Flavius caught on. It wasn’t her handle. It was the name of her people. “Tennessean,” he said, thumping himself, adding his full name for good measure.
With an effort, the woman pronounced, “Tennes-sean-flavius-harris. “ A tentative smile lit her lovely features.
Flavius did not have the heart to try to get it across that she had it all backward. “I reckon that’ll have to do.” Biting off a piece of jerky, he chewed while racking his brain for a means to communicate.
After saying something in her own language, the woman placed a finger against her forehead and said, several times, “Waneetoka.”
“Is that your name?” Flavius said, and uttered it twice.
Again a smile lit the woman’s face. Extending her arm, she indicated a white-haired warrior forty yards off, the same one who had inspected Flavius. “Matotonga.”
“Matotonga,” Flavius said.
Waneetoka faced the bird-shaped mound. Pointing at the top, she said soberly, “Piasa.”
“Piasa.”
The maiden bobbed her head at the sun, moved her left arm in an arc, and spoke at length. Flavius caught the words “Matotonga” and “piasa,” but the rest was so much gibberish. He had the impression she was striving to tell him something important, and his failure to understand disappointed her.
Rather sadly, Waneetoka said, “Piasa,” and fluttered her right hand as if it were a falling leaf. Suddenly she snatched at her left hand and tugged at it as if trying to tear it from her arm. Hopefully, she looked at him.
“My ears for a heel tap if I know what you mean,” Flavius admitted.
Waneetoka came over, patted him on the shoulder, sighed loudly, and departed, leaving the food and drink. She left the flap open. Neither of the warriors bothered to close it.
Depressed, Flavius munched on his meal. He took his sweet time, stuffing the last of the jerky into a pocket to eat later. He also saved some water. There was no telling if or when his captors would see fit to feed him again.
The afternoon crawled by. The Illini stopped working at one point to congregate at the conical mound. Matotonga addressed them, twice pointing at the open doorway to Flavius’s chamber.
Flavius grew edgy. The Illini had not harmed him or even threatened to, but he had a sneaking hunch he would not like what they had in mind.
Just then a strange thing happened. A frantic shout rang out. All eyes turned skyward, including those of the guards.
Flavius was more interested in a huge shadow rippling across the grassy tract to the northwest, a darkling silhouette like that of a bird, only ten times larger than the shadow of any hawk or eagle ever known. The shadow was so incredibly immense that Flavius decided it had to be a trick of the light. No real bird could be so enormous.
A hideous shriek sounded on high. A shriek like that of a red hawk, but so loud it hurt the ears. A shriek so inhuman and terrible, Flavius recoiled.
It had a similar effect on the Illini. They scattered, seeking cover. The warriors guarding Flavius nervously backed into the doorway.
Overcome by curiosity, Flavius stood and moved to the opening. Craning his neck, he glimpsed a gigantic aerial form as it soared over the rectangular mound. “What the devil?” he blurted.
A warrior grunted and pushed him back inside. Flavius took a step, eager for another glimpse, but both warriors raised their clubs, their meaning crystal clear.
The shrieking faded as its source flew south. After silence reigned, the guards went back out. A babble of excited voices drew Flavius to investigate. Most of the tribe had reassembled.
Matotonga, all smiles, was gesturing at the heavens, then at the birdlike mound. Flavius suspected that the mound and the creature that just flew over the village were somehow linked. And that the great bird’s appearance had been taken by the Illini as a favorable omen.
Peace and quiet persisted thereafter. Flavius dozed, curled on his side. He slept fitfully. Any loud noises awakened him. A commotion late in the afternoon brought him to the door.
The village bustled with activity. People were going every which way. A constant flow of women proceeded to the top of the bird mound, carrying dead limbs. Firewood, Flavius reckoned.
A festive air animated the Illini. They went about their varied tasks happily, buzzing all the while.
It was hard to judge, but it must have been around four in the afternoon when Waneetoka approached with two other women in tow. One held a large bowl, the other had a cloth and a folded blanket.
Flavius patted his stomach, relishing another meal. Water was in the bowl, though. He stepped back as the women came in. The blanket was spread out, the bowl lowered beside it.
Waneetoka motioned for him to sit on the blanket. Flavius did so. The two maidens knelt on either side of him and the smaller of the two pressed her slender hand against his chest, pushing him onto his back.
When the other woman reached for the strap to his possibles bag and started to slide it over his head, Flavius slapped her hand. “Enough of that. You’ve taken everything else, but not this.”
The woman called out. One of the guards filled the opening, his glare ample warning. Flavius took off the bag himself and gave it to the woman.
Embarrassed to his core, Flavius had to lie there while they stripped him nearly naked. They had trouble with his belt, having never worked a buckle before. At their prodding, he unfastened it, and soon his hunting shirt and moccasins had joined it on the floor.
The only female who had ever seen Flavius in his birthday suit was his wife. For a man to parade in the altogether in front of women he did not know was unthinkable. The canebrake stock from which he sprang were shy by nature and lived in dire dread of committing a mortal sin. So when the small Illini brazenly lowered her hands to his pants, he grabbed her wrists. “No, you don’t! I draw the line here, missy!”
The woman yelled. Into the chamber rushed the guard, who elevated his war club.
“Bash my brains out if you like!” Flavius refused to be cowed. “But a man has got to have some dignity!”
The warrior took another step and would have swung if Waneetoka had not stepped between them. A flick of her arm, and the warrior reluctantly backed off. Kneeling, she gently pried Flavius’s fingers from the other woman’s wrists, then reached for his pants herself. Slowly, considerately, she peeled them from his body.
Flavius closed his eyes. If only this were a nightmare! If only he had never left Tennessee! In no time he was buck naked. Covering his manhood, he braced for the next indignity.
The feel of something hot on his chest made him yelp. Flavius sat up, or tried to, but the women would not permit it. Waneetoka had soaked the cloth in the bowl and was bathing him with hot water.
“Is this necessary?” Flavius squeaked. What possible purpose could they have for cleaning him up? Granted, it had been a while since his last bath, and maybe he was a mite whiffy, but it wasn’t as if he smelled as bad as a buffalo in a wallow.
Waneetoka was most meticulous. She cleaned every square inch of skin, rubbing parts of him his own wife had never touched. Some men would have been aroused, but Flavius was so upset, his manhood shrank to the size of a shriveled carrot. His shame knew no bounds.
A brush was applied to his hair. Flavius couldn’t remember the last time he had combed it, which accounted for the knots and tangles the woman had to deal with. He winced with each stroke.
Waneetoka finished bathing him. She rolled up his moccasins and possibles in his shirt, then rolled up the shirt in his pants. The bundle wound up by the entrance.
Flavius squirmed uncomfortably. The women rose, Waneetoka beckoning him to do likewise. Keeping a hand over his private part, he complied.
The small woman picked up the blanket and shook it. Boldly, she wrapped it around his waist, tucking the top in on itself to hold the blanket in place.
“Now what?” Flavius muttered. To his utter consternation, they wanted him to go outside. The guards were waiting, so he dared not d
ally.
No one paid much attention. Escorted by the warriors, Flavius shuffled toward the bird mound. He grasped the blanket so it wouldn’t slip. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the two maidens leave. Waneetoka lingered, gazing sorrowfully.
A series of shallow footholds had been gouged out of the sloped face of the earthwork. A warrior started up, and the other one poked Flavius with his club.
Flavius climbed carefully, taking little steps, afraid of losing his balance. With the blanket wrapped so tightly, his movement was limited anyway. Preoccupied with reaching the crest intact, he did not think to scan the valley until they were close to the top.
The vista took his breath away. Flavius had not fully appreciated how high the mound reared. From his lofty perch he could see for miles: the emerald sea of forest to the west, north, and east; the broken, speckled lowland to the south; the three spokes of the valley and the sparkling blue of the stream.
The warrior behind him jabbed him and motioned.
“All right. Hold your horses,” Flavius complained. Scaling the final few steps, he discovered a rut eroded by the passage of countless feet over countless years. It brought him to the center of the mound, to a wide space corresponding to the belly of the giant bird. A mountain of firewood had been piled beside a broad fire pit charred black by previous fires. Off to the left sat large deer-hide drums.
The warrior poked him again.
Past the pit, four stakes had been pounded into the soil. The moment Flavius saw them, he halted, and was shoved with so much force, he tripped.
Roughly, the warriors seized him, forcing him to lie down. The blanket was torn from his grasp. While one stood poised to strike, the other lashed his wrists and ankles to the stakes.
No! No! No! Flavius was tempted to scream. This couldn’t be happening! Surely the Illini did not intend to do what the stakes signified!
His circulation was cut off within moments. Numbness spread to his wrists, to his knees.
The blanket he had worn was thrown over him and spread out so that it entirely covered his body. Why, he could only guess. Then the warriors left.
Flavius listened to their footsteps grow fainter. Twisting his arms, he attempted to loosen his restraints. It restored enough circulation to flood him with pain, so he stopped.
The breeze ruffled the blanket but was not strong enough to blow it off. Flavius was glad. That huge bird might come back. Was that why the warriors had covered him?
Unbidden, every horror story he had ever heard about frontiersmen who met grisly ends by being tortured to death, paraded through his memory. The same fate, evidently, was in store for him.
Would he be equal to the occasion and die without crying out? Or would he weaken? Would he prove himself less than the man his father always wanted him to be?
As his pa had pointed out when he was a sprout, “A man can’t always choose how his life will unfold, son, or the manner of his passing. But he can control how he meets that moment. Show the Harris backbone when your time comes. Don’t be a coward.”
Flavius had vowed to never let his pa down. But now, confronted by the imminent prospect of the worst sort of death, his resolve faltered. What if the Illini cut out his eyes? Or hacked off his tongue? Or his manhood? He had courage, but not that much.
He would cry out. He would blubber like a baby. He would beg for mercy. He just knew it.
The air grew chill. Through a fold in the blanket a portion of the sky was visible. Twilight dimmed to night. Flavius lost all feeling in his limbs, and yearned to lose consciousness, as well. No such luck.
Shuffling footsteps announced the arrival of Illini. Flitting shades of lights hinted at torches. He heard voices and movement, and a noise that took him half a minute to identify as the clatter of dead tree limbs being tossed into the fire pit.
Flames engulfed the pyre with a whoosh. The light was so bright, it seemed to turn the night into day. Chanting broke out.
They were beginning the ceremony, whatever it was. Flavius vigorously bobbed his head, seeking to shift the blanket off his face so he could see. To his surprise, he succeeded, and regretted the move. He had been better off not knowing.
Six hooded figures ringed the fire pit, their hoods screening their faces from the dancing flames. Their guttural chants wafted on the wind, to be dimly echoed by the rampart of vegetation to the east. As they chanted, they hoisted their arms and jerked their bodies in odd, bird-type movements.
“Oh, God,” Flavius whispered. Lying back, he stared blankly at the firmament. Davy, where are you? Crockett should have been there by now. Something must have happened to him.
The chanting grated on Flavius’s nerves. But it was nothing compared to the stark dread inspired by the sound of more Illini climbing the mound.
One of the hooded figures moved to the drums. Hiking his sleeves, he brought the flat of his callused hands down on the skins in a staccato beat.
Turning his neck, Flavius saw Illini appear on the crest. They were dressed in their finest raiment. In somber procession they filed to the center, forming a circle. Some joined in the chant, then more, and more, until all of them were participating.
Flavius sought a friendly face in the crowd. Waneetoka was on his right. She studiously avoided looking at him, averting her face when he spotted her. In unison with the rest, she stomped her feet and moved clockwise around the fire pit—and him.
Soundlessly, the circle parted. Into the center pranced an Illini in the outlandish garb of an oversized bird. Mimicking the darting motion of a bird of prey on the attack, he leaped and bounded, flapping wings tied to his arms.
Birds again! Flavius thought. Everything the Illini did dealt with birds. They had built the massive bird mound. They wore feathers in their clothes. They imitated birds in their rituals. What connection did it all have to the huge bird that had flown over the village?
The prancing dancer hopped to the blanket and cast it off. For once, Flavius did not care that he was naked to the world. A jarring thought had petrified the blood in his veins. He remembered the pantomime Waneetoka had performed that afternoon with her hands. She had been striving to get an important point across, and now he knew what it was.
Just then the chanting died. Far to the northwest, so faint that Flavius would not have heard it if he had not been listening for it, the night was rent by a horrid shriek.
Chapter Seven
Davy Crockett snapped his rifle to his shoulder. Just in time, he realized that the warrior wearing the antler headdress was hurrying toward the bird mound, not toward Hoodoo Tom and him.
More shouts rose from the crest. Glancing up, Davy discovered that the Old Ones were pointing at the sky, not downward. Why would they do that? Pivoting, he scanned the starry canopy but saw nothing out of the ordinary.
Then a faint shriek wavered on the stiff breeze. The Old Ones fell silent. In the remote distance a speck appeared, a speck that expanded rapidly in size, blotting out stars. Its shrieks grew correspondingly louder.
Davy gaped as the ebony outline of an enormous bird took definite shape, a bird so gargantuan that it defied belief.
The creature swooped in low over the bird mound. The glow cast by the fire etched a flashing image of wings as long as canoes, of a body as thick around as a bear’s, of a great hooked beak and talons the size of a man’s hand.
“It can’t be!” Davy gasped.
The bird banked to make a pass over the village, voicing another unearthly cry.
Hoodoo Tom took an awestruck step backward. Forgetting himself, he flung an arm skyward and exclaimed, “The piasa! I told you! I was right about it!”
Davy lunged to clamp a hand over the trapper’s mouth, but the harm had already been done.
The warrior moving toward the bird mound spun, spied them, and charged, voicing a war whoop that was drowned out by yet another thunderous shriek from the piasa or Thunderbird or whatever it was.
Davy palmed his tomahawk. There was still a chance. If he
could dispatch the warrior without alerting the Old Ones up on the mound, his search for Flavius could continue. Risking a glance at the crest, he was momentarily riveted by the spectacle of the Thunderbird hovering fifty or sixty feet above the mound, its mighty wings beating fiercely, its talons extended, as if it were about to plunge straight down at prey. Incredibly, the Old Ones were not fleeing for their lives.
Insight flooded through Davy in a rush of cold terror. The bird mound! The feathered robes! He should have seen it sooner! The Old Ones weren’t fleeing because they wanted the piasa there. The bonfire, the pounding of the drums, the loud chanting, they were all designed to lure the creature to the village. They were conducting a sacrifice! But the offering was certainly not one of their own.
Flavius! Davy thought, taking a few swift steps, forgetting all about the onrushing warrior. The blast of a rifle brought reality crashing down on his shoulders.
The warrior clutched at his chest, staggered a few yards, and toppled, voicing a vibrant death wail with his last breath. Up on the mound, the faces of the Old Ones nearest the rim bent down. And the piasa, with a cry different from its hunting shriek, wheeled abruptly up into the darkness. Gaining altitude with astounding speed, it flew to the northwest.
It’s leaving, Davy realized. His elation, though, was short-lived. For with a roar of outrage and bloodlust, the Old Ones flooded over the side.
“Uh-oh,” Hoodoo Tom said. “I think they’re a mite mad at us, hoss.”
Swearing, Davy whirled. “Come on!” he hollered, and ran westward. They had a substantial lead, but the Old Ones knew the lay of the land. Finding somewhere to hide was crucial. He bestowed a wistful glance at the bird mound, wondering if his hunch about his friend being up there was true.
~*~
The man who could confirm it gawked for joy as the Illini raced over the rim. Flavius thought his time had come when that demon bird hovered directly over him, about to plummet. He had grit his teeth to keep from screaming, and closed his eyes.
Mississippi Mayhem (A Davy Crockett Western Book 4) Page 7
