People of the Thunder (North America's Forgotten Past) (46 page)

In the pulsating afterglow, her sheath tightened
around the hard length of him. She matched his desperate thrusts; then he tensed, his muscles bunched. Her loins exploded again, each tingling burst timed to the jetting of his seed. Even after, as she felt him soften, she continued to milk mewing sounds from both of them.

They lay panting, his hands cupped around her shoulders. She marveled under his weight, oddly touched that he didn’t just slump heavily atop her like some somnolent log.

“I never knew,” she whispered.

“We have to be quiet.”

“Who would have thought a woman would make noise like that?” she complained.

“You’ve never had the pleasure?”

“Not with a man.”

He chuckled at some private joke.

“Do other women do this?”

“I may be wrong, but I think
all
women do.”

She drew a breath. “Gods, until the day I die, I will remember this night. For that, I thank you.”

“Well . . . wait.”

“What?”

“Let’s take a moment, and then we’ll do it again.”

She frowned, thinking of Smoke Shield. After the man jammed his spear into her, grunted, and collapsed, he rolled over and went straight to sleep.

Breath Giver? Please, let this night last forever!

The night’s chill ate into Heron Wing’s skin as she walked slowly up to her ramada and leaned against one of the poles. She drew the rich wet scent of the city into her lungs, her eyes on the graying sky to the east. Equinox was coming; Father Sun was rising nearly due east.

She glanced to the south, knowing that Pale Cat was
awake, standing on the east side of the Panther Clan palace, aligning his sticks and strings, measuring the sun’s slow path to the north.

The Chahta are coming just after equinox.
The thought was discordant compared to the honey-warm memories she had just spun in Green Snake’s bed.

At just the thought of it, she felt her loins freshen. She crossed her legs and tilted her head against the polished wood. What if she threw herself at his feet and begged him to run away with her? They could hold each other forever, night after night, and without complications. She was a married woman—among a people who prided themselves on fidelity.

What have you just done?

How many times had she herself lectured her clans-women about indiscretion?

Divorce was Smoke Shield’s option. It was the Sky Hand way. Not for the first time did she long for the freedom her sisters among the Chahta, Ockmulgee, and Yuchi had. There it was just a matter of sending notice to the husband. If the house belonged to the maternal clan, the man’s possessions were simply set outside.

“But we are Sky Hand,” she softly said to the glowing sky. “We have always prided ourselves on being different.”

Things wouldn’t change. It was ingrained in them, sucked up as surely as mother’s milk. She had steadfastly hammered it into Stone’s head, just as the teachings had been hammered into hers.

The last of the distant clouds began to glow with deep purple light.

“No matter how good that was, I can never do it again. Not while Smoke Shield is my husband.”

She closed her eyes, a single hot tear breaking free to streak down her cheek.

So many warriors in town, and more to come. Morning Dew watched some of the young men pitching a ball back and forth with racquets. She turned back to the basket she was working on, slipping long thin splits of cane down over the willow twig stems that gave it form. She followed a pattern her mother had taught her. Two over, two under. With more time, she could have made something a bit more intricate, but she had never had the predisposition for such exacting work. Her grandmother’s creations, however, had always amazed her. Old Woman Fox made baskets with such a tight weave they’d hold water.

“Watch this,” Grandmother had said once when Morning Dew was a little girl. Then Grandmother had proceeded to pour water into the basket, and set it in the middle of the fire.

“Won’t it burn through?”

“Not a good one,” the old woman had said. “You put the right Power into the making of a basket, and it’ll boil water.”

Morning Dew had watched in awe as exactly that had happened.

“Can’t do it too often, though. Fire, that close to water, the Powers conflict: It’s the anger of both spirits that kills the basket. Makes it lose its resilience.”

What of my resilience?
She considered that. What had become of that girl of so long ago? Shaking her head, she remembered passing her first moon in the Women’s House, listening to Grandmother’s skepticism about Screaming Falcon’s raid:
“How would you save our people?”

She frowned at the partially completed basket, remembering how she’d arrogantly told her grandmother
that a new day was coming. That Screaming Falcon would make sure of it.

“And if he didn’t, I would.”

“So you will accept responsibility for your people, no matter what?”

“On my blood.”

When she looked out at the warriors running with swift surety as they feinted, dodged, and threw the ball back and forth, she wondered just how she could ever fulfill that promise.

“Morning Dew?” Stone emerged from the house.

“Here, Stone.”

“Mother’s still asleep.”

She glanced at the door, then up at the sun, nearing midday.

“She was up late.”

“Doing what?”

“Clan business. Your mother is a very important woman.”

“She counsels people on marriages.”

“That’s right.”

“Marriages are really important,” he stated firmly. “Yes, they are.”

Stone reached down, picking up a clay figurine of a dog. “Can I have a dog someday?”

“Sure.”

“Can I have Swimmer?”

“I think he already belongs to Trader.” She smiled warmly at him.

“I like Trader. He plays with me.”

Which was a wonder, given who the boy’s father was. Morning Dew arched an eyebrow. The boy might be Panther Clan, but he’d still been sired from Smoke Shield’s loins. She placed a hand to her own abdomen, forever thankful the man hadn’t planted his seed in her.

“He could marry Mother.”

“She’s married. To the war chief.”

“But he’s never here.”

“I know.” Thankfully.

“Maybe Mother was helping to plan a wedding last night. That takes a lot of work.”

“Yes, it does.”

“Everyone has to be invited. There are feasts and presents,” he insisted with a solemn nod.

“I remember. A lot of work.”

“Everything stops. Lots of people come for the feast. Even people who don’t like each other. For that one day, they all get along.”

“So, when you’re Panther Clan chief, are you going to make sure there are plenty of marriages?”

“I am.”

She laughed. “You’ll be a good chief.”

Then she glanced at the doorway.
Up most of the night? Would Heron Wing marry Trader?
In a heartbeat, if she were free. The longing in Heron Wing’s eyes when she looked at Green Snake was almost like a scream.

Something was nagging at Morning Dew’s souls, more than just the unsettling notion that Heron Wing might have sneaked off to be with Green Snake. Gods, had she?

She glanced around. The Chikosi weren’t Chahta. They had different beliefs about adultery. It was the woman who paid the price for spreading her legs.

Heron Wing, you’re playing with disaster.

She slipped another piece of split cane down between the willow stems. Compared with Smoke Shield, Green Snake might well be worth it. She had caught herself looking into his eyes, listening raptly as he talked about the Copper Lands, the Caddo, and the Oneota. In his presence, she had found herself smiling, her souls at ease. By Breath Maker, she could listen to the man talk all day.

Stone was playing with his clay dog, trotting it across
the ramada matting, making barking sounds as he tossed a little twig. “Get it, Swimmer.”

So who will I marry if I ever get home?

She was a matron and, with her mother gone, head of the White Arrow Moiety. Young, strong, and healthy, there would be suitors aplenty. She frowned as she fitted another split.
Am I to be a second wife?
“Not hardly,” she whispered.

“What?” Stone turned.

“I was thinking about marriage. About being a second wife.”

The boy looked over at Violet Bead’s house. The woman’s two daughters were playing at making clay bowls, their laughter carrying. He made a face.

Morning Dew lifted an eyebrow. “Exactly.”

She considered the likely candidates, boys she had known who were coming of age. The ones worthy of her rank had already been married. But there were other towns, other lineages and clans.

What if he turns out to be another Smoke Shield?
That was the calculated risk of a political marriage. Fortunately for her, divorce would be an easy matter. Bless the Chahta for that.

Pale Cat appeared, stopped, said something to Violet Bead’s girls, then came on.

“Uncle!” Stone cried in delight, charging out with his clay dog in hand. Pale Cat smiled. He nodded to Morning Dew before laughing and scooping Stone up. “How’s my boy?”

“Good. Swimmer and I were playing.”

“Swimmer? Is that your dog’s name?” Pale Cat turned his attention to the clay dog.

“Yes. He’s Trader’s dog, too.”

“Trader?”

“He was here a lot yesterday.”

“Indeed?” Pale Cat said curiously.

Morning Dew stood. “He was here to see me.”

Pale Cat gave her a knowing smile. “Smart man.” He glanced at the house. “Anything to this?”

“Possibly. He has offered Trade to Heron Wing. I think for the moment, she would be one slave short.”

He gave her a probing look. “When you go, she’ll miss you.”

“As I will miss her.” A pause. “How do you stop a war,
Hopaye?”

“By giving people a reason not to fight. Is my sister here?”

“A moment. I’ll go get her.”

She hurried toward the doorway, averting her face lest Pale Cat read her building concern. Inside, she knelt before Heron Wing’s bed, gently shaking her shoulder. “The
Hopaye
is here. He needs to talk to you.”

“Yes, what time is it?”

“Midday.”

“Gods!” Heron Wing rolled out of bed, picked up her dress, stared at it, then tossed it aside. “How did I sleep this late?”

Morning Dew picked up the discarded dress, watching Heron Wing walk stiffly over to pull a dress from one of the under-bed boxes. She tugged it on, went to the water jar, and wet her hands, scrubbing at her face. Not bothering to comb her hair, she wrapped it in a thick knot and slipped a copper pin through it.

“Do I look like I slept half my life away?”

“You’ll pass. But don’t yawn . . . it’s a dead giveaway.”

“Of course.” Heron Wing stretched one last time and walked out the door; but she seemed oddly stiff, as if tender.

Morning Dew lifted the dress to fold it, and caught the unforgettable musk of copulation. “Fire, Heron Wing. By the gods, don’t get burned.”

She fingered the fabric, frowning. Trader’s scent clung to the garment like old smoke.

What does it take to stop a war?