“And what?” War Duck demanded. “That fool Winder kidnaps her in Evening Star Town, which infuriates Columella and brings her into the mix. The Quiz Quiz beat the souls out of Blue Heron’s body, and then lose her to one of Columella’s agents!”
“What do you want me to do, High Chief?”
“Don’t you see?” War Duck reached out with a supplicant hand. “This poisoning of the Morning Star, it’s the greatest single opportunity to come our way in three generations. The instant he dies, River House can move first, take control of the entire city. Or what’s left of it. We have the river, the Trade. Most of the workshops and finest craftspeople are here. After the fighting boiled down and most of these pesky dirt farmers had gone back to wherever they came from, River House would have risen as the preeminent authority.”
“Why do you say ‘would have’?”
War Duck blinked his weary and exhausted eye. “Because someone wanted to find the Quiz Quiz so badly they sent that assassin last night. It wasn’t enough that he threatened Round Pot, but in making his escape, he caused a disaster. Not only did he rip up the palace, but people got hurt in the melee. Important people. And then, in the middle of it all, he kicked over a pot of water and extinguished the eternal fire. Put it out cold.”
“Oh, rot,” Crazy Frog whispered.
“Every person there was shocked when it finally hit them: It was a sign. Not only did the assassin escape, he made fools of us all. But when he extinguished the eternal fire, he called down bad luck on every individual in that room, not to mention the whole of River House!”
“Which means that no one is interested in following your lead against the other Houses if the Morning Star dies.”
“Our support evaporated before the last person fled that room.” War Duck pointed a finger. “That’s what those thrice-accursed Quiz Quiz have cost me.”
Crazy Frog fought the urge to step back and put a little distance between himself and War Duck. It never paid to be too close to the victim of so much bad luck—high chief though War Duck might be. A man never knew when it might rub off and contaminate him.
He forced himself to stay—but his skin prickled at the high chief’s proximity.
“What do you want me to do, High Chief? They won’t leave until they recover their War Medicine. Unless you want to have them murdered.”
“Columella sent me a runner this morning. I am told that Blue Heron isn’t doing well. Columella is sending Blue Heron back to Morning Star House and that blind fool Rides-the-Lightning in hopes that he can call her souls back to her body. The runner—not knowing of our disaster—asked for an escort to keep the lady safe on her journey.”
War Duck smiled, the action distorting the scar on his face. “He said there would be two litters—one bearing the lady and the other a ‘prized possession’ whose safety must be maintained.”
“You think that’s the War Medicine Bundle?”
“You told me that you never saw it when that loathsome thief captured Sky Star. You were the one who transported Sky Star to that foul Blue Heron.” The single eye slitted. “That still really angers me.”
“Think, Lord. If I had refused, the Keeper would have suspected you might have been behind the theft. If I’ve learned anything, it’s never to underestimate her.”
War Duck gave him a flat, unimpressed stare.
Crazy Frog spread his arms wide. “You only said you wanted me to help Winder find a place for the Quiz Quiz to hide. Nothing about protecting them, or that they were allies. And I thought you wanted me to work with the Keeper … as long as I kept you informed.”
“Getting back to the point, yes. I think Blue Heron and the War Medicine will be on those litters.” War Duck rubbed his temples as if to stimulate thoughts behind his weary expression. “River House is in turmoil. We were attacked last night. The Morning Star is on his deathbed, and chaos might break out the moment he dies. Upon Blue Heron’s arrival at the canoe landing when they bring her across the river, we will not have any warriors to spare for a guard. Do you understand?”
Crazy Frog hesitated. “Tell me straight out: You are ordering me to tell Winder that Blue Heron and the Medicine Box will be essentially unguarded and traveling down the Avenue of the Sun today.”
“That’s what I’m telling you. I need to salvage something out of this disaster. Getting rid of both Blue Heron and these accursed Quiz Quiz at the same time might be small justice, but given the wreckage wrought in the last couple hands of time, I’ll take it.”
“I’ll have one of my people send word.”
War Duck pushed himself off the box. Hesitated, rubbed his fingers over it. “Lot of soot on this.” He glanced up. “I’d say your roof is going. About time to replace it.”
“Just had it done.” Nevertheless, Crazy Frog noticed that a couple bits of soot had drifted down to dust the high chief’s shoulders and hair even as they’d talked.
But for the moment, the storehouse roof was the least of his problems.
Fifty-two
Am I Dreaming?
The words seemed to float above the pain and confusion that left Night Shadow Star paralyzed and cowering on the tortured sand. When she blinked her eyes, her vision shimmered, and she barely recognized the flickering images that careened and fought. Some part of her shattered souls remembered that it was the Morning Star and Sacred Moth who battled with such desperation.
The briefest memory of the monstrous moth sucking the Morning Star’s life away remained with her: It’s drinking his blood. Sucking out his essence. And as it feeds, it gets stronger while Morning Star weakens.
It came to her that her souls were locked in the Underworld, that the Power in the mighty battle had battered her down—beaten the will to act or move from her being. That like an earthworm after a storm, she was being desiccated by the radiant light of the battling Spirits. Nor would it be long before she faded, dried, and hardened.
This was death.
The end of a world.
Her world.
Here, in the depths, the Morning Star—born of Corn Woman and First Man, conqueror of monsters, he who defeated the Giants and resurrected his dead father, who shaped and formed the Beginning Times—would fall victim to a moth.
But for the searing pain and dying souls, it would laughable.
“Is this all you have left?” the Tortoise Bundle asked from far away.
“I … can’t…” She couldn’t find the words to finish.
She felt herself growing lighter, fading—the blinding light from the fighting duo burning away the image of who she was. The sensation of nothingness filled her with wonder and awe. For the moment, she even forgot the desperate battle that raged just paces away. Dissipation of self—of all that she was—absorbed her entire attention.
This is death. How I cease to be.
Even fear had evaporated until all that remained was to be witness to nothingness. Then even nothingness faded.
It wasn’t so terrible.
It wasn’t anything.
She was almost there when movement at the edge of her vanishing reality distracted her.
The sack lay forgotten on the vibrating sand; now the fabric moved as something inside stirred and crawled toward the slack opening.
She had lost so much of herself that she barely recognized the form that emerged from the coarsely woven fabric. Like being born, the head came first, followed by shoulders and torso. As the man’s hips emerged, he climbed to his hands and knees, a copper-bitted war ax gripped in his right hand.
Fire Cat! She recognized him, as if from across a distance.
In the blinding patterns of light, he winced, face contorted with fear and pain. She saw the terror in his face as the wood of his war club blackened, scorched, and burst into flame.
Fire Cat hunched down, head protected by his arms as the war club burned to ash, leaving only the long, pointed copper spike.
Through slitted eyes the man stared at the battle where Morning Star could no longer bat awa
y the deadly proboscis, but kept both arms locked, trying to hold the giant moth at bay, while the proboscis flicked and danced along his bloody lips.
The Red Wing cried out at the sight, wincing, shooting glances around the fire-reddened cavern walls. One frightened glance he cast her way, locking his vision with hers and whispering, “I love you.”
The words stunned her, shook the remaining shadow of her souls.
Then he clawed at the sand, picking up the copper spike.
Bellowing his rage, he staggered to his feet, wavering with each pulse of the deadly light. Muscles knotting and bulging, he forced himself toward the combatants where they spun and struggled.
A terrible shriek tore from his lungs as he fought his way those last few steps—his body physically pummeled by the light.
“He’s not going to make a difference,” the Tortoise Bundle whispered. “He’s fading too fast, too weak to strike.”
Had there been enough left of her, Night Shadow Star would have whimpered as Fire Cat teetered at the last of his resolve. The hammering of the moth’s frantic wings ripped the frayed vestiges of his strength away. In a heartbeat, it would be over.
But the man didn’t strike, couldn’t. Instead he thrust the copper blade out before him like an offering. The Morning Star’s hand flashed in a desperate grab as Fire Cat was blasted backward to slide across the sand.
Night Shadow Star gaped. The Morning Star pulled his left hand back. Copper flashed in the light. He had it. And struck. Struck again. The terrible moth convulsed, trying to break away.
Pulled and jerked this way and that, the Morning Star was flung about the cavern. But he continued to pull his left arm back, thrusting again and again. The blade flashed—copper leaving a streak as if it were smearing the light.
With one last desperate effort, the moth rose and smashed them both against the high ceiling. The impact knocked the Morning Star’s grip loose, and he fell hard to the sand.
In an instant, the light vanished to be replaced by the Morning Star’s weak glow.
Night Shadow Star blinked, a ringing in her ears. But beyond that was only silence and peace.
“Too late,” the Tortoise Bundle’s voice grew ever fainter. “You don’t have the strength to save yourself, Night Shadow Star.”
“Wait! Come back.”
Only silence remained. A sense of desolation and loneliness in the wake of the Tortoise Bundle’s departure from her life.
From the shadows of the now-darkened cavern, Sister Datura laughed, and then even she faded into growing darkness.
The Morning Star’s form remained visible, glowing softly like a hearth stone in a dying fire. He stood over Fire Cat’s dead body, looking down sadly.
“Help me,” Night Shadow Star whispered.
“I can’t.” He smiled sadly. “There is not enough of me left to carry you from this place. It is too dangerous. I sense my enemies. Close.” He inclined his head. “Just there, in the next cavern.”
“How will you…?” She couldn’t finish the thought.
“I’ve been here before, you know. A long time ago. They won’t expect me to know the back ways. The cracks and crevices. And I can feel my image—the one drawn on the cave wall above. It will lead me. If I can avoid the traps, if I don’t get lost … Tell me, is there any reason I should return to your foul brother’s body when my spirit could fly free?”
“Cahokia needs your—”
“Cahokia is doomed, Night Shadow Star. Why not let it die now? God, Spirit, soul, or being, the only certainty in existence is eventual oblivion.”
“Please,” she whispered. “For me.”
His image continued to fade before her, the cavern going ever darker.
“What about Fire Cat?” She tried to indicate Fire Cat’s body where it lay supine on the sand.
Morning Star studied the copper spike he still held, its sides wet with the moth’s fluids. “He didn’t act a moment too soon. I’ll barely make it as it is.”
A pause.
Then he said, “Thank you for bringing him here.’
She watched the Morning Star bend, extend his hand and blow across his open palm. A golden haze settled onto Fire Cat’s head. Even as it did, the Red Wing’s body shivered, arms and legs quivering.
“He won’t remember a thing,” Morning Star told her as he straightened.
The glow that was the Morning Star began to fade as filaments of darkness began to enclose him. She watched in horror as they wound slowly around his legs, hips, and torso, as if he were being wound in black. As the last tendrils surrounded him, the last of his golden glow vanished. Silence became complete.
Fifty-three
Reeling and sick, Fire Cat sat up in a thick and clinging blackness. His stomach pumped, and he jerked forward as one dry heave after another pulled his guts into a tight and painful constriction.
Finally, gasping for air, his stomach hurting the way it would if he’d been kicked, he tried to place his surroundings. Where was he? He couldn’t even see the motion of his fingers when he held them before his eyes.
Pus and blood, his head felt like it had been stuffed with wadded and dusty cobwebs—and a terrible taste filled his dry mouth. Feeling around with his fingers, he recognized gravelly soil, a couple of pieces of broken pottery. Next he encountered a stick, carved, and with a feather on one end: prayer stick. Had to be.
Then he found the stone wall: flat, vertical. It felt like sandstone.
Turning, his questing fingers encountered fabric. Then a body, cool to the touch. Feeling up along the hip he encountered skin and then a breast. Female.
From the confusion of images wheeling around inside him, he took the first that flashed in his head. “Night Shadow Star?”
She didn’t answer, and he pulled her onto his lap and hugged her close. Some of the terror faded at the feel of her, and he buried his head in the angle of her neck, breathing deeply. Was she even alive?
“Where in Piasa’s name are we?”
A cave. That was it.
Memory came spinning back: the canoe journey, the Cave Society, and a cleansing in the sweat lodge. Then he remembered the horrifying descent, how the Dead and the guardian Spirits had terrified him as they pulled and plucked at him.
He hugged Night Shadow Star’s limp body against his, as though he could press her into his very soul. I am in the Underworld!
The Dead, the Spirits, were all around him. Hovering in the blackness, slipping through the air just beyond his reach.
A cold terror broke free, chilling his souls, choking a sob from his shivering lungs.
Time meant nothing.
In the end, the terror exhausted itself and gave way to inevitability.
Night Shadow Star’s body warmed where it was clasped against him.
Screwing up his courage, to the surrounding Dead and Spirits he respectfully whispered, “Go away! We’re not here to hurt you.”
His answer was silence and blackness so thick he could almost feel it between his fingers.
The only sensation was Night Shadow Star’s breathing as her breath purled in and out of her slack mouth. Fire Cat shook her, calling, “Lady? Wake up.”
He blinked, trying to think, to remember.
Flashes of nightmares erupted like fire from down in his souls. Impossible things. Images that included darkness, flashing lights, pain, and terror. Fluttering wings, blinding light and heat. The Morning Star’s face, his mouth dripping blood. Reaching out with a copper spike …
“Sister Datura,” he realized, then reached up to dab at the grease where Night Shadow Star had rubbed the concoction into his temples.
So what was real, and what was Spirit Dream?
“Got to get you out of here,” he told Night Shadow Star.
Fear sent ripples down his back as he felt around. Rock to left and right, and more rock just over his head. They were in a confined chamber, more like a tomb than a cavern.
The panic left him unable to move. Prickl
ing fear-sweat broke out on his skin.
Buried alive. Surrounded by the pressing weight of the earth!
When the terror finally drained away, he made himself breathe normally. Think! Rot it all, he and Night Shadow Star had climbed down here. Unless one of the guarding monsters attacked them, they should be able to follow the same route back out.
Something that sounded like claws scratched the unyielding rock just overhead. He froze, desperately feeling around for his war club. It wasn’t hung on his hip. Didn’t seem to be anywhere on the ground around him. Where could he have lost it?
Some impossible memory of it, of the wooden handle bursting into flames, tried to form in the eye of his souls.
In his searching he did find the handle of one of the cane torches. Shifting Night Shadow Star, he felt around for her bag. Inside it his fingers located the datura jar, a water bladder, sacks full of what felt like cornmeal or milled nuts, and another stuffed with shells. For Trade, no doubt. Nothing, however, could be used to start a fire.
Of what use was a torch without a flame?
He sank down, defeated and empty.
“All right, Lady, you have done it to me again.” He made a face in the darkness, wondering if the Spirits could see it. They probably could. He’d heard that only the living were blind in the Underworld.
That brought a smile to his lips. As long as he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face, and he was terrified to the point of throwing up, he was still alive.
“Well, Lady,” he told her. “It’s a long way to the surface. Somehow I have to carry you, feel my way, and hope that I don’t offend the Spirit beasts who can reach out of the darkness and kill us both without warning.”
He remembered the narrow fissures she had led him down so far below the last of the painted caverns. And if they made it that far, the chaos of blocks, gaps, and angled roof-fall might prove just as treacherous.
He smoothed a loose lock of hair away from her brow. “I wouldn’t do this for just anyone, you know. Since you are locked away somewhere with Sister Datura and cannot hear, I can tell you that if we die down here, it was worth it just for the chance to love you.”
Moon Hunt Page 37
