“You’re saying he knew?” Wind gasped.
Rides-the-Lightning fixed his white eyes on hers. “Even living gods get bored with their existences, Tonka’tzi. Perhaps, like a moth, he is seeking a metamorphosis.”
“But what do we do about this?” Rising Flame demanded, a look of near panic behind her eyes.
“Soul Flier?” Wind asked, watching the old shaman’s expression tighten.
“I will see what can be done,” he said, voice almost wistful. Then, to his priests: “Take me back to the temple. We must prepare.”
“I’ll send warriors to run the girl and those accursed Albaamaha down,” Five Fists growled. “As soon as we have them, I’ll clap her in a square, and she can contemplate the nature of her sins.”
“I shall be curious as to how many you capture, War Leader,” Rides-the-Lightning said as he started for the door. “And in the meantime, do nothing to the Morning Star. Though he appears dead, his body still lives. Though for how long,” Rides-the-Lightning paused, “we cannot say.”
Wind clamped her eyes closed. Spit and pus, if he died—especially from assassination—all chaos would break loose.
She turned, seeing Five Fists’ look of disbelief and horror.
“What?”
“He told me!” Five Fists sounded half-strangled. “He ordered me not to punish her. How could he have known?”
She turned, staring at the Morning Star’s somnolent body. Was he really that desperate to die? And if so, why?
“You may be under orders not to torture the girl, but War Leader, I am not!”
Lost
Morning has come. I have no idea where I am. I’ve been walking most of the night, and somehow I got turned around in the darkness. Why, of all nights, did this one have to be cloudy and blacker than a Tie Snake’s pit?
Coming down from the Morning Star’s Great Staircase, I turned right, west, trying to retrace the steps that my escort took to the small building that housed Straight Corn, Hanging Moss, and Wet Clay Woman. I remember they were somewhere just off the Avenue of the Sun, but not quite to Black Tail’s tomb. I vaguely remember a charnel house on the north side of the road. It marked the place I needed to turn off.
The thing about charnel houses is that you don’t need to see them to know they are there. The nose works just fine for identifying when you’ve arrived. I turned at the first scent of rotting human and stumbled around, tripping over things in the dark, being barked at by dogs, and bashing into ramadas and mortars.
Only to end up at the marshy edge of a creek.
So I tried to retrace my way, falling in holes, stepping in latrines.… It was a mess!
I recognized the Avenue of the Sun by the lighter color of the white sand that marked its way, and again, I turned west, only to encounter two charnel houses, side by side. Which wasn’t right.
But how many had I passed while the porters carried me yesterday? I’d been so giddy over the notion that I’d be seeing Straight Corn, I hadn’t been paying attention.
Somehow I lost the Avenue of the Sun and found myself fumbling around in the dark again, having to twist this way and that around farmsteads and gardens, and once again I ended up on the edge of mucky ground that tried to suck the moccasins from my feet. Every way I turned in the blackness, it just got worse.
Only by stopping, thinking, did I remember that the breeze had been puffing against my right cheek. Orienting myself so it caressed my left ear, I slogged my way back to harder ground.
“Where are you?” I kept calling out plaintively to the night while panic was kindled in my chest.
Time was everything. I had to find my people, collect them, and we all had to make our escape to the canoe landing and be out of Cahokia by dawn.
The panic got worse. I fled around in the night, panting and flailing my arms in front of me.
Getting ever more lost.
Getting ever more desperate.
Until the sun lightened the eastern horizon.
Having at least a direction, I plodded westward toward the river, picking my way through the buildings as they emerged from the night’s pitch black.
And found myself here. At the edge of River Mounds City. I can recognize it by the huge guardian posts on either side of the avenue. As the overcast sky continues to gray, I can only stare back to the east, a keening in my souls, a physical sickness in my gut. I know Straight Corn and the people I love are back there, somewhere. I don’t have a clue as to how to find them.
I hug both hands to my aching stomach, thinking I have killed them. By now that surly Five Fists has checked on the Morning Star. He will have noticed that the living god is lying naked atop the blankets. Alone. His new wife nowhere in sight.
He will have discovered senseless flesh.
Even as I think this, all of Cahokia is being alerted to find me. Warriors are being dispatched to capture Straight Corn and the rest of my family. Strong Mussel, Cloud Tassel, and the rest will be herded to the squares, protesting their innocence. Crying foul and betrayal.
I have failed everyone.
Most of all, myself.
Hungry, thirsty, and terrified, I follow a series of trails between the tightly packed houses. Tears of defeat are trickling down my cheeks. I am lost in the maze of buildings, but as long as I keep the dawn sky behind me, I’ll hit the river.
Contemplating the fate of the people I love, I just want to die. My stomach spasms. I bend over and throw up.
Thirty-five
Fire Cat let a grim smile play across his face as he stared hard into Five Fists’ gleaming black eyes. The old warrior’s crooked face reflected rage and a deep-seated panic.
The Morning Star’s palace was packed with people, all of them in a similar state of shock.
“Let us pass,” Night Shadow Star ordered the grizzled war leader.
The old warrior continued to block their way to Chunkey Boy’s personal quarters in the back of the palace. Around them the great hall was oddly quiet, somber, as nobles, recorders, and the usual press of servants and aides huddled along the walls and whispered to each other.
“The Morning Star is currently inconvenienced,” Five Fists said stiffly. “The soul flier is attending to him.”
“His Spirit is in the Underworld,” she told him bluntly. “I need to speak to Rides-the-Lightning.”
“You serve a different Power than my master, Lady. Perhaps you would know more about his condition, and how it came to be this way, than I would.”
At the tone in Five Fists’ voice, Fire Cat tightened his grip on his war club. He’d been waiting patiently for this moment. Sure, another ten warriors were clustered between him and the door, but it would be a pleasure to smack Five Fists’ crooked face back straight, then whack it again to knock it out of alignment in the other direction.
“Let her pass,” Tonka’tzi Wind called as she appeared in Chunkey Boy’s doorway.
“But, Tonka’tzi. She’s a servant of the Underworld. There’s no telling what sort of trouble she might—”
“You’re a fool,” Night Shadow Star snapped. “Piasa doesn’t want the Morning Star in the Underworld any more than the rest of us do. Now get out of my way, or I’ll have the Red Wing move you.”
“I order you to stand down, War Leader,” Wind told Five Fists as she walked wearily up to the man. “Rides-the-Lightning has requested the lady’s presence.”
“It’s not over between us,” Five Fists whispered hotly as he stepped aside. Fire Cat glared into the old warrior’s eyes as he followed Night Shadow Star and Wind to the rear.
People packed the inside of the Morning Star’s opulent personal quarters: Rising Flame, Rides-the-Lightning, a bevy of well-known healers, several of the living god’s attendants, Wind, and a couple of warriors who were apparently standing guard.
“Clear the room,” Rides-the-Lightning called. “Lady Night Shadow Star and I must discuss things alone.”
Fire Cat stepped aside as the others funneled out, most of
them shooting him irritated glances.
“Lady?” he asked.
She raised a hand, flipping it to excuse him.
“Stay, Red Wing,” Rides-the-Lightning said in his reedy voice.
“Soul Flier?” Night Shadow Star asked in surprise.
“The Red Wing must hear what I have to say.”
She shot Fire Cat a curious glance, then stepped over to the bed, where Chunkey Boy lay flat on his back, arms to the side, a blanket covering him.
Fire Cat made a face, seeing his old enemy looking empty and vulnerable for the first time. The face paint had been wiped away, the man’s hair fixed, and his eyes covered with a damp cloth.
He really didn’t look like much without the regalia. Just an athletically muscled man in his twenties with pale and swollen lips.
“This is how you found him?” Night Shadow Star asked.
“No. He has been cared for.” Rides-the-Lightning reached over, removing the cloth to check the vacant and half-lidded eyes. “His souls were carried away as he was coupling with the Sky Hand girl. That’s how she distracted him.”
Night Shadow Star surprised Fire Cat when she said, “I know when it happened. I was dreaming when Piasa carried my souls to the Underworld. Piasa is enraged and not a little frightened.”
“I would guess he is,” Rides-the-Lightning agreed. “The Morning Star is a Sky being. A Power out of place in the Underworld.”
Fire Cat watched the unease in Night Shadow Star’s face as she said, “Piasa referred to it as an infection, one that will sicken the entire world.”
Rides-the-Lightning fixed his white eyes on Night Shadow Star, as if seeing into her souls. “The Morning Star’s Spirit must be removed from the Underworld. You understand that, don’t you?”
Her expression indicated distaste. “Somehow, Piasa thinks that I can bring him back.” She gestured her confusion. “Why does he think it’s up to me?”
“Because it is, Night Shadow Star.” Rides-the-Lightning looked anything but happy. “This is beyond my Power. Many times I have gone into the Underworld in search of lost souls. That is a matter of following a trace, passing the guardians, and bringing back a fully human soul. This, however, is ancient magic. Southern magic. The Morning Star’s Spirit has been bound in darkness by Sacred Moth. His Spirit is intoxicated with sacred nectar, and the two are in mortal combat. Sacred Moth seeks to devour Morning Star’s essence, tainted as it is with nectar. To resolve such a conflict is beyond my abilities.”
Night Shadow Star raised her hands in despair. “I have no training in such arts, Elder. I’ve barely survived my journeys to the Underworld as it is. You know how close I’ve come to losing my souls down there.”
Fire Cat nodded, his pulse quickening. Do not insist on this, old man. It’s a miracle that she’s still alive after the last time.
The old man turned his blind gaze on Chunkey Boy. “His body is barely alive. Unless the Morning Star’s essence is returned to the flesh within a matter of days, all is lost.”
“So if Chunkey Boy dies”—Fire Cat narrowed skeptical eyes at the old man—“won’t you just pick someone else and hold a resurrection? Isn’t one imposter as good as another?”
Night Shadow Star shot him a look of disbelief.
Rides-the-Lightning uttered a soft laugh, sadly shaking his head. “Forever the heretic, Red Wing? Would that it were that simple.”
As if Fire Cat’s remark were the deciding factor, Night Shadow Star said, “What do I have to do, Elder?”
“Go after him.”
“Lady?” Fire Cat asked, his anxiety rising. “The last time you took the datura—”
“You don’t believe, Red Wing,” she told him gently. “I do. It’s not your decision.” To Rides-the-Lightning she added, “I shall return to my palace, prepare the datura paste, and with luck … Why are you shaking your head?”
“This cannot be a soul journey, Lady. This time you must go in your physical body. Actually enter the Underworld in search of the Morning Star.”
“What?” Fire Cat cried. “How? Dig a hole and bury her?”
Night Shadow Star ignored him, her attention fixed on Rides-the-Lightning. She’d gone pale, a near panic in her eyes, asking, “The cave?”
“That’s right,” the old man told her. “It’s the only way.”
“What cave?” Fire Cat demanded, his fear rising. “What’s the only way?”
“The sacred caves,” she told him, in a reed-hollow voice. “I have to descend into the depths to start my search for the Morning Star’s Spirit.”
“The sacred caves?” Fire Cat asked, having heard of them for most of his life. “The ones off to the west, a hard day’s travel upriver from Evening Star Town?”
Rides-the-Lightning turned for the door, saying, “I shall have Five Fists issue the orders. Time is of the essence. How soon can you leave, Lady?”
Night Shadow Star’s eyes were liquid with fear as she shot a worried look at her brother’s limp body, and said, “As soon as I can dress for travel and collect the items I need.”
Thirty-six
Blue Heron blinked awake, wondering whether she had heard something. Pain speared through her head as if a bitted ax was embedded in its crown. Each beat of her heart was accompanied by a throbbing agony. Had she actually fallen asleep … or simply lost consciousness?
What was it about that sound that had awakened her?
Maybe it was her imagination. How could a person hear when she hurt like this?
No, it had been a sound—a soft scuffling and rasping.
Mouse, maybe? Or a packrat?
I’d give my life for a drink of water.
Her tongue filled her mouth like a piece of dried leather. She couldn’t swallow, could only gag, as she tried to stimulate saliva.
Her bruised cheek pressed against cold dirt, her left eye swollen closed. The length of her body—what she could feel of it—ached and throbbed. The rest felt of numb nothingness.
One of the Quiz Quiz had sneaked in last night just after dusk and started to beat her. He’d stuffed a cloth into her mouth and begun kicking with all his might. He had concentrated on her head and ribs, nothing held back as he smashed her time and time again.
By some bit of luck, the hollow thumps elicited with each impact had brought Winder. Then ensued a hot argument in Quiz Quiz as the burly Trader waved his arms, face a mask of fury.
In the end, the angry warrior had leaped onto the stepping post before vaulting out into the darkness. A string of what obviously were curses had marked his path.
“They blame you, you know,” Winder had told her as he knelt down and squinted at the blood dripping from her nose. “It’s your fault they had the Surveyors’ Bundle, then lost it. That their war leader was captured and tortured. That the War Medicine was stolen.”
She’d muffled a replay into the gag. The one he didn’t bother to remove.
And then he’d climbed out and closed the door, lashing it tightly to seal her in. She had heard him barking orders, and two men, apparently guards, had been placed outside. Periodically she’d heard them talk, or shift, and once she caught the faint odor of tobacco despite her blood-clotted nostrils.
That had been hands of time ago.
Now Blue Heron wondered how long she’d been comatose. Wished she was that way again. Her head was in the kind of agony that felt like her skull was fractured into shards. If the kicks to her head had broken her souls loose to float away, if they’d escaped the pain and were already headed for the Land of the Dead…?
Well, it would only be a matter of time before her heart stopped and the life soul faded from the broken husk of her body.
Everything hurt, especially breathing. How many of her ribs had the Quiz Quiz broken? Each time he’d kicked her, the blow had lofted her high enough that she’d bounced upon landing on the hard yellow clay.
When she inhaled, the odors of urine and feces mixed with the musky scent of damp soil and humid river air. The sm
ell made her nauseous. Each time she’d had the dry heaves since the beating, the pain had left her wheezing, and nothing but bile had come up to coat the back of her gag.
Several times she’d heard the twitter of the blue herons as they winged south, and several times huge flocks of geese had passed over. Close to the river. She had to be.
She tried to shift, and groaned.
Pus and blood, why don’t they just kill me?
In her fifty-some years, she had never been as ready for death.
She blinked, tried to open her puffy eye, and bent her head around just enough to see; the cracks around the roof were still night-black.
Again she heard the soft rasping.
Blinking in the darkness, she struggled to place the sound. She imagined it might have been that of a struggle: the soft thrashing of feet, followed by a choked rattle. But what could make that sort of—
A hollow clunk was followed by the whisper of wood on plaster. A square of lesser darkness appeared above where the door had been stealthily removed.
She sighed in weary defeat. The Quiz Quiz was back. He’d waited—bided his time, no doubt, until everyone was soundly asleep.
This time he’d kill her. Wouldn’t be so bad. The pain would be gone; her souls were already floating, the room spinning and blurry.
Please, let it be quick!
A dark form blocked the rectangle of light that marked the door. She heard a stealthy foot feel around for the stepping post, and then the man lowered himself to the floor.
Blue Heron’s heart raced.
Gods, so this is death.
It was one thing to intellectually embrace it; the souls, however, continued to panic and send fear burning through her battered muscles and bones.
She began to pant, laboring for air in spite of the lancing pain that made each expansion of her lungs agony.
That uncomfortable heat and prickle of fear-sweat traced patterns across her skin. The world seemed to fade.
“Shhh!” a voice cautioned from just over her head.
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