People of the Thunder (North America's Forgotten Past) (25 page)

For two days Smoke Shield had played war games within sight of Bowl Town. He had his warriors working in tandem with Sun Falcon’s. They ran, made mock attacks, charged and shouted from behind a line of shields. Archery practice consisted of the one group releasing a volley of arrows, only to have the second group run forward and release theirs. Like overlapping waves, they practiced the advance technique, well aware that Albaamaha eyes were watching.

He had each warrior demonstrate his skill with a war club, often matching equally skilled opponents to hack at each other with sticks of wood, practicing blocking, striking, and parrying.

The message was clear: If you do not submit, we will turn this on you.

But threaten as he might, no offer of information was made as to the whereabouts of Lotus Root. Sun Falcon’s few remaining informants reported that for all intents and purposes, she might have walked to the edge of the world and fallen off.

Thus it was that a somber Smoke Shield led his warriors back into Split Sky City. He tried to come to some conclusion as to the effectiveness of his efforts. The Albaamaha in the north had seemed pacified. None of their inscrutable faces had told him anything except that they were beaten. Not cowed by any means, but they understood the doom he could rain down upon them.

“Not a word,” he had warned his nineteen warriors
as they neared the city. “What we did was special, a thing of Power. You do not tell your friends, your uncles, or brothers. From this moment forward, our part in the Chahta raid did not happen.”

“What of purification?” Bear Paw asked. “We have been bloodied. There is no alternative but to retire to the Men’s House. There we must fast, drink button snakeroot, and purge our systems of pollution.”

“We will do that,” Smoke Shield told him. “But the story is that we do so because we have been in the presence of Albaamaha corpses. Our story is that some terrible Chahta Power may have been turned against us. We tell no one of what we did.
No one!
If any of you speaks of this thing, you will answer to me.” And then he had made them all swear, binding themselves to the most terrible of oaths.

Only as he led them up from the canoe landing, Singing, stamping, and clapping their clubs against the sides of their war shields, did he wonder if anyone would remember hunters leaving, and warriors returning.

People formed up on both sides, watching them, cheering. Smoke Shield thrust out his chest, leading the procession with the same arrogant pride he would have had he just razed a Chahta town.

Three times they circled the tchkofa; then he led his procession to the Men’s House. He could see Flying Hawk standing at the high palace gate. The high minko shaded his eyes with a hand, watching like a mute sentry from atop the mound.

Upon entering the Men’s House, Smoke Shield ordered the fires to be built up, and the sweat house to be made ready. He pointed to one of the youths lingering outside the door, ordering, “Send for the
Hopaye.
My warriors must undergo purification rituals to ensure that we bring no evil into the city.”

The boy left at a run.

As Smoke Shield had expected, Flying Hawk appeared
in no more time than it would have taken the old man to descend the stairway and cross the plaza. The high minko entered, smiled at the warriors, and indicated that Smoke Shield should follow him out to the sweat house. He shooed the boys away from the fire they were making, and gestured Smoke Shield into the dark and cramped interior.

Leaving the flap open so that he could see if anyone approached, Flying Hawk asked, “Well?”

“I have seen to the situation. Fast Legs will tell no one of his activities. No one is the wiser.”

“And the woman?”

“Gone. No one knows where.” Smoke Shield cupped his hands. “She is too conspicuous. If she shows up, we will hear. My suspicion is that she will mysteriously disappear some night if she has the temerity to raise her voice.”

“And your missing arrows?”

Smoke Shield shrugged. “Missing, with the woman, I presume.”

Flying Hawk stroked his chin, reflecting. “There was no Chahta raid, was there?”

“Oh, yes, Uncle,” Smoke Shield replied. “And a very cunning one, too, I must add. May Breath Giver bless Great Cougar, for he solved a lot of our problems with his audacious attack. The Albaamaha are cowed, but unfortunately Fast Legs, and the kind Albaamaha who found him hurt and were caring for him, are dead. It’s a shame that Fast Legs and his helpers cannot come forward and tell their side of the story. Chief Sun Falcon and Bowl Town are secure, and the Chahta raiders have been driven off.”

“Though no one can find their trail.”

“Odd, isn’t it, that they seemed to simply disappear from the land?”

Flying Hawk watched him with flat, emotionless eyes. “Someone will talk.”

Smoke Shield shook his head. “Even the ghosts of the slain Albaamaha think they were killed by Chahta. As to my warriors, they have their own reasons to keep their tongues. These are men who followed me into White Arrow Town. They fully understand the Albaamaha threat. They understand the gravity of our situation here.”

Flying Hawk vented his irritation with a clenched fist. “You play with fire!”

“And I put it out with my piss when I am done.” Smoke Shield glared at the man. “The green shoot that started up when the Albaamaha sent that courier to warn the Chahta has been clipped off short. No leaves will sprout from this, Uncle. The Albaamaha have been paid back for the murder of the captives. They have been given a lesson on our strength and prowess. No one can lay this at the doorstep of the Sky Hand; meanwhile the plotters among the Albaamaha know that there is a price to be paid for treachery. Those who were innocent have been reminded that only our warriors stand between them and the enemy.”

“As long as none of your warriors talk.”

“They are my
picked
men. Their loyalty is to their people. But it would harm nothing if upon their leaving the Men’s House, their high minko rewarded their dedication to the people with a grand feast and gifts.”

“That will be done.”

“Good.” Smoke Shield smiled. “Because, Uncle, you have a stake in this, too. Each and every one of those warriors believe down in their souls that this Chahta raid was done with your blessing. They think
you
ordered it.”

Flying Hawk gave him a chilling look. “And why would they think that?”

“Because that’s what I told them.”

Flying Hawk was no one’s fool. He understood very well the trap Smoke Shield had laid for him. Wearily,
he said, “Very well, I will go and make my report to the Council.” Flying Hawk pointed a finger. “But if any of this turns sour, you are on your own. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Nothing will go wrong, Uncle.” He smiled, feeling Power hovering in the air around him. “Nothing can stand in my way now.”

Not even you.

Amber Bead sat before his hearth. His house was dark—the fire burned down to coals. He watched the draft coming in from the door cast different patterns in the coals.

Flying Hawk had dismissed the Council after making his report. Warriors had combed the country to the west, some even skirmishing with the Chahta scouts watching vigilantly on their side of the divide, but no one had found the route taken by the raiders.

Twenty-three of my people are dead.
The knowledge was like a splinter under the skin. It was as if the Chahta had known exactly where to strike.
And then they killed Fast Legs and his captors.

Hearing that had been like a stab, followed by curious relief. Perhaps Power had balanced, removing his people’s greatest asset and threat, while claiming twenty-three lives as payment. Fast Legs would never reveal what had been done to Red Awl. That spear of revenge had been forever broken, and with it any possibility of an Albaamaha uprising stemming from Red Awl’s blood.

“A disaster averted, an opportunity lost.” He pulled at the loose skin under his chin.

For the moment, his people’s ardor was cooled, damped in the blood of twenty-three victims. This night, in the farmsteads, people lay in their blankets, wondering when
the Chahta would strike again; who would their victims be next time? In contrast, they had seen grim parties of Chikosi warriors trotting past, searching relentlessly for the intruders.

He stiffened at the soft scratching at his doorpost.

“Who is there?”

“Mikko?” a woman’s voice called.

“Come in.”

He watched as the door hanging was pulled back, and then a furtive figure slipped in. In the dim light he couldn’t make out the woman’s identity. She carried a fabric bag that hung down almost to her knees.

“Are you awake?”

“I am. Just sitting here. Thinking.”

The woman walked forward, bowing respectfully. Her hair was shorn, the sign of a recently made widow. Walking up, she laid the bag carefully on the matting and seated herself.

He squinted in the faint light. “Lotus Root?”

“Yes, Mikko.”

“By the Ancestors, where have you been?”

“Taking the long way here, avoiding Chikosi warriors.”

He could see that she was filthy, mud spattered, and exhausted. The pretty young woman he had once known had vanished, replaced by this hard-eyed creature. Bursting with questions, he instead reached for a bowl of beans and lotus root, placing it on three stones to warm.

“People have been looking for you.”

“That is why I have come in the middle of the night. Is there a place here where you can hide me?”

“There are many.” He paused. “You have heard that Fast Legs was killed by the Chahta?”

She gave him a level gaze. “Oh, yes, Mikko. I know the lie well. I saw it happen.” And she reached down, patting the bag with a tender hand. “These are the scalps
of our people. The ones the Chikosi sought to hide. I brought them here, along with Smoke Shield’s bow and arrows.”

Amber Bead stared at her in the dim light. “The scalps of . . . But the Chahta . . . How is this possible?”

In a haunted voice she said, “Power has given us the means to destroy the Chikosi. And by the ghosts of these murdered people, I swear,
I will do it
!”

Deep in her voice, in the set of her shoulders and the passionate glow of her eyes, he recognized pure hatred mixed with a deep-burning rage.

The smell of steaming hickory oil mixed with the pungent odor of woodsmoke as Morning Dew lifted the heavy pot. Loops had been molded into the rim, and cords had been run through. When the thongs were laced over the sticks of a tripod, the bowl could be hung over the fire, its height adjusted by the position of the tripod legs to control the temperature. She now used the cords to carry the vessel over to a larger pot over which she had placed a loosely woven fabric.

Moving the heavy pot into position, she shortened the cords to pour the hot mash of ground hickory nuts and oil into the larger vessel. Stepping back, she laid the pot to one side and lifted the edges of the fabric, using it to strain hickory pulp from the oil.

The hot fabric she then placed into a shallow bowl, allowing it to cool. Later, when the temperature was right, she would wring the last of the oil from the cooked meats. The meats she would use with white acorns, walnuts, and ground goosefoot seeds to produce a heavy bread.

Hickory oil was used in cooking, oil lamps, wads to be placed on torches, and any number of other uses.
Sometimes it even served as a dip to be soaked up with lotus-root bread.

Wiping her brow, Morning Dew stepped around to the doorway. There in a tall-necked bottle, a cool drink of sassafras tea slacked her thirst. She was replacing the bottle when she saw Wide Leaf, her head bent close to Heron Wing’s. The old slave nodded, gave Heron Wing a quick hug, and turned, leaving around the back of the house.

Heron Wing stared thoughtfully after her, then, wiping her hands with a rag, she turned, seeing Morning Dew. She sighed and started forward, brow lined.

“News from the Albaamaha?” Morning Dew guessed.

“Something is up. Wide Leaf only caught a whiff of it. Amber Bead has a visitor. Someone so secret, he doesn’t want anyone to know.”