People of the Thunder (North America's Forgotten Past) (27 page)

“That was the rumor. He, the Seeker, and the Contary are Trading down the Horned Serpent. They’re coming here. According to my Yuchi friend, it’s something about Power.”

Heron Wing had clamped her eyes closed, clutching the bowl to her chest.

“Excuse us, Gray Squirrel.” Morning Dew took Heron Wing’s arm, steadying her. “My friend isn’t feeling well.”

She led Heron Wing away from the puzzled Thunder Town Trader. Heron Wing looked shocked, as if someone had just punched her hard in the stomach.

“I’m going to take you home.”

“He’s alive,” Heron Wing whispered. “Gods, he’s still alive.”

Evidently,
Morning Dew thought,
and coming here.

But who was Green Snake? And if a distant Trader could have this kind of effect on the rock-solid Heron Wing, did Morning Dew really want him arriving?

Word of their coming had spread. As Old White and Trader made their way downriver, they were met at each town landing. People were lined up, some under ramadas, all with their best Trade displayed. At no town were any of Trader’s party allowed beyond the landings, though the Chahta made up for it with feasts, Singing and Dancing, and perfect hospitality.

“You’d think they didn’t trust us,” Old White had noted wryly.

“You have already seen everything,” Two Petals told him cryptically. “There is nothing left. It is all so apparent.”

“What is?” Trader had replied indignantly. “They’re hiding something.”

“They are showing us everything,” she’d insisted. “Naked, without clothes. You can even see the bones.”

White Arrow Town, the southernmost Chahta settlement, was a mess. Old White’s party had landed below the town, finding not one, but four grim-eyed warriors guarding the landing. They had nodded, reluctant, but
still honoring the Power of Trade. One had run to fetch the war chief, a man named Otter Mankiller. He had looked suspiciously at their cargo, then at Paunch, and said, “The old matron gives you leave to Trade. A place has been made for you.” His stern orders ensured that the guards would allow no one close to the canoes and their precious cargo. Trader ordered Swimmer to stay with the packs, just to make sure. He didn’t look like much of a guard dog, but then, dogs, like men, could be deceiving.

The town itself was in a state of chaos. Burned buildings had been torn down, and most were in the process of being rebuilt. Rings of charcoal marked where granaries had been incinerated; most consisted of charred posts rising in black spikes toward the sky.

Atop the high minko’s mound, a group of slaves labored to dig old posts from the hard clay, sending them rolling down the steep slope to the ground below. These in turn were scavenged for firewood. One thing White Arrow Town had plenty of was partially burned firewood.

They had set up in the plaza, doing their best to stay upwind from the newly rebuilt charnel houses. The odor was disquieting to the senses.

Despite a large crowd when they laid out their goods, Trade had been desultory at best. Most had come to look, to marvel at the goods, and hear the news from upriver. But the people—at least those who weren’t in a kind of daze—had little to offer. Trader found himself substantially undercutting value, unable to resist the hollow-eyed women, their hair shorn in mourning, or the thin children who tagged about their legs. By noon most had wandered off, having more pressing concerns to attend to. Now the Traders sat alone, even the children called away by their mothers.

“I think we should head south in the morning,” Old White said. “This place doesn’t need us right now.”

“Have you noticed something?” Trader asked softly.

“The lack of men?”

“Most of the building is being done by women and children.”

“Maybe the men are out cutting wood, chopping grass for thatch; and by the gods, they’ve got to hunt, fish, and collect to feed themselves.”

Yes, that made sense. Things in White Arrow Town were difficult enough, let alone finding food.

“You should see them,” Two Petals remarked.

“Who?” Trader asked, following her gaze out to the plaza. “The men?”

“All the people. Laughing, running. And what a feast. It’s the grandest marriage in a long time, you know.”

“Marriage? Where?” Trader asked.

“Right there,” she said. “Look at her run! He’s hard-pressed to catch her.”

“Who, Contrary?” Old White asked in turn.

“Trader’s wife,” she replied calmly.

Trader shot Old White a skeptical look, shrugged, and went back to making a count of his goods. Not many of his pressed weasel-hide bags were left. Up in the north, weasels turned white for the winter. Skinning them, with their thin hides, was an art. He had opened one of the packs for Trade, figuring that the small skins might be unique to a people whose local weasels remained brown year round. The notion had been that the White Arrow Town people could use them for Trade with their neighbors for items more relevant for their survival, like food and clothing.

He glanced up at the setting sun, and began to carefully replace the remaining hides in their pack. People were already turning to the chores attendant to cooking the evening meal. From what he could see, most of the pots were filled with a watery stew. Not as many people were in town, most having moved out to farmsteads near the forest to hunt, or to camps along the
river where fishing and trapping waterfowl was easier. The normal food stocks had been burned during the attack.

They were lacing up the packs when a single warrior happened to stop by. “Greetings. I heard that Traders were in town. Not much to Trade, I suppose?”

“Oddly,” Old White answered, “we are pleased. The goods we offered will help. Little things from the north that people can tempt their neighbors with.”

The warrior looked at the collection of little stick figures, wooden beads, occasional bits of shell, packs of hanging moss, and carved bone. The Trade looked dull and lusterless beside the few northern goods displayed.

“My people appreciate the gesture,” the warrior said, squatting. He looked out at the plaza, where solitary individuals passed. “I have heard kind things said. Most know that you took a loss on their account. I think many are embarrassed by their current circumstances.”

“White Arrow Town will come back,” Trader told him. “I know the Chahta. By next fall, after a good harvest, the heart will be beating here again.”

The man chuckled without humor. “Let us hope so. The future, however, is a grim place.”

“Why is that?” Old White asked.

“I’ve been scouting in the forest. Keeping an eye on the Chikosi. We watch them; they watch us. Sometimes we shoot an arrow at someone who gets too close. Mostly we shout curses at each other.” He gave them a curious glance. “I heard that you came from upriver?”

“We did.”

“You saw Great Cougar?”

“We did. Traded for that lazy Albaamaha over there.” Old White pointed to where Paunch lay sleeping on a blanket beneath a ramada.

The warrior seemed to digest that, then asked, “Was Great Cougar planning a raid?”

Old White’s bushy eyebrow lifted. “Just the opposite. He’s organizing his forces to ambush the Chikosi when they attack in spring.”

“That’s what I thought.” A pause. “Odd.”

“What is?” Trader asked. “It seems a sound defense. Here you can ambush them on your home ground. Lead them into traps and generally make them miserable.”

The warrior took out a little stick he’d stuck in his belt. He drew doodles on the clay as he said, “One of the Chikosi, the man who was watching me watch him, said that Great Cougar had raided the Sky Hand lands east of the divide and killed some Albaamaha. This Chikosi . . . he promised revenge.”

“Great Cougar did this?” Trader asked.

“That’s what the Chikosi said. According to him, it was several days ago. Just after the rains.”

“If Great Cougar did, he is indeed a great warrior,” Old White noted, “for he was able to do what every war chief wishes more than anything else: He was in two places at once. We were guests in his palace during that entire time.”

“I thought so. It must be some Chikosi plot, but for the life of me, I can’t understand what it would be. What do they gain by threatening retaliation for a raid we didn’t commit?”

“What else did you hear from the Chikosi?” Trader asked, reaching over for his last weasel skin.

“Threats of what they’d do to us. Some kind of nonsense about our ‘ally Albaamaha’ and how we couldn’t weaken them that way.”

“The Albaamaha are your allies?” Old White asked.

“That’s news to us.” The warrior retraced his doodle. “An Albaamo is just a Chikosi hand-licker. After what happened here, we’d just as soon kill every last one of them.”

“You lost someone?” Old White asked.

“Two brothers, their wives, and some children. I’ve taken my nieces and nephews in. My wife was fortunate; she got through the gate. It will be a stretch, but we’ll keep food in their mouths.” He glanced up, lines forming around the corners of his eyes. “Hard to do when I have to spend half my time out in the forest.”

“Here.” Trader handed him one of the remaining weasel skins. He explained how northern weasels changed color and how the northern chiefs had entire cloaks made only of the white tails with their black tips. “Take it. If you can get to some of the Pearl River towns, that hide should Trade for enough corn and beans to fill those young bellies you’re worried about.”

The warrior ran his finger over the soft fur. “I have nothing to Trade.”

Old White replied, “We are now bound by the Power of Trade. Someday in the future, when things are better, you can give us something in return.”

The warrior smiled wearily. “Someday. Yes, Seeker, I will do that.” He stood, replacing the stick in his belt and rubbing the fur. “For now, I pray that Power hovers around you, and protects you from any evil. I thank you.”

Trader watched him walk away. “Great Cougar was raiding the Albaamaha? How?”

Old White shrugged. “It was only talk between two warriors in the forest. The Chikosi must have been mistaken.”

“Oh, very wrong,” Two Petals said. “He has made a bad mistake. Just wait; we’ll see the truth of it come out of his mouth like vomit.”

“Who made a mistake? This warrior, the Chikosi, or Great Cougar?”

“None of them.” Two Petals’ hands were making their synchronous twitching.

Trader scratched the back of his neck. Not for the first time did it strike him as strange that a person could get used to such talk. “I suppose I’d better go over and kick Paunch awake.”

Old White nodded. “I’m wondering if it wouldn’t have been better if he’d run away with his granddaughter. At least then we wouldn’t have to feed him.”

“Away? Oh, no. She’s running straight toward us,” Two Petals said thoughtfully. “Running forward, running, running, right into the future.”

A shiver traced down Trader’s spine. He had an image: an almost mythical female, bathed in moonlight, rising and falling, a look of wonder on her face as she rode his hard shaft. Even now he wasn’t sure that it hadn’t been a Dream.

Trader asked, “You think we should have gone after her?”

Old White shrugged. “Ask the Contrary. She was the one who told me to let her go.”

“You should have run her down,” Two Petals agreed. “That way you could have stopped the future. Chopped it off clean, like a root from a seedling.” She glanced at Trader. “What Power you wield, Trader.”

He barely kept himself from cringing at her tone. “I’m just me.”

“Isn’t that what I said?”

To change the subject, he picked up his pack, walked over, and nudged Paunch awake. “Can you carry our packs down to the canoes?”

“Of course, young master,” Paunch said with a yawn. “I guess I must have dozed off.”

“We would never have guessed.” Trader dropped his pack and went back to where Old White was lacing his closed.

They watched as Paunch began picking up their Trade, ready to follow him back down the path to the landing,
when a boy ran up, his hair tangled, skin smudged with soot.

“You are the Traders?” he asked, as if there were any others in the town.

“We are,” Old White said easily. “And who might you be?”

“I am White Cricket!” The boy tapped his skinny chest proudly. “The old matron would like to see you.”

Two Petals laughed to herself. “Let us pull another thread tightly into place. Can’t they see how this fabric is forming?”

Trader shared Old White’s mystified look.

“Very well,” the Seeker said, and followed in the boy’s wake.

Trader ambled along behind, passing the corner of the high minko’s mound. The lad led them to a newly constructed house, its walls freshly plastered; the thatch roofing looked ratty. Normally grass was cut in the summer when it was lush and green, allowed to sun dry, and then bundled into shocks before being tied to the roof poles. Winter grasses were brittle, did not compress well, and barely lasted a season. This had been a rush job, just enough to keep the occupants sheltered until summer, when the place could be reroofed.

“Aunt?” the boy called at the door. “I’ve brought them.”

“Let them enter,” a reedy voice called.