Moon Hunt

by Kathleen O'Neal Gear

  “You know cursed well who comes.”

  “Name?” He kept his eyes rigidly to the fore, face grim with the awesome responsibility that had been placed on his narrow shoulders.

  “Tell Matron Rising Flame that the Keeper was here at her request. Then tell her that you refused me entry to my own clan’s House. That next time she wants to talk to me, she can rotted well see me in my palace.”

  With that she whirled and started home.

  She was halfway down the stairs when the guard called after her, “Clan Keeper! The matron will see you now!”

  Blue Heron stopped short on the stairs, considered going on about her business, then turned back with a sigh. This time she was escorted directly into the large room, filled as it was with people—mostly those of Takes Blood’s lineage who were reveling in the ascendance of their kinswoman to the leadership.

  She strode past the central fire and took a position before where Rising Flame sat on a raised litter. The woman was dressed in a bright yellow skirt, copious shell necklaces hanging down between her breasts, and her hair had been pulled into a tight bun at the top of her head and pinned with a swan-feather splay.

  She fixed irritated and gleaming eyes on Blue Heron. “Is there anything to report about the Four Winds Clan, Clan Keeper?”

  “I have heard that we have a new matron.” Blue Heron crossed her thin arms. “I am waiting to see if that is indeed the case.”

  “I’m surprised. You don’t have a reputation for humor, Clan Keeper.”

  “And you don’t have a reputation for good sense, Matron.”

  The room went silent, people staring.

  “Would you care to elaborate on that, Clan Keeper? You know, you hold your position on the sufferance of the matron.”

  Blue Heron gave her a thin smile. “It is said that you don’t think things through. For instance, had you attended meetings with the previous matron and tonka’tzi you would know that I don’t generally give reports before an audience. If, however, you wish to conduct the clan’s business in this fashion, be aware that your exiled brother Fire Light has sent a messenger all the way from distant Cofitachequi. He has been in contact with Green Chunkey and seeks to coerce Horned Serpent House to petition the Morning Star for a pardon at the Busk next summer. Fire Light’s method of coercion is to remind Green Chunkey that he knows of the high chief’s dalliance with your mother, Eel Woman, and the suspicion that—”

  “Enough!”

  “As you wish, Matron.” Blue Heron turned on her heel and started for the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “You said enough, Matron. The wording was plain: You have no wish to hear more.”

  “Are you doing this just to infuriate me?”

  Blue Heron did an about-face, her gaze taking in the owl-eyed spectators. They were certainly getting their morning’s entertainment. “I am doing this to get through your thick skull, Rising Flame. Not all of governing is about show and spectacle. Should you decide to employ yourself in the actual business of governing, we will talk. In private.”

  Rising Flame’s face had gone brittle and red. “As of this moment, you are no longer Clan Keeper. Get out of here!”

  Blue Heron sighed, nodded, and touched her head respectfully. “As you wish, Matron.”

  She left the room with a slight smile tugging at her lips and whispered, “Oh the storms of youth. Can’t wait to see how you’re going to deal with this one, you twitchy little bitch.”

  Awakening

  It has been two days. I wonder who and what I have become. Everything inside me is confused, turned upside down, and at war with itself. As I lie on the Morning Star’s bed and stare up at the high ceiling, I knot my hands on my chest and seek any strand of understanding that I can cling to. Anything that will bring me back to being me.

  I swore that I would simply lie there when he took me. Do my duty. I promised myself that I would not participate. That, though I had to share my body, I would not betray my love for Straight Corn. That inside, down in my souls, I would remain aloof.

  How then did the Morning Star seduce me into being the willing partner I have been for the last two days?

  I can believe that he is indeed the living god. That he has used some incredible Power to make himself irresistible, to unleash such a rapture of sensations from my body. All of the Moskogee peoples have stories about Spirit Beings seducing young women. I’d always thought them rather quaint. A Tie Snake traveling through the forest happens on a young woman, and poof! Lays with her just like that. Usually producing a magical child in the process. The stories never made sense. If I—while walking through the forest—happen upon a magical snake, stone man, white buck, or whatever, the last thing I’m going to do in front of a terrifying Spirit Beast is fall on my back, pull up my skirt, and spread my legs.

  But that is exactly what I’ve done with the Morning Star. He has made me part of the myth. And worse, I have not only panted for and craved the coupling, but enjoyed him.

  He has treated me kindly, cherished me, made me laugh. But beneath it I can see the darkness, the danger, the terrible Power that lives behind his eyes. Like a moth to a flame I’m drawn …

  I start, the effect as physical as a slap to the face.

  Like a moth?

  The words hammer inside my head.

  Is this all his plan? Does the Morning Star know who I am? I stare at the tattoo on the back of my hand. If he is the hero from the Beginning Times, reincarnated in this young man’s body, he knows that symbol, what it means.

  At the same time, I am, of course, Whispering Dawn. Daughter of High Minko White Water Moccasin. My family is legendary for its strength and prowess, and I have proven myself courageous. I ran away. Married a man my family despised. I offered myself to the ancient magic, accepted the night nectar, and loosened my souls to fly and Dream with Sacred Moth.

  I begin to see my life through different eyes. It is as though I have been a blind child, pouting and petulant. Instead, everything that has happened to me—running away, falling in love with Straight Corn, learning the ancient ways, being captured, being brought here, and now this marriage to the Morning Star—had to happen this way. I have been chosen for great things. That is why I am lying here in the Morning Star’s bed with a sexual afterglow.

  A feeling of awe washes through me, and I reach down and prod the tenderness in my right abdomen. It has been just about a half moon since my last flux. I am at the time of the moon when a man’s seed has the best chance of catching.

  Perhaps my sexual hunger is not all the Morning Star’s magic, but some of my own traitorous body’s doing?

  I close my eyes, conjuring Straight Corn’s face, seeing his shy smile, the gleam of love in his dark eyes. As the image of him forms, my heart aches.

  “What are you doing, Whispering Dawn?” I ask myself. In that instant I feel a deep and burning shame.

  And with it comes the realization that this might be the reenactment of a different story: that of the wife who betrays the husband she loves. That I might be the young woman who makes her commitment, then breaks it, dazzled and seduced away by a fickle Spirit Power—a living god in human form who unleashes waves of tingling ecstasy. In the end she is destroyed, abandoned both by Power and by the man she once loved, to become a pariah.

  I clench my jaw and press my hands against the side of my head, as if by pressing, I can force understanding into my uncertain souls.

  Where does the truth lie?

  As if in answer, a humming moth descends from on high. I close my eyes as it hovers around my face. I revel in the patting air against my cheeks and nose. Feel its proboscis as it tastes my skin.

  I feel the Power and know that I am chosen.

  Twenty-one

  Seven Skull Shield climbed up onto Crazy Frog’s rickety platform and settled on the wooden bench beside the gambler. Crazy Frog might have been forty, though something about his age was hard to pin down. In fact everything about him was
hard to pin down, given his average face, smudged tattoos, and unremarkable physique. He wore his hair in a bun with a plain wooden skewer through it. A coarsely woven hunting shirt covered his torso and was belted with a hemp-fiber rope.

  Anywhere but up here atop this platform, Crazy Frog would have appeared so unremarkable as to be invisible. On his perch—the only one overlooking High Chief War Duck’s River Mounds chunkey courts—Crazy Frog was as prominent as any man in the city.

  He barely gave Seven Skull Shield a glance as he fixed on the two players occupying the long court before him. “This had better be very lucrative business. If you’re just up here for a better view of the game, I’m going to have your legs broken.”

  Seven Skull Shield reached into his belt pouch and slapped a copper nugget the size of a hickory nut onto the bench where Crazy Frog kept his counter with its different-colored shell beads. The gambler used them to keep track of the scores.

  With a quick sleight of hand, Crazy Frog palmed the nugget, asking, “What can I do for you?”

  “To start with? Tell me who to bet on.”

  “I’d go for Skull Thrower. The one wearing black. He’s three games up on Makes His Lance, the player in yellow.”

  If Crazy Frog knew anything, it was chunkey. He lived for the game, knew all the players, and better yet, who would win or lose. The other thing he knew was exactly what was going on in River Mounds City and the canoe landing. When it came to that, not even High Chief War Duck or Matron Round Pot had better sources.

  Seven Skull Shield watched the two players crouch at the head of the court. Skull Thrower clutched his stone disc and charged forward, muscles bulging in his bare thighs. Makes His Lance was matching stride for stride, his lance balanced and raised.

  Skull Thrower made what looked like a perfect release, bowling his stone with a looping underhand throw, the stone just kissing the packed clay as it shot forward like a thing alive.

  In the next step, Skull Thrower had changed his lance to his right hand. Just as he and Makes His Lance reached the penalty line, they both launched their lances in a high arc.

  Side by side, the lances cut through the still afternoon air; sunlight gleamed along their waxed and polished lengths as they curved toward the slowing stone.

  Behind them, Skull Thrower and Makes His Lance called their encouragement to the flying lances. The crowds on either side of the courts were shouting, stomping, and clapping as they watched. As the stone wobbled and fell on its right side, Skull Thrower’s lance thudded into the clay immediately to the right. Makes His Lance’s shaft hit just beyond and to the left.

  “Too close to call from here,” Crazy Frog said with a grin.

  The court judge trotted out with his knotted string and measured. Then, standing, he shouted, “Makes His Lance by a half a knot!”

  The crowd erupted in screams of delight or outrage as the bets were called and the stakeholders surrendered wagered booty to the winners.

  “You were saying about Skull Thrower?” Seven Skull Shield arched a suggestive eyebrow.

  Crazy Frog gave him a sour look as he moved one of his beads from one column to another. “I liked you better when you were a faceless and nameless bit of walking dung. Now that you’re a famous and prominent bit of walking dung, you’ve become insufferable. Did you come here for a reason?”

  Seven Skull Shield hid a grin as he watched the two players collect their lances. Skull Thrower then picked up his stone, kissing it reverently.

  “So, you remember the Quiz Quiz war leader?”

  “Is he still with us? I figured he’d be screaming his voice box out while hanging in one of the Keeper’s squares.”

  “The Surveyors’ Society had him doing just that out in front of their society house. Built a square for him just special, the surveyors not being in the practice of torturing people as a general rule. And—novices as they are—it never occurred to them to leave a guard. Who’d steal a despicable criminal who’d had the gall to piss on the Surveyors’ Society, right? Imagine their consternation when someone who didn’t understand the magnitude of War Leader Sky Star’s crime cut the dying Quiz Quiz down last night and carried the miscreant away.”

  “I’d say the Quiz Quiz has politically motivated friends.”

  “Indeed. Would it surprise you to learn that whoever did the deed has managed to raise the ire of not only the Surveyors’ Society but also the high and mighty?”

  Crazy Frog twitched his lips as he thought. Then said, “Next you are going to ask me to see if any of my people know if the rest of Sky Star’s warriors are still around.”

  “You and I think a lot alike.”

  The gambler took a deep breath. “Is there any way I could persuade you to let this go?”

  “Didn’t I just explain that the Powers that be are irritated?”

  Crazy Frog gave him a flat stare, stating, “You understand that this could turn into a real mess, don’t you? It was bad enough that the Quiz Quiz sent their war leader to steal the Bundle. Twice as bad that he actually took it. And a whole lot worse that he got caught. And now, if his men took him down—thwarting the Morning Star’s justice—they could all end up in the squares.”

  “And the whole Quiz Quiz Nation is going to go berserk,” Seven Skull Shield finished. “They can’t win, you know. In the end what can they do? Send an army north to punish us?”

  “They’d be crushed before they reached the mouth of the Mother Water. And the second they sent their warriors north, the Pacaha or one of the other Nations down there would move on them.”

  Seven Skull Shield watched Makes His Lance and Skull Thrower take their positions, each leaning forward, concentrating on the court. It was Makes His Lance’s turn to bowl, and the man cupped his white stone. They took their marks, launched, Makes His Lance bowled, and three steps later, both cast.

  “Makes His Lance by two hands.” Crazy Frog predicted, pausing to watch the lances as they curved through the air. Sunlight gleamed as they flew, and then they smacked into the smooth clay beside the stone.

  “Good call,” Seven Skull Shield told him. “You could do this for a living, you know?”

  “Now there’s an idea. Wonder why I’ve never thought of that on my own?” Crazy Frog moved his bead into another column.

  “About the Quiz Quiz,” Seven Skull Shield added. “We both know it’s already a tricky situation. If bad goes to worse, their high chief will have to do something. He’s got to, just to save face. But he can’t act outright for the reasons we’ve already talked about.”

  “They’ll send assassins,” Crazy Frog predicted. “Some way of striking from the shadows.”

  “Unless I can stop it before it gets any worse. If you hear something, I’d take it as a favor if you’d contact me first.”

  “Don’t want me grabbing the glory? Want to keep that for yourself so you can preen in front of old Blue Heron?”

  Seven Skull Shield winced as Crazy Frog studied him through knowing brown eyes. “Let’s just say I want to try and deal with this in a way that keeps as many people as possible out of the squares.”

  “You’re hiding something.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “So, what is it?” Crazy Frog shook his head in despair. “Don’t tell me you had something to do with his escape.”

  “Pus and puke, do you think I’m stupid? Just trust me, all right? I need to deal with this in my own way.”

  Crazy Frog shook his head. “I swear on the Morning Star’s balls, thief, whatever you’re up to, you’re more likely to end up in the Morning Star’s square than that Quiz Quiz is.”

  “Do we have a deal?”

  “Yes. For whatever good it’s going to do you.”

  Twenty-two

  “I like what you’ve done to the place,” Blue Heron told Columella. She looked around the Evening Star House palace and took in the new construction. Hard to believe that the last time she was here the entire palace had been in flames. Blood had been pooled
in the matting, and body parts had been scattered across the floor.

  Now that old palace was gone. Burned to ash. The mound upon which it stood had been covered with a new layer of earth. Columella had rebuilt the palace so recently the structure still looked new; the clay-plastered walls remained oddly bare of the usual Cahokian trappings. Overhead the ceiling poles were barely darkened by soot. The wood of the sleeping benches along the walls still smelled of sap.

  The dividing wall in the rear that separated Columella’s private quarters from the great room now consisted of a wattle-and-daub construction, but Columella had once had a magnificent weaving created from split cane hanging there.

  On the other side of the fire, the Evening Star House matron reclined on her high dais. Columella wore a plain white dogbane-fiber skirt, had a modest split-feather cloak thrown over her shoulders, and for whatever reason, had allowed her hair to fall in a wave, its black threaded with occasional strands of white.

  “It’s barely a palace,” Columella told her with a lopsided smile. “It will, however, keep us warm this winter. But now that we’ve drunk black drink, smoked the ritual greetings, and said the prayers, we can get to business. What do you need?”

  Blue Heron slapped her thighs and grinned. “Is Flat Stone Pipe hiding in the cubby under your dais? I know it’s hollow, and that he often secretes himself there and listens. If so, he can come out and relax. All that I need from you is your time, and to personally thank you for your support during the recent debacle in which Rising Flame was somehow made matron.”

  “Evening Star House had a debt to you, Keeper. I don’t forget these things.”

  “I am Keeper no more.” Blue Heron spread her hands in an airy gesture. “Which is another reason I am here. The longer I am gone, the faster things in Morning Star House will fall apart.”

  Evening Star straightened. “You are no longer Clan Keeper?”

  “Been dismissed by the new matron.”

  Columella leaned back, fingers idly playing with the cougar fur on the hide covering her seat. Her expression was bemused. “I can’t tell you the number of times I have wished to hear those very words.”