Flight of the Crow (The Southeast Series Book 2)

by Paul Clayton

  Green Bird Woman looked up at him and put her hand on his chest. “Give me a boy child. Then, if you still want to go, go.”

  Calling Crow frowned in thought. “I will do it.” His voice grew firm. “I will give you a boy child. Then I will go and all your tears and protestations will not stop me.”

  She wiped her eyes as she looked at him. “Will you stay until after the baby comes?”

  “Yes. I will not leave until the baby is in your arms.”

  “Good.” Green Bird Woman got to her feet and turned to the pot. With her back to him she said, “I will have Santee add some bear’s oil to the soup. It helps to make a boy child. We will start tonight.”

  Chapter 5

  Night’s thick black blanket covered the world when Calling Crow awoke from his dream. It was a troubling dream, for in it, he had embarked in a boat for the Spanish island to find Juana. Yet, in the waking world, he had moved no further than this village in the last three and a half moons. His promise to Green Bird Woman kept him here as solidly as Spanish chains had once held him. What was wrong, he wondered? Why didn’t Green Bird Woman’s belly begin to swell with a baby? They tried and tried, but still no baby!

  Calling Crow paused to listen to the soft breathing of Green Bird Woman, Santee and Bright Eyes. Satisfied that their spirits were now off in the nether world of sleep, he left the hut.

  Sea fog obscured the stars and darkness reigned. Mist beaded on Calling Crow’s face and hair as he moved through the dirt streets of Aguacay. His feet knew the way; they’d walked these streets many times already.

  Calling Crow froze as a dog growled. Recognizing his scent, it quieted and he moved on. Near the entrance to the village palisade, Kicking Dog and another sentry sat before a small fire. They gave Calling Crow an uninterested look as he passed through the opening in the timbered walls. At the path, he began running. He stopped at Maiden’s Creek and waded in. Splashing the cool water over himself, he washed away the dust of day and the sweat of night. His daily bath usually refreshed him, but not these days. Nothing seemed to bring him joy these days. Again he thought of the dream and he felt torn. He longed to be gone to find Juana, but he could not leave yet.

  Calling Crow climbed out of the creek. He would pray to Father Sun as he rose from the sea. Perhaps he would favor him with a vision.

  He walked up the grassy slope of Turtle Hill, the highest of the gently rounded hills that faced the sea. Sitting cross-legged at the summit, the sea breeze poured over him, moaning in his ear like a ghost as it moved his long hair with its cool fingers. He stared out into the sky that was still as black as the bottom of the sea. Once during an earlier vision Calling Crow had gone to the bottom of the sea. There, he had encountered his father’s spirit and the spirit of the good priest, Father Luis. He prayed for their guidance now.

  Calling Crow squeezed the skin medicine pouch that hung at his side and beseeched his spirit guides. Please give Green Bird Woman her child so he could be on his way.

  Black Crow,

  Black as the sea at night,

  Black as the pain inside me,

  Give me a sign.

  Why had he come this far, Calling Crow asked the blackness around him? Ghostly white waves rolled in steadily. Soon the thin blue line of the horizon appeared. Calling Crow prayed to the Jesus of the Spanish. Give them a boy child.

  A pale shape came out of the brush beside him. He did not see the rabbit as it fed close by. A gull sailed overhead, the movement of the air over its wings frightening the rabbit into flight. Calling Crow did not move. Time passed. The sea crashed against the earth, attacking, retreating, like enemy armies as the sky glowed with menace. The large red eye of Father Sun appeared over the great water. A tiny speck of matter, a wooden splinter was stuck in the eye? Calling Crow got to his feet and stared for several moments as his heart beat faster. It was a ship, close enough to land people before the sun set that day.

  Red Feather approached Calling Crow from behind. Calling Crow remained motionless as a tree and did not turn. Puzzled, Red Feather drew closer. Still Calling Crow did not move. Red Feather followed Calling Crow’s gaze out to sea. “What is it?” he said.

  “A ship,” said Calling Crow, his eyes fixed on the distant vessel.

  “What is a ship?” said Red Feather.

  “A Floating House. The Spanish people travel the sea in them. They are coming here.”

  “Aieyee!” said Red Feather, “are you certain?”

  Calling Crow said nothing as dark memories crowded into his head. Such a ship had taken him away from his people a long time ago. He remembered how, when a terrible storm struck the overcrowded ship, the Spanish threw many people into the sea to save themselves. Calling Crow had almost been one of them. Later, such a ship had taken Juana away from him when her belly was fairly bursting with their child.

  For a long time, Calling Crow did not move. Red Feather tapped him on the arm. “What should we do?”

  Calling Crow shook off the spell he was under. “We must tell Atina. There should be a council.”

  ***

  In the small, protected bay, the San Juan swayed gently at anchor under a blue sky filled with billowing cumulus clouds. One hundred and fifty seven citizens of the Spanish crown, former residents of the city of Santo Domingo on the island of Hispaniola in the Caribbean sea, crowded her decks as they waited anxiously to be off-loaded onto the shores. Up in the crow’s nest, the height of the mast multiplied the slight motion of the hull five-fold and Senor Rodrigo de Peralta, leader of the settlement, had to hold tightly to the railing. Middle-aged, Peralta was a medium-sized man, trim, with sharply defined features. He wore a black mustache and a goatee which jutted out smartly. His keen eyes swept the shore line. Fields of sawgrass grew down from the sides of the little forested hills to the beach. Two streams cut through the fields as they made their way to the sea. They would provide plenty of fresh drinking water and, Peralta hoped, the shell fish that these lands were known for-- oysters so big that they had to be cut into quarters to be swallowed, and crayfish as big as dinner plates.

  Peralta frowned as he thought of their food stocks. A storm had forced the other ship to turn back, the ship that carried the soldiers that would guard them, and worse, all of their livestock and most of the grain. The storm had also forced salt water into the seams of the San Juan and the corn they carried was now encrusted with mold. To make matters worse, the first supply ship would not arrive for six months.

  Peralta looked down past his feet at the people milling about on the deck. They were all devout Catholic people and, like himself, mostly Hispaniola-born criollos. There were also mestizos, the fruit of the New World marriage of Spanish and Indian, a few Arawak Indians from the island of Hispaniola, and one black servant. They all longed to start a new life here. Hispaniola had, of late, become a crowded, bustling, sometimes lawless place, where too many shopkeepers, tradesmen, lawyers and soldier-adventurers went about their business without any regard for the Sabbath or the holy days. But, worse than that, another evil commerce now flourished there as a result of the licentiousness of the soldiers. Peralta’s anger grew as he recalled one of these vile women calling to him in a solicitous way from her balcony. Well, he and the other founders had promised the people below a new beginning in a new colony of the crown. Here they would live like proper, Catholic Spanish and prosper in this new land. For four years they had worked toward this goal, petitioning and planning. Now, despite their problems, they would finally take possession of it.

  The wind blew warm and balmy, despite the fact that they were far to the north of the island of Hispaniola. It was almost August. Peralta wondered what winter would bring here, but did not think it would be too bad. They would have to get what was left of the corn into the ground, he thought, immediately. They would harvest it in ninety days or so, he hoped, before it got cold here.

  Try as he could, Peralta could spot no sign of human activity on the shores. He looked at the highest of the fores
ted, gently rounded hills. Someone could be up there now, he realized, looking down at them. He wondered if there were heathens living on the other side of these hills. He hoped there were, and that they were not hostiles, for the community would need to trade for food, and quickly. He mentally tallied the truk they had on board for that purpose. It didn’t amount to much-- beads, hawk’s bells, mirrors, but from all the reports he had received, the heathens were poor traders and knew not the value of things.

  He followed the shore north with his eyes and wondered where the invading French Protestants were living. Just before the expedition had sailed they had received word that the French Heretics had settled somewhere on this coast further to the north, despite the fact that the Pope had explicitly given these lands to the Spanish Crown. Back on the island of Hispaniola, the governor was already in the process of commissioning a ship to locate them.

  A large swell lifted the ship, whipping the mast back and forth across the sky and Peralta became dizzy. Looking at the weather-beaten wood of the mast to steady himself, he began climbing down. Reaching the deck, he heard a commotion and went to the rail. A boat had just left the ship. The oarsmen pulled with vigor, as if eager to once again walk on firm, dry land. People already moved about on the beach as they waited for the landing ceremony and mass. Peralta pushed through the crowd to find Father Tomas. He spotted the priest’s wide-brimmed black hat up on the poop deck. Juana the Arawak Indian woman was, of course, at his side. Juana was small, with a well-proportioned figure and a pretty face. Despite himself, even Peralta was struck by her beauty. Deeply religious, she had become more attached to the priest than his own shadow.

  Peralta waved to Tomas and walked over to discuss the prayers and the ceremony. They would have to be strong and stirring, for they were in for a trial and would need much courage and faith to survive.

  ***

  Black Snake, Running Wolf and three other bravos hurried up Turtle Hill to see the floating house that Calling Crow had told Atina and the old men about. At the summit, they knelt among the trees and stared out in awe at the giant thing floating on the water. On the beach, the strange white people swarmed back and forth like ants as they pulled and carried baskets and bundles. Some of their women were already busy weaving palm-thatch roofs for dwellings. Running Wolf’s ugly face frowned in curiosity. He studied them as if they were a plague of hungry grasshoppers he would later be charged with rubbing out. Black Snake’s face was hard with anger. He longed to rush out upon the invaders with many bravos and drive them back into the sea. But he was forbidden to do anything until the council met. He marveled at the multitude of colors these people wore, the calabash-like things they balanced on their heads, the strange baskets they rushed about with, and especially the long sticks the men held at the ready, as if medicine to ward off danger.

  Two small canoes with skins hanging down from poles came and went from the big floating house to the beach until many things littered the sand. Finally the white people gathered for a ceremony of some kind, led by a gray-haired man in a black robe. Black Snake and the others said nothing as they watched. The people rose at the conclusion of the ceremony. Black Snake turned to his brother Running Wolf and the others.

  “Come. We go back now for the council.”

  Chapter 6

  The pounding of the drums pulled the people of Aguacay through the streets and toward the square ground. Calling Crow watched them from outside Green Bird Woman’s hut. After a while Green Bird Woman went inside and Calling Crow watched alone. Clusters of naked little ones walked hand in hand, watched by women carrying pots and bundles. Older boys in groups of twos and threes ran past as they shouted and fought mock battles. Red Feather passed, carrying Sees Far on his back. Sees Far’s two wives walked behind, talking animatedly. All of them were so excited that they did not notice Calling Crow. He felt a sadness. Even though he planned on leaving this village, he saw these people every day and knew what many of them were called. Most of them were good people. But at this most important time, they still did not yet think of him as People. Some of them thought he was an evil spirit. Now they were in great danger and they would not let him help them. Soon the streets were empty.

  A flight of ducks passed overhead on their way to their feeding grounds. Calling Crow watched them, wishing that he, too, could fly. He would fly away from this place and resume his search for Juana and their child.

  The drumming increased in tempo and Calling Crow thought of the impending council. The cacique, Atina, would want to attack the Spanish. Calling Crow felt bad about that, knowing that in the long run, the Coosa would suffer the most. He looked at the mud-smoothed, cane-walled huts and thought of other villages he had seen burned to the ground. He decided that even if he could not help the village with his knowledge of the Spanish, at least he would attempt to convince Green Bird Woman to go to the village of Cuchogunde, which was the farthest village from the sea. After he had left this place, he did not want to have to think of her and Bright Eyes as slaves.

  Calling Crow saw some men running toward him. The lopsided gait of one identified him as Rain Cloud. He was followed by four younger bravos. Red Feather had told Calling Crow that an enemy’s arrow had smashed into Rain Cloud’s knee when he was a young warrior. Despite the prayers and ministrations of Sees Far and another medicine man, the knee remained frozen, giving Rain Cloud his distinctive limp. Rain Cloud, middle-aged, was the leader of the Fox warrior society. Red Feather’s deceased father had also belonged to this society and when the time came, Red Feather would be inducted into it.

  As the men neared, Calling Crow wondered what they wanted. Perhaps Red Feather or his grandfather, Sees Far, had spoken well of him and that was why they were here.

  Rain Cloud’s big belly shook as he slowed to a walk. The men nodded a greeting and Rain Cloud grasped Calling Crow’s hand, which was the way Coosa males of high rank greeted each other. “How are Green Bird Woman and her daughter Bright Eyes?”

  “They are well,” said Calling Crow. “Why have you come?”

  “The elders have sent out bravos to watch the hairfaces. While they are gone, selected bravos will participate in the black drink ceremony. Then they and the council will meet to discuss the hairfaces and what to do about them. The elders have chosen you to attend.”

  Calling Crow frowned. If he acquitted himself well during the black drink ceremony they might allow him to speak to Atina and the council of Old Men. Perhaps he could talk them out of an attack.

  “Will you come?” said Rain Cloud. “They are readying the black drink now.” The black drink was made from a local shrub and used to purify those seeking visions or going into battle. It was very powerful and dangerous, sometimes causing convulsions and death.

  “Yes,” said Calling Crow, “I will come.” He went into the hut and took his bow and quiver from the peg on the wall. Green Bird Woman watched proudly as he looped them over his shoulder.

  At the square ground in front of the great council house, many young boys talked and gestured as they strained for a look at the throng of bravos sitting in a circle. At three different fires, medicine women heated rocks and dropped them into stone pots full of boiling black drink. All around, old men and boys pounded on every drum the village owned.

  In the gathering dusk, Calling Crow sat with Rain Cloud and the others, his legs drawn up in front of him. As he waited, his heart took on the beat of the drums, the pulse of the village. His own people used black drink in their ceremonies and he had used it several times. An emetic, it caused vomiting, but afterward left one in a state of spiritual pureness, an empty vessel into which dreams and visions poured. He wondered what it would show him. There would be much resistance to listening to a stranger. But he must speak and they must listen. The Spanish were like a newly discovered, brightly colored, poisonous snake. And like ignorant children, the Coosa would be drawn to them, intrigued by them. Calling Crow must make the Coosa understand how dangerous the Spanish were.

 
A maiden knelt before Calling Crow with a conch shell of black drink. As Calling Crow lifted the shell to his lips, he sang a prayer to the white clouds and blue sky reflected on the black drink’s surface. The black drink entered his insides like fire. The drums grew louder and Calling Crow felt as if they were inside him. Two bravos in front of him got up and staggered out of the circle, vomiting violently into a pit that had been dug for that purpose.

  Calling Crow held the drink in as long as he could, wanting to cleanse himself completely. Santee brought him another shell of drink and he drank it fast, scalding his mouth. His insides boiled, but he remained sitting. Many bravos hung onto one another as they leaned over the pits, coughing and choking. Calling Crow waited till they staggered off before getting to his feet. Slowly and with great difficulty, he walked as visions swam before his eyes. Just as he reached the pit his stomach erupted. As he headed toward the council house, a bravo blocked his way. The man’s eyes were wild and blood ran from his mouth and down his chest. He looked at Calling Crow as if they were related, then he stumbled and fell on his face. He shuddered and was still. Several women rushed forward and dragged him away.

  Calling Crow headed back to the circle. Black Snake appeared in front of him. Black Snake had long wanted Green Bird Woman for himself. His look told Calling Crow as much now as he held Calling Crow’s eye challengingly. He brought a calabash of black drink to his lips and drank, much of it running down his chin. Then he stumbled away into the growing darkness at the edge of the fires.

  Calling Crow looked around. Most of the bravos were on the ground. He must keep to his feet, he thought. He would gain much stature if he were the last one on his feet.

  A pretty maiden brought Calling Crow another calabash of steaming black drink. He held it high for all to see and drank it slowly. The maiden smiled. When he finished she ran a water-soaked doe skin across his brow to cool him. As she melted back into the darkness he thought he saw the angry face of Green Bird Woman watching them. Calling Crow blinked in confusion but saw only the dancing bodies. He moved toward the hut. Everything fell away and he found himself in the forest alone. He felt strange, as if he were being led along by an invisible hand. It took him down a forest path. There were none of the usual night sounds, just the trod of his bare feet on crisp fallen leaves. He came upon a dying panther. Unable to raise its head, it lay on its side, covered with blood from many wounds. Its breathing was labored as it watched him warily out of one red eye. Then it lay still.