Moon Hunt

by Kathleen O'Neal Gear

  Twenty-four

  Fire Cat stepped out into the morning, his breath fogging. It wouldn’t be long before the first frost. Purple light in the east cast the Morning Star’s immense mound with its walls, World Tree poles, and soaring buildings as an inky black silhouette against the predawn sky.

  He started to reset the plank door behind him when he noticed the young woman crouched in the dirt before the veranda. She huddled under a blanket, and as Fire Cat approached he could hear her whispering softly under breath, “… built a mountain out of dirt, raised on sweat and hurt…”

  “Lady Sun Wing?”

  She seemed not to hear him, eyes to the ground, shivering in the cold as she almost sang the words, “… Earth, hey Earth, from it spread. Raise the Underworld of the dead…”

  Fire Cat reached down, placing his fingers against her cheek. The woman didn’t seem to feel his touch. Her flesh was icy, and again the shivers racked her.

  “How did you get away from War Claw?” Fire Cat wondered as he reached down and gathered the young woman into his arms. She tensed, a cry of pure terror in her throat.

  “Shhh! You are safe, Lady. You are at Night Shadow Star’s.”

  As she trembled and wept in his arms, he shouldered the door to one side and carried her in. With a sigh he lowered her by the fire’s warmth, seeing her blink as she stared at the flames through glassy eyes. Her soft pink mouth hung slack, as though her souls were somewhere else.

  Green Stick—who had been preparing a breakfast stew—shook his head. “She’s back?”

  “Why is she coming here?” Water Leaf asked as she and Clay String walked over from where they had been folding the bedding.

  “I don’t know,” Fire Cat said thoughtfully as he rubbed the backs of his arms. “It’s as if she’s drawn.”

  He walked back to Night Shadow Star’s room, leaning in to find her dressed and involved in the process of running a comb through her long and glossy hair.

  “Lady? It’s Sun Wing. I found her shivering out front and babbling in that odd voice of hers.”

  Night Shadow Star shot him a worried look, her expression pinched. “Gods. Just what I needed to hear.” She blinked, looking exhausted. “I hardly slept a wink until sometime a couple of hands before dawn.”

  He glanced at the Tortoise Bundle where it rested in its niche. “I thought it had been quiet recently.”

  “Well, it’s not now. I could hear it in my head for most the night. As if I didn’t have enough Spirits whispering. Sometimes the voices are so clear; at others they sound like distant murmurings. And then there’s Piasa flickering in and out at the edge of my vision.”

  She stood, set the comb to one side, and massaged her face. “All I need, on top of everything else, is to have to worry about Sun Wing.”

  Fire Cat carefully asked, “Maybe you are her only security? After all, it was you who saved her life.”

  “Accidentally. A half a heartbeat later and her blood would have been gushing into that pot they were holding her above.”

  “Nevertheless, she knows she’d be dead but for you. I suspect you are the only thing that keeps her nightmares from completely devouring her souls. I’ve heard the stories, Lady. They say she sits in that back room in her palace and screams when she isn’t whimpering. Her souls are damaged. Insane.”

  “And what do you propose we do about it, Red Wing?” she snapped, then relented with an apologetic smile. “Sorry. Lack of sleep.”

  “Would it hurt if she stayed here for a couple of days? If you make her feel safe, perhaps just a respite, the chance to relax from her fear might give her enough pause to realize that Walking Smoke is dead.”

  “We hope.”

  “I wouldn’t tell her that, Lady. But it might give her the chance to start healing.”

  “And what about the rest of the household?”

  He gave her a grim smile. “They will happily acquiesce to whatever you decide. If they don’t, I will, um … enhance their cooperation.”

  She chuckled, stepping up to him. He saw her start to lift her hands, as though she was going to place them on his chest. Catching herself, she stopped short and let them drop fretfully to her sides.

  Her expression, however, remained warm. “Thank you, Fire Cat. I know she’s nothing to you, and I realize her presence may create additional trouble for us, but maybe this will help.”

  “She’s your sister, Lady.”

  He turned to go, but she reached out, laying a restraining hand on his arm. His skin tingled at her soft touch.

  “Lady?”

  She kept her eyes averted, though he could still see her blink, as if against tears. “I don’t deserve you, you know.”

  “Lady, I know no such thing.”

  For a moment he battled with himself, wanting nothing more than to reach out and draw her to him. With the smallest effort he could pull her close, wrap her in his arms, and cradle her protectively against him. Perhaps ease some of her worry and distress.

  Instead, he ground his teeth, tried to still his suddenly labored breathing, and carefully disengaged from her.

  Once outside of her door, he stopped, took a deep breath, and composed himself.

  Where she sat at the fire, Sun Wing was watching him with wide and knowing eyes. As if to him alone, she said, “The dark nectar is here. In the city, Red Wing. Only she can descend into the darkness and call him back to air, light, and sky.”

  “What’s she saying?” Green Stick asked, having turned back to his stew.

  “Just ravings,” Winter Leaf replied from where she’d gone back to her folding.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Fire Cat told them. “Your lady has decided that Sun Wing will stay with us for a while. That perhaps we can allay her fears and madness long enough that the poor woman’s souls will return to her body.”

  Clay String made face, saying, “But Fire Cat, her souls have fled! What do we know—”

  “It is decided.” Fire Cat pointed a hard finger. “I have told you our lady’s word. That’s an order.”

  “We’ll see to her comfort,” Green Stick agreed warily, though he clearly didn’t like it.

  “Down in the darkness, deep in the earth…” Sun Wing blinked at nothing. “That’s where she has to go to save him.”

  “Him? To whom do you refer, Lady?” Fire Cat dropped to a squat to stare into her vacuous eyes.

  “The Morning Star … so close to death…,” came her disjointed whisper.

  Epiphany

  The sun is warm on my face as I sit in the courtyard, knees together as is proper for a Chief Clan lady of the Sky Hand. To occupy myself I ask for and receive a very fine shock of staves and pliant sumac strips. Since childhood, basketry has always soothed me, and while I am not nearly the master that some of the older women are, I have turned out some very nice pieces.

  I build my base and establish my pattern, choosing a twill design. Once started, my hands fall into the routine as I cross one and skip two, to create a tight weave.

  Once the mindless repetitive action of the hands is established, my mind can wander. My problem is that I don’t know what I am supposed to do. How am I to undertake my great role? What does Power expect of me? How can I play my part when I can’t figure out what the next step is?

  So far I am enjoying being the Morning Star’s wife. Yes, he has so many—most of them scattered around the city, visiting him when called upon to do so. And I already understand that, to date, I am something of a sensation, having been in his bed for so many days.

  Nor is it a bad life. Just the contrary. I could spend hands of time just wandering about the palace, marveling at the artistry that has gone into the copper reliefs, the wooden carvings, textiles, and shell inlay. Any box I pull out is filled with marvels from the four corners of the world.

  The Morning Star even let me try cacao from his diminishing stock—the most marvelous tasting and sweet drink I’ve ever savored. It was a gift from the Itza during their recent and tragic ti
me in Cahokia.

  And the food? Beyond compare.

  I ate well in Split Sky City, but the kind of feasts cooked for the Morning Star are truly stunning. Some are spiced with achiote—another gift of the recently deceased Itza. Others are made with spices I’ve never heard of, like chilis, beeweed, and something called desert parsley traded from the distant Shining Mountains out west.

  Just this morning I asked to accompany the Morning Star as he descended to the Great Plaza for one of his frequent chunkey games with a Four Winds noble, a high chief named War Duck.

  I had a perfect spot where I could watch from the side of the court as the Morning Star—dressed in immaculate regalia—beat poor War Duck by eight points. Not that I couldn’t have predicted. War Duck only has one eye. How could he have ever expected to come close to beating the living god? It’s hard to judge distances with only one eye. Nevertheless, the man still bet his life on the game.

  The upshot was that War Duck knelt and bent his head in defeat. To which deference, the Morning Star magnanimously granted him reprieve.

  Even as he did, the Morning Star looked straight into my eyes, shooting me a saucy wink from behind his perfectly painted face with its white forked-eye pattern against a black background.

  The effect is that we share a special relationship, a special intimacy that has taken me by complete surprise. To wit, I have no patience for the long periods when he is occupied by the various chiefs and society heads who have a claim on his time. Who would have guessed that being a resurrected god could be so draining and time-consuming?

  But as soon as we step into his personal quarters, I am frantically tugging at the ties that hold his cape, almost jerking his headpiece off, and clawing at his apron. Can I really be my mother’s daughter? Reared with the fine Sky Hand values of bodily restraint? It is as if I physically ache to impale myself on his ever-willing shaft. Nor is the result of doing so anything but the most delicious of ecstatic releases.

  Were it not for that visit from the moth, I would assume that nothing could outweigh the miracle of my new situation. But I cannot forget the fluttering of wings against my face. Sacred Moth’s Power was made manifest that night.

  In the hand of time since I began to pursue this line of thought, I have woven a third of the basket. The World Tree pole is casting its shadow toward the palace door, indicating midday. And I am no closer to resolving my dilemma.

  It is at that moment when Five Fists walks up with the Moskogee translator. I look up at the broken-faced war leader and see mild curiosity in his eyes. Through the translator, he says, “The tonka’tzi requests that you come. She would have your words regarding an embassy from the Albaamaha.”

  An embassy for the Albaamaha? What embassy? For a moment I wonder if the translator is missing something in the war leader’s words, then shrug, laying my basketry to the side.

  I stand and gesture that he lead forth.

  I follow Five Fists through the palace gate and down the long stairs, again reveling at the incredible vista of city stretching in every direction. A brown haze hangs low, obscuring the horizon.

  As we reach the council plaza, Five Fists leads me to the Council House itself. I enter with a sense of curiosity. It is here that most of the governance of Cahokia and its colonies takes place. The room is crowded with nobles. Recorders and messengers, with their staffs in hand, line the walls like beads on a string. Deer hides are laid out before the three daises in the rear. I see that the hides are maps. The tonka’tzi—a woman named Wind—sits on a cougar-hide-covered litter atop the central dais.

  To her left is a young woman who I suspect is the new Four Winds Clan matron. She is attractive, not that much older than I am, perhaps in her early twenties. Her hair is done up in a splay of colorful feathers. As I enter she raises a speculative eyebrow, as if assessing me. I am dressed well, but not as spectacularly as either the tonka’tzi or the clan matron.

  The knot of people clustered just this side of the maps turns toward me—and my heart stops.

  In spite of the face paint, I recognize Hanging Moss, high chief of the Reed Clan, and head initiate of the Sacred Moth Society. He is the man who first offered me the holy nectar and sent my souls flying to the nether realms of the Spirit World. As his eyes meet mine, I see a twinkle of relief, and he bows his head in greeting.

  To his left is Fighting Dog, the Reed Clan’s war leader, a man whose head is sought by the Sky Hand. He is in his late forties, spare of frame, moderately muscled, with a narrow-boned face. He is a master of the ambush, a wily forest fox who has embarrassed my father’s warriors time after time in the off-and-on-again conflict between the Sky Hand and Albaamaha.

  To Hanging Moss’s right is his sister, Wet Clay Woman, clan matron. To see her here is a real shock. She is the blood and bone of the Reed Clan—the heart of opposition to the Sky Hand’s rule of the Black Warrior Valley. It seems inconceivable that she would leave her people to journey to this distant place.

  And then Straight Corn elbows his way past his mother, a joyous smile breaking out on his lips. His large eyes are shining with relief, and I can see his throat working, as if he’s almost suffocating with emotion.

  I am on the verge of rushing forward and throwing myself into his arms when Hanging Moss gives me a hand sign: the tightening of the fist and twist of the wrist that signals caution. At the same time, in an almost hostile voice, he calls, “Do not arrive at the wrong impression, Lady Whispering Dawn. We are not here to undercut your Sky Hand embassy. We offer a truce, and only wish to establish communication with Cahokia.”

  This is when I see Two Sticks standing off to the side, his lips pursed, expression that of a rabbit cowering under a single scraggly bush when too many hawks are circling in the sky.

  Straight Corn mouths the word “Careful” and gives me a warning glance.

  I stop short, wondering where the right path lies in all of this.

  Think!

  So if the Albaamaha have been talking to Two Sticks, they know everything about my time in Cahokia. That they know about the Sky Hand embassy is proof of that. I suffer a prickling of nerves. That also means that Straight Corn knows I’ve been married to the Morning Star—that I’ve been in his bed for the last week.

  I feel my cheeks redden, and stiffen at the embarrassment and shame.

  As if he reads my thoughts, Straight Corn gives me that soothing smile of reassurance that was one of the reasons I fell in love with him in the first place. He used to do that when I was being berated by my father or the matron. Or when I wasn’t meeting the endless expectations other people had established for my behavior.

  I find my voice. “What is your purpose here?”

  “Balance, great lady,” Hanging Moss says with an inoffensive resonance. “From the moment after the Creation when the Albaamaha emerged from the roots of the Tree of Life, we have sought balance and harmony. Our people have long desired to establish relations with the living god. Many talked about it, but few relished the notion of traveling so far, or knew what sort of reception a distant and pacifistic people such as ourselves might receive in great Cahokia. Nor did we know what stories the Morning Star and tonka’tzi might have heard about us.”

  He is playing to the Cahokians, of course.

  “They are a just people, High Chief,” I answer. “And though I am wed to the Morning Star, I have considered the problems between the Sky Hand and Albaamaha to be a local matter. Not the sort of thing the living god needed to concern himself with.”

  “Then you have no objection to the Albaamaha establishing an embassy in Cahokia, Lady?” the tonka’tzi asks through a translator.

  I turn my attention to her, bowing my head ever so slightly and touching my chin in a greeting to an equal. “None whatsoever, Tonka’tzi. Some of the Albaamaha clans have sworn fealty to the Sky Hand, and have subjugated themselves to our rule. The Reed Clan and several others have not. They remain an independent people. As such—though the Sky Hand might not like it�
�they have as much right to deal with Cahokia as any other free people.”

  I can see the relief in Hanging Moss’s eyes. Wet Clay Woman gives me a look that communicates that she could kiss me. Straight Corn is grinning, and Two Sticks has laced his hands together and is shaking them as if in self-congratulation.

  During this interchange, my translator has been whispering into Five Fists’ ear. Now the war leader asks, “Then I take it there will be no trouble between your peoples, Lady?”

  I turn. “As soon as we are finished here, I will send a messenger to War Leader Strong Mussel, ordering him to behave and to keep the living god’s peace.”

  I gesture to the Albaamaha. “The high chief and matron can speak for themselves.”

  Bowing low and touching his forehead, Hanging Moss says, “If anything, Tonka’tzi, we are delighted to enjoy Cahokia’s peace.” He glances at me, an eyebrow lifted. “As part of our establishment of an embassy, we ask the lady if we might use the living god’s peace to communicate directly with her. Face to face. This is neutral ground, removed from the hotheads and passions of our home territory. Matron Wet Clay Woman, here, is the leader of the Albaamaha resistance. Lady Whispering Dawn is the daughter of High Minko White Water Moccasin. Together they represent a potent path toward establishing a dialog between our two peoples.” He pauses. “Is this acceptable, Lady?”

  I have sense enough to hesitate and frown as if considering. In the end I say, “I can see no harm. And you do understand that as the Morning Star’s wife, I have certain obligations.”

  The smile on Hanging Moss’s lips reeks of victory. “Of course, Lady.” He bows and touches his forehead.

  Straight Corn, however, has a tortured look on his face.

  Well, don’t fret, my husband. Now that you are here, it’s only a matter of time before you and I are in that canoe, headed home.

  I give the tonka’tzi a gracious smile. Best not to play this too far lest I arouse suspicion. “Blessed Tonka’tzi, if you have no more need for me, I will leave you to work out the details with these Albaamaha.”