Around us the buildings are grander, packed closer together, and we arrive at an open space dominated by a great circle of posts, behind one of which cluster a group of priests. I can’t see what they’re doing exactly—something with sticks and strings that sight along the shadows cast by the poles.
“The Great Observatory,” Two Sticks explains. “These are the Sky Priests who serve both the Day Society and Night Society under the watchful eye of the Sky Flier, their oldest shaman. The Day Society measures the movement of the sun across the sky; the Night Society plots the movements of the moon and stars.”
We are all in awe. Of course the Moskogee chart the skies. Our greatest shamans study these things intently, but to see the huge circle of posts, watch the priests with their strings, it becomes real to me.
“Ahead on the left is the Four Winds Clan House where the new matron is being chosen,” Two Sticks explains as we approach an incredibly ornate palace atop a flat-topped mound.
A crowd has already gathered around its base, where a profusion of litters have been placed and porters crouch, talking and laughing. In the front, the area before the stairs is jammed with well-dressed young people. More crowd the yard before the palace and cluster around the incredible carvings of the Cahokian two-headed eagle atop the stairs.
“The elite of the Four Winds Clan,” Two Sticks tells us. “And the reason we have to hurry. Our destination is there.” He points northeast across the plaza with its World Tree pole, stickball grounds, and chunkey courts. “That’s the Keeper’s palace.”
The mound-top building he points out sits in the shadow of the Morning Star’s great pyramid. Another high-roofed, plastered palace fronted with eagle guardian posts.
“Cut across the plaza?” Strong Mussel asks.
“It’s the Four Winds Plaza. Their sacred turf. We go around.”
“Quite a chunkey game,” Cloud Tassel notes, and indicates where a throng of people are already gathered at the closest chunkey court. Even through the crowd I can tell that only one man is using the court.
“That, my friends, is Fire Cat. The Red Wing. Bound in service to Lady Night Shadow Star. He’s the one who saved Cahokia from the Itza lord.” He made a face. “And cost me a fortune.”
“Is he better than the Morning Star?” Strong Mussel wonders.
I see the man bowl his stone and cast his lance after it. As he charges down the court, the rest of the action is obscured by the people crowding around. A cheer goes up. Must have been a good cast.
Two Sticks makes a dismissive gesture. “They’ve never played each other. The Red Wing is a known heretic. Word is that he still believes the Morning Star is nothing more than Chunkey Boy playing at being a god. Some say that if he played, and lost, the Morning Star would take his head. Others say that Night Shadow Star prohibits him in order to avoid the upset if he should beat the Morning Star.”
It is sobering to make our way around Night Shadow Star’s ornate palace high atop its mound. At the top of the stairs, beautifully carved statues of Piasa and Horned Serpent rise against the morning sky and stare down on us with malignant eyes. They send a shiver down my spine, given my familiarity with the Powers of the night and Underworld.
Reflexively I rub the tattoo on the back of my right hand.
The guardians might be alive, each watching me pass below like defenseless prey beneath the gaping jaws of ruthless hunters. It is like being trapped. Hemmed in with Night Shadow Star’s mound on one side, the Morning Star’s on the other. I feel the guardians’ Power—and for the briefest of instants think I hear them whispering to me.
Then we are past, and on my right I can look up the slanting side of the Morning Star’s earthen pyramid to the high palace above. The wall that surrounds the palace blocks the view, but I see a single man standing atop it, looking down. What seems to be polished copper gleams on his head.
“Feeling nervous?” Cloud Tassel asks Strong Mussel.
“I can believe that a god lives there,” the war leader whispers, so low that only Cloud Tassel and I can hear.
We pass a series of society houses on our left and stop before the palace that lies directly across from the great mound’s northwest corner. Warriors stand guard at the bottom of the stairs, where a litter waits. The porters squat on their haunches and watch our approach with mild interest, as if they see parties of Moskogee warriors dressed in finery march up all the time.
Two Sticks steps up to the oldest of the warriors and bows low, touching his forehead with his fingers. He speaks in respectful Cahokian. The guard looks us over, casually notes the White Arrow that Strong Mussel holds so prominently before him, and nods his head in assent.
“Stay here,” Two Sticks orders, and then he sprints up the stairs, pausing only long enough at the top to pay obeisance to the two eagle statues that stare down at us with angry yellow eyes.
“Why are we waiting on an Albaamaha Trader?” Strong Mussel wonders. “I carry the White Arrow. I should be the one going up there to meet with this Keeper.”
The two Cahokian guards, each wearing armor, watch us through arrogant and wary eyes. They have strung bows strapped across their bodies and quivers full of what are undoubtedly war arrows on their backs.
“You could just let me go,” I suggest. “You’ve delivered me to Cahokia. You can go back and report success to my father. You’re already heroes.”
I just get disgusted looks in return.
Two Sticks appears at the top of the stairs with a gray-haired, rather muscular woman. She’s dressed in a functional wrap pinned above the left shoulder. White shell necklaces wink in the morning light where they are wound tight around her throat.
“War Leader, you and the girl may come up,” Two Sticks calls.
“Untie my leash,” I suggest.
“And have you take off at a run and embarrass us? Absolutely not,” Strong Mussel says through a growl. “Up the stairs, girl. And remember that I’m right behind you.”
I climb the squared timbers where they’re set into the earthen ramp. At the top I’m shocked by the incredible detail carved into the guardian eagle statues. The feathers are so well rendered the great eagles could be alive. Instinctively I touch my forehead as I pass.
Then I turn my eyes upon the palace before me. Several people wait on the veranda, including a muscular man in his late twenties; he wears nothing but a hunting shirt and rope belt hung with a couple of pouches. A big-jawed, ungainly looking brindle dog watches him with odd blue and brown eyes as the man spoons up soup from a gourd bowl.
The man’s tattoos are smudged, almost unrecognizable, and the lascivious look he gives me makes me want to throw something at him. He grins as if he’s visualizing running his hands over my breasts and spreading my legs.
I feel my face flush, and then we pass inside. What should be relief drowns in awe. The first thing a person notices are the walls, hung with spectacular textiles woven into pictures and geometric patterns. The rear is covered with a meticulous carving of the Four Winds design. Shields, copper images, a couple of human skulls, and wooden reliefs sculpted by experts and painted by masters are everywhere.
The sleeping benches—while imminently functional—are artwork, each piece carved by an expert. The furs and woven blankets are lush and neatly folded. And in the space beneath the benches I can see gleaming, burnished pottery and phenomenal basketry. Inlaid and polished wooden storage boxes abound.
Two Sticks drops to his knees before the fire, bowing his head all the way down to the woven-cane matting.
I stop behind him, refusing to bow. I am, after all, the high minko’s oldest daughter. Strong Mussel, however, falls to his knees as if he’s in the presence of the highest and mightiest of nobles. But what does he know? He’s only a war leader.
The object of all the flurry sits across from us on the other side of the fire: An older woman—perhaps in her fifties—studies me as she uses a shell comb on her graying hair. She sits on a raised dais covered with pant
her hides. I can see what look like star-burst tattoos on her cheeks. A beautiful parakeet-feather cloak is draped over her shoulders, and she wears a soft dogbane fabric skirt dyed midnight black with oyster-shell beads sewn to the front.
She has a high forehead and evaluates me though quick dark eyes. I can’t tell what she thinks of my refusal to bow.
Two Sticks rattles off some greeting in Cahokian.
The woman glances at the White Arrow, quickly assesses Strong Mussel, and then takes in my ankle leash. She says something in Cahokian, as if it’s an offhand observation.
To my surprise, it is the servant woman—who I now realize is a berdache—who says in passable Moskogee, “The Keeper would know the purpose of your arrival in Cahokia.”
Strong Mussel raises his head. “We come as the representatives of High Minko White Water Moccasin, of the Chief Clan, of the Sky Hand Moskogee. This woman is his daughter, born of High Matron Evening Oak of the Raccoon Clan. Her name is Whispering Dawn, and she is offered in marriage—along with gifts—to the Morning Star as a sign of the high minko’s fond regard, and in hopes of establishing stronger ties with the living god.”
All of this is duly translated to the Keeper as Strong Mussel speaks. A slight smile bends the old woman’s lips; as she lifts her chin I see a thin white scar across her throat.
As the Keeper replies, the berdache translates, “Why did you send no advance courier to warn us of your arrival? We could have prepared a place and reception for you.”
Strong Mussel blinks foolishly. “We carry the White Arrow.”
The Keeper smiles and nods, saying, “Yes, we understand and respect the value your people place in it. Our apologies for your reception. Are you here to establish an embassy?”
“Excuse me?” Strong Mussel is clearly out of his element.
I take over. “She asks if we are here to establish a permanent presence in Cahokia, War Leader.” I use a soft voice, that of a superior to a subordinate. “Answer yes so you don’t sound like an idiot and embarrass us all.”
“Yes, Keeper,” Strong Mussel says through a tight throat.
My heart leaps. Here is a way out, if I can just steer my stupid, head-bashing captor into something he is entirely unprepared for.
The old woman studies us through implacable eyes that I cannot read. Though I really don’t like her, I keep my expression bland. All I need to do is buy time until I can make my escape.
Eleven
Clan Keeper Blue Heron studied the young woman across the fire from her, who stared back through calculating and rebellious dark eyes—obviously self-possessed even if she barely looked old enough to be considered a woman.
That she had refused to kneel, that she carried herself like a noble, and that she remained uncowed enough to keep her wits indicated that she was indeed High Minko White Water Moccasin’s daughter.
As if I didn’t have enough to bother me today.
“Two Sticks,” she asked the kneeling Albaamaha, “you’re sure they don’t have any of our language?”
“Most assured, Keeper. The Chikosi are an arrogant people, considering themselves in all ways superior to others. They can converse with the other Moskogee speakers because the languages are related. But they won’t even bother to learn T’so, even though they share a border with the Yuchi.”
She studied the war leader, who looked uncertainly at her, the White Arrow held erect before him as though it were a sacred relic that would shield him from any unpleasantry.
“What is your take on this, old friend?”
Two Sticks said, “Keeper, the girl is an unwilling participant. They treat her like a war captive. Hence the leash on her ankle. My guess is that she’s unruly, did something that offended her family, and was sent here to marry the Morning Star as punishment.”
“Any idea what she did to deserve this?”
“No, Keeper. They haven’t given me the opportunity to be alone with her to ferret out the whole story.” Two Sticks gave her a slight smile. “But the girl treats me with uncommon courtesy given that she’s the high minko’s daughter.”
“Find out for me, if you would.” To Smooth Pebble, she said, “The Tunica embassy is empty for the time being. House them there until the tonka’tzi can receive them properly. And please explain that their unexpected arrival and the current constraints of our own politics dictate a delay in properly receiving High Minko White Water Moccasin’s daughter. That we sincerely value his offer of friendship, the forthcoming marriage, and the importance of establishing close and long-lasting relations with the Sky Hand Moskogee.”
Smooth Pebble had been translating as Blue Heron spoke. The girl’s eyes had flashed triumphantly, while the war leader barely hid his growing dismay.
He started to complain, only to have Whispering Dawn silence him with a word and gesture.
Most interesting. He wants to cut and run, and she’s playing for time.
“Clever girl,” Blue Heron whispered under her breath. To Two Sticks, she said, “You’ve always provided me with worthwhile information, old friend. I am appointing you as my liaison to Lady Whispering Dawn. Find out what you can about why she’s really here, and what she intends to do.”
“Of course, Keeper.” Two Sticks touched his forehead with his fingers.
“Smooth Pebble, please be sure that the war leader understands that Two Sticks is to be given every courtesy as my agent vis-à-vis communications in advance of the wedding.”
“What are you thinking?” Smooth Pebble asked.
Blue Heron pulled at her wattle. “The Sky Hand are building an ambitious new Nation south of the Tenasee. Most of what we know of them is through Traders. My suspicion is that Tonka’tzi Wind would appreciate the chance to talk with young Whispering Dawn, here. Eventually some of our colonies might end up as potential sources of conflict with the Sky Hand. A smart policy is to understand what sort of people we’d be dealing with.”
“Keeper?” Two Sticks said respectfully, “Given the way they watch her, I’d say the girl is going to run the first chance she gets.”
“Please see that she doesn’t,” Blue Heron told him. “Ask Seven Skull Shield if he’d mind helping you keep an eye on her just in case.”
“Yes, Keeper.” Two Sticks touched his forehead again and stood.
Blue Heron made the Traders’ universal “that is all” sign with her hands. She watched as Smooth Pebble led the way out, followed by the girl and her war leader, and finally Two Sticks.
“Interesting,” she noted as Dancing Sky walked up with the Keeper’s paint palette and grease paints.
“Red and white again today, Keeper?”
“No, let’s go for yellow and black. Colors for birth and death. Better suits my mood for dealing with those backstabbing miscreants.”
Dancing Sky indicated the departed Sky Hand and her party. “You ask me, she’s going to be trouble.”
“That little slip of a thing? She’s barely more than a child.”
“I’ll remind you that you said that when the time comes.”
But Blue Heron’s mind had already moved on to the serpents’ nest of intra-clan politics next on her schedule. God’s rot it, choosing a matron shouldn’t be this complicated.
Twelve
The young Chikosi woman was worth a second look. As Seven Skull Shield followed along behind Smooth Pebble, Two Sticks, and the Sky Hand party, he watched her, admired the sway of her hips and the smooth lines of her back. A thick mane of inky black hair had been tightly braided and hung down past her rump. Her shoulders were just right for propping a man’s hands on as he looked into her eyes.
And, to his complete delight, she’d given him the sort of disgusted and dismissive look a smart woman would give a maggot-infested loaf of moldy bread.
In other words, a challenge.
“Keeper wants you to help me keep an eye on the Chikosi,” Two Sticks had told him as they were leaving the Keeper’s.
At Smooth Pebble’s nod of assen
t, he’d slurped down the last of his sunflower-seed soup, let Farts lick the spoon and gourd bowl clean, and collected his pouches before ambling along in their wake.
The way led south along the western margins of the Great Plaza, passing the tonka’tzi’s Palace, the various society houses, charnel houses, and temples that lined the plaza down to its southwest corner. Then the way led due west from the great Earth Clans’ burial mound, past embassies, dwellings, and cramped gardens, to a well-appointed and spacious dwelling a bow-shot to the east.
“The Tunica aren’t using this?” Seven Skull Shield asked Two Sticks as they came to a stop before the looming building.
“Civil War down in Tunica country. The White Heron Moiety town was captured by the Red Staff alliance. The White Herons recalled their embassy until things are sorted out.”
“Too bad,” Seven Skull Shield mused as he inspected the buildings. Perhaps five paces in length by four wide, the main structure was of trench-wall construction dug down a half body’s length into the ground. After construction was complete, the excavated dirt had been piled halfway up the walls for insulation, making the interior warm in winter and cool in summer. The steeply pitched thatched roof looked in need of repair, and the Tunica had drawn some kind of birds on the walls that Seven Skull Shield thought might have been anhingas given the specimens he’d seen Traders carry up from the south.
A dome-structured council house sat to the right with a sweat lodge immediately behind. To the left stood a recently reroofed ramada, complete with a log mortar and pestle out front.
Two Sticks was explaining things as the overdressed Chikosi crowded around with their bundles, packs, and ornate gift chests. To Seven Skull Shield’s eyes, the Moskogee looked anything but reassured. The two lead warriors—including the one who clutched the White Arrow like he wanted to strangle it—were glancing around with nervous eyes.
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