Star Path--People of Cahokia

by W. Michael Gear

  “You know where my interests lie. I expect compensation.”

  “You’ll have it. If I can pull this off. I’ll do my best to get that ‘tribute’ taken care of.”

  “Done.”

  As Whispering Dawn brought in the food, Wooden Doll asked, “Where’s Skull? He been with you?”

  “Saw him a couple of weeks ago. Him and that disaster of a dog that goes everywhere with him.” She made a face, inhaling the scent of roast buffalo tongue. “He’s in love.”

  “That woman of Robin Feather’s?”

  “That’s her.”

  “She’s trouble. Just ask Robin Feather. He’s still searching for her and Skull. Keeps a constant eye on my place. She’s going to break Skull’s heart.”

  “Can’t tell him that. As he insists, he knows all there is to know about women.”

  “If he knew half of—”

  A discreet knock came at the door, a young man sticking his head in. “Mistress,” he said, looking out of breath, “you asked me to keep an eye on the thief? He’s been taken. Took me a while to find out where. That war leader, Spotted Wrist. He’s got him locked in a cage in his palace.”

  Blue Heron felt her gut drop, then shot a look at Wooden Doll, who’d turned a shade paler. “You were saying?”

  Fifty-four

  Nothing was working the way Fire Cat hoped it would. His days in the island hut had ended in misery as his search for any kind of dry and burnable wood grew ever more futile. Nor did he want to employ his copper-bitted war club as an ax to split open logs in an attempt to reach the dry interiors—not as wet as his club was with the wood and sinew bindings soaked. He might loosen the hafted blade to the point that he’d never be able to fix it solid again.

  The storm hadn’t abated for two days, and then he’d had to make a raft from the soaked driftwood that lodged on the bank as the river fell. After all his work to keep his bow stave from warping as it dried and the effort he’d put into maintaining his wood-and-leather armor, he didn’t want to get it all soaked again. Hence the raft to keep it above water as he kicked his way across the north channel to the bank. That looked like the easiest crossing compared to the swifter water on the south.

  After making shore, it had taken two days to slip, slog, wade, and occasionally swim his way through the swampy floodplain. Along the way, every mosquito ever born accompanied each step; the constant humming cloud wavered around him like a perverted shadow, moving as he did. Constantly biting, getting in his ears, nose, and mouth. He teetered on the verge of madness, periodically using his bow to whip the air in an attempt to disperse the beasts.

  It worked. For a moment or two. Then the humming column would re-form around him. Maddening. Totally, completely maddening.

  The night of the second day—a thick layer of mud daubing every bit of exposed flesh to protect him from the mosquitoes, ticks, and chiggers—he found better footing, the land rising.

  He worked his way up the slight incline, the mud underfoot turning from slime to something sandier. He could tell it was a trail, and more to the point, he encountered a ragged stump where someone had used a stone ax to cut down a tree.

  The trail wound its way through thick boles of oak, hickory, ash, and the huge smooth-barked trunks of mighty beech trees. Melodic birdsong and the buzzing of insects was broken by the occasional chatter of a fox squirrel.

  The light was deepening, indicating that somewhere above the vast forest canopy, evening was descending on the land.

  In the growing gloom, he could see more evidence of human presence: a broken pot, places where bark had been stripped from the trees. The forest litter had vanished, any fallen branches having been collected for firewood. And then he passed white bones left by a hunter: leg bones from a deer. Why pack the parts that couldn’t be eaten?

  As the first bats came winging down to ravage his cloud of mosquitoes, he reached the edge of the forest, a place where the trees had been ringed, left to die, and then burned to open a mixed field of corn, beans, goosefoot, squash, and tobacco.

  Across the open space he could see the village. Not much to brag about, just a collection of bark-sided bent-pole huts. One in the rear was freshly crushed, a huge section of newly fallen oak lying across the flattened remains.

  Firelight danced, voices carried, along with a clacking of rhythm sticks accompanied by the hollow tones of flute, and melodic singing in some language Fire Cat couldn’t place. Might have been a Muskogean dialect.

  His first impulse was to rush into the village, desperate in the hope that Night Shadow Star might be there waiting.

  Caution, his old ally, however, reared its wise head, caused him to stop, to pull his war club from his bag, and use the last of the light to strap on his armor.

  No telling who these people were. Nor did he possess any kind of Trade, not to mention that they might not understand Trade pidgin. Though that was unlikely, given that they lived on the banks of the Tenasee. He was a lone man, a stranger, appearing out of the night.

  Creeping through the crops, Fire Cat kept the wind at his shoulder, letting it carry his scent down toward the river. Any village had dogs. Moving carefully, he circled downwind, edged his way around blackberry bushes, and found a point of vantage behind a small conical burial mound. From the soft dirt on the river side, more than one body had been recently interred. Maybe from the crushed hut?

  Fire Cat wriggled up to the top, peered over. His view covered the small open space in the middle of the village. Maybe thirty people sat around the crackling fire. They sang, clapped hands, and played their instruments. An older man, white-haired, his body tattooed in geometric patterns, was wearing a cougar-hide cape. The man’s face sported a painted mask of red and black, and in his hand he held a burning brand.

  Just behind the man, two poles had been set in the ground to make an X. Tied within it, arms to the upper sections, legs below, a naked man struggled to keep his head up.

  The white-haired and painted elder thrust his burning stick against the hanging man’s side, causing his victim to jerk tight against the frame against which he was tied.

  Something about the prisoner, about the way he wore his hair, the beaded forelock hanging down over his forehead …

  Fire Cat slipped down the front of the burial mound, eased to the protection of the closest hut where it overlooked the canoe landing and the dark river. Carefully, he peered around the side of the bent-pole structure.

  He could see the prisoner’s tattoos now: Snapping Turtle Clan. Those eyes had stared into Fire Cat’s, hard, desperate, ready to kill. Now Blood Talon’s face was a sweaty mask of determination. He was a warrior, a squadron first, supposedly the bravest of the brave. Knowing him, as Fire Cat did, he suspected that every fiber of Blood Talon’s being was focused on showing the forest barbarians just how a Cahokian warrior died.

  Served him right.

  Fire Cat considered, glanced back at the canoe landing. He could take one of the dugouts, slip it down the bank, and be gone into the night. The villagers were more than distracted, all attention on the suffering Blood Talon. Even the village dogs were watching, rapt, probably anticipating scraps of meat as the victim was burned, sliced, and dismembered.

  I could just go.

  Fire Cat hesitated, made a face. The memory remained as clear in his souls as spring water, every detail of his pain, his despair, so keenly felt in the days after this man had captured him and destroyed Red Wing Town. Each of the bragging taunts echoed in Fire Cat’s ears.

  He stopped short, staring at the canoes where they’d been pulled up beyond the river’s edge. He should be going. His concern was Night Shadow Star. Blood Talon had once challenged him with the express purpose of murdering him. Had led one of the squadrons that had sacked Red Wing Town. Raped his wives, perhaps even thrust himself into one of Fire Cat’s young daughters before he cut her throat and threw her corpse into the river.

  Let him die.

  With a sigh, Fire Cat closed his eyes, sh
ook his head.

  The man had chased them halfway across the world. Would have taken Night Shadow Star back to marry a man she despised.

  “I am such a fool,” Fire Cat whispered.

  From his bag, he took his bow, strung it, and slung his quiver over his shoulder. He had fifteen arrows. Maybe thirty villagers surrounded the fire.

  Walking out from behind the hut, he pulled a shaft, nocked it, and drew. At his release, the shaft drove into the old white-haired man’s chest. The fellow started, eyes going wide in his painted face.

  Fire Cat was already drawing, his second shot taking a muscular man who plucked at a bowstring and sang with gusto as he watched Blood Talon being tortured.

  The third arrow stopped in the next man to rise, the fletching protruding just below his left nipple.

  The fourth caught a young man in the hollow of the throat just above his breastbone. Probably severed his spine because he dropped as if head-clubbed.

  By the time the villagers figured it out, Fire Cat was in their midst. Head back, he screamed his old war cry: “Hoookaaaiiiiaaawww!”

  Then he pulled his war club from his belt, striking right and left as the villagers screamed, scrambled to their feet, and broke for the darkness. Their wails of terror, the sight of them running full out, filled him with exultation.

  Only one of the dogs, a vicious-looking beast with matted fur, turned at bay, snarling, most of the teeth already broken out of its mouth.

  Fire Cat leaped at it, swung his war club, and roared his rage.

  The dog turned, apparently having had previous experience with armed humans. Tail between its legs, it sped for the dark haven of the forest, overtaking the last of the fleeing villagers.

  Fire Cat stepped across one of the dying men as the fellow pulled feebly at the arrow sticking out of his chest. Frothy blood bubbled from his lips and nostrils.

  With a swing, Fire Cat’s copper-bitted blade severed the rope at Blood Talon’s right wrist. Then the left.

  “Can you walk?”

  A weak smile bent Blood Talon’s bruised lips. “If it means getting away from here? I can fly. Just watch me.”

  Chopping the last of the ropes away, Fire Cat turned, heading for the canoes. “Watch yourself. I’m done with this place. You can keep up or not. Your choice.”

  Wobbling and staggering, Blood Talon made it to the canoes. The level of his pain was evident in the half-strangled sounds he worked diligently to hide.

  Most of the canoes were clumsy-looking dugouts, or much too large for two men, but one—a thin-hulled craft—might fit Fire Cat’s need. He tossed his war bag and weapons inside. With Blood Talon’s feeble help, they dragged it down to the water.

  Feeling around inside, Fire Cat found three paddles, handed one to Blood Talon, and said, “Get in.” Then he pushed the canoe out into the dark water.

  “How long do you figure before they’re after us?” Blood Talon asked, stifling a groan as he dipped his paddle into the dark water.

  “Maybe a hand of time, depends on who’s the new leader. How do I know? These are barbarians.”

  “Taking a real risk, out on the river in the darkness like this. Anything comes floating down, some log, maybe a raft of driftwood, and it could turn us over.”

  “You’d rather be back at that village?”

  “I’ll take the river.”

  “Thought you would.” Fire Cat smiled warily into the night. “How’d you get hung up on that scaffold?”

  “Accident on the river. Got lost in the swamps. I was on my last legs when I stumbled out, saw a party of fishermen. Called to them. I kept telling them I was Cahokian. Repeated the word over and over. Pointed out my clan tattoos. Told them I’d give them a great reward if they’d help me.”

  “Don’t speak Trade pidgin?”

  “Not well enough, I guess. One had a bow. Pulled a shaft and drew. What could I do? All I had for a weapon was a stick. Figured that they’d untie me when we got back to wherever they’d come from and I could explain myself. Instead they just strung me up to that scaffold.”

  “Not smart, calling yourself Cahokian on this part of the Tenasee. Gets even worse up past the Suck and Rage, I’m told.”

  “Haven’t they heard? The Morning Star protects Trade. Cahokia won’t stand for people taking and murdering Traders. It’s the living god’s law.”

  “Squadron First, you’ve got a lot to learn.” Fire Cat shook his head in disbelief. But then, what should he expect? Blood Talon hadn’t ever dealt with the world except as the leader of a war party. His entire life, everything the man knew, was oriented around Cahokia and the prestige of command. He’d never known any other perspective.

  “How’d you know I was a squadron first? Who are you?”

  “A bound man. A lowly servant.”

  “That’s the worst lie I’ve ever heard. I couldn’t believe it. You came walking out of the night like some monster, all covered in mud like you just emerged from the swamp. And wearing armor! No servant ever used a bow like that. Wasn’t a heartbeat between the sound of arrows spitting those men. Thwap. Thwap. Thwap. And the way you lit into them with that war club? That copper shining in the firelight as it…”

  Blood Talon stopped paddling. “I know that war club. But you’re…”

  “Paddle the canoe, Squadron First. I can still finish what those barbarians started.”

  “You? After what you did to me? To my warriors?”

  “You want to go back into the river? Take your chances when those folk back behind us get themselves organized and come looking for whomever took their canoe?”

  Blood Talon straightened, and resumed paddling despite his obvious agony.

  Fire Cat had to hand it to the man. Burned and bruised as he was, he still forced himself to at least make the attempt at paddling.

  By Piasa’s balls, what am I going to do with him now?

  Fifty-five

  I have never been so alone. The words kept repeating down deep in Night Shadow Star’s souls as she and Winder’s crew paddled the Albaamaha canoe around a slight bend.

  She was among strangers, in a strange land, a world that had been beyond her imagination. This river, these mountains, the smells and colors, even the people with whom she traveled, all were alien. For the first time in her life, she knew no one. The only things she was familiar with were the Trade items she had packed in her box back in far-off Cahokia and her clothes.

  Even the country was alien. The green-forested ridges had been closing in on the river for days, narrowing, growing ever taller and steeper. Now, ahead of them across the roiling surface of the water, she could see the canyon at the mouth of the Suck and Rage. With a sense of desperation, she dug her paddle deep, as if the exertion would earn her some peace in her bruised souls.

  Not even in the days after she’d learned of Makes Three’s death had she felt so bereft. She’d been in her palace, after all, surrounded by her household staff, visited by her mother, father, and aunt. She needed only to step out her front door to see the sprawling Great Plaza, crowded with people, or look down on the Avenue of the Sun where the throngs of Traders, farmers, embassies, and travelers passed relentlessly below.

  Totally alone.

  The reality possessed her, left her aching inside and desperate for Fire Cat’s reassuring presence. Blood and piss, but she ached for him. Kept expecting to see him every time she looked around. His absence tore a hollow in her, one she longed desperately to fill.

  She had known how much she loved him. What she hadn’t fully understood was how much she depended upon him.

  It’s easy to be strong when Fire Cat’s at your shoulder, his war club at the ready, that reassuring smile on his face.

  Without him—not even knowing for sure that he was alive—she lived in new and unfamiliar terror.

  At times in the past she had thought she was alone—but the realization now crept in that her circumstances in Cahokia had been entirely different than here on the Tenasee, accomp
anied by the affable, but untrustworthy, Winder and his five Albaamaha. The latter didn’t speak a word of her language—and studiously ignored her to the point they pretended she wasn’t even there.

  “They remember when Moon Blade brought his army through here a generation ago,” Winder told her. “In far-off Cahokia, the story is told of a valiant expedition that traveled across half the world to found the Cofitachequi colony. Here it is remembered as a horrible conquering army moving up the Tenasee, murdering, enslaving, and robbing. Entire villages of Albaamaha and Koasati were plundered and exterminated along the middle reaches of the Tenasee. As were the Hiawasee Muskogeans, and even the Mountain Chalakee. Then came the brutal conquest of Cofitachequi. And in the years after that followed even more expeditions as they founded the Cahokian colonies along the lower river. All those lands seized by force from the local peoples by means of blood and violence.”

  “The Yuchi like us.”

  “The Yuchi have used their alliance with Cahokia as a means of settling old scores. These days they can raid their enemies with impunity. If, for example, after a raid, the Koasati or Biloxi strike back, retaliation will come in the form of a combined Cahokian and Yuchi army. Remove that benefit, and what do the Yuchi have to gain?”

  “Trade.” Night Shadow Star gestured at the river. “Free Trade has enriched all people. Even you—as you no doubt are fully aware. And you’re a Cahokian yourself.”

  He smiled as he paddled. “From here on, Lady, trust me. Once past the Suck and Rage, you are beyond the reach of the Cahokian colonies on the Tenasee. Oh sure, there are some small outposts, Traders and the like. But they tread lightly and go heavily armed on the upper river and its tributaries. In these parts people fear Cahokia. See it as a looming threat and wonder what the future portends should the Cahokians take an interest in their lands. They worry as Cahokian priests travel the back country, preaching the resurrection of the living god.”

  “The reincarnation of the Morning Star is a miracle.”

  “Is it?”

  Some wariness kept Night Shadow Star from taking his bait. She was, after all, supposed to be White Willow, a minor cousin, generations removed from Black Tail’s lineage.