People of the Thunder (North America's Forgotten Past) (8 page)

“One is as good as none,” Two Petals said cryptically. One got used to hearing cryptic sayings from her.

“Thousands.” Old White shrugged. “I hope we have enough to go around.”

“Never enough? Are you sure?” Two Petals asked some phantom only she could see in the empty plaza before them.

“There will be enough, Seeker,” the Kala Hi’ki said as he approached from around the storehouse. The old shaman was led by two of his white-robed Priests.

Old White shot him an appraising glance. The Kala Hi’ki wasn’t easy on the eyes. As a young man he had been captured by the Sky Hand and hung in a square. The Chikosi had tortured him for days, burning his flesh, gouging out his eyes, severing the fingers from his right hand, and carefully slicing thin strips of skin away. They had even cut the nose from the man’s face, leaving two oblong nostrils.

How the Kala Hi’ki had escaped was a long and involved story. Aparently the Yuchi had been cut down by Trader’s brother. Rattle had meant to blame it on Trader, but never had the chance since Trader killed him with a war club. Once the Kala Hi’ki was free of the square, it was said that Horned Serpent carried him down into the depths of the Black Warrior River outside of Split Sky City. Horned Serpent then bore him to the Underworld, where it healed his wounds and finally left his broken body where other Yuchi could find him.

Hideously scarred, with a white cloth wrapped around his blind eyes, the Kala Hi’ki stood placidly, his good left hand clasping the mangled remains of his right. The two younger Priests took positions to either side, curious eyes on the still-assembling crowd.

“You know,” the Kala Hi’ki added, “that people cannot receive a gift without giving something back. Right now they will be happy to receive something from your winnings on the chunkey match; but after they take it away, guilt will begin to eat at them. Power must be balanced. As the line shortens, it will lengthen again.”

“This could take all day,” Trader said with a sigh.

Two Petals softly said, “Days are such funny things.
How can one last so long and be so short?” Her eyes darted around as though searching for something just beyond her vision. Her hands twitched in oddly synchronous movements. “It is already done. See, just over there. All finished. Like standing here tomorrow afternoon. No one around.”

Old White arched a white eyebrow, but was happy to see that the two young Priests no longer started to fidget when the Contrary was speaking in riddles. He rubbed his old wrinkled face and checked to make sure that his gray-white hair was still pinned tightly in the bun at the back of his head.

No time at all? He sighed as he stared at the crowd, feeling each of his fifty-some winters. An ache lay deep in his bones, in the small of his back, and in the stiffness that had settled in his knees. What a thousand desert suns had done to brown his skin, another thousand freezing blizzards had finished. Endless high Plains winds had lined his face, only to have the creases chiseled deep by unforgiving ocean breezes. Northern snow fields had etched the corners of his eyes into a squint that had fixed under shimmering heat waves rolling off desert pavement.

“Thinking of the past?” the Kala Hi’ki asked.

“Always,” Old White replied. “All that a man is comes from the past. What he will be in the future is only a fantasy, a Dream.”

“You did not need to travel to the ends of the earth to learn that.”

“No.”

“And they call you the Seeker?” the Kala Hi’ki asked. “I find that to be a divine joke.”

Old White turned, fingering his Trader’s staff. “I don’t see the humor.”

When the Kala Hi’ki smiled, the effect on his maimed face was gruesome. “What do you carry in that heavy canvas bag hanging from your shoulder?”

Old White looked down at the travel-stained fabric bag. “My past, Kala Hi’ki.”

“It is a heavy burden to bear.”

“What does my past have to do with my name being a joke?” Old White asked warily.

“Because you weren’t seeking. You have always been driven.” The Kala Hi’ki’s ruined smile thinned. “You enjoy keeping the secrets of your past, Seeker. Whatever terrible thing you did, it has hounded you from one end of the earth to the other. And the harder you run to escape, the closer it barks at your heels.”

An eerie shiver ran through Old White. “For a blind man, you see just fine.”

“I am the Kala Hi’ki.” The Yuchi turned his sightless eyes toward Old White. “Horned Serpent gave me the gift of life . . . and sight.”

Old White swallowed hard, remembering the time the Kala Hi’ki had removed the bandage from his face. There, exposed in the firelight, were two large crystals—allegedly gifts from Horned Serpent—embedded in the sockets where the man’s eyes should have been.

“If you can see that well, you know why I keep secrets. If you don’t, explaining won’t sharpen your vision.”

The Kala Hi’ki nodded. “You are a stronger man than I, Seeker. I would rather hang on a square again than bear your burden.”

Old White caught Trader’s suddenly sharpened expression. Old White waved it down. “All in time, Trader. Assuming we live that long.”

“Living is just dying. Only backward.” Two Petals frowned at something in the air above the plaza. “How can light just hang in the sky like that? Meanwhile, these people are happy to swarm around. Hungry as bees. Waves upon the shore, forever lapping and lapping. Can’t go meet my sister with all these goods piled in a warehouse. No, they’ve got to be turned upside down first. Can’t send a wooden bowl south if it’s in the
north. She’d never know us for who we are. Seeds in the soil. Messengers can’t die until they’re sent.”

“What?” Trader asked.

“Forget it,” Old White told him, glad to have the subject changed. He raised his staff, and the waiting Yuchi grew quiet. He could feel the rising expectation in the crowd. At that moment, Born-of-Sun, followed by War Chief Wolf Tail, came striding across the plaza. The Yuchi high chief was dressed resplendently, fans of turkey feathers at each shoulder, the point of his apron hanging down between his knees. A bearhide cape was perfectly draped over his shoulders, and sunlight glinted off the copper headpiece pinned to his hair.

Born-of-Sun wore an expression of solemn dignity until he stepped close, winked at Trader, and shot Old White an amused smile. In a low voice he asked, “Are you ready for this? If we avoid a riot it will be a miracle.”

“Riot, riot,” Two Petals sang. “All is chaos.”

“Ready,” Trader replied. “Seeker? Do you wish to do the honors?”

Old White cried out to the crowd, “Greetings! I am Old White, known as the Seeker. With me is Trader, and the Contrary, Two Petals. As you know, we came to Rainbow City under the Power of Trade!” He took a breath as a cheer went up. “At the height of the winter solstice, you watched a great game of chunkey played between Born-of-Sun, high chief of the Tsoyaha, and Trader. The stakes were Trader’s life and freedom against his promise to seek peace and well-being between the Yuchi and Chikosi. The game was close, tied at twenty apiece, when Trader’s final cast shattered his lance upon the stone!”

People called out, stamping their feet, shouting in applause.

Old White lifted his Trader’s staff, the feathers waffling in the breeze. When the crowd began to quiet, he
continued, “You Tsoyaha wagered everything on your chief, knowing Born-of-Sun was the finest chunkey player among you. Power, however, favored Trader in this contest among equals.”

A few hoots and jeers broke out.

Old White grinned. “Trader, the Contrary, and I are humble Traders, and it is not right that we three should hoard our winnings. Power seeks balance. We serve the Power of Trade. So we would Trade.”

“Trade what?” someone called.

“The goodwill of the Tsoyaha in return for this mountain of winnings!” Old White pointed to the two storehouses full of blankets, jewelry, pots of corn, beans, and dried squash. Wooden dishes, colorful fabrics, shell-inlaid wooden boxes, bows, lances, several canoes, rolls of matting, and the wealth of a nation lay piled within.

A roar went up from the crowd.

“What do you think, Kala Hi’ki?” Born-of-Sun asked.

“I think our children’s children will talk of this day, High Chief.”

Old White turned for the first of the presents, handing it to Two Petals. The piece was a finely crafted Illinois bowl. The artisan had carved it from a single piece of black walnut, thinning the wooden bowl and rubbing it with oils to accent the grain. The handles were in the form of a raccoon’s head on one end with the animal’s ringed tail protruding on the other. It rested on four lifelike feet; but for being wood, the toes and claws might have come from the real thing. He had obtained the bowl in Trade, given it away during the solstice celebrations, and now Trader had won it back. For a moment Old White stared at the intricate carving of the muzzle and admired the masklike face that had been so finely rendered. Wonderful workmanship. Then he turned to Two Petals. “Here. You do the honors. You’re Contrary: Say something . . . cryptic.”

“As if she could say anything else?” Trader asked from the corner of his mouth.

“You Dance with your feet on your head, Seeker,” Two Petals announced as she took the bowl from his hands. “Try and be rid of this bowl, Trader. It will finally rest with the one you love.”

Old White watched Trader roll his eyes and shake his head.

“I am not tired. Not at all. What need do I have of sleep?” Two Petals asked herself with a sigh as she stared up into the night sky. The young woman had hollow eyes, her face lined with fatigue. Her head kept nodding, and she’d jerk before blinking stupidly.

Trader laughed as he puffed reflectively on his pipe.

Old White sat with a buffalo robe around his shoulders, his hands extended to the flames. Firelight played across his aged features. Was it just the exhaustion, or was his face more drawn, his eyes sadder? Trader drew from his pipe and wondered.

“Storm is coming,” Old White noted, glancing up at the clouds.

“Cold wind from the north, dark clouds moving up over it from the south.” Trader gave the sky a slit-eyed appraisal. “My guess is freezing rain come morning. Should make travel miserable.”

Old White grunted in humorless agreement.

Trader suspected the old man wanted nothing more than to sleep for three days straight. Then he, too, looked up at the night. Dark and tortured, it threatened rain. Heavy clouds—menacing and swollen—were rolling up from the gulf. The air carried the scent of moisture, and here, so close to the earth, it had grown thick, cold, and still after having blown down from the north that entire day.

The three of them sat around a crackling fire, backs to logs that other travelers had drawn up at the terraced campsite. Their two canoes rested at the edge of their vision, where the creek flowed. Thick ropes were tied from the bows to the trees in case rain raised the creek waters high enough to float the craft.

The morning of their departure from Rainbow City, the canoe landing had been packed with enough people that the crush knocked over a ramada. Too many volunteers came forward to pull them upriver. A lottery had to be held. They hadn’t pushed the canoes out into the Tenasee River’s water until almost midday, but the paddlers made up for it, arriving at Cane Break Town just after dark. Then it all started again.

Trader laughed as he stared at the fire. “I don’t think a single Yuchi has what he started out with. We could have saved a lot of work if we’d just told everyone to switch households.”

“I’ve never seen such a thing,” Old White agreed as he reached for his own pipe. “They’ll be talking about us for years. Kind of pleasing, actually.”

The Yuchi men who were traveling with them had a roaring fire a stone’s throw to the south. They, too, looked exhausted, having expended unflagging energy towing the two canoes upstream. Word had traveled upriver like a wind-borne leaf, and as the party passed, people would appear on the banks, waving and calling greetings. The Yuchi paddlers had waved back, then expended their efforts against the current, making a show of their strength and energy for the spectators.

They had been on the river for four days, now. Travel had been slow because it seemed that a Yuchi town lay at the end of each day’s journey. And, at each, they had been honored, feasted, and kept up late into the night, telling stories. Mostly, it was Old White who related his adventures as the Seeker. Night after night, the old man stood beside a fire in some crowded Council House,
his sonorous voice eliciting gasps of disbelief from his listeners. But Two Petals had drawn her own crowds, evoking awe and reverence as people asked her questions, listened intently to her backward answers, and then struggled to interpret the Power behind her words.

Trader glanced down at Swimmer, flopped on his side, paws twitching as he chased something in his Dreams. Then Trader looked out at the Gray Fox River—their route up to the portage that would take them to the headwaters of the Horned Serpent.

“I have a question.” Old White lit his pipe and puffed.

“For me or Two Petals?”

“I am Contrary, now,” she said through a yawn. “You no longer see Two Petals.”