Moon Hunt

by Kathleen O'Neal Gear

  “But Two Sticks could do that without waiting for the husband. All he’d have to do is tell me that the Morning Star was being set up, that the high minko was playing him for a fool, and it’d be flying fur and feathers.”

  “It’s got something to do with that tattoo,” Seven Skull Shield insisted. “Figure out what that tattoo stands for, you’ll have Two Sticks, the girl, and the high minko by the balls.”

  “Perhaps,” Wind said thoughtfully. “Keeper, send a messenger to the Morning Star when you get the chance. Let him know. In the meantime, stall. Let this play out and see where it leads.”

  “You sure you want to go that route?” Blue Heron asked.

  “It’s just as easy to hang them in squares next week as it is today.”

  A Turn of Fate

  Nothing was working as it should. Strong Mussel’s plan had been to march up to the Morning Star, offer me as a bride, and quickly scoot back to his canoes and paddle home as fast as the current and strength of arms would carry him.

  My plan was always to slip away before he had the chance to do that, vanish into the city, and make my way south to Straight Corn by whatever manner I could. Scary thought that, a young woman alone, traveling for days across half of the known world.

  Love, however, is a strong motivator.

  Then we arrived to find Cahokia bigger and more confusing than anyone could have imagined. My play for time has indeed worked. I have a nice small compound with a house, council building, and all the fixings of a minor noble.

  Strong Mussel is fretting anxiously, waiting for a summons whereby he can deliver me to anyone who will take me to the Morning Star. That done, he can leave.

  And as for me, I can’t escape. Not now. Not after what Two Sticks has told me. Sure, all the way up the river I dreamed that Straight Corn and his relatives would come and rescue me. You know, one of those impossible dreams. The kind you cling to because you don’t have anything else. But I didn’t really think it was a workable option. Strong Mussel and his warriors had a head start, and had made very good time on the rivers.

  I knew the reality. Even if Straight Corn had heard the same day I left, he would have had to organize canoes, stock up on provisions, Trade, and gather equipment. Then came the challenge of finding men willing to go. It meant leaving families at the beginning of harvest, collection of the nut crop now falling in the forest, and the fall hunting season for deer, turkey, squirrels, bear, and migrating waterfowl.

  Assuming, of course, that his family thought enough of me to raise the pursuit. And you can bet I kept that worry locked in my head.

  But the clincher hadn’t really sunk in until Two Sticks brought up my tattoo. Of course I was important to the Albaamaha. I was a high minko’s daughter. I’d married one of their most eligible young men, and the Albaamaha were struggling for their very lives under Sky Hand domination.

  But most of all I was an initiate in the ancient arts of the night. I had begun my training in the ways of the darkness, had been instructed on the special Powers of the Sacred Moth. I might be only a novice, but I know some of the secrets of the society. And the society protects its own.

  Of course they would be coming for me.

  All I have to do is hope that in the turmoil of Cahokian politics, with the election of their new Four Winds Clan matron, I will be forgotten for long enough that Straight Corn can arrive, ferret out my location, and spirit me away some night before I am trundled off to the Morning Star’s bed.

  To that end, I am doing everything I can to allay Strong Mussel’s fears. Which leaves me here, braiding hemp fibers into cordage as I sit in the afternoon sun and watch the hustle of Cahokia unfold around my “embassy.”

  We are somewhat off the main avenues, but the city reminds me of a hive. People walk through here constantly bearing bundles, packs, and loads of all kinds. They all speak in tongues I’ve never heard before and dress in the most outlandish manners. Every hair style imaginable—from completely shaved heads, to lopsided cuts, high-piled coiffures, intricate braids, and just leaving it to hang loose—can be seen within a single day’s observation.

  As I braid, I wonder how long it will take Straight Corn, assuming they are as driven as Strong Mussel’s warriors and make the same time traveling. It might have taken a day or two for word of my fate to reach the forest Albaamaha. Another two or three days if the Reed Clan and Sacred Moth Society pushed for a rapid departure, ordering the best young men to drop what they were doing, pack, and hit the river north.

  Ticking off the days on my fingers, I am shocked to realize that Straight Corn could arrive as early as the day after tomorrow.

  I sit up as if slapped, souls racing.

  How does my husband find me in the vast expanse of Cahokia?

  The thought is frightening, and then I think like Straight Corn will upon arrival. I am supposed to be given in marriage to the Morning Star, so he will come here, to the Great Plaza and the Morning Star’s mound. He will need to find a translator, and will start asking questions about the marriage. Has it occurred? If not, when is it planned? What day? Where is the bride quartered? How many guests have been invited to the ceremony and feast? Will there be the traditional chase? And so forth.

  I frown and wonder if the Cahokians celebrate the chase like Moskogean peoples do. In it, the bride is expected to run and try to escape. For all I know, the Morning Star is a fat, windless fellow, and I’ll be able to outsprint him. Among my people, any woman who can outrun a man can call the wedding off without any grounds for censure.

  Given that the Morning Star has a reputation for being an outstanding chunkey player, this is probably wishful thinking bordering on the fantastical. On the other hand, I have barely begun to understand the depth of the Power Sacred Moth grants to his adherents.

  In the meantime I’d better be pinning my hopes on something more realistic. Therefore, when we’re finally summoned to the Morning Star’s palace to present the marriage proposal, I shall ask for a half moon to prepare. After all, I am the high minko’s daughter. I will need time to organize my wardrobe, to pray, to cleanse myself, fast, and follow the rituals. On the Morning Star’s side, he will need to circulate the announcement, invite guests, orchestrate and plan a suitable feast, organize games, musicians, and dancers. And who knows what sort of preparations he himself must endure with prayers, offerings, sweat baths, purging, and purification?

  He’s supposed to be a living god. Maybe that means it will take even longer for him to prepare. I might have a full moon or more before the actual day. Plenty of time for Straight Corn to arrive and spirit me away.

  Won’t that be a slap in the face when Father finally learns about it?

  I am chewing on these thoughts when a young man runs into the yard. He wears a spotless white apron on his hips; his cheeks are tattooed in a pattern I have come to recognize is the Panther Clan’s symbol. A white-and-red-striped staff is clutched in one hand, and his hair is tied in a tight bun at the back of his head and stuck through with turkey feathers.

  “Greetings,” he calls in fluent Moskogee, though with a decidedly Casqui accent. “The Morning Star sends his best wishes. I am to escort you to his presence.”

  I shoot to my feet, the rest of the warriors rising, quizzical expressions on their faces. I must look just as dumbfounded.

  “Right now?” I ask.

  The messenger bends at the waist, touching his chin in a sign of respect. “Yes, Lady. I am to tell you that he has only learned of your arrival and regrets the delays that have no doubt inconvenienced you.”

  Strong Mussel comes bustling out of the dwelling where he has been taking a nap. He blinks in the sunlight, his hair disheveled. “Did I hear right? The Morning Star wishes to see us now?”

  Again the messenger—much too polished to react to Strong Mussel’s unkempt appearance—bows and touches his chin.

  “But we have to dress!” the war leader cries. “Prepare!”

  The messenger squints up at the sun, s
aying, “Then please do so.” He smiles. “Now.” Another smile. “I am to escort you.”

  “But it will take us—”

  “Just do it,” I tell him. “Hurry.” To the messenger I say, “We will be ready as soon as we can. Surely you can understand the gravity of our mission. We will be delighted to begin deliberations today.”

  Something gleams behind his dark and liquid-looking eyes. He inclines his head and touches his chin.

  I catch glimpses of him as we dress, paint our faces, and the warriors carefully fix their colorful feathers and jewelry. He is fidgeting, glancing uneasily up at the sun, clearly restless and unhappy at the delay.

  Meanwhile, I don my second-best dress, comb out my hair and rebraid it. I loop a long clamshell necklace three times around my neck and, to make a point, daub my cheeks in black. Not exactly the color for a prospective bride.

  Strong Mussel and Cloud Tassel scuttle about, shouting orders, looking out of sorts as they gather up the gift boxes and finally assemble the warriors.

  I declare “We’re ready” just as Strong Mussel sees my blackened cheeks. The color drains from his face, but I am already marching up to the messenger, ordering, “Let’s go.”

  The messenger wheels, and I step out on his heels as Strong Mussel—clutching his White Arrow—slips close behind, whispering, “Lady? You can’t go to this meeting with your face painted in black! What will the Morning Star think?”

  “What’s one form of death compared to another, War Leader?”

  “But when your father hears—”

  “It will no longer be his concern. We’ve kept the Morning Star waiting for too long as it is.”

  Knowing Strong Mussel can’t see it, I allow myself a victorious smile.

  We proceed along the Great Plaza’s western avenue, our escort calling out as he raises his staff of office high. The people thronging the plaza margins ease back, making way for our passage. Out on the grass a spirited stickball game is in process. The thousand or so spectators call encouragement, howl disappointment, and scream in delight as their team makes a good play.

  To the side of the thoroughfare are vendors offering every imaginable sort of Trade, from food to clothing to jewelry and art. The smells of cooked bread, fish, and turkey vie with the reek of unwashed humans and their waste, the prevalent smoke, and the damp scent of distant moisture. I am still not used to the mass of humanity.

  People watch us pass with thoughtful eyes, interested, but not excessively so—as if this is just one of an endless number of processions.

  Ahead of us the great mound looms. I feel a sense of growing dread as we round the corner onto the Avenue of the Sun and warriors step out to clear our way through the packed crowd at the base of the stairs.

  People jostle to the side, casting a myriad of glances my way: some envious, others mildly irritated, and a few downright hostile, as if we’re infringing on their access in some way or another.

  We are led past the guards to the foot of the grand stairway. Guards stand to either side and touch their chins in recognition as we pass. Their armor consists of polished leather and wood, the feather splays on their shoulders giving the impression of fierceness. Beaded forelocks hang down over their noses from beneath buffed leather helmets.

  “They look like showpieces,” Cloud Tassel mutters uncomfortably, but I notice the tracing of scars on their arms where the skin isn’t covered by wrist guards and feather bands. Something tells me that the Morning Star doesn’t pick “showpieces” to guard the approaches to his high warren.

  We start up the wide stairway, and the effect is sobering as my feet tread the squared logs set into the wide ramp. Ten people abreast could climb this. I’ve never set foot on anything so grand.

  We pass through the Council House Gate at the top and into the council yard. The first thing I see is the towering central pole that dominates the courtyard. To the left stands the Council House and its ramada, where I expect to be received. A crowd of people congregate before the door, mostly women. I recognize the Keeper, formally dressed, where she stands amidst a group of older women. A tall, dark-haired beauty looks my way with haunting eyes.

  Something about her makes me look away. Something dangerous. As if she is more than just a woman, and can send a chill down my spine with no more than a smile.

  To the far right I see a small raised mound with another red cedar pole jutting from its top. Someone has told me that it marks the absolute center of the Cahokian world.

  Instead of the Council House, we are led across the yard to the final stairway. Looking up, I feel small. Amazed. This might be a stairway to the sky, as it stretches up before me. An ascent into another world. I swallow hard, feeling my heart pound. The warriors accompanying me are also cowed, their eyes wide, breath coming short.

  As we clear the height of the walls, I am ever more amazed. With each step we climb, I can see more and more of Cahokia. The great city stretches in all directions, broken only by areas of marsh and water. Atop the bluffs on the east, additional mounds and temples dot the skyline; the rooftops of dwellings and farmsteads crowd around them.

  I look west and marvel at the stretch of city, seeing the Great Observatory, Black Tail’s tomb, then the distant hazy silhouette of River City Mounds. Behind us the Great Plaza gives way to the Avenue of the Moon, which runs south on a raised causeway to more mounds, elevated temples and palaces, and what looks like clusters of farmsteads.

  “By Horned Serpent’s whiskers,” Strong Mussel says breathlessly.

  “If I didn’t see, I wouldn’t believe,” Cloud Tassel agrees.

  And still we climb, until we see Cahokia from the perspective of the two-headed eagle that dominates the soaring palace roof rising before us.

  Two more guards touch their chins as we approach the walled gate. And then we are inside, the courtyard smaller, dominated by the tallest bald cypress post I have ever seen erected. I bend my head back to stare at its lightning-scarred heights, awed by the magnificent carvings that cover every surface.

  Here, too, there are people: immaculately dressed and sporting remarkable face paint, iridescent feathers, cloaks of the finest quality, and remarkable headpieces. They watch us pass with a curious detachment, and I can feel the rising tension among my escorting warriors. They’ve never been treated with such apathy, or endured this feeling of inferiority.

  Nor have I.

  Blessed Ancestors, I’ve been foolish!

  I was being arrogant and silly. I should have demanded that we take more time, attend to dress and ornamentation. Compared to the finery surrounding us, we look like muddy quail in a flock of painted buntings.

  Idiot! Idiot! For just a moment, I can’t stand myself. How stupid can I be? And it doesn’t end with me. Father, in his ignorance, wanted to punish me. Thought he’d shoot two birds out of the sky with one arrow by sending me here and marrying me off to the Morning Star. Fool that he is, he couldn’t comprehend Cahokia any more than I could. My paltry escort of a mere twenty warriors bears small gift boxes filled with shells, feathers, and textiles that are nothing compared to the wealth and exotic finery I see draped on just these minor functionaries waiting in the courtyard!

  My mouth has gone dry. My heart hammers as we are led to the remarkable double doors carved with such artistry and detail that the image of the Morning Star depicted upon them might be alive.

  Then we are inside, blinking our eyes, taken aback as they begin to adjust. I had thought the Keeper’s palace to be the most opulent building I’d ever seen. It is nothing compared to the Morning Star’s palace. In the firelight I see the most incredible tapestries, colors that would seem to be the rainbow splashed on earth, beautiful ceramics, polished copper images of unimaginable wealth, the finest lace-work, shell and mica effigies, masterpieces carved from gleaming and waxed wood—it just boggles the mind.

  The walls here, too, are lined by functionaries. All but the recorders are dressed in the most outlandish finery. A big, fierce-looking
warrior stands before the fire. He watches us approach with eyes that remind me of hot obsidian. His face is scarred and tattooed, but unbalanced. I realize that his jaw was so severely dislocated in the past that it sits irrevocably to one side. A simple falcon feather juts to the side from his hair bun, and his forelock is held in place by a single white shell bead. Nor is he dressed to perfection, but wears battle-scarred armor and holds a battered, stained, copper-bitted war ax.

  All of which combine to make him even more impressive and threatening than the overdressed, perfectly polished warriors who stand in a uniform line against the eastern wall.

  Our messenger brings us to a halt before the warrior, announcing us in Cahokian.

  My eyes on the grizzled warrior, I don’t notice the individual seated on the high dais behind the big central hearth. Only when he speaks do I look past and first see the living god.

  So striking is he that I can indeed believe him more than mortal. The first thing that catches the eye is the facial paint: white with black forked-eye designs running down his cheeks. A black triangle, its point at the septum of his nose, runs down to cover his mouth. A fantastic two-headed-eagle headpiece rises from what looks like a Spirit Bundle atop his head. Shell maskettes that resemble human faces cover both ears. Thick layers of shell necklaces hang from his throat, and an immaculate white apron embroidered in black drops to a point between his knees. I can see scalp locks tied around the front.

  So much for my fantasies about a wedding race. He is young, muscular, and looks every inch an athlete. It will take Powerful magic to beat him at anything. If he is truly a living god, I will have no hope.

  He is watching me with hard, dark eyes. As I look into them I feel suddenly shaken, and a shiver runs through me. Unnerving.

  I don’t even notice that I’ve grabbed up my braid and am twisting it in my fingers.

  “Welcome,” Morning Star tells us in accented Moskogee. I recognize it as a Casqui dialect, which should not surprise me. They are the closest Moskogee-speaking Nation to Cahokia, and major Trading partners.