Lightning Shell--A People of Cahokia Novel, page 31
“Us?”
“She didn’t get to where she is now by being anyone’s fool. Nor did I. The original plan didn’t work, Keeper. You weren’t able to subdue Columella. Things deteriorated. Fell apart. In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re stalemated. For a time, Horned Serpent House tipped the balance in our favor, but that advantage is gone.”
“For the time being.” He gave her a bland smile.
If she read anything else into it, she gave no hint, saying, “Surely your warriors are capable of guarding an old woman’s palace. If you think they can’t keep track of her, I can call on an entire squadron of—”
“My people can keep track of her,” Spotted Wrist snapped. Pus and blood! She hadn’t been talking to that thrice-accursed mentally addled Sun Wing, had she?
“Assuming you can keep them out of latrines,” she shot back. “Squadron Third Burnt Web’s little fiasco didn’t do us any favors. And that’s another reason to back off the tonka’tzi. It’s a way to relieve some of the festering resentment your warriors incited with that merry little hunt for a … what? A dirt farmer and a dog? From the moment you started searching for Blue Heron, you’ve looked like bumbling incompetents.”
“Don’t. You. Dare.” He jammed a trembling finger in her direction.
“Thought Blue Heron was dead,” she told him in an inflectionless voice. “You swore on it, and now you’re searching for her? Checking tattoos? Manhandling every elderly female you run across? So, what is it? Is Blue Heron alive or dead?”
He clamped his jaws, the smoldering anger brewing in his gut.
Cut Weasel stood to the side, hard at attention, his eyes still fixed on the back wall.
“Get out,” Spotted Wrist told her. “Now, Clan Matron. The last thing you want to do is pursue this conversation any further.”
She gave him a slight nod, touching her forehead in the process. Turning on her heel, she strode for the door and out into the night.
The only sound in his palace was the crackling of the fire as it burned into a pitch pocket in the wood.
After a time, Cut Weasel asked softly, “Keeper?”
“Not a word. Not one single pus-rotted word, First.”
Counter Moves
Red Bluff Town is our last scheduled stop. This is a Cahokian colony built atop a high terrace above the confluence of the River of Ducks and the Tenasee.
One of the first Cahokian colonies, it was established back when Morning Star’s Spirit inhabited my grandfather’s body. A war leader by the name of Red Tooth had quarreled with the then tonka’tzi and in his pique had asked Morning Star’s blessing to take a band of warriors and farmers to find a place of their own. Said that in doing so, they would pay homage to the living god and spread his worship among the barbarians.
They had ended up here. And nothing about the settlement, in those early days, had been easy. Red Bluff was not named in honor of Red Tooth, but because of all the blood spilled in the establishment of the place and the subsequent conquest of the entire River of Ducks up to its headwaters.
Canebrake, while not daring to forbid me from accompanying him up the steep climb to the town, said we would be here no longer than it took to pick up the record mats, take High Chief Tanned Wolf’s report, and then hotfoot it back to Trout.
In this instance, I can agree with him. I no more want to be here, stared at by the locals, than I want to be questioned by every passing Trader, farmer, and fisherman. “What happened to your face?” Over and over again is a curdling bore. As if I owed these colonial dirt farmers any more recognition than I would have given a beetle toddling across moldy leaf mat.
Ever since I discovered that Piasa’s black shadow worm was slithering through Canebrake’s brain and souls, our relationship—never what you’d call amiable—has been tense.
I suspect the good squadron second has been reevaluating his dedication to duty in the days since he plucked me and Fire Light from the water below the Suck and Rage.
The warriors paddling the canoe are fully aware; their own distaste at sharing our company is more than ample.
“Second?” Split Shaft had asked once when they didn’t know I was relieving myself on the other side of a willow patch. “Why are you doing this? Couldn’t you just leave them at the next town?”
“Warrior, they are Four Winds Clan. You can see it yourself from their tattoos.” A pause. “I have a duty. One I am sworn to.”
“You know we’d all follow you anywhere, Second. But since we picked those two up, we’ve been having nightmares. Two Gills dreamed of gutted corpses lying on their backs, chests slit wide. And when he leaned over, he could see images in the blood that pooled inside.”
That had made me wonder if my own Dreams had strayed into the hapless Two Gills’ souls, or if he had divining Power of his own.
“Why do you think I’m pushing so hard?” Canebrake had told Split Shaft. “The only honorable way I can be rid of them is to get to Cahokia with as much speed as possible.”
“They don’t worry you?” Split Shaft had wondered.
To which Canebrake had replied, “When I look at High Chief Fire Light, I think I see half a human being. As if he’s hollow inside. But when I look into Lord Walking Smoke’s eyes?” He had paused, and by this time I could see him through the willow stems. The squadron second shivered as he added, “All I can tell you, warrior, is that something in my blood freezes.”
That brought a satisfied smile to my face. Knowing the black shadow worm had riddled the second’s souls with holes made it ever more satisfying. It meant that Piasa’s creature was worried.
As I wait, I sit atop a use-polished log that someone had dragged up for a seat at the edge of the landing. Behind me, sweet gum, overcap oak, and bald cypress stand tall where the marshy floodplain meets the River of Ducks. A great white heron wades in the pool and seems to ignore the racket made by the chirring insects and the endless birdsong. In the distance the tat-tat-tat-ta-tat of an ivory-billed woodpecker adds its own cadence.
I watch the brown waters of the River of Ducks, irritated by the roiling, sucking, swirling patterns that form and shift continuously on the surface. That’s the thing about rivers. They’re always so active. Moving, churning. Never still. It’s exhausting.
And that’s when a large twenty-man war canoe rounds the bend downriver and just above the confluence. I watch the lines of paddlers as they push the V-bowed craft up along the south bank, where the current is weakest. The River of Ducks is slow here in the confluence. They make good time.
One of the locals strolls down, meets the craft, and pulls it ashore as the paddlers in the bow leap out to slosh their way to shore. “Where from?” he asks.
“Cahokia!” the man in the rear calls cheerfully. “We have hides. Bison, tanned antelope, large deer hides. All from the Plains and distant Shining Mountains. Traded down the Northwestern River from upper river people.”
“We’ll Trade,” the local tells him.
At the arrival, Fire Light and a couple others mosey over.
“Of course,” the steersman chirps back, rising and stepping out with the others as they all struggle to pull the heavy vessel up onto the sand.
“So, you’re Deer Clan?” the local notes, seeing the Clan symbol on the bow.
The steersman cranes to follow the local’s pointing finger. “Oh, that. No. Snapping Turtle Clan, actually.” He is grinning from ear to ear. “We, uh, Traded for the canoe. And it was just at the right time. You might say it sort of floated into our laps.”
At this I rise, stroll over, and cross my arms. The steersman and his paddlers, mostly men with six women thrown in, are all dressed in Earth Clan’s garb, some with Snapping Turtle tattoos, others with Deer Clan, and a single Falcon Clan tattoo on one of the women’s faces. They give me a curious look, fixing on the burn scar that mars the left side of my face. Then they notice the Four Winds tattoo on my right and I can see the change in attitude. Two of the women touch their foreheads.
Ah! I am back in civilization.
“What news from Cahokia?” I ask. “We’ve been upriver. Haven’t heard anything since the departure of the expedition.”
“Hard times,” the steersman tells me, his eyes avoiding mine. “The Houses are in conflict. When we left, Lord Keeper Spotted Wrist had three squadrons and was going to march on Evening Star House.”
One of the women adds, “Until someone burned down the River House Palace and in the confusion pushed all the canoes he’d Traded for into the river one night.”
I watch several of them glance at the Deer Clan canoe. The others share knowing smiles, as though sharing an amused thought.
There is a story there, but I’m not sure it matters. What does matter is Columella.
“And what of the attack?” I ask. “Do you think Columella survives as Matron?”
“We heard it was hundreds of canoes that were set adrift that night,” one of the Deer Clan men tells me. “Columella had her squadrons called up as it was. Last we heard, she was fortifying Evening Star Town. Spotted Wrist sent an entire squadron downriver searching for canoes.” He barely hides a smile. “He’s not finding many.”
“And what about Morning Star?” I ask the question that burns under my scalp.
“According to the stories, he has remained in his palace since Spotted Wrist took the city,” the Falcon Clan woman answers. “North Star House was aligned with Horned Serpent House; River House was in chaos after their eternal fire was put out and the palace burned. And Morning Star House … well, no one knows what’s happening there.”
“So, the city was in chaos when you left?”
“Well, not exactly. Mostly it was just the high and mighty … um, well, the Houses, you know? Most of us, we just go on with our lives. And then, this opportunity happens.”
“And we have a warehouse full of hides that a cousin has just brought downriver from the high plains,” one of the men tells me.
“So, it seemed like a good time to go Trading,” another finishes.
I reel at the implications.
“What of Wind and Blue Heron?” I ask.
One of the men shrugs. “Tonka’tzi Wind, last we heard, she’s sort of Spotted Wrist’s prisoner. Some say it’s only until Green Chunkey takes her place. And Lady Blue Heron? Spotted Wrist burned her to death in her palace one night.”
Blue Heron is dead? The Four Winds Clan clawing at each other’s throats? Morning Star unseen?
The sensation is as if the earth shifts and slides beneath my feet. I turn to Fire Light and order, “Go. Find that worm-riddled fool, Canebrake. Tell him we’re leaving. Now. And if he’s not back within a finger of time, we’re taking Trout and leaving him behind.”
Fifty
The feast that night was a rather somber affair. A Caddo delegation from Yellow Star had been received with great ceremony. Black drink had been prepared and gifts bestowed by both sides.
As Four Winds Clan Matron, Rising Flame had been seated in her usual place of honor just to Morning Star’s right and in line with the eternal fire where it crackled and spat sparks. And for once, given the rain outside, the warmth was appreciated.
The feast was to welcome a high-ranking Caddo kadadokies, or subchief, who had just arrived at Cahokia. His name was Red Bat, and he was the personal representative of the kadohadacho—the supreme chief at Yellow Star Town, the Caddo capital. Accompanying him in the Caddo embassy were ten men and six women. In addition, the usual Cahokian nobility filled the room, packed closely as more of the lower-ranked Earth Clans chiefs and matrons crowded in to avoid the rain and gusty winds outside. The sleeping benches surrounding the walls were also lined, shoulder-to-shoulder, with various Four Winds nobles.
Outside of Morning Star’s traditional separation from the others by the eternal fire, the only bare space remaining on the floor was around Spotted Wrist and his little cluster of seated warriors. They didn’t just serve as protection, they provided a barrier that set him apart from the rest. A knot of isolation. A thorny island in the midst of Cahokian majesty. It seemed that no one wanted to be anywhere in his vicinity.
Rising Flame considered Spotted Wrist as she watched the interplay in the room. The Clan Keeper, resplendent in a spoonbill-feather cape, looked irritable at times, only to retreat into an expression of distaste that in turn faded to a knowing smile; he seemed to be completely aware, proud in fact, of the wary and often resentful stares he was getting from the Earth Clans nobles. The way they looked at him reminded her of the stories told by the Haudenosaunee up north: like the man might have had poisonous snakes in his hair.
Even the Caddo—despite their treatment as honored guests—were aware. While they’d no doubt been briefed on the political situation by their local ambassador, they, too, treated the Hero of the North with a careful reserve. Polite, they offered empty smiles, their dark eyes guarded.
But then, who knew what stories were being told up and down the river? That Cahokia wavered on the verge of civil war? That the Keeper would have invaded Evening Star Town? And talk of the lost canoes had probably reached the Gulf by now—if not some of the canoes themselves.
The irony wasn’t lost on Rising Flame. Her Clan Keeper was supposed to be the one who would report such information to her. Instead, she learned more from her conversations with the Earth Clans chiefs and Tonka’tzi Wind than she did from the man in charge of collecting such intelligence. Rather than gathering the news, he was at the center of it.
Along the side wall, Five Fists and his honor guard stood at perfect attention, firelight reflecting off their polished wood and leather armor. And behind them crouched the line of old Mallard’s recorders with their beads and strings, the messengers with their staffs, and servants, all waiting for the next command.
Morning Star, dressed immaculately, reclined on his panther hides atop the dais. His hair was done up in a severe bun that supported his crescent-shaped, arrow-studded headdress; the living god’s face had been painted white with black forked-eye designs. The familiar shell maskettes covered his ears. His beautiful Itza cloak hung from his shoulders, the white apron with its point dropping between his knees.
Reading Morning Star’s expression—never an easy task—was even harder tonight. Rising Flame had made a study, tracking where the living god kept his focus, trying to see the nuances of his expression through the thick paint. If she’d picked up on anything, it was the occasional tightening of the lips and eyes, the sort of pinched expression usually associated with a sudden pain. The expression always seemed to be accompanied by a tensing of his too-thin body, the knotting of his muscles.
Mostly the living god kept his gaze focused on Spotted Wrist; his half-lidded eyes hinted of something dark and brooding.
While four young women Danced to flute music in a line immediately before the Caddo, Rising Flame caught movement at the corner of her eye; the Red Wing slave woman, White Rain, entered through the open double doors. She removed a bark rain hat and slipped a soaked cloak from her shoulders, making sure not to drip on any of the seated nobility as she scanned the room.
Meeting Rising Flame’s eyes, she nodded, touched her forehead in respect, and uttering apologies, carefully picked her way across the floor. At Rising Flame’s side, she dropped to her knees, head bowed.
Rising Flame noted that Lady Sun Wing watched intently, whispering as she stroked the Tortoise Bundle in her lap with thin fingers.
“Matron,” she whispered, “forgive me. My master sends me with news.”
“You serve Tonka’tzi Wind these days, don’t you?”
“Yes, Clan Matron,” the Red Wing woman affirmed, barely above a whisper, eyes still averted. “I’m to tell you that the tonka’tzi has just been informed that Matron Robin Wing and Lady Feather Worn of Horned Serpent House are dead. The story will be circulated that they both offered themselves as sacrifices to the Sky World as appeasement to Power for the extinguishing of the Sacred Fire. After four days of mourning, Lady Snow Frond, Green Chunkey’s oldest daughter, will be named Matron.”
“Offered themselves as sacrifices?” Rising Flame wondered as she propped her chin on her fist. “Really?”
“I only report what the tonka’tzi—”
“Yes, yes. I understand.” Rising Flame arched an eyebrow, aware that from across the room Spotted Wrist was watching the interchange with curious eyes. “How accurate does the tonka’tzi consider this information?”
“Very. She wouldn’t have sent me here, to this place, at this time, if she had any doubts. She thought you should know as soon as possible.”
“Fascinating,” Rising Flame mused as she watched the Dancers step and pirouette before the Caddo embassy. “It would seem that High Chief Green Chunkey considers his position to be somewhat tenuous. Somehow, I imagine that Clan Matron Robin Wing and Lady Feather Worn—totally unaware of their magnanimity—discovered their devotion to piety by complete surprise. Even as their traumatized souls are rising to the Road of the Dead, they must be dazed and shocked not only to discover they’re dead, but that they ‘chose’ to be sacrificed.”
White Rain’s hooded gaze spoke eloquently enough. Wind must have said something similar.
But what did this mean?
Avoiding Spotted Wrist’s eyes, she still sensed his smoldering gaze as he watched from behind his small squad of warriors. Could feel his burning curiosity. White Rain was well known to him, Spotted Wrist having destroyed her lineage up at Red Wing Town. That White Rain had been Blue Heron’s slave, and now served Wind, would just add to his pique.
“Anything else?” Rising Flame asked.
“No, Matron.”
“Tell your master that I am most grateful, and if she should happen across any additional such discoveries, I will be additionally grateful. You may go.”
