People of the Thunder (North America's Forgotten Past) (16 page)

“I am familiar with the process. What seems to be the trouble here?”

Vinegaroon spread his hands wide. “Fine Clay made a new mold. Ground it from stone, and formed it for his own purposes.”

“I went to the hills up north,” Fine Clay interjected. “I collected the stone myself. Then I ground it down, High Minko. I made it just so. When it was finished, I didn’t like it. So I Traded it to Burnt Hand.” He pointed to a man sitting beside Blood Skull.

“I see.” Flying Hawk glanced across at Burnt Hand. “Is that correct?”

“Yes, High Minko.” Burnt Hand made a gesture, and Flying Hawk could see the scar tissue on his left hand for which he’d received his name. “The trouble is that now he wants it back.”

“No,” Fine Clay insisted. “I don’t. The Clan does. They say it’s theirs.”

Flying Hawk looked at Vinegaroon, who pointed to
Black Tail, the Hawk Clan chief who had sat quietly so far.

Black Tail sighed, and rose to his feet. “High Minko, Fine Clay is a member of the clan. He knows that what we make is unique. Of course, any simpleton can craft a pot. We offer the finest pottery available. We do not dispute that Fine Clay made the journey on his own to find the stone for his mold. He put days of labor into grinding it to the shape he wanted.”

“I didn’t like the way the jars looked when I was finished,” Fine Clay muttered. “Then, when Burnt Hand saw the finished jar, he liked it. I Traded
my
mold to Burnt Hand for seven white shell-bead necklaces.”

“And where are the necklaces now?”

Fine Clay spread his hands wide. “They were a gift to Redbud’s family.” At Flying Hawk’s raised eyebrow, Fine Clay added, “She’s a Crawfish Clan woman. My wife. The seven necklaces were a wedding gift.”

Flying Hawk nodded. The seven necklaces were now scattered far and wide, having been distributed to who knew where among the woman’s relatives. “So Hawk Clan wants the mold back, but ownership of the mold is at question.”

Black Tail shifted uncomfortably. “High Minko, Fine Clay knew perfectly well that any mold he made would become property of the clan. That is our way.”

“But no one liked the finished jars that came out of the mold!” Fine Clay protested. “I didn’t even like them. The balance was wrong, the neck too high and thin. They were”—he made a face—“ugly!”

Flying Hawk sighed. “If no one liked the way the jars looked, why does anyone care if Fine Clay Traded off the mold?”

“Because,” Blood Skull interjected, “Burnt Hand gave the mold to his cousin in High Town. Now she’s making jars on the mold. Her jars are being Traded up
and down the river. When we sent a runner to ask if she’d give the mold back, she said no. It was hers now.”

Flying Hawk shot a look at Black Tail. “You’re telling me that now this woman is making jars, and you want the mold back?”

“That is correct, High Minko. It wasn’t Fine Clay’s to part with in the first place. The mold belongs to the clan.”

“Even if you don’t like them.”

“Even then.” Black Tail crossed his arms.

Flying Hawk leaned back on his stool and straightened his leg to ease the pain in his knee. “Fine Clay, did you ask anyone if you could Trade the mold?”

The man stiffened indignantly. “Why should I? It was my mold. I made it myself. I got the stone for it. I collected the sand, did the grinding. My clan did none of that labor. Worse, when I finished it, they made fun of the jars.”

“They were ugly jars,” Black Tail insisted.

Flying Hawk turned to Blood Skull. “You say the jars are in demand now?”

The warrior spread his arms helplessly. “People seem to like them. They are being Traded up and down the river. The workmanship is good, and while they tend to tip over easily, they are different enough that they stand out.”

Flying Hawk considered the claims. “Very well, it will be settled this way. The mold will be returned to Hawk Clan.”

“What?” Fine Clay cried. “Why?”

Flying Hawk gave him a narrow-eyed squint. “Because you are a member of your clan. You may have quarried and shaped the stone molds, but your clan taught you the skills. I don’t care that they didn’t like the jars that came from it. From now on, when you make something, you owe part of that skill to the people who taught you the craft.” Then he pointed to Black Tail. “Hawk Clan, however,
will send seven strings of quality white shell beads to Burnt Hand in repayment of the Trade. And as to Burnt Hand’s cousin, Hawk Clan will send her all the jars she wants, made from those very same molds. In return, you will receive a tenth part of all her Trade.”

Black Tail threw his hands up. “Why give her anything?”

“Because,” Flying Hawk growled, “they are your molds, but you didn’t like the jars. Burnt Hand’s cousin, on the other hand, realized that people liked them. For that, she is to be rewarded. The tenth part of her Trade is to pay you back for the labor of making her jars.”

“A tenth isn’t enough,” Black Tail protested.

Flying Hawk leveled a finger. “Hawk Clan let this thing grow out of control. Perhaps next time your—”

“High Minko!” a warrior cried, bursting through the entrance. The man was out of breath, sweat running down his face. “It’s the Chahta!
We’re under attack!
”

You are not holding your racquet correctly,” Morning Dew told little Stone. The boy insisted on clutching his racquets the way he would an ax. “Move it forward in your hand like so.” She repositioned the little boy’s hand on the polished handle. Since the day she’d made the winning goal in the great solstice game, he’d taken to staring at her in outright adoration.

At first she hadn’t been sure what to make of that, but how could even the most hardened woman ignore such a look of worship in a boy’s eyes?

“It’s harder to hold,” he insisted after trying a couple of swings.

“That’s because your muscles aren’t used to it.” She smiled down at him. “You must trust me on this. A racquet is a living thing. It must be gripped firmly, but not
so tightly that you squeeze the life out of it. Here, let me show you.” She took the racquet from him, showed him how her fingers laced around it, and how it seated in her palm. “There, see? Now, watch. Do you see how by twisting my wrist I can make the hoop turn?” She flicked the racquet this way and that. “The racquet must become part of you, an extension of your arm. It must be flexible, capable of easy control.”

He took the racquet back, trying to mimic her motions.

“That’s the way.”

“Holding it this way is hard.”

“That, my young warrior, is why you must practice. My mother made me hold my racquet for hands of time.” She smiled at him. “I hated her for it. My arms hurt, but you know what?”

“What?”

“There are times in life that you must work steadily, bored the entire time, and with your muscles aching.” She knelt to eye level with him. “What you must always keep in mind is that for that one moment of glory, you must pay with boredom and practice. The harder you work, the more you dedicate yourself, the greater you will be when that final test comes.”

He avoided her eyes, staring stubbornly at his little racquet.

“Stone, you can’t help it. It’s just the way life is. You have been told the stories, how everything worthwhile requires your dedication. To be young is to have souls like butterflies. They want to flit this way and that. It’s hard, at your age, to keep that concentration when so many other things distract you. It’s even hard when you are grown. But to win at stickball, to triumph at the end, you must cling to this one thing. You must believe in yourself and know that you will grow proficient very slowly.”

“I will?”

“You can become the greatest stickball player in the history of your people. But only if you carry your racquet with you at all times. Learn to live with it in your hand. Not today, but within a moon, you will be amazed at how you can outplay your friends. Only after all that time will the rewards become apparent.”

“All right.”

She rose, patted him on the back, and turned to see Heron Wing standing in the doorway. The woman’s eyes were thoughtful, a curious smile on her lips.

Morning Dew looked down at the basket of laundry she had been carrying up from the river. Still wet, it had been heavy. And, yes, perhaps she had looked forward to taking a moment to rest as she talked to the boy.

“Sorry,” she said. “Stone distracted me.”

Heron Wing nodded. “Feel free to distract yourself like that any time you wish.” She glanced after her son, who was trotting out past the pestle and mortar, his racquet clutched diligently as Morning Dew had shown him. “I hope he listens to you. When I tell him things, the words flow out of his ears like water through a hole in a pot.”

“You are his mother.”

Heron Wing shrugged. “And you are his hero.”

“For the moment.”

Heron Wing looked after her son. “I am hoping he will be a good chief for Panther Clan when he becomes a man. He’s a bright child. I think he inherited his father’s cunning, but I hope that I can influence him to use it for our people in better ways.”

“Let us hope he finds your wisdom.” Morning Dew bent, picking up the wash. It had been her first task since leaving the Panther Clan’s Women’s House. For four glorious days she had sat close to the fire and allowed herself the luxury of thinking about the last three moons. Her biggest surprise had been relief that had crept unheralded into her life. In that space of time she had been
plummeted from the height of authority and prestige to the depths of despair. She had found a courage she didn’t know she had, and then been rescued, brought here, to this foreign woman’s house. To her surprise, she had realized that she admired Heron Wing.

Now, looking at the woman, she wondered,
Will I ever be as great as she is?

“Yes?” Heron Wing asked, reading her expression.

“Nothing.”

“It must have been something. You were looking at me with the strangest eyes. Almost a longing. Is something on your mind?”

“Does it bother you that Pale Cat sits on the Council and you don’t?”

Heron Wing looked startled. “Why should it? I’m proud of my brother. He’s a voice of reason on the Council. Actually, it amazes me that he can serve as
Hopaye
, fulfill his duties to the Council, and still be such a good uncle to Stone.”

“You Chikosi amaze me. I know of no other people who keep their women so removed from leadership. Among the Chahta, women sit in our Councils.”

“As does Night Star in ours.”

“But she is the exception, partially because of her age, partially because she’s a dwarf.”

Heron Wing arched an eyebrow. “Then, you think I should sit on the Council?”

“As capable as your brother is, you would be a better voice for your clan.”

“You have decided this, have you?”

“Sometimes people are blinded from being too close to things. Only when viewed from the outside does the shape of an object become clear.”

“And what about your own people, now that you’ve had a chance to—”

The hollow blare of a conch horn carried on the clear morning air. Heron Wing turned, staring south
toward the high minko’s palace. There, at the gateway, stood Seven Dead, the horn held high to his lips.

“Warriors!” his faint voice called. “Chahta raiders are west of the river!” Then he started down the steps, taking the steep stairway three at a time.

Chahta! Here!
Morning Dew stared off to the west, unable to see past the houses, palaces, and palisade. Her heart began to race, excitement building within her.
Rescue!

“Not so fast,” Heron Wing said firmly. “Think this thing through.”

Morning Dew gasped, turning anxious eyes toward Heron Wing. “My people.”

“Yes, but how many?” Heron Wing propped a hand on her hip. “Tempting, isn’t it? Were I you, I’d be thinking that I could run, take a canoe in the confusion, and duck into the forest west of the river. Maybe, with a little luck, I could find those raiders.”

Morning Dew bit her lip, having just thought that very thing.

“But then,” Heron Wing added, “if it was a big war party, the scouts would have seen them coming. Slipping a small party past the scouts would be easy. But hundreds of warriors? The kind of war party necessary to deal us a real blow? No, that kind of force would have been detected. Were I you, I would decide that by the time I could reach the forest—assuming I could find a fast-moving, small force—they would be long gone. Another thing to consider is that this might be a false alarm. There may be no Chahta out there, just some nervous scout’s imagination. Either way, in an unfamiliar forest crawling with warriors, how would I avoid recapture by those hundreds of Chikosi scouring the woods for Chahta?”

“I would have thought of that.” Morning Dew sighed. “You’re right.”

“Yes, and I would stay here, knowing full well that
when my time comes, I would finally go back to my people with my heel tendons uncut.”

Morning Dew dropped the basket, almost spilling the contents she had worked so hard to wash. “Why? Why do you care?”

Heron Wing smiled, amused at her distress. “Because you have just begun to discover yourself, Morning Dew. Take a while longer. Learn a little more about yourself. You have the time now, and soon events may not leave you with such a luxury.”