the times on the river when I would have given anything for bread like this.”

“I thought all you Traders lived well,” she remarked, smiling with satisfaction.

“At times, yes. I’ve enjoyed some spectacular feasts. The ones among the Natchez are best. I think it’s because the Great Sun rules completely. He orders something and his people comply. If he says to empty the granaries for a feast, they do it. Right down to the last corn kernel.”

“You must have seen some remarkable things.”

“And some miserable ones, too.” He ripped off another piece of bread. “Days alone on the river, the weather foul, and at every campsite the wood is wet. Sometimes a meal is whatever is in a jar. I’ve stooped to chewing raw cornmeal and washing it down with cold water.”

“Is that why you’ve come here? For the food?”

“Well . . .” He took a bite of the bread, chewed, and tossed Swimmer’s stick. “That wasn’t the original plan, but I could live with it.”

“What was the original plan?”

“The Trade,” he said, swallowing. “Split Sky City is
away from the Father Water. Old White and I thought we’d give it a try. You see, in Trade, we look for special items.”

“What’s special in Split Sky City?”

“Woodwork for one.”

“And our stone carving?”

He could see her apparent interest. “Among the best. Especially paint palettes. The Sky Hand stonecutters have developed better saws for cutting the slabs.”

“And our stone statues?”

“If you promise to keep bringing me bread like this, I’ll let you know that as good as the Sky Hand work is, the Caddo are better.” He winced. “But it’s hard to beat the Ockmulgee. They do things with granite you’d have to see to believe.”

She nodded. “My husband says the same thing. About the Ockmulgee, that is.”

“I don’t know, though. If all the men march off to war, it may close the northern routes. We were thinking of heading back up through the Tenasee.”

She shrugged. “There’s Trade in the south.”

“We’d have to save some of our goods.”

She glanced at the door, lowering her voice. “That bald-headed man, is he mute?”

“Because he never speaks?”

She nodded.

“No. He’s my partner’s slave. We may Trade him off here.”

She whispered, “You could do better. Koasati make much better slaves.”

“That’s what he is,” Trader said, feeling relief. Since Koasati spoke the same language as the Albaamaha, when she did hear Paunch speak, it wouldn’t make her suspicious. “We got him downriver from some Pensacola.”

She considered that. Voice still low, she added, “I hope you didn’t give much for him.”

“You’d be surprised,” Trader said dryly. Then he asked, “What kind of slaves would be available here?”

“We have lots of different kinds. Our warriors are among the best. They can take captives from anywhere.”

“So I heard. I even heard that you captured some Chahta ones recently.”

“Someone killed the men. Walked up in the middle of a foggy night and stabbed them right in the squares.” She shook her head. “There was a terrible squabble about that.”

“I’m sure. What about the women?”

“They’re around. One was killed when she ran. Another had her tendons cut.”

“Was that Morning Dew?”

“Oh, no. You heard about her?”

“It was quite the topic of conversation among the Pensacola down at Bottle Town.”

“That’s a story, let me tell you. For a while she was Blood Skull’s, then she was Smoke Shield’s, and finally Heron Wing won her. Bet against her . . . What’s the matter? Something in the bread?”

Trader managed to swallow the mouthful, rasping. “No, bread’s fine.”

To cover himself, he bent down, pitching the stick so the woman couldn’t see his face. As carefully as possible, he asked, “So, some woman named Heron Wing has her?”

“Some woman?” Squash Blossom made a futile gesture. “She’s a clan leader among the Panther Clan. Her aunt is chief, the only female one we have. And a dwarf. You’ve seen dwarves?”

“There are more around than you would think.” He took a deep breath, trying to still his beating heart.

“Heron Wing is also married to the war chief. Though how any woman could put up with Smoke Shield is beyond me.”

Married? Well, what did you expect, you simple
idiot? That she’d wait, pining for you for the rest of her life?

“What’s wrong with Smoke Shield?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound as hoarse as he was.

“Personally—and you didn’t hear it from me—I think he’s the meanest man alive.”

Trader threw Swimmer’s stick. Unthinking, he pitched it with such power it sailed over the adjacent house roof. Swimmer fortunately lost sight of it, whirling, ears pricked, wondering where it went.

A distant clatter sounded. An angry voice shouted something obscene.

As they followed a very nervous Paunch through the growing gloom, Old White glanced at Trader. For reasons of his own, the younger man had insisted on taking his war club. Now, as they stepped out through the south gate, Trader seemed to relax, breathing easier.

“Are you all right?” Old White asked in Natchez.

“I’m just glad it’s a big city. Lots of people.”

“I’d really like to know what’s worrying you.” Old White had switched back to Trade Tongue.

“His heart,” Two Petals replied. “It’s the very beating of his heart. Thump. Thump. Thump. Bless the Spirits that I don’t fall in love. Makes a man lose his focus. Like watching the world through water.”