Calling Crow Nation (The Southeast Series Book 3)

by Paul Clayton

  A pile of half-burned logs suddenly collapsed, startling Calling Crow. A knot of wood popped, blue gasses hissing in escape. Calling Crow thought of the time before they left to come to England, of the many deer they had killed to get the skins for the shooting sticks. Sees Far had offered a prayer to the deer people, but perhaps Calling Crow’s own prayer was not sincere. Perhaps he still did not have the forgiveness of the deer people. Was that why his life had turned into such an unbearable sickness?

  Inside his head a small voice said, ‘Take a sweat bath and heal yourself.” He looked around. One of the copper tubs in the corner had a man-sized hole in its base where the metal had rotted out.

  Calling Crow went into the other room and got one of the thick canvases that were sometimes placed upon the stone floor for the lovers. He draped it over the top of the broken tub and then ran a rope around it, making the canvas as snug upon the tub top as the skin on a drum. He scooped up a bucket full of the glowing embers and dumped them on the metal floor inside the tub. Immediately he could feel the heat rising inside. He crawled out and got another bucket of embers. He crawled inside, emptying the bucket making a tall, radiant mound. He spotted a wicker basket of wet cloths outside and pulled it in after him to plug up the hole. The heat built quickly and he fought for breath. Pungent sweat poured from him, forming a steaming pool about him. Soon his skin sweat no more and turned as dry as a leaf. His consciousness waned as he sang the medicine songs. He thought he could smell his own hair burning but he stayed where he was. He must cure himself. Finally he could stand no more. He was burning up. It was then that he felt the presence of an old friend, the medicine man, Sees Far, sitting beside him. Sees Far smiled at Calling Crow in encouragement and he passed out.

  Calling Crow awoke sprawled upon the metal floor of the tub. The embers had cooled and he pushed the brittle remains of the basket away and crawled out. He felt that something was coming. He looked around in the dark. The great house was deathly quiet. He thought he heard music, a ripple of notes-- from a harp! He headed toward the kitchen and paused to listen. Hearing nothing, he was about to turn and go back toward the stairs that led to Mary’s room. Then it came again-a cascade of tinkling notes, like a hand drawn quickly across the strings of the harp. He ran to the kitchen door and found it unlocked. He went out.

  The garden was empty. Of course it would be empty, he told himself with sadness. He became aware of a growing pressure in his head and looked up. Above the box formed by the garden walls, clouds were racing past a huge full moon of polished bone. He remembered Edward’s words and looked down at the grass at his feet. In the silvery light, he easily located the three rocks.

  He knelt on the soft earth. The bright moonlight seemed to tickle the inside of his head as the wind moved his hair. Leaves skittered about the garden path like noisy bugs. He dug into the damp earth with his hands, down as far as his elbows. His fingers touched a soft object. He pulled it up and brushed the dirt from it. A small pouch, it was decorated with tiny bird feet prints. Aieyee! This pouch was from his other life, that other world. Calling Crow suddenly thought of Mary up in the top of the house. His flesh remembered her warmth. He remembered the magic black smoke that took away all pain and memory. For a moment he considered putting the pouch back in the earth and covering it up. Then the moon seemed to immobilize him and the wind and leaves spoke to him, whispering encouragement. He saw old Sees Far handing him the pouch such a long time ago. Again he thought he heard Edward’s harp, then a loud squawk came from above. Calling Crow looked up to see a large crow perched on the top of the wall. It looked at Calling Crow and nodded. Then it spread its large wings and flew away.

  Calling Crow understood what it was telling him. It was time to leave this place. He got to his feet. Remembering Edward’s instructions, he opened the pouch. He brought the tiny carcass to his mouth and chewed on the harsh, desiccated flesh. He coughed, fighting back the urge to retch. As he ate he felt himself straightening, standing taller. He took a deep breath and stretched, and his bones cracked and popped. He felt strength flowing through them. He looked at the pouch in his hands and remembered how the faded painted bird feet pattern had once held a rainbow of colors. He saw vividly his attractive, loving wife and his strong son, his village and his people, his mission. Tears filled his eyes and he screamed out his war cry, his voice echoing off the boxlike walls and up to the moon. Tonight he would leave this place, one way or another.

  He headed for Mary’s room as realization flooded through him. It was after Amorgh took off his chains that she had sent her little bird to bring him to her room. It was her pipe and black smoke that had made him weak and small, that took away his memories and his pain, that robbed him of his rage and the strength it would impart to him. She did these things for Amorgh. The realization hurt him, but he knew it must be so. And she must know where Amorgh, the keeper of the keys, slept. She must!

  Mary waited for him eagerly. The weather was colder than usual and she had closed the window. Now she longed for his warmth beside her. George sang his tiny songs from his cage but they did not cheer her much. Nothing cheered her or Crow, since Collier and Amorgh had killed Edward the music maker.

  The door opened and she looked up. It was Calling Crow. He was different, though. She could see that a great anger possessed him and he seemed to have grown larger. He closed the door and latched it.

  “Tell me what you have known all along,” he said. “Tell me where Amorgh sleeps.”

  She could not tell him. No matter how much she wanted to. She said nothing and he came closer. The room was very still and quiet.

  “Tell me!” he demanded.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Aieyee,” said Calling Crow. “I will wait. Tonight you will tell me, Mary.”

  She said nothing and he said, “Why is George locked up?”

  Mary remained silent as Calling Crow opened the cage and put his hand inside. George hopped onto his finger and Calling Crow went over and sat on the bed. He stroked the little bird’s head with his finger. He brought him close to his lips and said to him, “You must know where the keeper of the keys sleeps. If only you could talk, you would tell me, wouldn’t you?”

  George flew off, fluttering around the room twice, finally disappearing somewhere behind Calling Crow. He turned around and did not see him. “Where is he?” Calling Crow said.

  Mary said nothing, looking over quickly at the closet.

  Calling Crow followed her look, suspicion darkening his face. He went over to the closet and pulled the curtain aside. There was a dark crack where the walls met. He had never noticed it before. Had the bird disappeared in there?

  Calling Crow pushed and the wall gave way to the blackness of a corridor. Stairs led up.

  He looked at Mary. “What is this?”

  Too frightened to speak, she said nothing.

  Calling Crow went into the blackness of the corridor.

  Mary took the pipe from the floor. She kneaded a soft plug of opium into a ball and put it in the bowl. She was about to light it when George fluttered back into the room, settling in her hair. She carried him to his cage and put him inside. Returning to the bed, she lit the pipe. As the smoke began to make her smaller, she thought worriedly that when Amorgh came down he would kill her. She could see his small black eyes and feel his large sweaty hands around her neck. She took another gurgling draw on the pipe and the thought became less terrible. It became intriguing. Would he kill her? Would he not fear the wrath of the owners? How would he rationalize it? Suddenly another thought struck her. It might be Calling Crow that would come down the stairs. Would he kill her? He had cause. She had helped to keep him here. He knew that now. She sucked at the pipe hungrily as this new, sad, terrible thought filled her head. The smoke ran through her veins now, warming her against the cold speculation. Fixing her eyes blankly on the closet, she continued breathing through the pipe. Finally her fears shrank to mere motes of pollen and drifted away on a slight draft.
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br />   Calling Crow took the stairs two at a time, quickly arriving before the door at the top. He opened it smoothly, the leather hinges making no noise. Along one wall was a large shuttered window, some moonlight coming through the cracks. At the far end of the room a large canopied bed sat. Calling Crow crept silently over to it and looked down. Amorgh’s sallow-faced helper slept peacefully there, but the big man was missing.

  Calling Crow heard something behind and turned as Amorgh’s arm went around his neck.

  “Khoudi!” cried Amorgh.

  Amorgh’s friend jumped from the bed and pulled a dagger from his belt as Amorgh wrestled Calling Crow backward to the floor. The little man ran with the dagger outstretched. Calling Crow caught him with his feet as he sprang, then kicked him backward with all his might. The man crashed through the shutters, screaming as he fell to his death.

  The little man’s death distracted Amorgh for an instant, but it was all Calling Crow needed to twist out of his grip. He bounded to his feet as Amorgh took a sword from the wall. Amorgh swung and Calling Crow dived out of the way. Calling Crow grabbed the heavy covering off the bed and threw it, netlike, over Amorgh’s outstretched arm and sword. It slowed the big man enough for Calling Crow to reach him and pounce. A tiny cry escaped Amorgh’s lips as Calling Crow’s hands closed around his neck. Amorgh dropped the sword and squealed like an animal as all of Calling Crow’s pain and anger passed into his hands. Amorgh’s head flopped onto the stone floor with a thud.

  Calling Crow took the keys from Amorgh’s belt. He spotted a cloth sack by the bed and tucked it into his sash. He would use it for Red Feather’s bones, for he had already decided to go back to Collier’s, find the bones and take them home. Otherwise, Red Feather’s spirit would roam these foreign lands in sadness forever. Calling Crow hurried back down the stairs.

  Mary’s eyes were as red as two setting suns and she seemed frail and child-like. Calling Crow realized that he had never really seen her this way before and it was very sad.

  He held up the keys. “He is dead. You are free.”

  She smiled sadly. “Come here.”

  Calling Crow sat on the bed. She laughed, sitting up to run her hand over his face. “Stay with me.”

  He shook his head. “It is time for me to go now. You can go too.”

  “Open the window, please,” she said.

  Calling Crow did as she asked and the cold, river-scented night air poured into the room.

  “Now open the door to George’s cage.”

  The little bird had been singing merrily in its tiny voice, but when Calling Crow opened the cage door, it stopped. It looked at the opened door tentatively, but did not move.

  “He knows that to go out there is to die,” said Mary. “Poor thing, the starlings would make a quick meal of him.”

  She turned to Calling Crow. “I am no longer young. I, too, would not fare well outside. Besides, I am happy here.”

  Calling Crow grew sad as he looked at her. He did not want to leave her here, but he could do nothing for her. He left the room and hurried down the stairs to the big door. The second key he tried opened it and he went out into the night. He looked once toward the river, and the bridge tower with the long things jutting from it, and then hurried away from the city. Caressing the medicine pouch hanging from his belt; he said a quick prayer to his spirit guide. His prayer was good; because with every step he could feel his power growing, and himself becoming invisible. He saw two men coming toward him on the road and deliberately passed very close to them; they never knew he was there. Soon he left the city behind.

  As the light of day began to gather, Calling Crow hid himself under one of the large structures the English penned their animals in. As the sun moved across the sky, he slept fitfully, the shouts and talk of the English field workers drifting under the structure. Several times men and women snuck inside the structure to couple quickly and furtively, going out again soon afterward. When darkness fell, he again took to the road, heading in the same direction, away from the city. In the middle of the night he saw a familiar compound, Collier’s fair.

  Calling Crow’s heart was heavy as he crept through the tall hedgerows that surrounded the place. He came across the pen where Collier kept the pigeons he and his men so loved to eat, and broke into it. He killed eight of the cooing birds, then tucked their wrung necks under his belt. He located the place where he and Red Feather had been held captive. He crept over to the small structure and peered into the barred aperture at the dingy interior. He did not think they would have left Red Feather’s bones in there; the English buried the dead, but perhaps there would be a clue as to where they buried him. He saw the bottom of one of the sleeping shelves. All his sadness came back to him now as he mourned his friend. Then something came into view-- a foot.

  From inside the hut a voice moaned and a figure moved into the patch of moonlight. It was Red Feather. He looked out in confusion. “Who is there?”

  “You live!” said Calling Crow, not being able to contain his joy. “I thought you were dead.”

  Red Feather came to the door, his hands cuffing around the bars as he looked out. “No. I did not die. I waited for you, but I was beginning to think that you had died.”

  Calling Crow shook the heavy door but it wouldn’t budge. “I must get you out of here quickly.”

  “Yes,” said Red Feather. “The keys are in Collier’s wagon, along with the keys for my leg chains, and our weapons.”

  Calling Crow was already hurrying across the dark field. He crept around the side of the wagon, noting the pale light that issued from some cracks. He heard the scratch of a chair; Collier was in there. Calling Crow remembered Collier’s hands slamming Edward’s head into the stones and he decided to kill the Englishman. Footsteps hurriedly approached and Calling Crow froze in the darkness. Several pairs of feet clumped up the steps and he heard muted voices. A moment later the feet thumped down the steps and hurried off. Calling Crow waited in the darkness for a moment and crept inside. His heart sang when he spotted the black iron key ring hanging from a wooden peg on the wall. From some wooden pegs on the other wall he took his and Red Feather’s bows, their axes and their quivers of arrows.

  Later they stood against the hedgerows. Calling Crow tucked his iron axe under his belt and looked around. He pointed out the woods in the distance to Red Feather. As they hurried along, Calling Crow hoped the woods would be deep and thick enough to conceal a fire. He wanted to cook the pigeons, for they were both very hungry and had a long, long way to go.

  Chapter 37

  The moon had not yet risen when Calling Crow and Red Feather left the woods. They walked parallel to the road, but an arrow’s flight away, through the plowed fields and through small woods. They walked in silence, keeping their distance from the scattered dwellings, some of which showed the golden glow of fires from their windows. Occasionally they would be forced to climb over one of the small stone walls that snaked through the land. Once they stopped in a garden long enough to pull up and eat some roots growing there.

  The moon rose, a gibbous moon, giving off soft silvery light. Uncomfortable with the wide open expanses of fields, the two men hunched over closer to the earth as they walked. They watched the road before and behind them for any signs of movement. There were none.

  They walked in silence as the moon moved across the sky. Calling Crow frowned at something ahead and stopped.

  “What is it?” said Red Feather softly in their native Muskogee.

  “The road splits in two ahead.”

  “So?”

  “One goes on, going higher into the hills; the other goes that way.”

  Red Feather searched the dark distance where Calling Crow’s arm was pointing.

  “Which goes to Bristol?” said Red Feather.

  “I don’t know,” said Calling Crow. “We shall have to ask.”

  Red Feather said nothing, instead turning to look at Calling Crow in puzzlement.

  Calling Crow started walk
ing again. “Come. We must find someone to ask.”

  Richard Burke, a fifteen-year-old shepherd boy, stared off at the distant hills. Keeping one eye on the rocks that jutted out of the soil like ancient bones, he followed the grazing sheep as they moved in the direction of a field higher up. He felt an inexplicable chill upon his back and turned around suddenly. For a moment he thought he saw two figures on the distant horizon. He screwed up his eyes and there was nothing. He walked on.

  A large round rock, almost as tall as he, cast a black shadow like a well and he thought of the story of the knight Tannhauser. It was said that it was on a night such as this when he came upon a cave that led down to the underworld. A beautiful woman could be seen down there in a sheer, billowing dress of silks. She was Venus the nymph and he descended to her, disappearing for seven years. As Richard passed by the shadow he felt a chill. Did he hear something? He hurried away from the shadow, remembering the story of St. Patrick and the entrance to purgatory. Richard thought he heard a gentle footfall behind and turned.

  “You-- Wait.”

  The voice was faint and strange-sounding. A ghost? Richard turned and ran over the rocky ground, frightening the sheep that now hurried along with him. Richard’s frantic uphill flight caused him to pant loudly. He ran onward, finally coming up against a large upthrust temple of rocks known to the local people as the Rockpile. Over the top, Richard saw some high wispy clouds racing beneath the moon.