People of the Thunder (North America's Forgotten Past) (15 page)

He called Swimmer to his side and considered the pack he wanted, letting his finger hover over the bag that hid the war medicine box as if in indecision, then pointing to another. After it was lifted out by a burley Chaktaw, they formed up, walking up the bank and into the trees. People followed along behind and on both sides, chattering excitedly.

Trader forced himself not to look back at his canoe with its hopefully guarded cargo.

I must be mad to trust a Contrary.

Just beyond the trees, where the high soils were better drained, they crossed into an open patch of fields dotted with small farmsteads. The bean and squash vines had already been burned in anticipation of planting season. The trail led across the floodplain to a palisaded town now silhouetted against the evening sky. Behind the walls, several high roofs could be seen, and the carved images of Woodpecker, Falcon, and Cougar rose from the center poles, darkly silhouetted against the sunset.

Trader followed the war chief through a narrow defensive entry to the town. Inside he found the usual clutter of steep-roofed houses, ramadas, standing mortars, and granaries. Men, women, and children accompanied by dogs flooded into the open spaces, surprised and delighted by the arrival of Traders. More than once Trader growled a command at Swimmer to keep him close. It was a constant chore since his dog wanted to pee on every passing post or wall.

They wound through the houses and stepped out onto a plaza, its clay surface swept clean. A stickball ground, chunkey court, and two ominous wooden squares lay between him and the palace atop its man-high mound. In the middle stood a single pole, representing the Tree of Life, its red and white spirals barely visible in the fading light.

They climbed the wooden steps that led up the low mound to the palace and passed through the palisade. Two guardian poles stood in the narrow courtyard and had been carved and painted to resemble snarling panthers. Great Cougar motioned them to wait as he stepped to the open doorway, calling, “Great Chief White Bear Mankiller, I come to announce the arrival of Traders.”

“Let them enter and be welcome,” a voice called from inside.

Trader followed Old White and Two Petals into
the warm interior. There a blazing fire in the middle of the room illuminated a man seated on a three-legged stool covered with the traditional cougar hides. He was old, white-haired, with a lined face. Upon his head rested a beaten copper headpiece formed in the shape of a falcon, its wings spread. A stone war club lay heavily atop his white apron, the latter arrayed so the point hung down between his knees. Necklaces of white shell beads draped his breast, and a bearskin cape was thrown back over his sagging shoulders.

The wall behind him was adorned with a panther relief. Real cougar teeth had been inset in the jaws, and claws reached out from the grasping paws. Copper inlay added to the effect, the entire thing meticulously carved.

Around the room, benches were set against the walls. Masterfully carved wooden boxes had been neatly stowed beneath them along with pottery and baskets. The matting on the floors was new, clean, and covered here and there with hides.

Old White stopped just before the fire, lifting his staff and calling out the traditional greetings before invoking the Power of Trade. Then he made introductions, and finally handed a bag of tobacco to the war chief, who in turn carried it to the chief on his stool.

“The Seeker?” White Bear said in amazement. “You are actually him?”

“I am, Great Chief.” Old White bowed.

“Spotted Serpent has told me of you. He says that you relate the most remarkable stories.”

Trader glanced to the side as the packs were deposited. People were filing in, taking places on the benches around them. Some, to Trader’s amusement, were scuffling, trying to get a better vantage. One look from Great Cougar was all it took to chasten them. At least until he turned his glance on others.

A muscular young man emerged carrying a heavy
stone pipe, also carved to represent a crouching panther. This he carefully placed on the matting before the chief; then the man inserted a long and ornately carved stem. The chief handed him the sack of tobacco, and the young man shook the leaf into the bowl in the animal’s back. Careful not to touch it with his fingers, he used a small wooden pestle to tamp the bowl. Next he lit it with a twig kept to the side for that purpose.

White Bear stepped down from his stool, took the stem in his mouth, and drew. As he exhaled he raised his head, Singing his prayer for health, Power, and good fortune.

Old White and Trader followed the ritual. Then, to everyone’s amazement, Two Petals walked to the pipe, took the stem, and blew with all her might. Burning tobacco erupted from the bowl, sending sparks and embers in a cascade.

The young man stared in horror before he came to his senses and began stamping the smoldering leaf out with his foot.

The silence was complete, everyone staring in disbelief.

“Thank you, Contrary,” Old White said smoothly. “Power has received your gift.”

White Bear’s mouth hung open, his eyes on Two Petals.

“Wait! This is
not
an offense to Power! Hear our words!” Trader cried, stepping forward. “Our apologies, Great Chief. She is Contrary, and follows the rules of that Power. I would have you understand that if you speak to her, anything she says will be backward. If she is happy, she will tell you she is sad. When hungry, she claims to be full. Should you find her speaking to empty space, it is to someone, something, that we in this world cannot see.”

“This is true?” White Bear asked. “You are Contrary?”

Two Petals looked absently around the room. “It’s all lies. There’s no such thing as a Contrary.” She sniffed. “Whatever that smell is, it’s awful. I wouldn’t feed that swill to a raccoon.”

At the sudden looks of consternation, Old White simply sighed.

For his part, Trader sniffed, catching the odor of venison, steamed mussels, and sweet corn on the air. Old White stood easily, adopting a faint smile as he translated Two Petals’ words for anyone who didn’t speak Trade Tongue.

White Bear’s mouth worked, as if searching for words. He walked forward and stared incredulously at Two Petals. In Trade Tongue he said, “We only serve filth here. If you want good food, you’ll have to go elsewhere.”

“I wouldn’t touch good food if I was full to bursting,” she replied. Then one of the women at the side of the room caught her attention. She pointed at the woman’s abdomen. “It’s a boy.”

The woman, who apparently didn’t know Trade Tongue, gaped when White Bear translated. She placed a defensive hand on her stomach. “You know?”

When Old White translated the woman’s question, Two Petals shrugged. “Contraries know nothing. Nothing at all. But that boy is going to marry well.”

“So, it’s really a girl?” the woman asked after the translation, then glanced at the man beside her. “I just realized myself. How could she know?”

“Don’t know a thing,” Two Petals insisted. “Actually, I don’t even know a great many things.”

Sensing incipient panic, Trader glanced down at Swimmer and spread his arms wide. “I think we should stop this for now. The Contrary’s answers can be disconcerting in the best of times. And,” he laughed, “sometimes a man may not want his wife pondering too deeply on the meaning of her words.” Some of the men chuckled;
the women looked less sure. “The Seeker and I will make the Contrary available to any who wish to speak with her later.” He looked around, adding, “And in a more private setting conducive to maintaining marital bliss.”

“I concur.” Old White raised his staff. “It can be upsetting when she tells a person that their toenails will grow backward.” He sighed wearily. “And believe me, traveling—as Trader and I do—in her company is not without its travails.” He used his staff to point at the packs. “We have brought Trade from the north. Our goods include furs, medicinal plants, some copper nuggets, pigments, and crafts the likes of which you have rarely seen. Among our Trade are relics obtained in far-off Cahokia. If your chief agrees, we will be happy to Trade tomorrow morning in the plaza.”

“We are honored by your offer to Trade.” White Bear was staring at the charred places in his matting.

“But, there is more,” Old White told them. “I am Old White, the Seeker. The stories you have heard are true. I have crossed the world from ocean to ocean. I have lived among peoples so distant their names have never been uttered among the Chahta.” He raised a finger. “But I warn you now: These stories are not freely given, but in Trade.”

“Trade for what?” Great Cougar asked skeptically.

Old White turned, inclining his staff toward the war chief. “Why, in Trade for some of that wondrous cooking all of us but the Contrary are delighted to smell. For food, and of course in Trade for your kind hospitality.” He smiled. “If I conduct myself correctly, we shall all believe ourselves the better for the bargain.”

Trader lifted an eyebrow. It had been smoothly done.

White Bear clapped his hands. “Then let us begin with black drink. We will follow it with a feast, and then, Seeker, you had better be as good as the stories say you are.”

Old White smiled.

Trader knew it would be like shooting carp in a mud puddle. Then he cast a nervous eye toward Two Petals. If she’d blow backward through a lit pipe, what would happen if someone offered her a sip of the sacred black drink?

Flying Hawk made his way to the tchkofa, touching his forehead respectfully as he passed the guardian posts at either side of the entrance, and climbed the wooden steps. With each, his knee grated and burned. At the palisade on the summit, he nodded to the guards and passed the clan totems staring down at him with baleful eyes.

He entered the dim tunnel that led inside the main room and walked around the circumference to his stool. The eternal fire was burning in the central hearth, and offerings had been placed on the altar.

Once he had settled himself on his stool, a young man motioned, and Vinegaroon, minko of the Old Camp Moiety and Skunk Clan chief, emerged from the covered hallway that led to the Old Camp council room on the south. At the same time, Tishu Minko Seven Dead, chief of the Raccoon Clan, led a procession from the northern hallway and the Hickory Moiety’s room.

The moiety representatives filed to their respective sides of the chamber and seated themselves. The young Priest, dressed in white, knelt, tamped tobacco into the Eagle Pipe bowl, and lit it.

Flying Hawk, as high minko, took the first puff before offering a prayer to invoke Power. He asked it to guide him in finding a solution to the current problem.

Then, one by one, the others took the pipe stem and
exhaled smoke toward the high smoke hole, letting it mingle with the sacred fire’s as it rose to the sky beyond.

This was the part of being high minko that Flying Hawk liked least. Any squabble among the moieties that could not be brought to a satisfactory conclusion eventually ended here, in the tchkofa, to be decided through an appeal to his authority. Mostly it involved property, divorce, or some petty boundary dispute.

He glanced at Blood Skull. The man was Seven Dead’s brother, the second war chief, and Smoke Shield’s sworn enemy. Flying Hawk detested him. “It is my understanding that you represent the accused.”

“Yes, High Minko.”

“And, Vinegaroon, you represent the aggrieved party?”

“That is correct, High Minko.” Vinegaroon rose and pointed to a short man who looked uneasily in every direction except toward Flying Hawk. “This is Fine Clay, a man of the Hawk Clan. I believe you are familiar with his work?”

Hawk Clan specialized in the finest pottery made at Split Sky City. While they made cooking vessels and other utilitarian pottery, they were most noted for the fine ceremonial ware used in rituals, for gifts and Trade, and for purposes like burials, weddings, and other special events. The Hawk Clan potters sought out the finest of clays, ground, and washed it. They made their own temper, and mass produced bowls, jugs, jars, and other ceramics. Each was carefully decorated, incised, and fired according to rituals and processes that were strictly guarded by the clan.

“I know his work,” Flying Hawk agreed. “I have one of Fine Clay’s jars, one that has Flying Serpent depicted on the side.”

For the first time Fine Clay looked up and smiled.

Vinegaroon cleared his throat, saying, “The matter before us today concerns one of Fine Clay’s molds.”

“I don’t understand,” Flying Hawk said. “I thought the molds were the property of the clan.”

“That is normally the case.” Vinegaroon clasped his hands before him. “However, Fine Clay made this mold, ground it out of stone, and used it to make a certain style of jar.”

“Explain this.”

“Yes, High Minko. You’ve seen how many of Hawk Clan’s bowls are quickly and efficiently produced? Instead of making each one by taking clay and flattening it with a paddle and anvil, the potter makes a mold, usually a half or third of the finished pot. In a mold the clay can be formed quickly and exactly each time, and to the same dimensions. Each piece of the pot is then removed from the mold and joined to its mates, perhaps a bottom, top, and neck. Only three seams need to be joined to create the whole.”