Calling Crow

by Paul Clayton

  CALLING CROW

  (Book One of the Southeast Series)

  By Paul Clayton

  Copyright (c) 1995 Paul Clayton

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, scanning or any information storage retrieval system, without explicit permission in writing from the Author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locals or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Other works by Paul Clayton:

  Flight of the Crow (Book Two of the Southeast Series)

  Calling Crow Nation (Book Three of the Southeast Series)

  White Seed: The Untold Story of the Lost Colony of Roanoke

  Carl Melcher Goes to Vietnam

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  “Furthermore, we command you in the virtue of holy obedience to send to the said firm lands and islands, honest, virtuous, and learned men, such as fear God and are able to instruct the native inhabitants in the Catholic faith and good manners, applying all their possible diligence in this.”

  Alexander Borgia, a Spanish pope indebted to Ferdinand and Isabella for his election, after dividing the earth in half, and granting the undiscovered lands in the western half to the Spanish, the eastern to the Portuguese.

  1555, Along what would someday be called the South Carolina coast--

  Chapter 1

  The blue sky stretched over and away from the green bean field, seemingly to the ends of the earth. It was a medicine sky, and as Calling Crow worked with two other men, he knew something bad was coming. A small fire crackled around the already-narrowed base of the tree they were felling as they chopped away the brittle, blackened wood with their stone axes. Calling Crow was the tallest of the three, muscled and slender. He paused in his chopping and glanced back at the sky.

  The tree was still as big around as a fat old man, and he knew this job would take them most of the day. Sweating, he removed the short mantle of woven bark which covered the upper part of his body. Now, like the other two braves, he wore only a breechclout of deerskin held in place by a leather girdle. His pleasing, oval face was copper colored like a leaf in autumn, and was set off by a full, proud nose. He picked up the axe and chopped powerfully at the tree. The larger of the other two braves, Sun Watcher, knelt and used his axe to heap glowing embers up against the trunk. Birdfoot, a small thin brave, swung at the tree tiredly, breaking off a piece with a clinking sound. His intense face was blackened here and there with soot.

  Calling Crow noticed something moving in the distance and put down his axe. With brown eyes the color of a pool of cedar water, he stared at the distant tree line. A solitary figure was approaching, running very fast.

  The other two young men turned to Calling Crow as the runner momentarily disappeared behind a sand dune.

  “What is it?” asked Sun Watcher.

  “A runner is coming,” said Calling Crow. A moment later the figure crested the dune moving so fast they all immediately grabbed their clubs, looking to see if he was being chased. He was not, being instead in a great state of excitement. He tried to shout and lost his footing, tumbling and throwing up a spray of sand. He rolled quickly to his feet as the others ran up to him. It was Calling Crow’s cousin, Runs Like Deer. He coughed as he fought for breath. Calling Crow clapped him on the back. “Cousin, what is it?”

  “Hurry,” said Runs Like Deer between gasps, “it is the men from the heavens, come down in their cloudboats!” He turned and staggered back up the dune. Calling Crow, Sun Watcher, and Birdfoot looked at each other for a moment and then hurried back to the tree to get their bows. They followed Runs Like Deer up the dune.

  Only a handful of villagers had ever seen the men from the heavens in their beautiful cloudboats. It was said that they roamed the big water in search of newly dead souls to take to the land of the dead.

  Calling Crow, Sun Watcher, and Birdfoot gasped for breath as they reached the top of the dune. They found a swarm of little boys looking out to sea. Their shouting pierced the air like gull cries as they jumped and pointed. A somber-faced old man and woman knelt facing the sea as they prayed.

  Calling Crow climbed to a higher vantage point and looked out over the water. He could not believe what he saw. Out on the sea at a great distance, two white clouds had detached themselves from the heavens and now sat on the waters. As the warm rays of the sun burned into his face, a chill went through him. There was no doubt that this was a sign, but what did it mean? Calling Crow watched a boy put an arrow to his bow. His arm muscles bulged as he pulled the feathered shaft back to his cheek. Calling Crow frowned at the other boys watching expectantly. They should know by now that even if an arrow could reach the distant cloudboats, it would only pass harmlessly through them, for they were from the spirit world.

  The boy released his arrow, and it arced out a good distance before it fell into the sea beyond the rocks. Undaunted, he lay on his back, and using his legs to hold his bow, launched another arrow. It too fell woefully short. Disappointed, the crowd of boys again fixed their attention on the distant cloudboats. A mild seaward breeze started up behind them as Runs Like Deer came over to stand beside Calling Crow. Together they watched the two white shapes in silence.

  “I think they’re moving,” said Runs Like Deer.

  Calling Crow strained his eyes to watch as the cloudboats closed the distance to the dark point of land that jutted out on the periphery of his vision. What did these omens bode for his people? A huge cloud passed overhead and the sea turned the wintry color of dead leaves. The smell of smoke reached Calling Crow’s nostrils. He turned to see two boys on their haunches, blowing a handful of smoking kindling into flame to call the people from heaven. Calling Crow ran over. “No,” he said angrily as he kicked the flames out. “We must not call them until the Council of Old Men has been consulted.”

  The boys glowered at Calling Crow as he waved them away. “Go!”

  They walked off and Calling Crow turned and looked back out to sea. The cloudboats had disappeared, but he could not take his eyes off the sea. What were those things? The sight of them caused a great fear and sadness in his heart. He said nothing to the others and after a while they wandered off. He sat in
the sand and stared out at the waters. Despite the warmth of the day, he shivered. The sea often had that effect on him, ever since it had taken his father.

  Back when he was a boy, Calling Crow’s father had gone out fishing with some other men when a storm suddenly came up. He remembered running to the beach, crying as the wind lashed his face, and lightning lit the angry sky. The next morning the empty canoe had washed up on the beach. His father and the other man had never been found.

  Chapter 2

  Under a dizzying array of stars, two caravels, the Guadalupe and the Speeding Hound, moved slightly against their anchors in the black swells, like two great seabirds. The ships were from Spain’s island colony of Hispaniola, down in the Caribbean Sea, and were on a, so-far unsuccessful slaving expedition. Carrying sixty-five men, the ships contained two armories filled with dozens of deadly accurate crossbows and, more importantly, thunderous black-smoke and -fire-belching harquebuses. The harquebuses were woefully inaccurate, but were known to terrify the natives into mute paralysis. In addition, each ship carried a small boat lashed down on the upper deck. The bigger of the two ships, the Guadalupe, also carried two horses, and towed a lateen-rigged long boat for landing them.

  The commander of the expedition, Francisco Mateo, a criollo landowner and merchant, sat in his cabin in the rear of the Guadalupe, talking with his friend, an older colonist named Diego Vega. Diego, a sad faced man in his mid-fifties, had been a friend of Mateo’s father, having come over on the Galician’s second voyage with him. Now that Mateo’s own father had died, he treasured the old man’s company, as he was the only living link to his family’s past.

  Senor Mateo’s tea-brown eyes stared pensively at nothing as he ran his hand through his red hair. He did not like what he had been hearing Diego and other criollos. Before he’d left Santo Domingo, he had hired a contingent of soldiers newly arrived from Spain to help him catch slaves. Now, under the guidance of their two officers, they were complaining and causing trouble, wanting him to turn around and go back to Santo Domingo. Even his crew, loyal criollo and mestizo farmers and ranchers, were beginning to tire of the search.

  “You know,” Diego said tiredly, “the cook was lying about being out of ship’s biscuits.”

  Senor Mateo’s head jerked upright. “What?”

  Diego nodded. “I found three barrels of them hidden under some canvas.”

  Mateo said nothing for a moment and Diego went on. “You know, Francisco, I think that the reason you have found no Indians is that God looks unkindly on this venture.”

  Mateo remained silent. Diego was married to an Arawak Indian woman. These marriages were now common among the criollos on the island, but to the newly arrived Peninsulars, the idea was repulsive. The Peninsulars considered Indian women to only be useful as whores and servants. Finally Mateo sighed tiredly. “Diego, what we are doing is completely within the limits of the law.”

  “Man’s law,” said Diego, almost in a whisper. “I should never have agreed to come along on this. It is wrong. I needed the money so badly that I did not-- ”

  Both men heard faint footsteps out on deck. As Mateo listened to them fade away he made a mental note to deal with the cook in the morning. Another thought came to him. Perhaps they were measuring the latitudes wrong and therefore searching for Indians in the wrong area? That would account for their terrible luck on this trip. Perhaps he should take the latitude with the backstaff himself?

  A loud, dull thud reverberated through the wood of the cabin. Mateo looked over at Diego. “See what it is.”

  Diego quickly got to his feet. As he went toward the door, the strong smell of lamp oil reached Mateo’s nostrils. Diego opened the door and turned to look upward toward high stern of the ship. A glow spread around him and then golden, liquid fire poured down onto his shoulder. He beat his doublet furiously as his face blossomed with fear.

  Mateo ran to him, roughly pulling Diego’s hands away. In the light of the fire, Mateo saw burnt flesh on one hand. He quickly glanced up at the stern. Bright flames half as high as a man moved in the slight breeze. The large oil lamp which had hung above had evidently broken loose from its fixture and crashed down, causing the planks of the bulkhead to catch fire. Mateo pushed Diego into his cabin. He pulled the smoldering fabric of Diego’s doublet off of him and dunked it in a bucket of water. “Are you okay?” he shouted at the older man.

  Diego nodded, appearing slightly dazed.

  “Go tell the others. Quickly! And then find the barber to take care of that hand.”

  Diego hurried off, shouting as he went. Mateo ran back to the door of the cabin and shouted, “Fuego! Fuego! Come quickly!”

  He ran back into the cabin and returned with a cape. As quickly as he slapped the flames out they reappeared. Like the fires of hell, small flaming rivulets of lamp oil flowed about his feet as the intense heat scorched him. He beat at the flames until his cape caught fire. Throwing it down, he stomped it out and turned to call again for help. He saw the ship’s cooper standing there, staring incredulously at the flames.

  Mateo shouted at him angrily, “We will lose this ship, fool, and you will have to swim back to Hispaniola! Get the others and some buckets! Get that pump on the port side working!”

  “Si,” yelled the man as dread realization contorted his face. He ran back toward the center of the ship. “Fuego! Help! Fire! Come quickly!”

  Chapter 3

  Calling Crow had taken his name four years earlier after praying for, and receiving, his first vision. He had fasted alone on the mountain for three days and seen the Great Spirit. He had appeared like someone on the other side of a skin stretched across an entryway, brushing up against it as they passed. Then a large crow had settled in a nearby tree and called to him, and that noble bird had become his spirit guide.

  Now he, Sun Watcher, and Birdfoot emerged from the great forest of slash pine and broad-leafed magnolias, elms, and hickories that bordered on the village of Tumaqua. Each man wore his bow over one arm, and each had a quiver of arrows hanging from their back. They had been sent to scout the forests that bordered the Flathead People’s lands and had seen nothing unusual. They were so called because of that tribe’s custom of binding the heads of their infants to boards. Heading back toward the village, the men walked quickly across a field of clover.

  Calling Crow turned to Sun Watcher as they walked. Although Calling Crow was a hands breadth taller than Sun Watcher, Sun Watcher was stronger, being very broad and muscled in the chest. “The Flatheads are nowhere in evidence.”

  Sun Watcher smiled. “They are probably afraid to come around.” Sun Watcher’s smile turned to a frown. “Tell me, Calling Crow, did you also see this light Birdfoot speaks of’

  “Yes,” said Calling Crow.

  Sun Watcher looked straight ahead, his face stony in its seriousness. “Tell me, what was it like?”

  Calling Crow remembered the mysterious light. He and others had watched it burn against the black sky over the sea last night. He still wasn’t sure what it portended. Perhaps he should speak to Mennewah the Shaman about it. “It burned like a star fallen onto the waters.”

  “Aieyee, I told you so,” Birdfoot said as he tried to keep up with the two bigger braves. Birdfoot’s delicate features and large eyes flashed annoyance at Sun Watcher for doubting him. “It is a sign.”

  “No, Grandfather,” said Sun Watcher. He turned and smiled. “It is not.”

  Birdfoot was actually younger than the other two, but because of his pensive, questioning ways he was teasingly called Grandfather.

  Sun Watcher filled his chest as they walked, bulging out his muscles. He looked crossly at Birdfoot. “You are too serious, Birdfoot. If it really was a sign, Caldo would have already called a meeting with the Council of Old Men.”

  “Perhaps.” Birdfoot rubbed a rivulet of sweat from his brow.

  The three men fell silent and Calling Crow thought of the dreams he’d been having. In one of them he’d heard his dead father’s v
oice as he watched the strange cloudboats sail by. He wondered if it was a sign, and if so, what it portended.

  Calling Crow and the other two braves reached the dirt path that led to Tumaqua. Worn smooth by the moccasins of over a hundred men and women, it felt good beneath their feet. They could see the village up ahead. Almost on the edge of the sea, it sat between two large dunes. The village was made up of three dozen rectangular dwellings. Their semicircular roofs were made of bent saplings that had been covered with mats of woven cattails and bark. The dwellings were situated haphazardly around a large circular building with a domed roof, called a chokafa. Built on a mound, the chokafa served as the village’s meetinghouse. Next to the chokafa was a large rectangular field called a chunkey yard in which ball games were played against players from neighboring villages. All these structures were enclosed within a defensive palisade of sturdy upright timbers and sharpened stakes pointing outward.

  As the three neared the village, they heard the women wailing. It was the cry that indicated that someone had died! They began running. As they entered the palisade, Calling Crow was saddened and moved by the plaintive harmonies of the women. It was like a storm wind moaning late at night. Who had died? he wondered. Perhaps one of his loved ones?

  Death was, of course, not an unusual thing, but as the volume of sound swelled with their every step, Calling Crow knew that it must have been someone of great importance. Never had he heard wailing like this. “Do you think it was Mennewah?” Calling Crow shouted to Birdfoot as they ran along.

  “Perhaps,” Birdfoot replied worriedly.

  Sun Watcher said nothing.

  Mennewah the Shaman was the oldest man in the village, and Calling Crow had dreamed of him twice in the past moon.

  They rounded one of the bigger huts and saw that the chunkey yard was full of sitting women, their heads bowed as they wailed. It was the custom for the women to mourn a death in this way.

  In front of the firewell, a body lay on a raised pallet of willow poles and skins. Before Calling Crow and the other two braves could get close enough to see who it was, the maiden, Tiamai, ran up to them. Her large eyes were glazed with sadness. “It is our beloved Chief,” she said.