Star Path--People of Cahokia

by W. Michael Gear

  The living god raised a hand, seemed to make a salute, touching his chin and extending the gesture Blue Heron’s way. Then he turned, vanishing from the high aerie.

  “Think he knew who you were?”

  “He’s Morning Star. How should I know?”

  She turned. “Come, I want to go see what’s happening in the Great Plaza. Hear the gossip.”

  “You already know. Tonka’tzi Wind is a virtual prisoner. Doesn’t go anywhere unless she’s escorted by Spotted Wrist’s warriors. If she so much as sneezes, Green Chunkey replaces her as tonka’tzi. Your warning got to War Duck and Round Pot in just enough time that they’re safely hidden away, using their connections to keep Three Fingers from claiming control of River House. Columella’s squadrons are fortifying the west bank of the river.”

  “Impasse. At least for the moment. But it won’t last.”

  “Nope. All Spotted Wrist has to do is bring his army across. Win or lose, it will be bloody.”

  They picked their way through the throng of people flocking along the Avenue of the Sun, past the crowd of vendors, Traders, and hawkers who’d lined the sides of the Great Plaza, some in stalls, others with tables, and the most modest having spread a blanket on the ground to display their wares.

  “The squabble at the top of the Four Winds Clan doesn’t seem to have discouraged Trade,” Blue Heron noted as they meandered their way through the press. Out in the plaza, the midsummer sun shone on the World Tree pole. A stickball game was being waged on the south end—literally for blood as a limp player was carried from a battling knot of young men. Hawk Clan, dressed in blue, was playing a Panther Clan team, wearing white.

  At the foot of the tonka’tzi’s mound, evenly spaced as pickets, stood no fewer than ten warriors, each dressed in armor, bows strung, looking serious and deadly in the hot light.

  “More of them around the sides,” Seven Skull Shield noted. “But not unreasonable. I could get past them.”

  “One of these days, thief…” Then she chuckled.

  “What? You’re on my side now. Every meal you and Smooth Pebble have eaten since the night they burned your palace has been stolen.”

  “It’s humbling.”

  “Well”—he gestured at the palace—“you’re not getting in there. At least not in bright daylight, and certainly not without help. Besides, your sister is up at the Council House. Saw her litter sitting at the bottom of the Great Staircase.”

  Blue Heron made a face, reached up with her free hand to pull at the wattle of skin under her chin. “If I just knew there was some sort of hope. That we weren’t in this alone. Sure, there’s Columella, but her first responsibility is Evening Star Town, and that’s been a closely run thing. War Duck and Round Pot? How long can they run resistance from inside Crazy Frog’s storehouse? Eventually Three Fingers’ people are going to figure that out. And Wind”—she gestured—“is living like a turtle in a wicker cage. Me? I can’t even get word to my spies, and I have nothing left to pay them with if I do.”

  “We’re not beat yet, you know.”

  She gave him that old “Are-you-insane-or-just-head-struck?” look. “Maybe not right now, today, as we speak, but in the long run? Time is on their side. Spotted Wrist and Rising Flame control the clan. Have the authority to win over the long term. In the end, thief, we’re too weak to prevail.”

  “Hey!” a voice called. “You!”

  Seven Skull Shield turned, dropped to a crouch, ready to leap into whatever trouble this was.

  Pus and blood, this was going to be bad. Two warriors. Each in Morning Star House armor. The fancy stuff, like Morning Star’s guard wore up at the high palace. Maybe, back before he was beaten and starved in Spotted Wrist’s cage, he could have knocked them sideways, gotten away in the crowd. But with Blue Heron to look after, he didn’t have a chance.

  “So, Keeper,” he muttered out the side of his mouth, “when I jump them, you run. Got it? Just get far enough to get out of their view, toss the firewood, and mingle with the crowd.”

  “I said you.” The lead warrior was pointing now, not more than three paces away.

  This isn’t going to end well.

  But, piss in a pot, it had been a good life. He’d had some great times, enjoyed …

  “That firewood,” the warrior said. “We need that. Will you Trade?”

  Blue Heron was gaping, seemed to be lost for words.

  “Why, of course, good Squadron First!” Seven Skull Shield beamed as he stepped forward. “And this is the finest kindling in Cahokia. Taken dry in the uplands a full ten days’ travel upriver. Good stuff. Look, it’s hickory and ash, the kind that will burn hot at the merest hint of a spark.”

  The warriors had stopped, their eyes oddly wary. Now the second shifted, his gaze roving as he took in Spotted Wrist’s men at the base of the tonka’tzi’s mound and then began searching the crowd. Seven Skull Shield knew a lookout when he saw one.

  Every nerve in his body was tingling, but so was his curiosity.

  “What’ll you Trade?” the first warrior asked.

  “You from Morning Star’s mound?”

  “It’s for the living god’s fire,” the warrior told him, keen eyes trying to convey some deeper message. “In fact, it was he who saw you from the wall. Told War Leader Five Fists you had wood. Good man, the war leader. Sent me to find you. Make a Trade.”

  “Can’t find a better sort than that Five Fists,” Blue Heron agreed. “Hope he’s doing well, what with the changes going on.”

  The warrior gave her a wary smile. “Morning Star has mentioned to the war leader that he hopes the changes aren’t permanent. Told Five Fists that for his own reasons, the living god can’t interfere. At least, not directly.”

  Seven Skull Shield’s heart began to quicken.

  Blue Heron was grinning. “As the living god wills.”

  “Careful,” the second warrior said, eyes on several of Spotted Wrist’s warriors who’d fixed on Morning Star warriors being so close.

  “I’ll Trade this,” the first warrior said loudly, offering a sack of something that dangled from his fist.

  “Done!” Seven Skull Shield cried, handing over the bundle of kindling from Blue Heron’s back. “You need more? Got plenty where that came from.”

  “If it’s good, we’ll need more tomorrow. Say around a hand’s time after dawn. Maybe you could have someone waiting on the Avenue of the Sun just out from the chunkey courts.”

  And with that the warriors turned, pacing off, the bundle of kindling hanging from one’s shoulder.

  Spotted Wrist’s warriors had retreated to their positions along the base of the mound.

  Seven Skull Shield, one hand to Blue Heron’s shoulder, led her back the way they’d come. “How’s that for a stroke of good fortune?”

  Blue Heron, meanwhile, had taken the sack. Now she opened it, glanced inside, and grinned. “It’s got a string of beads. It’s a message.”

  “What’s it say?”

  “How do I know, thief? We need a recorder to read it.” She stopped, staring up at Morning Star’s high mound. Again, just visible against the summer sky, that lone figure stood atop the bastion, sunlight glinting off polished copper and eagle splays.

  Eighty-three

  The singing of crickets, the distant call of the whippoorwill, an owl hooting in the forest to her south. The sounds filled the night, helped to cover Night Shadow Star’s steps as she crept around the corner of a society house until she could see Walking Smoke’s front door, the fire’s glow still visible inside.

  Her preparations had taken a couple of hands of time. She had thought it all through.

  Walking Smoke was guarded by Sky Power. If she tried to approach with her copper-bitted club, dripping of Underworld Power as it was, her brother would know. Understand immediately the source and nature of the threat.

  He wanted her to come to him?

  That meant he had taken precautions. Walking Smoke would never allow her to approach unl
ess he held all the advantages. Who knew what sort of traps he might have constructed—falling nets, deadfalls, pits, snares, something noxious like tossing poison ivy into the fire?

  A knot had pulled tight in Night Shadow Star’s throat. Now that she teetered on the precipice, she was frightened down to her marrow.

  She resettled her war club, slanting it sideways across her belly where it wouldn’t impede movement.

  From her shoulder, she took the hunting bow she’d found. Were it not for her current strength, she would have never managed the pull. Each of the arrows in the quiver had been serviceable, most with stone hunting points. She had soaked strips of cloth in pine pitch, then wound them around foreshafts and tied them. The fire she’d had to start; then she’d allowed it to burn down to the coals. Those she put in a small jar of sand that she hung around her neck with a thong.

  Stepping back out of sight, she pulled an arrow. Lifted the pot of coals and inserted the pitch-soaked cloth. Blowing on it, she coaxed a flame. Pulled three more arrows, used the lit arrow to set fire to the rest.

  Committed, she ducked around the back of the society house. Fear lent her strength and speed. The first arrow she drove into the thatch, shooting it up at the same angle as the roof so that it slipped into the dry grass with barely a sound. At the far corner, she did the same. Circled to the front of the house. Shot into the roof. Crossed in front of the door at a run and shot the last arrow into the fourth corner of the roof.

  Panting, she ducked back behind the society house wall, craned her neck out only far enough that she could see the first flickering flames in the thatch.

  Pus and blood, she wished she had something to drink. Night Shadow Star swallowed hard, pulled another arrow, stepped out, and nocked it. Maybe he wouldn’t hear the growing flames, maybe he’d fallen asleep.

  Or, as she expected, he’d realize his situation, charge out into the light of the fire, where she’d be able to step close and drive her next arrow right through his heart.

  It took longer than she would have thought. The roof had turned into a roaring tower of flame. The entire time she quivered, half in fear, half in anxiety. Surely the man had to realize. Or, could it be? Was she really lucky enough that he was going to awaken to his situation too late?

  Then she heard the curse, barely loud enough to carry over the flames.

  He charged out from the burning building, head down, arms raised and crossed above as if for protection against the searing heat.

  Panting, muscles pumping, she sprinted out, drawing as she did.

  No more than five paces from him, she stopped, held her draw, and fixed on his chest.

  Only to have him turn.

  “You!” she cried.

  He gaped at her, firelight glaring yellow on the side of his face. In horror he lifted his hands, the mangled thumb and finger on his right forever etched in her memory. “Lady, don’t! By the Spirits, I was just hired. He’s…”

  Her shaft took him through the chest, stopped just short of the fletching. The Casqui’s eyes bugged, his mouth dropping into a silent O. He staggered, fingers pulling weakly at the fletching. Stumbled sideways.

  She watched as he dropped to his knees. A whimpering sound could barely be heard over the roar of the flames.

  “You,” she repeated, struggling to understand. She blinked, looking back at the roaring inferno. She could see inside the door, had a view of the room. Pots, jars, sleeping benches, weird frameworks made of human bones. Blood had been smeared in designs over the walls. She’d seen the like before. In Cahokia. During Walking Smoke’s murderous rampage.

  She had no warning. Arms wrapped around her from behind. Took her by complete surprise. Lifted her.

  She struck out, lost the bow. Screamed her fear.

  “Good. So very good. See, I told you I’d take you from behind. But we’ll have plenty of time for that.”

  Walking Smoke wasn’t ready for her strength, with all the whipcord muscle she’d built on the river. She managed to jerk her arm free. Ripped the ax from her belt.

  She got half turned, could only make an awkward strike. Swinging low and back between his legs. Felt it connect with a solid thump.

  Walking Smoke uttered a high-pitched scream. But his hold on her didn’t break.

  She hammered an elbow into his ribs. Heard his explosion of breath. Jerked her head back violently, slammed it into his face. Managed to twist free. All it would take was one good strike with her …

  She barely had a glimpse, a body coming in from the side. Something hit her head. Knocked it sideways. Blasted yellow dots of light through her vision.

  She felt herself falling, knew she’d hit the ground.

  Her senses were swimming. Her souls seemed disconnected from her body. She couldn’t control her arms or legs.

  “Shit in a pot!” Walking Smoke screamed. “She hit me right in the stones!”

  In her swimming vision, she saw him pick up her ax, fling it toward the burning building where it missed the door, hit the wall, and bounced back into the trampled grass.

  “Good thing it wasn’t the sharp edge that hit you, isn’t it?” the voice said. “Come on. We’ve got her. She would have killed you but for me. I’ve fulfilled my part of the bargain. Now, let’s get out of here so you can fulfill yours.”

  “Tomorrow. In the morning.”

  “Before first light.”

  Night Shadow Star blinked, trying to steady her blurry vision. Her cousin, Fire Light, was illuminated by the burning Clan House. Several of his warriors were standing in the background, alternately glancing at her, then at Walking Smoke as, weeping, he cupped his genitals, and then at the burning building.

  She lurched forward, threw up, then again, and again.

  Eighty-four

  Trade had been about as good as it got. That was the thing about having the warriors from two squadrons encamped in the vicinity of River Mounds City. Not that Robin Feather cared about the politics. In the end it wouldn’t matter if it was War Duck, Broken Stone, or Three Fingers, he would still have to surrender a percentage of his Trade. That’s what chiefs did, they took a piece.

  The sack on Robin Feather’s back rattled reassuringly as the clam-shells in the bottom shifted. The rest of it was stuffed full of hanging moss from way down south. Not that he depended upon either for his rope making, but he could Trade them for things he did need.

  Yes, it had been a good day.

  He wound his way through the warehouses, past Gray Mouse’s arrow-making shop, rounded the stone grinder’s, and stopped short. The dog was missing. The heavy stake he’d driven into the ground still stood there, and a rope lay abandoned on the dirt beside his spinning jig.

  He hurried forward, growling under his breath. Which was when he noticed that the door to his workshop had been set to one side.

  “Piss in a pot, that was part of what the dog was for. Keeping people out of my workshop!”

  He glanced around, seeing old Flat-and-Wide where he sat on a stool beside a pile of cattail leaves that he was plaiting into matting. The old man had a small shop where he Traded matting for the few things he needed now that his wife had died and his children had traveled off to some colony up north.

  “Hey! You seen my dog?”

  The old man, hard of hearing, didn’t react until Robin Feather was standing over him. “Where’s my dog?”

  Flat-and-Wide blinked his rheumy eyes, squinted over. “Oh, yes. I see your dog’s missing.”

  “Did you see who took him?”

  “No. No. I had to go to the canoe landing. Needed to Trade for a loaf of acorn bread. You want some? Got enough for a couple of days.”

  Robin Feather lifted his free hand in despair, turned, and plodded back to his shop. The building was long, roofed with split cane, and oriented to the same celestial direction as the rest of the buildings in River Mounds City.

  He stepped inside; the late-afternoon light was streaming through the gap between the walls and roof. The first
thing he noticed was his latest basswood rope, still on his spinning jig. If anyone was going to take anything, it would have been that.

  He set his sack of Trade to one side—and caught movement as the big brindle dog dropped onto its butt and scratched, its ears flopping. “There you are! I ought to bash your thick-skulled head in. I swear, I’ll throw you in the stewpot as soon as look at you. How’d you get loose, anyway?”

  The dog ambled up, lifted its leg, and peed on the pole that supported his spinning jig.

  “Hey! Piasa curse you!”

  He grabbed up one of the wooden blocks he used to separate fibers, cocked his arm, and took aim to throw it when a voice in the back said, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  “Well, it’s my shop. My dog.”

  “Farts, come here,” the voice called.

  The big dog bounded to the rear, leaping into the shadowed man’s arms. What looked like a wrestling match ensued. The big man laughing, growling playfully with the dog, and finally ordering, “Down, beast. Down.”

  Then he rose and stepped into the shaft of sunlight.

  “You!” Robin Feather turned, dropped the block, and grabbed up a thick wooden mallet he used to beat raw stock into fibers.

  “Whoa!” Seven Skull Shield thrust his arms out, hands wide. “Hear me out. Look.” He pointed.

  Robin Feather followed the finger to see three thick coils of rope about midway down his floor.

  “I heard you offered three fine coils of basswood rope to anyone who could find me. Well, you made all three of them. That’s the price, right? So, I’m Trading for myself.”

  “That wasn’t the point. But I’ll take them. Still doesn’t mean I’m not beating you to death for what you did with Willow Blossom. Do you know what that did to me?”

  “Stop it! In the first place, you’re not a kind, loving, and caring husband. You’re a narrow-minded, self-concerned, walking piece of human dung who can’t see past the latest piece of rope he’s making and what it will get you. I’m surprised you didn’t kill Farts just to get back at me.”