by Paul Clayton
Sun Watcher raised his hand. “Yes, our shaman speaks well. Let us do as he says.”
The young braves followed closely behind Sun Watcher as he left the chokafa. Birdfoot and Black Bear walked off with Calling Crow. Birdfoot looked back at Sun Watcher and his young coterie of braves as they walked in the direction of the chunkey yard. “You are not back one day and your old rivalry with Sun Watcher is renewed,” he said.
Calling Crow laughed. “Yes. It is so.”
Black Bear smiled. “It is as natural as rain. I have seen it now for many years.”
As Calling Crow stopped to talk to the people, he was struck by the fact that with their skin garments and simple tools, they were not much different from the Saturiba People. They were a prouder, harder working people, though. They grew their own crops, storing them for the cold winter. Still, all their work and pride would prove useless against Spanish iron and horses. He hoped that when he went off in the morning to the bogs that he would find iron.
Black Bear grew tired from the walking and left Calling Crow and Birdfoot at the village edge. Calling Crow and Birdfoot left the village, walking alone on a path through two fields of young, green corn shoots. The sky was deep blue and a solitary hawk flew high and off in the distance. Women worked in the field to their right, pouring water on the young corn plants. Calling Crow looked at his friend and was pleased at how well he had grown. Although still thin, Birdfoot had a determined strength about him now, and his eyes burned with a fiery intensity.
“How have things been here in Tumaqua, Birdfoot?” Calling Crow asked.
Birdfoot looked skyward. “The Great Spirit has been good to us. We had war with the Flatheads, but that did not last long. Two of our braves were killed, and three of theirs. We had a bad storm three turnings of the seasons ago and it washed out two of our best cornfields, but at that time the fishing was very good and that made up for it.”
Birdfoot stopped and turned to him. “How good it is that you have returned, Calling Crow. Forget about this iron business for a while and let us go hunting tomorrow.”
Calling Crow shook his head. “No, Birdfoot. The Destroyer exists. I have already met two Spanish who could well be this Destroyer. And there are many others who have the power and the will. I must work to protect Tumaqua. Why don’t you come with me to the bogs and we can try the hunting there.”
“Very well, Calling Crow. We will go tomorrow.”
As Birdfoot spoke, they noticed someone coming along the trail from the village. It was Tiamai. Calling Crow saw that she was still beautiful, although she was fuller now, no longer a shapely girl of fifteen. A small naked boy who did not reach her hip walked by her side, and she carried a baby in a sling over her back. Calling Crow turned to speak to Birdfoot, but he had run off, going in the direction of the forest.
Tiamai said nothing as she walked up to Calling Crow, looking at him closely. “It is you,” she said finally. “I could not believe when I heard.”
“Yes,” he said. Although he smiled at her and the boy, inside his heart was heavy as he saw what could have been if he had never gone away.
“That is my boy,” she said.
Calling Crow looked down at the boy and smiled.
“My father is the Chief!” the boy said.
“Ah!” said Calling Crow. “That is good.”
“And this,” said Tiamai, indicating the baby over her shoulder, “is my baby boy, now only two moons in this world.”
Calling Crow looked at the sleeping baby closely and smiled. “It is good, Tiamai.”
Tears formed in Tiamai’s eyes. “Yes. It is good.” She grabbed the boy’s hand and hurried back toward the village.
Calling Crow felt an emptiness in his heart. He turned to look for Birdfoot and saw him almost at the trees of the forest. He began running after him, the exertion mitigating the sadness that had taken hold of him.
Chapter 50
Calling Crow walked the main dirt street of Tumaqua on his way to the chokafa. He was going to meet Birdfoot. He carried some fine skins and some bone needles to make the bellows for the forge, and Birdfoot would provide several fine clay bowls they could perhaps use as crucibles. Father Sun still had not risen from the big water and the light was subdued, the air cool. He saw the brave who had challenged him when he’d first entered the village’s territory, the one called Big Feet. He was lying on a skin outside one of the huts, and an old woman was leaning over him, dipping water from a calabash onto his head. Ignoring Big Feet’s groans, she smiled and nodded to Calling Crow as he went by. He walked on, the people greeting him happily as he passed. He almost collided with a pretty maid as she exited her hut. She laughed shyly as she backed off, averting her eyes. Calling Crow felt his heart lighten. There were many things he must do to protect the people, but now the task seemed not so impossible.
Calling Crow went into the chokafa. Birdfoot sat before the fire with old Red Dog and Flathead Killer. They nodded as he sat down beside them.
“Birdfoot tells me you go to the bogs to make this iron,” said Red Dog.
“Yes, Grandfather,” said Calling Crow.
Red Dog smiled. “Make sure you show it to me first when you return.”
“Yes.”
Birdfoot looked at Calling Crow. “Battle Face and Sings At War are against you now, Calling Crow. They don’t trust you. But Sun Watcher is still undecided.”
“And the other strong braves?” said Calling Crow.
“Big Feet and Laughing Man are for you, but they don’t have as much influence.”
“The other old men think you are crazy,” said Red Dog. He turned to Flathead Killer. “Tell him what they told you.”
Flathead Killer smiled. “They say that you must have fallen off a rock and landed on your head. That is how they account for your stories.”
Calling Crow looked at him sharply. “I have my garments made from Spanish wool. How can they explain that away?”
Red Dog said softly, “Dull Lance said that it is merely the skin of some strange animal.”
“Ah!” said Calling Crow in exasperation. “Any woman in the village could tell him my garments are not made of skins.” He was amazed by their stubborn refusal to see what was. He remembered Juana arguing with him, cajoling, while he stubbornly refused to see what she was trying to show him.
Red Dog’s woman brought Red Dog a calabash of steaming soup. He shook his head and she said to him sharply, “You must eat! You did not eat last night.”
Red Dog looked at her tiredly. “I have no hunger.”
She turned angrily and walked off, dumping the contents of the calabash into a stone pot.
Birdfoot looked at Red Dog as he got to his feet. “Are you well, Grandfather?”
Red Dog smiled. “To be old is to feel old. You young men will know what that is someday.”
Flathead Killer’s thick lips turned up slightly in a smile.
Red Dog looked at Birdfoot. “I am very tired and I want to sleep. I will be rested by the time you and Calling Crow return.”
Calling Crow and Birdfoot said goodbye and left the hut.
Chapter 51
On the sandy bank of the bogs, Calling Crow smiled over at Birdfoot as he carried the dried mud bricks under the hot sun. Birdfoot was dripping with sweat as he placed them in a pile next to where Calling Crow was building the forge.
Birdfoot paused a moment before going back to his carrying. “What crazy people these Spanish must be to do so much work as this.”
Calling Crow fitted a brick into its niche and reached for another. “They are not crazy; they made us slaves do the work.”
“Aieyee. I see.” Birdfoot went back to his carrying.
Two days later Birdfoot was working the wooden lever of the crude bellows Calling Crow had constructed while Calling Crow knelt before the forge, pushing wood into the flames.
“Push it faster,” said Calling Crow. “This is how they did it at the mission school and I think it is almost ready.”<
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Birdfoot worked the lever furiously, finally breaking it off with a loud snap. He sat down immediately as Calling Crow looked up to see what happened. Realizing that the fire would begin cooling, Calling Crow pushed the wooden rake he had made into the front of the forge. He pulled the clay crucible out and it tipped over, spilling its contents onto the sand. He poured water on it and it hissed loudly, sending up a sulfurous plume of steam. When it had cooled, he poked through the mess with a stick and pulled out a black mottled piece of iron the size of his hand. It was flat like a stone from the stream, with one end grooved and tapered like the tail fin of a fish. Touching it quickly, he found it cool enough to be handled. Birdfoot came over to look.
Calling Crow handed it to him. Birdfoot moved it up and down, testing the weight. “So this is iron. It is so heavy.” He handed it back to Calling Crow.
Calling Crow fingered it as he looked at the destroyed forge in disgust. He threw the iron into the bog. Birdfoot ran after it and fished it out. “Why did you do that?” he said as he walked back.
Calling Crow sat down in the sand tiredly. “What good is one piece?” He looked back at the forge. “I don’t think we can make enough to do us any good.”
Birdfoot looked out over the bog as he fingered the strange piece of iron. “We could send a trading party to see the People Who Live by the Great River. They trade with the People of the Seven Cities, and they make things out of metal.”
Calling Crow scowled contemptuously. “No, they make pretty little things out of gold. Gold is soft. Iron is hard. They make nothing out of iron.”
Birdfoot said nothing. He put the iron in his shaman’s bag. Somewhere out in the trees of the bog a woodpecker rapped against a tree. Finally Calling Crow said, “I have been thinking about the Spanish a lot lately. They have many powerful things, but they rely on them too much. When they attacked the Saturibas, they had horses, but their horses were not much good in the great forests. And they were so convinced of their power and eventual success that they did not bring enough food stores and they almost starved.”
Calling Crow got to his feet. “There is only one thing to do. We must convince the Council to move the village far inland. It is the only way to safeguard the people. Come, let us go back to the village.”
***
When Calling Crow and Birdfoot reached the village, they heard people wailing, mourning a death. As they walked through the village they passed the hut where the mourners had congregated. Calling Crow looked down at the body on the pole litter and saw that it was the young brave who had appeared sick the day he left with Birdfoot, the one called Big Feet. They walked into the chokafa and saw Red Dog’s woman crying, while two others attempted unsuccessfully to console her.
One of the women looked up at them as they entered. “Old Red Dog died just two days after you left,” she said. “He grew feverish the first night and then lay down to sleep. For a whole day he never opened his eyes and last night he stopped breathing.”
“Aieyee,” said Birdfoot.
An awful sadness bore into Calling Crow. But he was also conscious of another feeling-- a vague foreboding. There was something that would not come into his heart where he could understand it, but instead remained unseen, like a wildcat prowling the darkness at the edge of a camp fire. “Where is Red Dog?” said Calling Crow. “I would like to pray for him.”
The woman nodded toward the beach. “He is down there.”
***
One moon passed and many more villagers grew sick. Five died, and the wailing of the women went on day and night. Calling Crow thought it was like the Spanish disease, but there were no Spanish here and therefore it could not be that. Like many others, he thought it must be a spell. Despite the deaths, he tried to prepare the villagers for what might come. He had fashioned some armor out of wooden slats woven into a mantle, but Sun Watcher and the other braves refused to consider doing the same, saying it would be cowardly to wear such things. Calling Crow continued to attempt to persuade the Council to move the village further inland, to no avail. One day a runner came to his hut and told him the Council was meeting. He hurried off to the chokafa.
Battle Face was the first one recognized to speak. He stood solemnly and looked around at the assembled men. “Today Jesting Woman and Two Clubs died. That makes thirteen. Many more are sick. I believe that Calling Crow has cast a spell on us.” Many of those assembled gasped at the accusation. Many others shouted in agreement.
Calling Crow leapt to his feet. “This is not true,” he said. “Battle Face says this because he is frightened. I would never harm my own people. All of you who know me know this is so!”
Battle Face shook with anger as he shouted, “All of this started after you came back to us. And all of it will end when you are gone.”
“Yes!” shouted some braves.
Black Bear raised his bony arm. “No! This cannot be, for I held Calling Crow when he was a child. I helped his father train him to hunt. It cannot be.”
The voices for and against Calling Crow seemed to be evenly divided. Everyone waited for the Chief to speak. Sun Watcher got slowly to his feet and looked around at the group, his gaze pausing at Calling Crow. “We need more time to think about this business,” he said. “I have played with Calling Crow as a child, ran races against him, fought with him as a young man, hunted with him. Because of that I cannot believe he would do these things to us. We will wait a while longer.”
The men were silent as Sun Watcher sat back down. Many were against Calling Crow, but they would never contradict their Chief. Birdfoot got to his feet. The club he had fashioned out of Calling Crow’s piece of iron hung proudly around his neck. His eyes burned with a fiery passion. “I, too, say that Calling Crow is not responsible for these bad things. If there is a spell, then it must have been cast by our enemies, perhaps someone in the Wolf Clan.”
This started new murmurs and discussions in the hut. As the others speculated among themselves, Calling Crow tried to understand the crazy turn his life had taken, but could not. Only if he did ceremony would he be able to find a way out of this dark turn.
Chapter 52
Calling Crow and Birdfoot walked out of the chokafa and into the cool afternoon air. Concern etched deep into Calling Crow’s face as he looked at his friend. “We must get them to move the village, Birdfoot. It is too close to the sea. If the Spanish pass this way in their ships, they may see someone on the beach and then they will come ashore to look. We must move!”
Birdfoot nodded. “Later I will do what I can. But now the sickness is what I must concern myself with.”
As Calling Crow began walking off, Birdfoot called out to him. “Calling Crow. I would like to have the Spanish garments you brought back with you.”
Calling Crow looked at him inquisitively.
“I am going to seek a vision and they will help me.”
“Very well,” said Calling Crow. “I will bring them.”
***
After Calling Crow dropped the tunic and breeches off, he left the village. He headed for the big dune where he had first seen the cloudboats so long ago. When he arrived, there were already a good many people there, the dune being a popular place to sit in the early evening and catch the breeze blowing off the land.
Calling Crow climbed past two old men who smiled and nodded at him. He picked a place further up on the dune and sat down, looking out at the clear blue sea. Father Sun had already begun his descent over the forest behind them and the air was cool. He tried to enjoy the beauty of the dying day, yet he could not. A feeling had been haunting him. It skulked about at the edge of his understanding. It was something bad, and it had to do with him. But it refused to show itself. He was diverted from his dark thoughts as some boys came near and began playing roughly in the sand, as he and Sun Watcher and Birdfoot used to do as boys. An older boy named Hairy Chin walked up and sat next to Calling Crow. Calling Crow turned and noticed that the old men had left. Someone else was climbing the dune.
He was surprised to see that it was Tiamai. Her little boy was not with her, but she carried her baby at her breast.
She sat not far from him. He and Hairy Chin looked her way, but she did not acknowledge them. Calling Crow watched her put the baby’s tiny head to her breast, a breast that he had once nuzzled and kissed. The nipple was taut and purple, fairly bursting with milk, but the baby’s eyes remained shut, its hands curled into fists at the ends of its little arms. The mouth no longer suckled, but remained open, the lips parted. A shadow darkened Tiamai’s face and she bounced the baby gently as she mouthed soothing sounds. Again she placed its unmoving lips against her breast. Calling Crow and Hairy Chin looked away. A moment later her scream shattered the stillness of the evening, followed by heavy sobbing.
“Take her back to the village,” Calling Crow said to Hairy Chin. As the boy left, Calling Crow felt very sad for Tiamai. He got to his feet and climbed to the very top of the dune.
***
Inside the chokafa, the torches set into the walls cast bright pools of quivering light. Birdfoot leaned against the wall in one of lighted spots, too weak from his fast to sit upright. Beside him, Calling Crow’s strange garments were wrapped in a bundle. Birdfoot ran his hand over the bundle to make sure it was still there. Outside, the setting sun cast long shadows across the chunkey yard. In Birdfoot’s stupor he heard a sound and saw the large round form of Owl Woman bringing another calabash of the black drink over to him. As she handed it to him, someone entered the chokafa.
Sun Watcher knelt before him. “You are going soon to the spirit world, I see.”
Birdfoot nodded weakly.
Sun Watcher put his large hand on Birdfoot’s small shoulder. “Help us, brother. This spell must be broken. You must find out what we are to do. The people must be saved.”
“Yes,” Birdfoot managed to say weakly as Sun Watcher’s image split into two. Blinking rapidly, he managed to move the two images back into one. Birdfoot lifted the black drink and saw his own face reflected on its steaming surface. “Hai ha!” he sang weakly, and then he drank the bitter liquid quickly, almost choking from the taste. He smiled at Sun Watcher and Owl Woman as he put the calabash down. He started to tell them something and then they were suddenly gone--
