Star Path--People of Cahokia

by W. Michael Gear

  Her limbs heavy with exhaustion, her mind dull, she followed the others as they wound down through the trees to Canyon Town.

  Like so many of the communities she’d grown used to, this one, too, was mostly composed of bark-sided bent-pole structures around a square. A couple of conical burial mounds were placed opposite each other across the central square with its Tchkofa. Along with a stickball field, she could see a crude chunkey court, indicating the game was played here. Below it, down on the river, lay the requisite canoe landing where the Tenasee rolled smoothly toward its alternate existence in the narrows.

  On either side the mountains rose, taller, rounded, massive. She took in the towering peaks with their outcrops of high granite, the thickly timbered slopes, and wondered at the hazy vista.

  “It gets better once we’re up in the headwaters of the Wide Fast,” Winder told her.

  “What does?”

  “The mountains. They’re higher, wilder. Even more stunning than this.” He smiled. “I remember the first time I saw them. I was, what, just in my twenties. Couldn’t believe what the Traders had told me. One of the things you learn is that the world is a great deal more varied, Powerful, and interesting than you had been taught to believe back in Cahokia.”

  “It is that.” She threw a glance back at the trail, still anxious to see Fire Cat step out from behind the screen of trees and brush.

  Winder noticed, amused, and said, “They have a Trade House here. That one, with the split-cane roof. Same arrangement as at White Chief Town. I’ll see if I can get us beds. Then we’ll start asking around for a canoe to take us all the way to the Wide Fast.”

  He paused, studying her. “Might cost you a couple of pieces of copper. That or all of those carved shells you’ve been hoarding.”

  “And what’s beyond that? The pass you said. And then we reach Joara?”

  “Which is the gateway to Cofitachequi.”

  “So how much Trade do I need?”

  “Keep that last copper plate, the embossed one of the Morning Star. Being a Cahokian colony, that will have the greatest value for whatever you need to acquire in Joara.”

  As at White Chief Town, a small bit of Trade was all that proved necessary to obtain one of the bunked beds in a partitioned sleeping area in the Trade House.

  As she was rolling out her bedding, it was to see a thick-set man pause as he passed, glance appreciatively at her, and then fix on her face. The man’s eyes narrowed into a thoughtful and pinched expression as he studied her.

  “Help you?” Night Shadow Star asked in Trade pidgin.

  “You are Cahokian?”

  “Been there. Came from up north,” she lied. “You know the Illini River country?”

  The Trader shrugged, something distasteful in his movement. He gave her a last look and passed from view.

  “What was that all about?” she asked Winder in a whisper.

  “You sure you didn’t know him? Haven’t seen him before? His tattoos were Casqui. From down south on the Father Water.”

  “Thousands of Traders pass through Cahokia.”

  “Probably just enjoying a nice-looking woman, but those Four Winds tattoos on your cheeks are a dead giveaway.”

  “And how many Four Winds women would be posing as Traders way up the Tenasee?”

  “You know, Lady, I asked myself the same question.”

  Winder’s expression had gone introspective, veiled as he stared after the Casqui.

  Desperately tired, Night Shadow Star gave it no more thought until after they’d Traded for a meal of hominy, boiled freshwater clams, and roasted passenger pigeon stuffed with acorn bread.

  She was in her blankets by full dark, almost asleep when three men crowded into the partitioned space. Winder had said something about looking up an old friend, his bed still empty.

  Now, alone, she wished she’d set aside a knife, something, as the men’s dark shapes loomed above her head.

  “What do you want?” she asked in pidgin.

  “Those tattoos, they’re Four Winds,” the big shambling Casqui Trader noted. “You know what we do to Cahokians in this country?”

  “I told you, I’m not Cahokian. And you’re Casqui. What would you care if I was a Cahokian or forest barbarian? Now, go away. I just want to sleep.”

  The three muttered back and forth in a language Night Shadow Star couldn’t understand.

  “You three deaf? Leave me to my peace, or I’ll make you more trouble than you know what to do with.”

  “How’s that, Four Winds?”

  “The Power of Trade is enforced here. That includes not harassing women who don’t want to be harassed. I don’t want to be harassed.”

  Again, they conversed in the unknown language.

  “Lady Night Shadow Star, how did you get this far on your own?” the big man asked in Cahokian.

  She fought an uneasy chill. “Who? That’s not my name. Now, get out or I’ll scream. Shout out that you’re trying to rape me. Steal my Trade.”

  Again, the conversation. The big man nodded in the dark, saying, “As you wish, but let me give you this. A token from a man who is looking forward to seeing you.”

  “Who?” She reached out as the man extended his arm.

  The move was perfectly executed. He grabbed her by the extended wrist—jerked her clear of the bed and blankets with all his strength.

  Night Shadow Star had no time to react, pain shooting through her wrenched shoulder. She was sucking a lungful of air to scream as a hard hand was clapped over her mouth. The other men had rushed forward to grab her, wrapping their arms around her. One had her around the chest, pinning her arms against her body. The third by the legs.

  She was bodily lifted, fear running bright in her veins.

  Twisting, jerking, throwing herself this way and that, she almost broke loose. Opening her mouth wide, she bit down on the muffling hand, tasting salt and old grease as she ground her teeth into the web of the man’s hand.

  He bottled his scream, the sound that of choked pain.

  The blow he dealt her to the side of the head left her reeling, half stunned as they hurried her from the partitioned cubicle, through the dark and quiet Trade House, and out into the night, replete as it was with the sounds of chirping crickets. Somewhere, on the other side of town, someone was playing a flute.

  Getting her wind, Night Shadow Star tasted blood, opened her jaws wide and took another bite, this time getting a thumb as it slipped past her lips. With all her might, she clamped down, willing her fear-charged strength into the bite. Bone crunched under her teeth, the man uttering a whimpered half-shriek.

  Nevertheless, he kept her from shouting as she bellowed against the hand he tried to stuff deeper into her mouth. Which allowed her to get another bite, crushing a finger this time.

  “I’m going to break your neck,” the man whimpered through his pain. “You are going to die slowly, painfully, in ways that will make your souls wail. I swear it.”

  “Hush!” the man who had her arms pinned around her chest hissed. “You want to wake the whole town? What we’re doing will get us killed.”

  Then he lapsed from Trade pidgin back into his native tongue.

  The man who had her by the legs added his own whispered reprimand.

  Night Shadow Star continued to work her teeth into her captor’s hand. He shifted his grip enough to slam his free fist into the side of her head again and again. Stars blasted through her vision with each hollow impact.

  Just keep your teeth locked.

  She had images of the plaza off to the side, the Tchkofa in its center conjuring the memory of Snapping Turtle in the Underworld, shell-down in the mud. She was being carried through the shadows, headed out past the houses.

  A dog barked from one of the ramadas, raising her hopes, but one of the men shouted at the beast, and it slunk away. No one, it seemed, was going to check. Maybe dogs barked all the time in Canyon Town.

  She thrashed, energized by the rising fear. No o
ne here knew her. No one but Winder would miss her. And were he to find her missing? What then? Would he simply bundle up her Trade, call it a square deal, and go back to his Yuchi wife a much richer man?

  Some part of her desperate and terrified imagination pictured Fire Cat, picking that moment to emerge from the dark, his war club in hand.

  Without a word, he’d begin laying about him, spreading death and mayhem as he shattered her captors’ skulls.

  But no such image emerged from the night. They were out past the last of the ramadas now, headed across the corn, bean, and squash fields for the woods.

  They are going to take me out and kill me.

  The terror lent renewed energy to her struggles. She got a lungful of air, tried screaming past the hand shoved into her mouth. The sound was a muffled squeal, nothing that would be heard beyond a couple of steps away.

  And then the man carrying her legs jerked, his head flopping to one side accompanied by a loud crack.

  In an instant, Night Shadow Star’s legs were freed, which pulled the man holding her chest off balance. He, she, and the Casqui Trader whose hand was in her mouth tumbled.

  Something tore through the air, the sound that of a swung club. The meaty impact could be felt through the man’s arms that held her chest. He jerked, moaned, and fell away.

  Night Shadow Star was turned loose; still she kept her teeth sunk into the man’s bleeding hand. She held her bite as her assailant tried to rise, the timing such that something cut the air just over his head.

  On the ground now, he balled a fist, smashed her hard in the side of the head. The blow blasted lightning behind Night Shadow Star’s vision, shook her to the roots of her souls. Caused her to lose her grip.

  Her assailant pulled his hand free, and then he was running, making whimpering sounds as he hunched over his wounded hand.

  Night Shadow Star felt herself spin, blinked, trying to get the world to slow. She rolled to her hands and feet, tried to stand, but her head was still reeling, a ringing in her ears from the blow.

  Some awareness of the dark form standing over her made her catch her breath, afraid that hard male hands were going to reach down out of the darkness, pick her up, and carry her off into the dark forest.

  Instead a familiar voice said, “Lady? You all right?”

  “Winder?” She spat the foul-tasting blood from her mouth.

  “Here. Take my hand. Let’s get you up.”

  She got a grip, almost fell as he pulled her to her feet. Was gasping for breath. Only to bend and vomit.

  “Hit me in the head,” she explained. “Hard. World’s still spinning.”

  “Here. Lean on me. We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “They took me! Right out of the Trade House!”

  “Yes, they did. And I think I’ve killed one, maybe two of them. Not the sort of thing that will make the good folk of Canyon Town think fondly of us. It will call down the kind of questions you don’t want to answer. If they find out who you really are, it will mean more trouble than you’ve ever known.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Drop the pretense. Let’s get back, get our packs. I’ve got a canoe lined out for us down at the landing. If we’re on the water by first light, we can be upriver before the trouble really starts.”

  “But I don’t—”

  “Hold your tongue, Night Shadow Star. We’ll talk when we’re long gone from this place. Now, keep quiet and let’s see if we can get out of here with our hides intact.”

  Fifty-nine

  Flat Stone Pipe, being a dwarf, was used to small spaces. That he now huddled under the sleeping bench, a snoring warrior sagging the mattress straps over his head, was disconcerting. This was far from the only time the little man had had to crawl beneath bed frames. He’d learned the art of pushing boxes and pots out of the way by bracing his back against the wall and shoving.

  That didn’t mean he liked it. Too many critters lurked in the dark corners, especially spiders. Most were inoffensive creatures who were terrified when Flat Stone Pipe tore his way through their webs; they only wanted to get away without being crushed in the process.

  But the occasional black widow or brown recluse was another story. Both were found in numbers in Cahokia, and longtime association meant that they received ample respect from the human population, which included dwarfs like Flat Stone Pipe.

  And then there were mice. Not that they’d harm a person. But sticking his hand into one of their nests, having the squeaking and panicked little beasts run up his arms, sometimes scramble into his hair and scamper between his collar and shirt to scratch their way down his chest, back, or sides was always unsettling right down to the foundations of Flat Stone Pipe’s shivering souls.

  And snakes. They loved slithering through the dark recesses beneath sleeping benches. Most were harmless, but then the occasional copperhead or even more rare rattlesnake …

  No, don’t even think about it.

  Flat Stone Pipe made a face.

  Listened to the warrior snoring above his head. Then a break. The man shifted, the strapping that supported the cloth-and-straw mattress creaking and swaying over Flat Stone Pipe’s head. The man was big, overweight for a warrior, and of obvious low status given that he was in this particular bed.

  The strapping held.

  Flat Stone Pipe used his leverage against the wall, pushed with his hands, and managed to ease a large brownware pot out far enough that he could crawl up to the wooden poles that blocked any further progress.

  Shifting, the dwarf pulled out his long-bladed quartzite knife and began sawing on the dried leather bindings. As he did, he matched each stroke to the snoring warrior whose body hung just above him.

  This would have to be done judiciously. Carefully.

  As he worked his blade back and forth, he considered the irony of his situation. He had been trained as an engineer, particularly in the construction of mounds. His parents had considered it appropriate training, given that being a dwarf would never allow him to serve as a warrior, Trader, farmer, or craftsman. His acumen had been recognized within the engineers’ society, which sent him all over burgeoning Cahokia as he learned the craft of mound building. Being the affable object of curiosity a dwarf usually was, he’d built an extensive network of contacts.

  Contacts he had been able to develop after a fateful meeting with young Lady Columella. By chance he had been able to provide her with information that allowed her to cement her rise to the matronship of Evening Star House.

  She had reciprocated with wealth and professional respect that had eventually led to her bed and a loving relationship that had spanned the years.

  For most of that time, Flat Stone Pipe had spent his energies battling Blue Heron and the other Houses. At least until the abomination that was Walking Smoke had burst into their lives.

  Now, in the aftermath of that disaster, here he was, an ally of the woman he’d spent most of his life trying to destroy, and beholden to a clanless, womanizing, and footloose thief.

  The insanity of it brought a smile to his lips even as the first of the bindings parted. He shifted to the next and began sawing.

  Only the intervention of Power could explain it. Blue Heron, who had spent her life keeping a lid on Evening Star House and blunting Columella’s plots, scheming, and struggle for supremacy, had just cemented his matron’s hold on her house. Coming through with more food stores than Columella had given out had silenced the critics.

  But Blue Heron had pulled that coup off at her own expense. North Star House, Horned Serpent House, and River House knew who had forced them into giving out their dwindling stores and were fully aware of how that action had strengthened Evening Star House.

  Granted, River House had called Blue Heron there, surrendered their stocks out of weakness, and in desperation. That was going to take some thought.

  Three Fingers, especially if he ruled through Broken Stone, might not be an improvement on War Duck. Nor was he sure that Rou
nd Pot would fight War Duck’s replacement; she was still smarting that her brother had voted for Slender Fox for clan matron. War Duck had been firmly behind his sister until Slender Fox lured him into her bed during the negotiations. That wasn’t the kind of betrayal that could ever be atoned for.

  One almost needed scoring sticks to keep track of the intricacies of Cahokian politics.

  A second binding gave way. As it did, the hickory pole popped sideways with a thump.

  Flat Stone Pipe held his breath. The warrior overhead didn’t awaken.

  Craning his neck, Flat Stone Pipe noted that neither did Seven Skull Shield, though the burly thief looked a lot worse for wear.

  Was he even still alive?

  Ah yes. The faint rising and falling of his bruised shoulders could be seen.

  Across the room, one of the warriors climbed to his feet, yawned, and headed for the door. In the dim light of the fire, the man was a mere shadow.

  Flat Stone Pipe used his knife to attack yet another of the bindings, asking himself, Why in the name of pus am I here when I could be safely tucked away in Columella’s warm bed?

  The answer, of course, was that if the situation were reversed and he were the one in a cage, being beaten and ultimately headed for the square, it would be Seven Skull Shield who would be risking his life.

  So here he was, the whole world turned upside down. For the first time ever, Columella’s position was secure because her friend Blue Heron had made it so. Flat Stone Pipe was hiding in the new Keeper’s palace, sawing on Seven Skull Shield’s cage. He did it not just because the miscreant had saved several of Flat Stone Pipe and Columella’s children, but because the scurrilous thief was a friend. The kind of friend who would have put his own life second to Flat Stone Pipe’s.

  Talk about convolutions, twists, and turns in what should have been a smooth and straight path.

  Flat Stone Pipe gave a sigh of relief as yet another rawhide binding gave way.

  Sixty

  Fire crackled and spat sparks up toward a night sky that dazzled with constellations. Stars, gleaming against a background of black, frosted the heavens in glittering waves. The familiar sight of Horned Serpent dominated the southern sky, the great winged serpent staring down with a beaming red eye.