People of the Thunder (North America's Forgotten Past) (34 page)

Homecoming was not what Old White had anticipated. They rounded the final bend to see Sky Hand City rising at the end of a southerly loop of the Black Warrior, its high palaces obscured by sheets of falling rain. The gray skies continued to pelt them with the misty downfall. Even Paunch put his back to the paddle,
anxious to reach the shelter of the ramadas at the canoe landing.

All those years of deserts, forests, mountains, and seacoasts, and here he was, wet, cold, and miserable, wishing only to reach that place and stand under a shelter with a fire to warm and dry his old bones.

They followed the backwaters, catching occasional glimpses of farmsteads where the roofs could be seen above the banks. Then Trader’s canoe pulled ahead, angling across the lazy current toward shore. Two Petals, sitting backward, looked glum under a bark rain hat. Swimmer, perched high atop the forward packs, appeared more like a drowned wood rat than a dog.

Old White and Paunch dug in with their pointed paddles, shooting their craft across rain-stippled waters to the bank.

Home.
“Gods,” he mumbled, shivering. “Get me out of here.”

Trader stepped over to offer him a hand. Old White’s cramped legs almost folded under him. He braced himself on the gunwale. “Just a moment. Let me get some blood back in my legs.”

“Paunch,” Trader ordered, “move those packs up to that ramada there. No one seems to be using it for the moment.”

Two Petals was looking around the landing, seeing the long rows of canoes, some inverted to keep the rain out. Irregularly placed ramadas had been built for just such occasions as this. Most had packs, baskets, jars, and other wares beneath. Under a few, people were tending fires, avoiding the leaks in the roofs and staring out at the rain and the newcomers.

Old White finally trusted himself to take a step. He shouldered his carved wooden pack and his bags, then slogged his way up to the ramada Trader had indicated. White breath hung in the cold air. The feel of the heavy
weight in his bag was a reminder of the long-ago past. Did it know where it was, the full turning of the circle that had taken him so far away, now coming to completion?

He cast a glance up at the Skunk Clan Council house, its gray roof almost camouflaged against the sky. Lightning lanced out and vanished. A short ten breaths later, it boomed over the land.

Trader did most of the work, lugging the heavy packs up from the canoes, making three trips for every one that Paunch and Old White managed. Two Petals carried some of the lighter items, and Swimmer, as usual, carried none.

With their goods stowed under the leaky ramada, Trader crossed to a pitch-roofed shelter where an Albaamo bartered dry firewood.

Old White puffed and rubbed his cold arms.

“My life is in your hands, Seeker,” Paunch reminded, shooting frightened looks up toward the city.

“We may all freeze to death before that, you fool.”

“I think freezing is easier than dying on the square.”

Two Petals was sitting hunched up, her hands twitching as she stared absently at the city.

“What do you see up there?” Old White asked gently.

“They are watching us with empty eyes.” She shrugged. “It must be confusing to see with such clarity.”

He squinted up through the rain. The beaten soil was silvered with water. Rivulets of it ran in patterns down the landing, carrying charcoal, mud, and refuse with it.

Trader came at a run, a bundle of wood covered in matting under one arm. His expression was grim when he arrived.

“They ask too much in Trade?” Old White asked dryly. “Or are you just that displeased to come home to so much fanfare and excitement?”

“The Yuchi messenger is dead,” he said grimly. “The story is that he tried to kill the high minko. The
whole city is in shock. There’s a meeting at the tchkofa as we speak. According to the firewood Trader, people are just up there in the plaza, standing in the rain, waiting to hear what the Council has to say.”

Old White considered that. “Born-of-Sun will be enraged.”

“The Council will vote for war,” Trader agreed.

Two Petals looked up, shivering as she clutched her knees to her chest. “Weaving is such an art. So many strands have to go into it. Each one has to be laid with careful perfection. Now, the warp and weft must be made tight so that the story it tells cannot leak through.”

“We’re worried about treachery, and she’s talking about weaving.” Trader dropped the wood in a clatter.

“One and the same, I would suppose.” Old White looked up at the storm. “The messenger would have come under a white arrow. You and I know that Born-of-Sun sent no assassin. This is the work of Flying Hawk and Smoke Shield.” He glanced at Trader. “It would appear that they don’t want you back.”

Trader raised a rain-dewed brow. “I was smart enough to ask if the Yuchi had delivered any message before he died. The wood Trader didn’t know of one.”

“We must be careful.” Old White gratefully knelt as Trader opened one of their jars, removing tinder. Then he uncapped another, pouring ash from their last fire until he found a hot coal. Teasing it into the tinder, he bent, blowing gently. The coal brightened, and smoke began to curl into the air. Old White almost sighed with relief as the first tiny flicker sprang to life.

“I am no longer sure how to proceed.” Trader looked questioningly at Two Petals. “Do they know they are looking for the Seeker, a Contrary, and me, or do they expect us to arrive in some grand armada? Accompanied by Dancing, Singing, and marching warriors?”

“Oh, you are expected, all right,” Two Petals said between chattering teeth. “You look so proud, seated
in the Yuchi palace. You shouldn’t laugh so loudly, or eat like a starved wolf as they ply you with food.”

“So perhaps we’re not expected?” Old White tried to decipher her words. “Is she saying that they still think we’re with the Yuchi?”

“Not there, no,” Two Petals told him. “You’ll see: Every eye will be on you as you enter the city.”

Trader looked out at the rain, his dashed hopes as damp as the weather.

“I think I should go up first,” Old White decided. “One old man won’t stir much interest.” He chuckled to himself.

“What’s so funny?”

“Endings and beginnings. I was thinking of the night I left Split Sky City.”

“And?”

“Beginnings and endings are always the same.”

“Gods,” Trader muttered. “You’re making as much sense as the Contrary.”

“Yes. I know.” He listened to his knees crack as he knelt down to the growing fire. Its heat soothed his fingers. Within moments, they were all crouched over the flame, letting the heat and smoke battle the chill.

Old White watched as Trader—ever vigilant about such things—finally straightened, picking through the packs and opening the precious furs. One by one, he sorted them, taking any that were damp and laying them out to dry before they could mold.

There lay the most valuable of their wealth, outside of the metals. Skins of wolverine, two arctic foxes, northern beaver, lynx, and pine marten. They had been well tanned, pressed, and, so far, had made the trip in perfect condition. Then Trader opened yet another pack, one Old White hadn’t seen. He stared in disbelief. “Are those what I think they are?”

“Something called ivory.” Trader lifted one of the
two large teeth. “They were Traded down to the freshwater lakes along with the white fox skins. The Trader was from a northern forest people.” Trader looked at the tusks, and shrugged. “He said they could be carved. I just hope these Chikosi are smart enough to know what they’re worth.”

“We’re not supposed to say Chikosi. It’s derogatory.” Old White shook his head. “That ivory you hold, it comes from one of those walruses I was telling you about. And yes, they can be carved. Worked with the same tools as people use on stone.”

He cocked his head. Had any Trader ever brought wealth like this to the Sky Hand? He glanced at the square fabric covering the war medicine. “We should make sure the box doesn’t warp. It’s waxed, but this is a pretty hard rain. You might want to dry it before curious eyes come peeking this way.”

Trader muttered, glanced surreptitiously around, and removed the cloth bag from the copper-heavy box. He found a moderately dry cloth and soaked pooled water from the hollows of the engraving. Then they held the protective fabric over the fire, drying it.

Only after ensuring that all of their Trade was safe did they resume their huddled stance over the fire, hands out to the crackling flames. For a long time they were silent, each locked in his thoughts.

Trader finally mused, “So Great Cougar is coming with a war party, Born-of-Sun will be coming with a war party, and no one knows but us. What kind of joke is Power playing on us?”

Two Petals laughed softly, but said nothing.

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Old White decided. “But perhaps the storm was a gift. No one has seen us arrive, and the people are distracted. We couldn’t ask for a better way to come home. We have time to blend in before anyone comes looking for us.”

Swimmer picked that moment to shake from nose to tail, spraying them with water.

People packed shoulder to shoulder inside the tchkofa—and these were just the chiefs and high-ranking personages who had been readily at hand. A great fire burned in the hearth, sending sparks toward the high smoke hole. Rain battled the heat, showering down from the opening, hissing as it met its adversary. Occasional gusts sent droplets this way and that, to sprinkle the occupants.

People tended to crowd back, away from the fire’s heat and unpredictable rain, making the press in the rear even more unbearable.

Pale Cat stood beside Night Star, trying to find some rational explanation to this sudden change of events. He glanced behind him, seeing Heron Wing, her damp hair hanging in strings over the shoulders of her wet dress. Her expression was pinched, concern behind her eyes.

Smoke Shield pranced out, unflinching as raindrops turned his way. A terrible rage seemed to fire his gaze as he glanced about the room. “The high minko could have been
murdered
! This is treachery most foul! And it was sent to us under a white arrow!” He lifted the bloody shaft, holding it up in the firelight for all to see. “The Yuchi weasels tried to
assassinate
our high minko! There can only be one response.”

War.
Pale Cat glanced behind Smoke Shield to where Flying Hawk sat, his breast stitched by Pale Cat’s own hand. The cut had been deep, glancing off the bone in places. Flying Hawk would battle infection, and it would leave a nasty scar.

But something hadn’t been right. He could sense it.
The fact was, Flying Hawk should have been enraged, but instead he simply sat like a lump. The man had appeared dazed, not even flinching as Pale Cat drove his copper needle into Flying Hawk’s flesh and closed the wound. As if numb, the high minko had stared off into the distance, seeing something long gone and wistfully lost.

“I agree.” Two Poisons, chief of the Deer Clan, stepped forward, his face passionate. “This is an affront not only to us, but to Power!” He looked around. “Chiefs, all eyes are on us! Not just here among our people—who look to us for leadership—but Power, too, waits, watching, looking to us for a response. We
are
Power’s strong right arm. This must be avenged. Power must be brought back into balance.”

Voices of approbation called out, feet stamping. The chiefs nodded, including Night Star. Pale Cat looked down at his diminutive aunt.

The Old Camp minko, Vinegaroon, took the floor. “Skunk Clan votes for war.” He looked around. “Two Poisons is right. There can be no other alternative. We have done nothing to deserve this foul and treacherous attack on our high minko. The Yuchi have grown too arrogant, too vile for us to take any other course.”

The tishu minko, Seven Dead, stepped forward. “Raccoon Clan votes for war. If this Council agrees, I will make the call for warriors.” Behind him, Blood Skull, too, was nodding, but there was hesitation behind his hooded eyes.

Yes, you smell it, too, don’t you, old friend?

Again feet stamped in assent.

Pale Cat laid his hand on Night Star’s shoulder and stepped out. He looked around at the familiar faces, read their anger and disbelief. “I am
Hopaye.
No one knows the ways of Power better than I do. No one knows the risks of offending Power—let alone in so blatant and outrageous a manner. A man bearing a white arrow has
tried to kill, and then been killed himself.” He paused, letting that knowledge sink in. “What remains unanswered here is why.”

He met their eyes, pair by pair. “We must respond to his atrocity. On that we all agree, but the question still remains: Why? Why would the Yuchi high chief—like lightning from a blue sky—purposefully abuse Power in a manner that will surely turn many of his own people against him? This action will lead to the deaths of many of his people. Why?”

Even Smoke Shield seemed at a loss for words.

“This question must be answered.” Pale Cat stepped back to his place, eyes on Flying Hawk.

For a moment, no one spoke; then Smoke Shield stepped forward, stating, “There is no
why.
These are Yuchi dogs! They have no regard for Power and its ways! Think! How often in the past have they raided us for no apparent reason? How many times have they stolen our relatives, hung them in their squares or burned them as offerings to the sun and sent their screaming ghosts wailing into the darkness? How many of our daughters have they taken away, and corrupted with their evil seed? These people have no truth as we do. This latest atrocity is just another example of why we must finally, and forever, teach them to behave as Power has decreed for all men!”