Moon Hunt

by Kathleen O'Neal Gear

  “The Bundle and Piasa,” Fire Cat interjected. When Rides-the-Lightning turned sightless eyes on him, he added, “She cries out to Piasa in her dreams as well. It’s as though he’s torturing her.”

  “I don’t see him as much,” she said. “The flickers at the edge of my vision, his whispering in my ear. It’s changed. I can feel the hostility. As if I’ve done something wrong. And I haven’t! I’ve done everything Piasa has ever asked of me. Defeated Walking Smoke … destroyed the Itza!”

  “He’s jealous,” Rides-the-Lightning told her.

  “Jealous?” Fire Cat asked. “But he’s a…”

  “Of course, young warrior.” A knowing smile bent the old shaman’s thin brown lips. “To have devoured Lady Night Shadow Star’s souls and made them his own is one of his greatest achievements. He controls the most Powerful woman in Cahokia. And now, suddenly, a dying priestess shoves the Tortoise Bundle into her hands? A Powerful interloper who vies for the lady’s affection and attention?”

  “Blessed Spirits, she’s caught between them?” Fire Cat wondered, concerned gaze turning to Night Shadow Star. She looked pale, oddly frail.

  “I didn’t ask for this,” she whispered.

  “No,” Rides-the-Lightning responded, “and I’m afraid I have more unsettling news. Just sitting here, I’ve been listening to the Tortoise Bundle. It’s not sure that it likes you.”

  “What does that mean?” Fire Cat asked.

  “This is just the beginning.” Rides-the-Lightning’s opaque white eyes might have been fixed on a distant place as he said, “To be caught between two Spirit Powers that don’t get along is bad enough, but if one of them decides it really doesn’t like you? Well, warrior, it will torture you in insidious ways that will drive you to madness and a terrible death.”

  Two Sticks

  I’m still dazed by Cahokia. By its vastness. We have been walking since midday, and not making very good time. The Avenue of the Sun is full of marvels, things we can’t help but stop and stare at. It’s not just the temples, but the exquisite guardian posts that mark the edge of River Mounds City. We’re constantly scurrying out of the way as gangs of men shouldering great logs come barreling down the Avenue. Then there are the stone carriers, muscular men bearing litters piled with sandstone slabs, or harder boiling stones of granite, schist, or cobbles I can’t identify. Then come lines of people bent under burden baskets filled with corn, maygrass seed, goosefoot, and little barley. And others packing smoked carcasses of deer, turkey, and dried fish.

  When we finally make it to Black Tail’s tomb, we file off and stare at the huge earthen monument where the first host of the living god was buried. It’s a ridge-like mound with a large, ornate charnel house at its base. People throng around the bottom of the mound, praying, offering flowers and painted sticks topped with feathers. Here and there are bowls filled with food that have been left for the hero’s sustenance in the afterworld.

  “Do you believe this?” I ask cautiously.

  Cloud Tassel sucks on his lips, then shakes his head. “I wouldn’t have. But to see so many people worshipping a man so long dead? And look at the size of that mound! Just for one man?”

  “Not just a man,” a voice says in passable Moskogee.

  I turn and see a fellow—perhaps in his late thirties—with Albaamaha tattoos. He has his hair pinned back with wooden skewers. A simple breechcloth is wound around his lean hips, and a coarsely woven cloak hangs over his muscular shoulders. I would describe his face as bold. A wicked scar runs down the left cheek. The man’s nose is like a wedge, and what look like Albaamaha Dogbane Clan tattoos line his forehead and cheeks.

  He steps forward, a grim smile on his lips, something impenetrable behind his hard eyes. “This is Black Tail’s tomb,” he continues. “Built in honor of the man who first surrendered his body for the reincarnated god.”

  He gestures toward the tomb. “Not only was the miracle performed right here, on this spot, but when Black Tail’s body finally gave out, it was on this same soil that the Morning Star’s essence was called into Chunkey Boy’s body, ensuring the living god’s continued presence here among men.” A pause. “That huge mound holds the bodies of more than a hundred young women, noble-born prisoners, and captives. All sacrificed as payment in blood for the miracle of the Morning Star’s resurrection.”

  “So,” I ask, “do you believe he’s really the Morning Star of legend? Recalled to earth and given a human body?”

  “Since I first came to Cahokia, Lady, I have seen many miracles. This whole place, all of it, had you come here two generations ago, would have been a no-man’s land. You would have found the various towns racked with war as Gizis, Jenos, Tharon, Petaga, and Black Tail fought among themselves. Then the Four Winds requickened the Morning Star’s Spirit in Black Tail’s body. In the wake of the miracle, peace was made. A peace which has lasted for two generations.

  “The Four Winds Clan was given domination, and the Morning Star decreed that old Cahokia be flattened, leveled, and surveyors brought in to make the city a reflection of the Sky World itself. This they did, using measurements based either on eleven or twenty-two times the sacred length of measure. The angles were precisely calculated against the movements of the sacred moon. Everything was aligned to the maximums and minimums in the moon’s eighteen-point-six-year cycle across the sky. A recreation of the cosmos. A living map upon which the movement of moon, stars, sun, and heavens can be plotted and followed.”

  “Sounds a bit presumptuous.” Strong Mussel fingers the White Arrow.

  The Albaamaha’s answering smile is almost condescending as he says, “No more so than Split Sky City, War Leader. It, too, is laid out as a reflection of the Moskogee world. Or so I am told.”

  “Who are you?” Strong Mussel demands. “Name your clan and tell me your business here.”

  “I am called Two Sticks, Chikosi. Of the Dogbane Clan. My business here is my own.” He raises his hand, expression hardening. “And you are far from Split Sky City at a place holy to the Morning Star and the Four Winds Clan. Do not allow your arrogance to lead you into a mistake that would get you, and your friends here, hung in a Cahokian square.”

  At the term Chikosi, even I bristle. Derogatory, it means “auntie’s people.”

  “You know what we do to mouthy Albaamaha?” Strong Mussel takes a step forward.

  Two Sticks inclines his head toward a couple of Cahokian warriors who lounge before the charnel house. “They have no doubt noted that I’ve been most courteous and done nothing to offer you offense. While you might easily dispose of them, should they step over to see what the ruckus is about, it will be difficult to extricate yourselves and flee. Dressed as you are, you will find it impossible to disappear into the crowds. And whatever your mission is, it certainly would be disrupted.”

  It pleases something deep down inside me as I watch Strong Mussel literally vibrate with anger. I have never liked the war leader, and I do have a certain tolerance for Albaamaha, being married to one. I decide to give Two Sticks the benefit of the doubt. Even if he called me a Chikosi.

  “Morning Star’s peace be upon you,” Two Sticks says, flicking his fingers at his chin in a mockery of the Cahokian gesture of respect.

  I raise my hand to wave goodbye. That’s when he catches a glimpse of the tattoo. The one on the back of my hand. I see startled recognition, and he pauses, frowning as he studies me.

  Could he know? It is an Albaamaha design, of course. But I don’t see a similar tattoo on his hand to indicate he is an initiate.

  “Go on.” Strong Mussel waves him away. “Go bother someone else.”

  Two Sticks’ black eyes are in a stew. “What is your purpose with the young lady?”

  “She is to be wed to the Morning Star,” Cloud Tassel barks. “Not that it is any concern of yours.”

  I can see the fermenting thoughts behind Two Sticks’ eyes. “You asked my business here, War Leader? I came originally as a Trader. I have stayed on over the ye
ars, performing services as a means of Trade. Sometimes it is translation, other times I provide information, and I do odd jobs. I also act as a guide and interpreter for parties such as yours.”

  “We don’t need a guide or interpreter.” Strong Mussel lifts the White Arrow as if it explains everything.

  “Ah, of course.” Two Sticks inclines his head indulgently. “To whom will you present your White Arrow?”

  “To the Morning Star himself.”

  “No, you won’t. When you arrive at foot of the Morning Star’s mound tomorrow, you will find a crowd waiting to see if they can obtain an audience with the Morning Star. You will be but one of hundreds. If you are lucky, one of the young men will recognize the importance of the White Arrow, and he will send someone to find someone who can speak Moskogee to ask the nature of your visit. He will then carry that message to the tonka’tzi. Who, for the time being, is buried in talks with the other Four Winds Houses to name a new clan matron. So it might take a couple more days before she finds the time to receive you.”

  “But this is Whispering Dawn! Daughter of High Minko White Water Moccasin and Matron Evening Oak! Offered as a bride! To marry the Morning Star!”

  I am wondering if Strong Mussel is going to burst his throat, so tense are his muscles. The veins are standing out like ropes from the side of his neck.

  “Have you any idea how many women have been married to the Morning Star? They number in the tens. Did you send a messenger in advance to give Tonka’tzi Wind notice of your impending arrival?”

  “No. I carry the White Arrow!”

  Two Sticks twitches his lips, amusement writ large on his scarred face. “My inclination is to leave you to your own devices and derive my amusement from afar. However, I find myself in need of Trade these days. Seems I made a bad wager on a most important chunkey game a while back. And though I don’t particularly like working for—”

  “We can take care of ourselves, Albaamaha.” Strong Mussel asserts.

  “Can you?” Two Sticks looks up at the western sky, where the sun is hanging low. “Where are you sleeping tonight? Just figuring to throw out on the Great Plaza? Or alongside the road? You may have parched corn in those packs the warriors are carrying, but where are you going to find water to soak it? What are you going to use for firewood to cook it? And what if it takes you two weeks to get an audience with the tonka’tzi, let alone with the Morning Star?”

  Strong Mussel looks suspicious. “Why do you care?”

  “Actually, I don’t. But for the contents of one of those wedding boxes your warriors are carrying, I can get the girl delivered to the Morning Star in a couple of days at the longest.”

  “Those are gifts in those boxes. For the Morning Star!”

  “I know what you’re thinking. Why should you believe some footloose Albaamaha who probably has a score to settle with the Chikosi? So I’ll tell you what. Let me take care of you tonight, and you can wander over to the Morning Star’s mound in the morning and learn firsthand that I’m right. Then we’ll dicker out a deal that’s fair to both parties.”

  “How far is it to the Morning Star’s palace?”

  “It will take you another three hands’ time to get there. But we’re not going that far. For the price of a shell necklace I can get you lodging in a Duck Clan Council House for the night. It will include firewood, water, and the security of knowing that all of your packs will be present when you wake up in the morning.”

  “You mean someone would take our packs?” Cloud Tassel asks uneasily. “They are our property.”

  “And if you should be sleeping, and someone were to pick one up and walk away with it, that pack would become their property. Welcome to Cahokia,” Two Sticks tells him with a crooked smile.

  Seven

  “Foul, bickering, vile, two-legged vermin!” Blue Heron growled under her breath as she rode across the midnight-dark Four Winds Plaza. Her porters were moving slowly, taking their time, feeling their way. For some reason it wasn’t considered healthy to trip and wreck, thereby tossing the Clan Keeper face-first into the dirt.

  That sent a spear of morbid amusement through her.

  “That bad?” Smooth Pebble asked from where she followed behind Blue Heron’s litter.

  “I’d rather deal with scorpions. They display their stingers right up front. When it comes to treachery, the little beasts could learn a lot from Four Winds clan matrons and high chiefs. It would be about backstabbing and character assassination, graft, and intrigue!”

  “Was there any progress?”

  “Sure. Each house has pushed its own matron to step into Wind’s old chair. And after a solid day of arguing their positions, they’ve convinced themselves that they—and only they—are fit for leadership.”

  “Any alliances between them?”

  “Just me and Columella.” Blue Heron fingered the scar on her throat as she stared up at the cloud-black night sky. A slight breeze from the east carried the scent of smoke, latrines, and the musky, damp-and-earthy odors of marsh, mud, and water. “She will back whomever Wind and I decide to support. As a result, I’ve been particularly solicitous to seek her advice.”

  “How is that going over with the other Houses?”

  “When we talk, the looks we get from the others are filled with acid, bile, evil, and lots of loathing distaste. At least among those who are kindly disposed toward us.”

  “And who has Morning Star House nominated for clan matron?”

  “Corn Otter.”

  “I see.” Smooth Pebble paused. “Makes sense I guess. She’s the oldest daughter born of Corn Tassel, Red Warrior’s second wife. Which makes her a half-sister to Night Shadow Star and Chunkey Boy.”

  “From the tone in your voice, you don’t sound impressed.”

  “She’s just…”

  “Not matronly material?” Blue Heron chuckled. “I know. She lacks the devious streak necessary. The woman is just too pleasant and trusting. Doesn’t think five moves ahead, let alone have that instinct to go for the throat.”

  “Then why nominate her?” Smooth Pebble sounded confused.

  “So that we can deeply and regretfully dismiss her from the running the first time we have to make a compromise. Corn Tassel walks away knowing we fought for her first daughter. Then we nominate Light Woman, Corn Tassel’s youngest daughter from Red Warrior’s loins, and we offer her up for consideration.”

  Catching on, Smooth Pebble said, “But you’re figuring on sacrificing her, too?”

  “Of course. I like the girl, but sometimes she’s just too petty.”

  “What about the third wife, Left Trout? Are you going to put up any of her daughters?”

  “Depends. We might. But by that time, we’re hoping that we will have enough allies to pitch Sacred Spoon.”

  “Your cousin? Why her?”

  Blue Heron narrowed her eyes as her porters rounded the base of her mound. “She’s gifted. Clever and canny. She has a good eye for reading people, is moderately attractive, and has the wits to know when to keep her mouth shut.”

  “If you want attractive, why not go for her younger sister, Rising Flame?”

  “Because I want a matron, not a dark-eyed conspiratorial vixen with a roving eye for men to bed and a reputation for entanglements that, so far, have narrowly avoided disaster.”

  Blue Heron made a face as her porters lowered her litter at the bottom of her stairs. “Besides, she despises me.”

  “My, I touched a nerve, didn’t I?”

  “Oh, hush, berdache. Give me a hand up.”

  As Smooth Pebble raised her to her feet, Blue Heron rubbed her face, her entire body warm with that numb exhaustion that presaged sleep. Step by step she climbed her stairs, then touched her forehead as she passed the guardian posts and plodded to her front door.

  She nodded to her guards and barely noticed the bundled shape on her porch—too dark to make out the details. Looked like someone awkwardly sleeping on the planks. Dancing Sky would tell her if it w
as important. She stepped inside, the interior of her palace illuminated by the crackling central fire. The familiar wall hangings, the statues, intricately woven textiles, and art hanging from her walls felt warm and comforting after her trying day.

  Blessed gods, home!

  Now, if she could just stumble back and throw herself in her bed.…

  “You look like pestle-pounded dog shit,” a familiar voice noted from her right.

  She stopped, wobbled on her feet, and turned. “It’s the middle of the night, thief. What are you doing here?”

  Seven Skull Shield was leaned back on one of the sleeping benches, one muscle-thick thigh pulled up, a bowl of corn stew in his lap. And yes, that vile mongrel dog of his was sitting on the bench next to him. The big beast had its odd bi-colored eyes fixed on the bowl in Seven Skull Shield’s lap; twin streamers of drool were soaking into one of the fine buffalo-wool blankets upon which the beast and its master perched.

  “Came to make a delivery.” Seven Skull Shield waggled the horn spoon in his scarred right hand. “You know, this is absolutely excellent. Dancing Sky has put just the right hint of sassafras and mint in with some of that wild rice from up north.”

  “Gods, all I want to do is sleep. Take your delivery and go away.”

  Seven Skull Shield shrugged, expression bland. He turned his attention to the dog and remarked, “Well, all right. Guess we could let the Quiz Quiz go. That Surveyors’ Bundle now, if the Quiz Quiz were willing to go to such lengths to steal it, there’s no telling what we could get for it in Trade at the canoe landing.” He paused, thoughtful. “And if I offered it to Crazy Frog, with his connections, I could probably afford—”

  “You have the Surveyors’ Bundle?” His words finally penetrated her fog of exhaustion.

  “Well, not for long, especially if it’s as valuable as I think it is. And there’s no telling what the Surveyors’ Society might give to get it back now that you don’t want it.”

  She placed a hand to her weary brow, trying to massage thought back into her feather-filled head. “Why do you do this to me?”