People of the Thunder (North America's Forgotten Past) (52 page)

Her gaze was drawn to the back room: She could almost feel the presence of the White Arrow medicine box. The thing was going to weigh on her until Green Snake managed to send it to Great Cougar; but how on earth was he going to manage that? She shivered at the thought of the thing’s Power.

“Gods, and you slept here?” she asked, turning to Morning Dew’s bed. She blinked, rubbing her eyes. The blankets lay flat.

Heron Wing stood, stepping around to see that the woman’s bed was empty. “Morning Dew?”

Silence.

She stepped back, seating herself on her bed, staring
across the room. Morning Dew had gone, too? Had the Power of the box driven her out?

Or, did she, too, have a man that she had gone sneaking off to? “No, she would have told me.”

At that moment, a dark shape filled her door. An angry Smoke Shield burst into the room. He stopped short, seeing her sitting naked on her bed. His hands kept curling into fists, the muscles in his arms bulging and swelling.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, a sudden fear rising in her breast.

“So, it is not you.”

She grabbed up her blanket, wrapping it around her body. “What are you talking about?”

“One of my wives is betraying me. The Prophet told me.” Then he marched to the back room. As he did, her heart tripped in her breast.

“What are you . . . ?” The words died in her throat. She felt faint. He would see the medicine box, know immediately what it was.

She should have run after him, sought to distract him. Instead she sat, frozen in horror. He was tossing things about. A ceramic jar shattered in a hollow pop, and then he came storming out, a thunderous darkness on his face. He stopped, bouncing on his toes. “Where is the box?”

“What . . . box?”

“The White Arrow war medicine. Where is it?”

“I don’t—” His hard slap snapped her head back.

“The Prophet said it was brought here!”

Heart hammering, she glared up at him. “Do you really think I would have foreign war medicine in
my
house? It’s
men’s
Power, you fool!”

His next blow shot yellow light behind her eyes and knocked her sideways. She blinked, vision spinning. Her fingers clutched desperately at the blankets.

“Where is it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Tear the house apart if you wish. I have nothing of yours.”

He stood, trembling with rage, his nostrils flaring. The twilight cast a black shadow down the deep scar on his head. “Violet Bead,” he muttered. “It must be Violet Bead.” In his violent haste to leave, his shoulder hit the door frame hard enough to shake her entire house.

Heron Wing lay panting, heart pounding. She wet her lips, tightening her fingers in the coarse weave of the blanket.

The Prophet told him.

Her gaze fastened on the doorway leading to the rear. She’d seen Green Snake walk through that door, heard him as he found a place for the medicine box.

She forced herself to climb to her unsteady feet. Pressing fingers to the stinging side of her face, she stepped to the doorway.

Smoke Shield had made a mess. But despite the wreckage, she could see where Green Snake had placed the box the night before. He’d moved her baskets to clear a space that now lay vacant along the back wall.

Gone! The box is gone!

Who . . . ? Then it hit her with the force of Smoke Shield’s fist.

“Gods,” she whispered. “Morning Dew . . .”

A terrible scream rent the quiet air.

Heron Wing hurried to her door, leaning out to stare toward Violet Bead’s, where a naked young man came crashing out into the dawn. Behind him, Smoke Shield leapt like a panther.

The naked man squealed in terror, struggled to rise, and then Smoke Shield was on him, howling and screaming like some enraged cat. She saw Smoke Shield’s arm rise, could make out something in his hand. The meaty impact of breaking flesh and bone sent a tremor through her. Again and again, Smoke Shield hammered the man’s head.

A naked Violet Bead appeared at her doorway, desperately trying to pull Smoke Shield back. He rose, turning, clamping a hand to her throat. Violet Bead was pushed back into the house, and moments later the shrieks began.

Each was like a needle in Heron Wing’s souls.

Old White enjoyed the midmorning sun. He sat on the log before their house with his head tilted back to the warm rays. Beside him, Trader’s wet piece of hide made a soft rasping as he sanded his chunkey lance. People were busy picking up trash. Anything burnable went straight to the fire pits. Others walked past with baskets, seeking the owners. It wasn’t anything like the bedlam down by the collapsed palisade.

Old White had walked down just at dawn, surprised at how much of the tall wall had blown over. The downed portion was half the length of the plaza. Not only that, but the southern end of the city had collected most of the detritus: pieces of roof and loose belongings.

“How could Flying Hawk have let the palisade get that far out of repair?” he asked. “I tell you, fully half the logs were rotted off.”

Trader continued his sanding. “Maybe the time for palisades is over.”

“Indeed?”

“How often do large armies march grand distances cross-country? It made more sense when Cahokia could put a thousand warriors on the river. Marching that many down here—where the travel is overland—an army has to carry its provisions.”

“Would you mind trotting out and telling Great Cougar that he doesn’t know what he’s doing?”

“He’s motivated.”

“Someone will always be motivated, Trader.”

The sanding continued.

Old White watched a warrior appear from between the close-packed houses. He stopped, talking to Squash Blossom where she carefully burned a torn section of someone’s latrine matting that had ended up wrapped around her ramada pole. The woman smiled, gesturing toward her house. The warrior nodded and stepped inside, followed closely by Squash Blossom.

“Warrior just went into Squash Blossom’s.”

“Hmm. What do you think that means?” Trader continued his sanding.

“That someone has discovered the White Arrow war medicine is missing.”

“Stolen? The audacity of some people!” Trader ran the wet sand down the white wood shaft again. “This thing with Heron Wing and me . . . Tell me, do you think it’s an abuse of Power?”

“No.”

“Why not? She’s a married woman.”

“She was supposed to be married to you. The two of you love each other. What was the story you told? That Smoke Shield lied to get her? Said he’d coupled with her? That she thought it was you?”

“That’s right.”

“He used despicable means to obtain his ends. Which might be all right, but he has abused her the same way he has Power. You and I both know she would have kicked his sorry moccasins right out the door but for this silly divorce code the Chikosi have.”

“There’s that word again.”

“Something tells me they’re going to have to get used to it.” Old White reached down, picked up a pebble, and tossed it. Swimmer, who was supposed to have been asleep, immediately launched himself after the
stone, unsure of which way it had gone. He bounced to a stop, ears pricked, looking this way and that.

“Here we go.” Old White watched the warrior emerge. Squash Blossom was still talking. She listened to something the warrior said; then she pointed right at their house. “I do believe the kind Squash Blossom just pointed that warrior in our direction.”

“You didn’t say anything bad about her cooking, did you?”

Old White watched the warrior approach and smiled up at him. “Greetings. Come to Trade?”

The warrior was a young man, his tattoos those of the Skunk Clan. A large white shell gorget engraved with an image of Flying Serpent hung on his chest. He had his hair pulled up in a bun; a new war club hung from the thick belt of his breechcloth. He might have passed nineteen summers, spare of body, with a slightly offset jaw. Stickball player, if Old White was any judge.

“Something was taken from the Men’s House last night. The woman back there said you are foreign Traders.”

“That we are. Down from the north.” Old White indicated the white shell gorget. “That’s a nice piece. Excellent craftsmanship. Would you part with it?”

He reached up reflexively, hand cradling the shell. “My brother made this for me. It was his gift when I was initiated to the Men’s House. It isn’t for Trade.”

“Come on inside,” Old White invited. “Let me show you our goods. I’ll bet you’d Trade that for a mica effigy. I have a nice falcon . . . comes straight from Cahokia.”

The suddenly nervous warrior followed Old White into the interior and stared around at the packs and benches. “Do you have a wooden box?”

“Lots of them. But you’re going to need more than
just that gorget.” Old White bent to his packs, seeing the warrior drop to his knees, eyes on the wooden pack Old White carried. “That one’s mine. I’ve carried it across most of the country.”

“Wrong decorations.”

Old White slipped his fingers through the goods until he found the mica effigy of Falcon with its long, folded wings. The warrior took his time inspecting each of their wooden boxes. His gaze lingered on the Chaktaw box Old Woman Fox had given them to Trade for Morning Dew. He tilted it, finding no holes for shoulder straps.

I wonder what he’d say if he knew he was standing on top of the legendary Sky Hand war medicine box and a wealth of copper?

“Here.” Old White handed the piece over. “As you can see, it’s already drilled at the top, ready to be strung on whatever kind of cord you prefer.”

The warrior took the piece, turning it in his hands. He held it up to the light coming through the door and watched it flash. “This really came from Cahokia?”

“On the Power of Trade, it did.” Old White made a gesture. “A lot of pieces are being Traded around today that are supposed to have come from Cahokia, but that is the real thing. Here, let me show you this.”

He fished around for one of the remaining weasel hides. “Ever seen a white weasel before? They only turn that color up in the far north. Makes it harder for the hawks and owls to see them against the snow.”

“You would trade the mica for my gorget?”

“I would. That’s an extraordinary piece. I could get a bale of these weasel hides for that one gorget up north. Since the Trade has slowed, they don’t get as much shell up there.”

The warrior fingered the Falcon effigy, and Old White clearly read the desire in his eyes. Finally, the
man shook his head. “I’m sorry. I cannot. My brother made this. It was a special gift.”

“I understand completely.” Old White clapped his hands to his thighs and stood. “But, perhaps you might know where another gorget—just as large and well made—might be? I don’t have to Trade you out of your brother’s gift. But another, equally fine, would do.”

The warrior smiled. “I may see you later.”

“We’ll be here. It is our hope to spend some time in Sky Hand City.” Old White smiled. “It gives people time to bring us the best.”

He followed the warrior out into the sunlight. “Now, about this missing box: If we see it, how do we recognize it?”

“Do you know Chahta designs?”

“We do. Like you saw inside.”

“This one is a war medicine box, with straps. The engraving is very fine, with pearls and shell inlay. It has Falcon on it, and the triangles with lines that the Chahta like so much.”

Old White nodded. “You know, it wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to Trade a stolen object. If anyone brings such a thing to us, one of us will stall him while the other slips away to the Men’s House with the news.”

The warrior gave him a suspicious sidelong glance. “Why would you do that? The box would bring you a fortune among the Chahta.”

Old White gave him a fatherly stare. “Warrior, you saw that staff in there?”

“The Trader’s staff?”

“That’s right. We are here under the Power of Trade. Do you know what would happen to us if we abused it?”

“No.”

“Like as not, we’d get out on the river and Horned
Serpent would capsize us. Traders don’t abuse Power.” He paused. “Not and get away with it.”

The warrior nodded, and then he smiled. “I understand.” He touched his gorget. “I do want that mica piece. I’ll be back.”

Old White sighed as the young man walked to the next house, calling out to the occupants. He seated himself, rearranged his legs, and found Swimmer waiting for him with a partially chewed stick in his mouth. Old White reached down and tossed it as Squash Blossom came over, a contrite look on her face.

“Isn’t this a better day?” she said by way of greeting. “That wind was terrible.”

“It was indeed.” Trader smiled up as he continued to sand his lance.

She shifted from foot to foot. “I didn’t mean to get you into any trouble.”

“No trouble,” Old White said amiably. “You did us a service. That nice young man is going to Trade us a fine shell gorget next time he comes.”

She glanced off toward the east. “So, someone took the White Arrow war medicine.” She shook her head. “So many things don’t make sense anymore.”

“How’s that?” Trader asked.