by Jeff Posey
They decided to rest for the day where they could keep an eye on Pók’s camp, let the Pochtécans have a rare day off after their two freak battles. Tootsa led them to a nearby cozy meadow surrounded by craggy rocks with a drip-spring. They left Natwani and another boy with the tricky job of watching for foot patrols on the canyon rim at the same time they watched Pók, with instructions to send an alert if the encamped warriors made a move.
Tuwa and the others dragged their shirts or vests behind them to obscure any tracks. A gusty wind helped, and soon they settled down for a midday rest.
Tuwa awoke to the crack and skitter of a pebble landing near him. He opened his eyes and saw Natwani running toward him. “Black lines of long people,” said Natwani. He began shaking everyone awake, repeating the same phrase.
Tuwa’s heart leaped in his chest when he climbed to an overlook. A long procession of people wound as far back as Tuwa could see. A patrol of warriors had broken away from the main column and trotted toward Pók’s camp. Guardsmen were on their feet pointing toward the mouth of the Canyon of Last Trees.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” Tuwa said, running back in a slide of pebbles.
“That’s what I’ve been telling you all along,” said Sowi.
“Follow us,” Lightfoot called as the Wild Boys sprinted away.
Tootsa woke Peelay, who jumped up and ran without looking, but then stopped and stared back in a stupor.
“Spread out,” called Lightfoot. “Follow game trails. Confuse trackers. Like herds of deer. Go like we go.”
Tuwa called for the Pochtécans to follow, and they began a mad dash. Lightfoot and his Wild Boys turned in sudden, unexpected directions, staying away from anything that looked like people trails and rarely following each other. They juked and turned and backtracked in loops, and even The Pochtéca followed. Everyone concentrated on running over the rugged ground while leaving no coherent tracks. They jogged until the sun hung low in the sky and orange light streaked the tops of the canyon walls. Shadows pointed east toward the sacred places, and still they ran.
Finally they stopped and blew their lungs and quieted. Lightfoot pointed over a rise, and Tuwa crept with him to the top and looked down. Below ran a well-worn footpath along a bare rock that spilled smoothly over the edge of a sheer drop into the canyon below. The other Pochtécans joined them, and Lightfoot motioned for everyone to keep quiet and watch.
A man wearing a wide headband sauntered up the trail. He carried an absurdly long bow, a small quiver of arrows strung over his back, and a short club that bounced from his belt. He stopped, looked around in all directions with a hand behind an ear, and then continued. He strolled out of sight.
“One more,” whispered Lightfoot.
They waited. Tuwa began to think there would be no more. But another sentry, shorter and more bow-legged than the last, appeared at a trot. He stopped and put both hands behind his ears, looking straight at Tuwa and the others. He crept forward, and then dashed toward them. He stopped, listening again all around. After a few tense moments, his shoulders slumped. He kicked at a clump of grass, and trotted after the other sentry.
“We see him all the time,” said Lightfoot. “He always does that. Now we can go look over the edge. But be quiet.” The Wild Boys went confidently toward the edge, lay down, and scooted forward. The Pochtécans were more cautious. Tuwa noticed Choovio and Kopavi nervously scanning all directions and making eye contact often.
Tuwa crept to the edge and saw the view. He had never seen it from this place before. They were right over the sacred Center Place. Just below them sprawled The Builder’s palace, shaped like half a round village, the top crescent of rooms half as high as the top of the canyon wall. On the other side rose the earthen mound altar where Grandfather had died. And hidden inside the confusing rooms of the palace, guarded behind a ring of warriors who laughed and sang drinking songs, might be Nuva, even Chumana. Tuwa’s heart pounded. From this place, he could pummel the big house with stones. If he shouted, people in the courtyard would hear. The desire to kill Pók faded and Chumana’s face floated in his mind, a face he’d tried to conjure without success for so long. She wanted to see him, too. He could feel it.
He nodded thanks to Lightfoot for showing them this sight. “We’re exhausted,” he said. “Is there a place we can rest tonight?”
“Yeah,” said Lightfoot. “Little place, over there,” he pointed east. “It’s steep and everybody will have to be quiet, but nobody knows about it but us.”
They crept to a little twist of ground where they could lie well-hidden from anyone nearby. A spring slow-dripped from a mossy crack and they began filling containers and sipping fresh water.
“Do you think Pók’s warriors and those other ones will follow us?” asked Tuwa.
“No,” said Lightfoot. “They always give up following our trails.”
After they nibbled a cold meal of parched corn and dried meat, they watched the sky go dark and fill with stars.
“Tootsa said it’s time for the Summer Council,” said Tuwa. “Is that where the caravan of people are going?”
“That’s here,” said Lightfoot. “At the palace. They’ll be here tomorrow.”
“When does it start?” asked The Pochtéca.
“They’re supposed to start before the second full moon after the longest day,” said Lightfoot. “Sometimes they start sooner.”
“The whole place looks busy,” said The Pochtéca. “Is it always like that?”
“Oh, no,” said Tootsa, jumping ahead of Lightfoot’s answer. “Usually it’s as boring as being in the middle of everywhere else. But everybody comes in from all over for the Summer Council. They bring wood and stuff and trade for it.”
“What do they trade for?” asked The Pochtéca.
“I don’t know,” said Tootsa. “Boring stuff. Not pointy warrior teeth, I can tell you.”
“For food,” said Lightfoot. “They have rooms and rooms of dried corn in there. And beans. Piñon nuts. Dried squash. Pounded meat. You know. Everything. Pók makes the farmers and hunters send it all here, then they trade it back for firewood and days of work on the palace.”
“They just give Pók all their food? Why?” asked The Pochtéca.
“They’ll gobble you up if you don’t,” said Tootsa.
“If they find a farmer who didn’t send all his in,” said Lightfoot, “Pók’s warriors will kill the entire village. Cut them up like animals. Cook them. Eat them. Except they usually leave one or two to tell the story.”
“That’s not trade,” said The Pochtéca. “That’s pure evil.”
“It’s worse than evil,” said Tuwa. “The gods should vomit them all off the Earth. Especially Pók. If there were any gods. I don’t believe it anymore, because they don’t do anything to help us out.”
The Pochtéca looked at Tuwa with a frown. “It’s the most despicable thing I’ve ever heard. But you can see exactly how it works.” He turned to Lightfoot. “Is there much resentment among people for the warriors and Pók?”
Lightfoot laughed. “Since the Day Star, everybody would kill Pók like a rattlesnake if it didn’t bring disaster on everyone else.”
“Except for us,” said Tootsa. “We just hide.”
“Maybe not this time,” said Lightfoot.
“We won’t?”
“I’m tired of taking it anymore,” said Lightfoot. “Aren’t you?”
Tootsa shrugged. “As long as there are grown-up men, some of them will be stupid and ruin everything for everybody if they can.”
“Not if the rest of us won’t let them. We’ve hidden like weaklings for too long.”
“Can you get us all down there tomorrow?” asked The Pochtéca. “Can we hide among the crowd of people coming in?”
“Sure. That’s easy,” said Lightfoot. “Except for children. Warriors are killing children now. Like they did the bean kids. So the littlest ones can’t go.”
“And can you take me to meet someone?” as
ked The Pochtéca.
“Who?” asked Lightfoot.
“The Fat Man.”
Tootsa laughed. “Oh, I can do that. He’s my friend.”
“But you can’t go. They’re killing children,” said The Pochtéca.
“Not me. Not the way I go,” said Tootsa.
“He has a secret way he squeezes down,” said Lightfoot. “But you’re too big. I’ll take you a longer way. Down the staircase.” Lightfoot yawned. He rolled away and Tootsa nestled in against him to sleep.
Tuwa whispered to The Pochtéca, “What do you think?”
The Pochtéca rolled toward Tuwa and muttered his plan. The youngest Pochtécans would hide here with the youngest Wild Boys. The older ones would blend in with the crowds and keep an exit open should he need it.
It’s too risky, Tuwa thought. But he liked how bold and unexpected it would be. It was like Grandfather pulling the tail of the snake to attack the head. What they’d done was tug at the tail. Now it was time to do something about the head. And it would get him inside nearer Chumana, which made him like it even more.
The Pochtéca said he would offer a trade pact with the Fat Man. “If he’s no fool, and he can’t be or he wouldn’t be who he is, he’ll take the chance.” If the Fat Man believed he could be the master of bluestone trade from the canyon, The Pochtéca would offer to set up a network of traders in the last rich pockets of the South, and they would both become wealthy. But only if the Fat Man helped take down Pók and The Builder and maybe Tókotsi.
“How could he do all that?” Tuwa asked.
“Pók, and The Builder too, must be losing favor with Tókotsi and the entire Southern Alliance because of what we’ve done,” said The Pochtéca. “If we can pit them against each other, maybe they will do like the two patrols of warriors did outside Black Stone.”
But The Pochtéca admitted he didn’t know exactly how that might be done. First, he had to turn the Fat Man into an ally. Then he had to get the Fat Man to help figure out how to spring each side on the other.
“I want to know what he thinks,” said The Pochtéca. “He lives among them. He knows things we can only guess. There must be weaknesses we can take advantage of at the right time. He will know.”
“What if he doesn’t want to help?” asked Tuwa. “What if he lies to us and sets a trap, or tells his bodyguards to take you to Pók?”
“You and Choovio and the others have to find ways to hide out in the open and watch me. If I give you a sign, I need help, and you can pull me out.”
“And if we can’t?”
“Then I gathered all these tiny bells for nothing.”
Tuwa asked him to show the sign. In the light of the moon, two days before full, he saw The Pochtéca take off his red hat, swing it around his head, and then replace it.
“Does your head still ache?” Tuwa asked.
“Yes, though it’s more dull now. Yours?”
“It’s like a far-away roar in my ears. Like rapids in a river when you’re far away.”
The Pochtéca nodded. “Sleep now, my young warrior. We both need it.”
“What about Peelay tomorrow?” Tuwa asked.
“Lightfoot and Tootsa are planning something for him. Now sleep. Let’s wait and see what they come up with.”
At first light the next morning, Tootsa took off, then stopped, jumped and turned, and ran back. “I’ll get the Fat Man ready for you,” he said to The Pochtéca. “You can come along whenever you feel like it. And I’ll just get my bell later.” Then he ran away again.
Tuwa wanted to talk to him about what he would say to the Fat Man, but he lost his chance. It didn’t really matter. Tootsa would be Tootsa no matter what.
Lightfoot led the way for the older Pochtécans, and the two biggest Wild Boys followed the rear. They walked away from the cliff, the opposite direction from where they intended to end up, and hiked far around the head of a short side canyon.
When they came around a ridgeline, they stopped and stared. A long line of people moved slowly along a wide road cleared of loose stone, with a low, dry-laid rock wall on either side. It led to an almost sheer cliff into which a staircase had been cut. People gingerly climbed down the stairs balancing their burdens, careful of their foot placement. No one climbed up and out of the canyon. Everyone went down. On the cliff atop the stairs stood a single guardsman, his long loincloth moving with the breeze. He crossed his arms and watched, his chin on his throat.
“They used to have three guardsmen up here when people muster to the canyon,” said Lightfoot.
The guard pulled a man out of line, pushed him down, and then struggled with him. He pulled a bow from the man’s belongings. The man got up from the ground, gathered the rest of his things, and walked away, his head down.
“They’re not letting us carry bows into the canyon,” said Tuwa.
“It’s no good to suggest that we should run away now and never come back, I suppose,” said Sowi, looking at several faces. No one responded, and he sulked.
“Our bows are small,” said Kopavi. “We can repack everything and hide them.”
They found a place to do their repacking unseen and unstrung their bows to make them straight so they could wrap them in deerskin or cotton cloth with other bundles. They hid their arrows, too.
They joined the line of people waiting to go down the stairs. They were mostly old men and women, and a few young adults carrying enormous burdens. Dogs ran around barking, and one old woman struggled against a line tied around the necks of three hen turkeys. The people looked weak and undernourished, all bone and thin muscle. Only a few had a healthy glow about their faces, and he looked carefully at these, hoping against hope that he would recognize someone from his home village at the Twin Giants. The language he heard reminded him of growing up in the north, the intonations and contractions being different than those used to the south. It made his heart beat faster.
He watched the guard, who didn’t give them a second glance, but Tuwa felt him staring into his back as he went by. The steep stairs took all his concentration and he forgot about the guard until he came to the canyon floor and looked up. All the group had made it without incident. He breathed a sigh of relief and began looking around where the road spilled into the canyon near the palace. Simple shelters and day camps were being erected everywhere and lines of women went back and forth to the creek carrying water jugs on their heads. People jostled and pushed each other, nearly everyone on their feet going somewhere and carrying a load.
A man stood holding a rope around the neck of a three-legged wolf, and onlookers made almost a full circle around them. Beggars held out their hands for alms and three skinny men tossed polished wooden pegs to each other in ways that made a sizeable crowd gasp in unison. They would spin them and fling them hard at each other at the same time, then catch them perfectly and fling them again in a high arc, never missing a catch.
Men who had recently arrived with loads of sticks traded small bundles for food. Women sat around campfires cooking and talking and laughing. A man walked by on stilts, nearly twice as tall as anyone around him. The place oddly lacked the sounds of children.
The palace swarmed with people. Long lines of older boys went up ladders carrying shaped stones and pots of mortar to the top floors where masons worked. The earthen altar across from the courtyard had people all over it, laying and repairing paving stones, sweeping, carrying baskets of earth from place to place.
Behind the palace along the base of the cliff, Tuwa noticed a ramshackle line of lean-to structures that used the rock face as a back wall. Men loitered about the doorways and shaded their eyes with their hands. As they walked, they weaved. One fell, got up, and fell again. He didn’t remember that from the few trips he made here with Grandfather before the Day Star.
Lightfoot pointed to where the largest knot of men gathered. “The Fat Man is there,” he said.
“Well,” said The Pochtéca, looking them each in the face. “That’s where I go, then.�
�� To Lightfoot, he said, “You really think you can get Peelay up there?” He pointed with his chin to the earthen altar.
“Sure. Tootsa can do it.”
“You’ll be completely exposed. No one will be able to help you.”
“We’re invisible. Nobody sees us. Like Tootsa said.”
The Pochtéca nodded, and turned to the others. “See how close you can stay to me without being obvious. Don’t rush into any action unless it cannot be helped. Keep up with each other, but don’t stay together too long. And we have two signs now. I hold my hat up and wave it, then back on my head. That’s the signal for Lightfoot and Peelay. If I keep waving it around, that means I’m in trouble and need help getting out.”
He looked at each of them, and then said, “Let’s go see what the Fat Man is made of.” He set off and the others scattered behind him.
Red-Hat Bargain
The Fat Man ate two roasted prairie chickens for breakfast. He lingered over the bones, mashing and sucking them between his teeth to get all the goodness. After that, he thought a bowl of cooled corn mush would help fill his stomach, and then a big bowl of sour corn beer would top him off well. He liked planning his upcoming food intake.
A compact, muscular man stepped into his room and said, “Hummingbird?”
The Fat Man smiled. “Yes, send in the little hummingbird.”
Tootsa ran in, jumped onto the seat beside the Fat Man, and leaned over the pickings of the chickens. “You didn’t leave nothing for even the ant people,” Tootsa said, and the Fat Man laughed uproariously.
“You shouldn’t be out, little hummingbird,” said the Fat Man. “It’s not safe for children right now. The warriors are catching every child they can.”
“They can’t catch me. I’m invisible.”
“Oh, then I must being seeing the ghost of a little bird.”
“I’m just letting you see me.”
“I see. So what do you know, my little man?”
“More than you do.”
The Fat Man picked up a piece of skin glistening with fat from near the tail of the bird that he had been saving for last and handed it to Tootsa, who took it and sucked on it, then chewed it long and hard. The Fat Man watched him with a half-smile on his face.
