Moon Hunt

by Kathleen O'Neal Gear

  Seven Skull Shield snorted derisively through his nose. “I understand. You are not the first to utter such hateful sayings; I recognize your failing for what it is: pure unadulterated jealousy.” He sighed. “Ah, the terrible burden Power has laid upon my weary shoulders.”

  “I can see why you have so few friends,” Flat Stone Pipe told him as he bent to the peephole. “They’ve all either slit their wrists or banished themselves to the farthest colonies.”

  “As if you’d have any idea of—”

  “Shhh!” Flat Stone Pipe, his eye to the hole, held up a small hand.

  Seven Skull Shield pivoted on the bedding, stirring the smelly blankets in the process, and looked out his hole. Three men, two looking like dirt farmers, but with a curious oddity. And the third…? Yes.

  “That’s Winder,” Seven Skull Shield whispered as the muscular Trader walked up to the old slave at Wooden Doll’s door.

  They talked for a moment, the voices too low to hear, and the old man waved Winder back.

  Seven Skull Shield’s old friend took a careful look around, and for a couple of heartbeats stared hard at the old woman’s house as if he were looking straight into Seven Skull Shield’s eye. Then he stepped over to the ramada, nodded at the waiting porters, and took a seat with the two “dirt farmers.” Seven Skull Shield had finally figured out that they were Quiz Quiz warriors in disguise.

  “Very good, thief,” Flat Stone Pipe whispered. “Looks like you cast your lance, and it hit the chunkey stone dead-on.”

  “Now, we wait, little man.”

  Winder, you’re as clever as ever. But for this once, I’m a step ahead of you.

  Thirty-three

  Winder stood in the morning sunlight with his thick arms crossed and his back leaned against one of the ramada poles. He studied the woman’s abode, seeing a larger than usual dwelling where it packed in among the buildings that cluttered River Mounds City. The walls were well plastered, the thatch roof in superb repair. A litter rested before the closed door; the porters tossed bone dice as they waited for their master.

  An old man, a slave, kept station at the door and had been the one who told Winder he’d have to wait.

  Two of the Quiz Quiz warriors who had accompanied him lounged to one side of the ramada. But for their facial tattoos, they didn’t look much like Quiz Quiz anymore. It had been a fight, but a gasped order from the war leader had finally convinced them to take down their characteristic pom hairstyle, lay aside their regalia, and to don simple hemp-fiber hunting shirts.

  The warrior called Red Stroke—despite the drab clothing—still looked like a lean, handsome, twenty-year-old heartthrob and ladykiller. Moccasin, at thirty, might have been one of the ugliest men Winder had ever seen: something about his short body and oddly proportioned, wide-mouthed, and squat face. Both warriors carried their weapons hidden in burlap sacks and, on Winder’s orders, had coated their faces with a dusting of ash and grime, looking for all the world like dirt farmers instead of elite Quiz Quiz warriors.

  They hated it, of course.

  But so much had already gone so wrong. If Winder could save anything out of this, it would be worth a fortune. And the only hope Sky Star had left was Winder—and his knowledge of things Cahokian.

  Winder had been Sky Star’s guide to the Surveyors’ Society House, had provided the distraction that allowed the war leader to sneak in and grab the Bundle. He had supervised and guided their retreat across the city, and had found what he thought was a safe haven for the Quiz Quiz—a place to wait out the storm as the Cahokians turned the city upside down in search of the stolen Bundle.

  Who would have guessed? Seven Skull Shield—of all people—had sniffed out the Quiz Quiz. That Skull had interrupted one of the Quiz Quiz rituals, separated the war leader and the Bundle from his warriors, and somehow managed to subdue Sky Star? Unthinkable!

  You aren’t the same young man I left behind so many years ago, old friend.

  It almost defied belief. Winder had been asking around. The gangly, awkward, not-too-smart but bull-strong youth he’d once known—and finally left behind to his foibles—was now a renowned thief, womanizer, and confidant of the Four Winds Clan elite. A sort of local hero and disappointment, all rolled into one.

  “How did he do that?” Winder wondered to himself. It brought a faint smile of amusement to his lips. “Mud and fire, we had some times, didn’t we?”

  He and Skull, two half-starved, mostly desperate orphans, they’d lived by their wits. Survived. Learned the back ways and how to keep their bellies full—how to stay warm enough in winter and on the move in summer. Not that there hadn’t been close calls, beatings, and the occasional painful comeuppance. Two of their friends had been caught and had their brains bashed out for theft. Another had ended up screaming his lungs out in a Deer Clan chief’s square while his thin body was cut apart and fed to the dogs.

  “But you and I made it,” Winder whispered. He wondered what would have happened if Skull hadn’t fallen in love. But then, that was Skull’s eternal weakness: that insufferable and unflinching loyalty he had to people he cared for.

  And Skull had cared for her.

  With all of his poor, aching, young heart.

  Cared enough that he’d given up on the river, the Trade, and the best friend he’d ever had.

  A dog whined in the old weaver’s house behind him, and he thought he heard someone whisper a command. This was followed by a barely audible argument. Winder turned, glancing back at the house, seeing where a couple of chunks of plaster had fallen from the wall and left holes. Life must have been hard for the old crone.

  Winder turned his attention back to his target as a man stepped out of the woman’s door, seated himself in the litter, and was lifted by his porters. A moment later, the old man guarding the door pointed to Winder and called, “She will see you now.”

  Winder grinned at the two warriors, giving them the “wait” sign, and ambled across the small yard to the ornate dwelling. He nodded to the old man and stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

  The structure had been imposing from the outside, but inside it was even grander. Only the stack of wood beside the door looked ordinary. The floor matting was exquisitely woven, covered with softly-tanned bear and buffalo hides; the white-plastered walls almost gleamed where they could be seen behind the hanging tapestry, wooden carvings, and geometric designs. A fire in the center of the room not only illuminated, but provided a delightful warmth after the morning chill. In the back, an ornate and spacious bed jutted from the wall. A thick wealth of hides, blankets, and colorful fabric-covered pillows were piled atop it.

  She stood behind the fire—a silky dogbane skirt clinging suggestively to her round hips, one leg defiantly forward. Her arms were crossed beneath full and round breasts, the dark nipples prominent. Glossy black hair fell in splendor down her back. Eyes tinted of soft night watched him curiously. She still had that face he remembered so well for its perfect proportions.

  “Wooden Doll,” he said wistfully, seeing her as Skull must have all those long years ago. She still reeked of a blatant female sexuality. “It’s been a long time.”

  Her gaze sharpened with recognition. “A long time, indeed, Winder.” A pause. “I think I like it.”

  “Like what?”

  “The change. Last time I saw you, I thought you were too desperate. Everything was life or death, to be won now and at all costs. That frantic need for success has obviously been tempered by enough victories that you’ve finally become comfortable enough to have settled into yourself.”

  He laughed. “You always did have an eye for men and what they wanted.” He glanced around. “You’ve done well. I see Trade from every corner of the world here.” He stepped over, fingering one of the fabrics. “Mayan? I am impressed.”

  “A party of Itza were here this summer. No doubt you’ve heard.”

  “Indeed. I actually saw them when they were among the Natchez. They were being pretty stingy with T
rade. That you ended up with a piece? You could Trade that for a fortune, you know.”

  “I do know.” She stepped around the fire, studying him thoughtfully. “Speaking of Trade, what service can I provide you, Winder? Are you interested in my body, or the things I know? Given the way you’re acting, I’d say the latter.”

  “Maybe both,” he told her. “I have always wondered if what Skull gave up for you was worth the Trade.”

  “I’m not sure you could afford to find out. The Deer Clan chief who just left Traded three copper plates for last night’s services. And that was just for the arts of my body.”

  Winder chuckled to himself. “Expensive, indeed. But perhaps for today I only need to get a message to my old friend, Skull. You do still see him, don’t you?”

  “On occasion. Most of his time is spent at the Keeper’s these days. Or, if the rumors are true, the one-time Keeper’s. You might want to check at her palace.”

  He gave her a victorious smile. “Actually, Blue Heron is no longer in her palace. She’s enjoying … Well, let’s say her present circumstances aren’t as delightful and luxurious as her palace is reputed to be. You want to do Skull a favor? Tell him I’ve got the Keeper. If he wants to see her alive again, he’ll have to Trade for her.”

  “You have abducted the Keeper? Are you mad?” She arched an eyebrow, lips quirked in amusement.

  “No. Just providing a service to clients. As you yourself do. But perhaps in ways that aren’t as memorable as those you no doubt have perfected.”

  “And what do you expect him to Trade for her?”

  “He’ll know. I’ll send a message here, to you, tomorrow night, as to where and when we can Trade.”

  He watched her expression, saw the tightening behind her eyes as she said, “You were his best friend once. He loved you. It will break his heart if he has to go against you.”

  Winder glanced around, lifting his hands. “He loved you more than he did me, Doll. Yet here you are, a paid woman. Which leaves me to believe you broke his heart in ways I never could have.”

  Her expression pinched, fire behind her eyes. “If I see him. I’ll deliver your message. No charge. For old time’s sake. Now, get out!”

  “You’re still one of the most beautiful women in the world, Wooden Doll. Glad to see that you’re using it to your advantage.”

  Then he touched his forehead in salute and turned to leave. He stopped at the door, glancing back. “Oh, and don’t cross me. I’d hate for Skull to lose both of the women in his life.”

  Then he was outside, motioning to the warriors as he headed off between the buildings. To the old man, he said, “She’s free again.”

  “You got the message to the woman?” Moccasin asked as he trotted up to match Winder’s pace.

  “The trap is set. As soon as my old friend shows up with the medicine box, we’re out of here and headed home.”

  “What if they find the bodies?” Red Stroke asked.

  “It’s up to us to make sure they don’t, isn’t it?”

  “And this woman?” Moccasin asked.

  “We can’t leave any loose ends that would implicate either the high chief or the war leader.” He smiled sadly. “Which is a shame. She’s such a beautiful woman.”

  Thirty-four

  Tonka’tzi Wind stood in the Morning Star’s room, her back to the wall, a dull thumping of dread in her breast. Beside her, Five Fists blocked the Morning Star’s doorway, and while his jaw might have been dislocated, he could still grind his teeth in fury and dismay. In the awful silence, Wind could hear them.

  On the Morning Star’s bed, old Rides-the-Lightning bent over the living god’s supine body. Two priests stood—one on either side of the old soul flier—each bearing a bag of herbs, potions, and other divining objects. A deadly silence filled the room as Rides-the-Lightning shifted, bent his head close, and sniffed at the Morning Star’s face, mouth, and then down his body to his genitals.

  Finally he straightened. “His Spirit is in the Underworld. I can see its trace, like a trail of frosted white light in the darkness. He was carried away.”

  “Carried away?” Five Fists growled.

  “By Sacred Moth,” Rides-the-Lightning asserted. His priests reflexively stepped back, staring uneasily at each other.

  “What sacred moth?” Wind asked.

  “Old Power,” Rides-the-Lightning answered. “Brought from the south. The Powers of the night and darkness, of the Spirit plants: tobacco, datura, jimson weed, and nightshade. Sacred Moth and his caterpillars. The only creatures that feed off the deadly essences of the plants … that’s who has carried the living god’s Spirit away from us.”

  Five Fists stepped forward, his expression strained. “Work your magic, Soul Flier. Bring him back.”

  Rides-the-Lightning turned his white-blind eyes toward the war leader. “Not so easy as that, War Leader. Like I said: This is old Power, filled with ancient ways, blind passages, dead ends, and clinging threads. Morning Star is a Sky Being. A very Powerful Sky Being. Do you need me to explain what kind of Power it takes to carry the living god into the Underworld, let alone bind him there?”

  Both of the priests were swallowing hard, backing still farther from the Morning Star’s comatose body.

  “How was this done?” Wind demanded.

  Rising Flame arrived and slipped past Five Fists’ bulk and into the room. Wind held up a hand, stilling the matron, as she waited for Rides-the-Lightning’s answer.

  “Though the nectar, Tonka’tzi,” Rides-the-Lightning said, sniffing at the air like a dog. “Wait.” He turned his head slightly, still scenting, and seemingly followed his nose to a ceramic cup sitting on one of the intricately carved wooden chests.

  Rides-the-Lightning carefully clasped the ceramic cup between thumb and forefinger, lifted it, sniffed again at the rim, and held it out. “Cloud Born? If you would be so kind. Do not touch this anywhere around the rim, but throw it in the great fire, please.”

  “Yes, master,” one of the priests told him uneasily as he gingerly took the cup by the base and headed for the door.

  Wind noticed that both Rising Flame and Five Fists scrambled to get out of the man’s way.

  “It was in the blueberry juice,” Rides-the-Lightning told them. “A great deal of datura nectar along with the saps and juices rendered from the seeds.”

  Rising Flame was staring wide-eyed at the Morning Star’s naked body. “I came as soon as I heard. What has happened?”

  “Apparently the Morning Star’s Spirit has been carried off to the Underworld,” Wind told her. “But who did this?”

  “The girl,” Rides-the-Lightning told them. “His new young wife.” Again he sniffed and followed his nose to a second cup. Lifting it, he inhaled along the rim. “More blueberry juice. Bearing her scent.”

  “Wouldn’t he have called out as he felt the poison working on him?” Five Fists demanded. “Surely he had to have had some warning as the drink took effect.”

  Rides-the-Lightning gave them a toothless smile, his face wrinkling into a mass of lines. “She was most clever. Distracted him.”

  “We did hear a cry,” Five Fists said warily, eyes narrowed as he studied the Morning Star’s sprawled position. “A woman’s voice in, um…”

  “Ecstasy?” Rides-the-Lightning suggested when Five Fists hesitated. “From the odor of their combined excretions, I would call the coupling most energetic.”

  “You can smell that?” Rising Flame asked, shaking her head.

  “Most assuredly, Matron.”

  The old war leader balled a fist and smacked it into his palm. “She went to visit the Albaamaha. To discuss keeping the peace between her Sky Hand delegation and the Albaamaha. Or that’s the story.”

  Wind said, “That doesn’t make sense. She was sent here by her father, High Minko White Water Moccasin, to marry the Morning Star. To establish relations between Cahokia and the Sky Hand. What do the Albaamaha have to do with it?”

  Five Fists stroke
d his off-center chin. “She didn’t have any nectar when she came here. Hardly had any possessions at all. The Albaamaha had to have given it to her yesterday. So are they part of White Water Moccasin’s plot?”

  “Plot?” Rising Flame asked, staring uncertainly at the Morning Star; then she glanced around, as if cataloging the room.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time a young person was sent as a gift in marriage, only to carry out an assassination,” Five Fists told her. “And if you’ll notice, Whispering Dawn is nowhere to be found. The guard at the gate said that a woman left in the middle of the night. If she isn’t running for it, I don’t know squash on a stalk when I see it.”

  “Some of the things are missing,” Rising Flame said, pointing. “The buffalo blanket, a couple of copper plates, some statues. A whelk-shell cup.”

  Wind narrowed an eye. She’d heard that Rising Flame had been in the Morning Star’s bed of late. Which made her ask, “War Leader, how many women has the Morning Star been with since he married the girl?”

  “None, Tonka’tzi.”

  “That’s a bit unusual, isn’t it?”

  “He seemed quite taken with her,” Five Fists said. “As if somehow amused and entertained, even though she didn’t speak a word of our language. But yes, it is unusual. He doesn’t usually commit to just one woman for this long a period. In fact, some of the Earth Clan chiefs and immigrant leaders have started to complain, having daughters coming of age who seek the honor of sharing the Morning Star’s bed.”

  “When a woman is sent in marriage, he usually marries them, spends a few nights, and sends them off to one of the regional palaces,” Wind mused. “Treats it more like a ritual function. But amused and entertained, War Leader?”

  Rides-the-Lightning inserted himself in the conversation, saying, “It is in our natures. We are drawn to Dance closest to the exotic flame that might burn us. Spirit Beings are no different; they are drawn to embrace that which might destroy them. Like weaving back and forth in time to a serpent, how many times can you caress it before getting bitten? And each time you do, and get away with it, the thrill becomes greater.”