“I’m sure.”
“Well,” Columella asked, “what’s going to happen when the Quiz Quiz finally figure out that Blue Heron doesn’t have the box?”
“They’ll kill her,” Flat Stone Pipe mused, his thoughtful eyes still on Seven Skull Shield. “They’re in too deep to let her go.”
Seven Skull Shield stroked his chin. Which means I’ve got to find her before that can happen. But how?
The Prize
Perhaps it is not fair. Nevertheless I cannot help but compare bedding the Morning Star to what I just shared with Straight Corn. I sigh and hold my Straight Corn close, feeling the man I love firmly in my arms. This is the boy who was my friend before he became my husband and lover.
I wonder what it means, sometimes, to have two husbands under two such different sets of values. Which marriage is more valid? Which should have primacy in my life?
“I hate sharing you with him.” Straight Corn shifts his head, staring into my eyes. I can see the hurt and turmoil within him.
“There was nothing I could do. It all moved so fast. Once father’s warriors had me, I barely had time to collect my wits before I was thrown into a canoe and brought here. And I sure didn’t expect such a rapid marriage to the Morning Star.”
I pause. “And it wasn’t like I could turn around and run for it. Believe me. I really considered it. Wouldn’t have made it past the palace doors before the warriors would have had me.”
Spooned against Straight Corn’s body as I am, I look up at the roof overhead. I can hear voices outside where my escorting warriors and the porters who carried my litter are waiting out front. They think I am discussing delicate peace terms.
Hanging Moss, Wet Clay Woman, and Fighting Dog had barely said hello before they ducked out the back way, exiting through a small doorway in the rear wall in order to leave us alone for a little connubial bliss. I’m delighted that they found a building with a back entrance. It might just save someone’s life, depending on how things work out.
I know Straight Corn and I don’t have much time, that they will be back soon, and we have to act as if we’re really discussing diplomatic measures. Otherwise my escort will become suspicious. It is a foregone conclusion that they will report everything to Five Fists.
“I’m so glad you still love me,” Straight Corn whispers into my ear. Then he sits up. “They will be back soon.”
I reach for my skirt, pulling it up over my hips. As I do, the thought rolls around in my head that making love to Straight Corn is making love to a boy. That the act with him isn’t the mature intimacy that categorizes the Morning Star’s performance, let alone the intensity of my physical response.
The novice versus the master, my internal voice tells me.
I thank the Spirits that Straight Corn can’t hear my thoughts.
He slips to the rear door, setting it to the side and reaching through to signal. Moments later Hanging Moss comes ducking in and climbs down to the floor. He is followed by Wet Clay Woman and finally Fighting Dog.
“Glad that you had a chance to get reacquainted,” Hanging Moss says, giving me a wink. “Some of us remember the fires of young love.”
I feel my face flush as Wet Clay Woman gives me a thoughtful nod and says, “You can always tell a fulfilled woman by the look in her eyes afterwards. Glad you married my boy, dear girl. You’re good for him.”
As everyone gets settled, I ask, “How soon can we escape from Cahokia? The back door is perfect. I can enter the front, and we can sneak right out the rear, then it’s down the Avenue of the Sun to the canoe landing. Shove out onto the river, and we’re home in two months.”
Hanging Moss, Straight Corn, and Fighting Dog share glances. Wet Clay Woman stares down at her hands in her lap.
“What?” I ask, suddenly wary.
“We need you to do something for us first, Niece,” Hanging Moss says. And as he does, he removes a small ceramic jar, its top sealed with wax. I have seen it before. On the night of my initiation into the Sacred Moth Society.
“You know what this is?” the old man asks.
“The sacred nectar,” I reply. “The liquid that opens the doorway to the night. The Spirit drink that only humming moths can subsist on.”
I have helped to harvest the tiny droplets from the insides of large white datura flowers. It is a painstaking job, and one that must be undertaken with the greatest of care.
“Will you help our people?” Straight Corn asks in his most earnest voice.
I see the pleading in his eyes, can almost hear the words he would say if the others were not present: “If our lovemaking meant as much to you as it did to me, you would do this.”
“Of course I would,” I answer. “Do you think now is the time for me to initiate the journey? Here? In the middle of the day? With an escort of warriors and porters just outside the door? It will be hours before my souls would be back in my body, and by then—”
“Not you,” Wet Clay Woman tells me with a smile. “The Morning Star.”
I blink, suddenly confused.
“And not just a drop on the tongue as you took in your initiation. But the whole bottle.” Hanging Moss smiles and laces his fingers together around the bottle.
I feel my heart skip. “That much nectar? But that might send his souls forever into…” I can’t finish the thought, remembering my own soul journey, filled as it was with terrors and delights. I remember flying with the moths … hearing the chiming songs of the Dead, drifting through the perfumed air above an endless sea of large, trumpet-shaped flowers. My souls were buoyed with darkness—a pulsing unity with the night.
“He is the living god, yes?” Hanging Moss asks kindly. “You will not kill a Spirit, Niece. You will, however, send him on a most extraordinary journey. His Power is tied to the second level of the Sky. Sacred Moth has its own Power. That of the night, flowers, and the ways of the Dead. Only you can send him on the journey. And upon his return, he will know who to thank for it.”
“I don’t understand.”
Hanging Moss, in that mystical way of his, says, “Consider it a joining. A merging of Powers between Sky and Night. As you are only an initiate, I can’t expect you to understand. That will come with time, and as you continue your study. But believe me, were you not a high minko’s daughter, born of the Chief Clan, were you not a woman of great strength, commitment, and Power, Sacred Moth would never have asked this of you.”
I am stunned, and somewhat humbled to think that such Power has chosen me.
Straight Corn leans forward, eyes gleaming. “Can you get the nectar into his drink? Maybe into his food? Some way so that he swallows the whole bottle?”
“It’s sweet,” I tell them, remembering my first faint taste. “They make sweets for him all the time. And I think I know a way.”
Yes. I can do this.
It will be just before bed, a final treat before I insist on the manner of our lovemaking, which he encourages. What will it be like to be locked together as his souls are coaxed into the night and borne away on moth wings?
“You know how the sensations fade?” Uncle asks. “How you have those final thoughts before all is air, and night, and flight?”
“Yes.”
“That’s when you have to whisper to him,” Straight Corn adds.
Wet Clay Woman follows up, saying, “Tell him your father, White Water Moccasin, sends his greetings, and that the Sky Hand hope he enjoys his journey.”
This makes no sense. “But it’s from the Albaamaha.”
“We have our reasons,” Uncle tells me, a placid smile on his face. “Trust us, Whispering Dawn. Trust Sacred Moth. Tell it to him, just like that, and as soon as the Morning Star’s souls are aloft on the night, you hurry here. We’ll be gone from Cahokia by morning.”
“Headed home,” Straight Corn assures me.
“You will have saved our people, saved your husband.” Wet Clay Woman tells me.
“Yes, I can do this.”
But I wo
nder why Fighting Dog is giving me such a satisfied look where he sits in the rear.
Thirty
Fire Cat sat on the edge of the veranda, his bare feet on the hard-packed clay of the mound top. Clay that had been soaked and consecrated with blood: both Itza and his own.
Around him the evening chill began to seep out of the darkening sky. He watched as the Morning Star’s high palace faded in the reflected glow of the distant sunset.
It never stops, does it?
He placed a hand to his heart, feeling the rhythmic thumping as it beat within his chest. Inside, his guts felt as if they were serpents—alive and writhing as they twisted around each other in a sickening fashion.
Spotted Wrist. The man who had taken everything from him: family, heritage, town, people. Everything except his honor. Now, stripped down to that last claim on life, Fire Cat struggled to determine if even that was draining away.
I could kill him. No one would fault me. Not after what he’s done to my family. The ancestors would demand it of me.
It would be his final act, of course. He would have to kill himself as soon as the deed was done. Save Night Shadow Star from giving him that look of despair and betrayal.
He heard her as she stepped out. Was acutely aware of her presence as she seated herself beside him.
“Black drink?” she asked, handing him a cup. “Freshly brewed. In a different pot from the one he drank out of.”
Only she would think of that.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly, and leaned her head back to stare up at the first flickering stars as they burned through the gloom. “His arrival was as much a shock to me as it was to you.”
“Of course, Lady,” he said, trying to keep his voice from sounding clipped.
“If we’d just had some time … some warning.” She sipped her own drink. “Fire Cat, I need you to understand. He’s an old friend. Perhaps more of a father than my father was.”
“Interesting then that he’d want to marry you, the father-daughter taboo being what it is.” This time he failed to keep the acid from his tone.
She bit off an exasperated sigh. “Blood and spit, what is it about men and marriage? What kind of fool would want me—of all women—for a wife?”
“Anyone with sense, Lady. You are the most Powerful woman in the Four Winds Clan. Beautiful. Young. As the war leader said, a worthy consort for any man climbing the ladder of success and authority.” He paused. “Nor is it unusual in political marriages for an older, high-ranking man with prestige to marry a much younger woman he has watched grow into womanhood. Sometimes such girls are promised from birth.”
“He has three Earth Clan wives up in Serpent Woman Town. They keep his household and manage eleven of his children. The four oldest are already married. Two are leading new colonies in the north. What does he figure? I’ll relocate to Serpent Woman Town? Move into his palace and try to fit in as a fourth wife? Take orders from his older wives as Piasa and the Tortoise Bundle are filling my ears with their Spirit voices?”
“Lady, if the Morning Star orders—”
“I’ll not marry him. It would be too odd, too…” She shrugged unable to find the words.
“You heard him. He said the Morning Star won’t refuse him after his victories in the north.” Fire Cat struggled to speak reasonably. “Chunkey Boy is your elder brother. Technically the head of your family. How can you refuse?”
“I’m not sure yet. I’ll find a way.”
He smiled grimly into the night, imagining the feel of a long chert blade as it was driven up under Spotted Wrist’s breastbone and into his beating heart. Dead men no longer asked for young women to be their wives.
“Fire Cat, I have to ask you to do something.”
“Of course, Lady.”
“You must promise me that you will not seek vengeance. That no matter what, you will not harm him, nor cause him to be harmed.”
“Lady?” he asked, wondering if her Powers had allowed her to anticipate his earlier thoughts.
“I would, in your position.” A pause. “You are first and foremost a man of honor. You are no doubt thinking your ancestors demand it. That if you fail to act, it will reflect on you.”
Scum and muck, she knew him too well.
“Lady, that man … What he cost me…”
She stiffened—the way she did when the Spirits were whispering in her ear—then relaxed. “Piasa is laughing. Amused no doubt by the way he plays us. By the twists and turns he throws in our way.”
“Your master has a vile sense of humor.”
“And I have a terrible apprehension down in my gut,” she told him. “It would break my heart if you killed Spotted Wrist. More so if you murdered him to spare me from a marriage I don’t want. Here is what you don’t know: The things he did to you and your people … was at my request. I asked him to bring me your rotting heads in retaliation for what you did to Makes Three.”
She clenched her fist, stiffening, before adding, “If you must have vengeance, take it out on me. I am more responsible for the brutality of his conquest than anyone.”
He slowly shook his head. “I will never, ever, harm you.”
“Not even by killing Spotted Wrist?”
His souls sang out in pain and disbelief as he whispered, “Not even then. I give you my word, Lady. He is safe from me.”
She reached out, taking his hand in hers, squeezing it with such passion that it might be her last grasp on hope.
Consummation
I feel as if my body wants to explode. Everything inside me is running wild: fear, anticipation, excitement, panic, and hope all churning around like a boiling stew. He will know. How could he help but see it when he finally steps into the room?
I have only two of the hickory-oil lamps burning, keeping the illumination low. Perhaps, in the dim light, he won’t see my anxiety. Maybe, when the time comes, I will manage to control my building terror and can make myself cool and collected as I hand him the blueberry juice I have prepared.
As I unbraid my hair and begin to comb it out, I go suddenly tense: This is my first attempt at seduction. I cannot make a mistake. I have to be in possession of my emotions. My expression must reveal nothing. I have to be irresistible.
But how? Believe me, Sky Hand women aren’t trained in such things.
That knowledge does nothing to alleviate the electric tension that makes it difficult to even breathe. I close my eyes—wishing for my heart to stop its frantic pounding—and suck air into my lungs.
You are the daughter of the high minko! Your ancestors’ blood runs in your veins. They were worthy. You come from them. Their Spirits were born into you. You can do this.
I feel my heart slow, the muscles of my chest loosening.
I am in this state—convinced of my own invincibility—when the Morning Star walks into the chamber, his feathers and flowing cape rustling. He looks radiant in his colors, with his remarkable headdress—this one a forward projecting curve into which miniature arrows have been driven. He is, indeed, the living god.
I am committed. Order myself to forget that part of me that is terrified. From here on out, what will be, will be. I am either dead, or alive.
My fingers do not tremble as I stand and reach out to unpin the gorgeous feather cape hanging from his shoulders.
“It has been a long day, husband,” I tell him as I look him in the eyes. They are shadowed pools of midnight in the dim lamplight. I can feel his Power, his essence. It is like having the vast blue vault of the sky swelling in my breast.
I successfully untie his breechcloth and apron and let them fall. My breasts brush his chest as I reach up to unpin the polished copper headpiece with its Soul Bundle and eagle feathers. As I do, my nipples harden and send a thrill through me that he seems to share, for he inhales and tenses.
Then I step back, picturing myself through his eyes as I reach down and release my skirt. My breasts, belly, and thighs are accented by light and shadow, my hair spilling down in da
rk waves.
He steps close, wrapping me in his arms and presses himself against me. I sigh at the warmth in his body, clasp him to me, and run my fingers lightly over the rounded contours of muscle and bone.
His response is immediate. I bump my hips against his hardening shaft before I lean my head back and shoot him a delighted smile. “I have a treat for you.”
“Blueberry juice?” he asks with a slight lift of an eyebrow.
“They told,” I chide, even as my heart tingles with fear that he knows.
“Not much escapes me, wife,” he tells me with a curious emphasis. His gaze pierces my soul.
For an instant, the fear struggles to escape; before it can, I break loose and hand him his nectar-laced cup. I place my own unadulterated juice to my lips, drinking it down.
Will he notice the difference in taste? I have emptied the entire little bottle into his cup. Just the way Hanging Moss instructed.
As he lifts it to his lips, his eyes are locked with mine. He hesitates … and time seems to stop. Lamplight flickers briefly in his dark eyes, and then he drinks with a slight smile on his lips.
“Most remarkable,” he tells me. “Did you have anything else in mind?”
“I have been waiting all day for this,” I tell him. “I want this night to be even more remarkable than ever before.”
Placing my hands on his breasts, I shove him backward onto the bed. Then I leap onto him like a cougar onto a deer.
A fire burns loose inside me. I impale myself on his shaft; locking us together in a violent embrace. I become someone else, some thing else. A creature possessed of a soul hunger. Nothing exists but this moment—as if the entire purpose of my existence is distilled down to this joining of loins. And it is savage.
When it comes, the explosion in my sheath is like nothing I have ever experienced. The gasping cries are mine. I am consumed, devoured, and finally drained. Panting, I sprawl on top of him.
In the end I lift myself from his limp body and stare down into his slack face. His eyes are half closed, his mouth slack. His breathing is slow, and his arms have fallen to the sides.
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