Calling Crow Nation (The Southeast Series Book 3)

by Paul Clayton

  Sees Far shook his turtle-shell rattle as the attendant poured a calabash of water over the rocks. Steam engulfed the men and they gave themselves up to Sees Far’s chanted prayers. “Oh, Great Mystery,” the old man’s brittle voice cried out, “we humbly pray you will honor us with a vision.” Time seemed to stand still as the heat built in the house and Sees Far sang the prayers. The seekers prayed silently as the attendant tended the rocks and poured water. Once, someone cried out in the mist, like a child crying for its mother, and then the hot silence again wrapped itself around them.

  Later, upon receiving word from Sees Far, the attendants took the rocks away and the air began to clear. No one said anything for a while. Red Feather stood without a word and exited the sweat house. After a while Swordbrought spoke to Samuel.

  “My father will be going to England with you, along with one other brave.”

  “Why doesn’t he send one of his men in his place?” said Samuel. “That is what Red Feather and others want.”

  “A long time ago he had a vision of himself going on this voyage. That is why.”

  Calling Crow called over to Samuel. “Samuel, did you have a vision?”

  Samuel shook his head. “I was thinking of my son who died of fever. I could see his face and hear his voice. I don’t know why God took him from us, or what I did to be punished so. I still pray to know why.”

  Calling Crow’s eyes conveyed his sympathy. “I, too, have suffered such a loss. But why one dies as a babe and another lives to be a very old man, no one can know these things. They are simply part of the Great Mystery.”

  “No, he was not a babe. He was five years old and strong, and then he took sick with a fever. He shouldn’t have died.”

  Calling Crow and the others were silent.

  Samuel stared at his feet. He admired these dusty-colored men who seemed so content with their simple lives. He had even thought he might get some solace from their sweat bath. Logically, he knew that the effect could be no more than the heated blood putting pressure on the brain. After all, an ignorant plowman sweats buckets during the course of his day and that certainly didn’t make him holy, or even less crude. Still, because of Calling Crow’s childlike belief, he had been willing to try it. But all he had gotten for his efforts were painful memories.

  Samuel got to his feet and left the sweat house. As he walked down the hard-packed, earthen street, his head felt empty, devoid of all thought. A warm wind had come up while they were in the sweat house and now swept across the land. Samuel stopped to stare at a large, ancient poplar tree across the fields. It was the biggest tree in the area and its long branches moved in the wind like waving arms, its leaves and flowers whipping about like a head of hair tossed wildly in a dance. The sight cheered Samuel, blowing away the last vestiges of his sadness like so many dried-up leaves. He saw the tree as alive, as alive as a friendly dog, as a bird, as alive as he, and the realization thrilled him. He was suddenly aware of Calling Crow standing beside him.

  “I can see the life in it,” said Samuel in amazement.

  “Yes,” said Calling Crow, “do you love it?”

  Samuel turned back to watch the tree. “Love it? I don’t know-- But the sight of it dancing so fills me with joy.”

  “If you love it, it will ease your heart,” said Calling Crow, “such is the power of the Great Mystery.”

  Several little boys ran up to Samuel and Calling Crow. Their eyes were wide and playful as they looked at the Englishman. Samuel thought he heard someone call his name in the distance and turned away. When he turned back, Calling Crow was walking away toward the chokafa. The boys spoke to Samuel rapidly in Muskogee, one of them tugging at his sword. He growled playfully at the boy and he and his fellows laughed as they backed away.

  Samuel smelled something sweetly familiar in the air-- What? He felt compelled to walk in the direction of the river. Pollen filled the air as Samuel walked the village streets toward the palisade. He left the palisade entrance and walked down the path to the river. When he reached the river path, he thought he heard someone behind him. He walked away from the direction in which the skiff would be. Someone had been along here; he was sure of it. It was very hot and the air was awash with the fecund smells of the river and flowering trees. A noise came from ahead, but Samuel saw nothing. Intrigued, he walked faster. Still nothing. He continued a bit farther and was on the point of turning around when again he heard a noise. He paused for a moment. There it was-- a gentle splashing. He pushed through the bushes and came out to one of the small streams that fed the river. Bright Eyes was bathing naked in a pool about waist high.

  She saw him, but made no move to cover herself as she continued to bathe. “Why are you here?” she said.

  “I don’t know.” To see her thus, in all her nakedness, he knew was an abominable sin, totally contrary to his faith. Yet he could not look or walk away; his feet seemed to have taken root. “I said I would stay away from you.” he said, “but I cannot.”

  She said nothing and his eyes poured over her with a great hunger. She was the most beautiful woman in the world, a colorful, exotic New World flower. He fought against her attraction but she was like the call of an alehouse to a drunk. “I cannot!” he cried.

  She looked up at him in confusion.

  “I cannot,” he said again, but he made no move to leave. This was the garden; she was Eve, he Adam. He put his head in his hands and cried. “Why do you tempt me so?”

  She said nothing and appeared concerned for him as he approached the pool. He looked down at her, her brown body pulling him closer. Her eyes beckoned. He took off his shirt and boots and breeches and entered the slightly cool water. He took her in his arms. She sighed, rubbing the smooth skin of her face against his ear. He entered her and they moved against each other gently and lovingly. After a while an animal lust came over them and their movements became hurried and rhythmic. Holding to each other, they rode the beast of their passion to its conclusion, spinning off into eternity.

  Chapter 15

  John Newman watched Breuger and Miles prepare the load of skins for transport to the ship. Miles knelt as he tied the bundles tightly with cord. The back of his green linen shirt was stained darkly with sweat. He and Breuger then tied the bundles to willow poles as big around as a man’s wrist. These would enable two bearers to carry each heavy bundle. When they had finished, Miles and Breuger stood and looked at John.

  “Where did my brother go?” said John.

  Miles turned away momentarily to Breuger, who was making a joke, then looked quickly back at John. “He’s with the king and the old blind beggar of a priest in their sweat house.”

  Breuger scowled. “What a vile and disgusting thing that is.” A smile appeared on his thin lips. “Samuel certainly does put himself through much in his quest for commerce, does he not?”

  John’s look was cold and Breuger’s smile withered. “Never mind that.” John turned away from Breuger to inspect the four bundles of stiff skins. “Is that all of it now?” he asked Miles.

  Miles nodded.

  Nearby, a group of Coosa men stood waiting. Crying Wolf was among them. Crying Wolf now knew some of the Englishmen’s words and listened to their talk. One of the men pointed back toward the village. Swordbrought was coming. “The prince comes!” one of the Englishmen said.

  Crying Wolf had never heard this word before. Some of the Englishmen had been disrespectful and so his suspicions were aroused. “What is ‘prince’?” he demanded of Brother-of-Samuel.

  The man answered too rapidly for Crying Wolf to understand any of his words.

  Swordbrought walked up to Crying Wolf. “What is the matter?” he said.

  “What is the word ‘prince’?” said Crying Wolf.

  Swordbrought frowned. “I am not sure. I will ask them.” Swordbrought spoke at some length with Brother-of-Samuel, then turned back to Crying Wolf. “He said that a prince is the son of a great chief, and that he is given the chief’s power when the chief d
ies.”

  “Aieyee!” said Crying Wolf. “You are no prince! The chief is chosen in council. Tell him!”

  Swordbrought turned to the taller brave. “I have already told him.”

  Crying Wolf glared at John Newman. “No prince!” he shouted. “Swordbrought is no prince.”

  John ignored him and spoke to Swordbrought. “Are you in charge of this bunch?” he said.

  Swordbrought nodded and looked at the men from the village that would carry for the English. His father had asked him to go with them and the English. Swordbrought was a fast learner and now knew much of the English language. There had been complaints from some of the villagers about the behavior of the Englishmen and Calling Crow wanted to be sure that there would be no trouble. Swordbrought remembered the sight of the Timucua and the stacked boxes of shooting sticks and knew his father was right. If the Coosa people were to stay here, they needed shooting sticks, and if they were to have them, they needed the English. Still, Swordbrought dreaded the thought of his father and Red Feather going off with the skins on the English ship. His father insisted that he was going because he had seen it in his vision, but Swordbrought knew he was going because he was very brave.

  Swordbrought called to the men to hoist the bundles. There were seven men; Red Feather had picked them and hadn’t thought they would need more than that. But there were four heavy bundles, and for that they would need eight men to carry.

  Crying Wolf stood at the pole of the last bundle, which still remained on the ground. One of the men called over to Swordbrought, “Should I get another man to help?”

  Swordbrought shook his head and walked over to John Newman. “We don’t have enough men,” he said. He pointed to the last bundle.

  John Newman nodded and turned to speak to the frail Englishman who was called Miles. From Miles’s words, and from his expression, Swordbrought could tell he thought the task beneath him. Miles looked around at the other man, who was called Breuger, and smiled at some joke between them.

  Miles walked to the forward end of the pole attached to the bundle, and together with Crying Wolf, lifted it and set it on his shoulder. Miles spoke with John and Breuger. The Englishmen seemed jovial to Swordbrought, but their words left their mouths too quickly for him to understand what they were saying. They started toward the river trail.

  The Englishmen, John and Breuger, walked at the head of the column. Swordbrought followed along behind Crying Wolf and Miles. The walk started off well, the bearers in front maintaining a steady pace. Swordbrought watched the bundle of skins sway slightly from the pole that Crying Wolf and Miles carried as the two very different men settled into the same rhythm. It was very hot, the air full of the smell of flowers and the pungent, muddy aroma of the river. No one spoke. Cicadas ground out a steady chant. The faraway groan of a bull alligator floated through the still air. After a while Swordbrought could see that the Englishman Miles was tiring and having a hard time with the pace. He had lost Crying Wolf’s rhythm and the bundle of skins now jerked and swayed awkwardly beneath the pole. Once Miles slipped in the mud while descending a slight slope and cursed at Crying Wolf, accusing the Coosa brave of pushing him.

  Nearing the English skiff, they left the trail and forged through the bushes. Miles was very tired, stumbling and cursing. Pushing through some thick ferns, he carelessly let a springy branch swing back to hit Crying Wolf in the face. Crying Wolf angrily tore the branch away as they approached the tied-up skiff. They lowered the heavy bundles to the ground and Miles sighed gratefully, wiping the sweat from his brow.

  Swordbrought stood and watched while Crying Wolf went to stand with the other Coosa bearers. John touched Crying Wolf and another bearer on the shoulder and indicated that they should load the first bundle onto the skiff. Crying Wolf and the other man slipped the pole out of the cords and carefully lifted the awkward bundle up onto the skiff’s gunnels. Crying Wolf held it in place while the other man climbed aboard. Then Crying Wolf got into the skiff and they carried it forward. Two more were loaded this way.

  “Miles,” John called loudly. He pointed at the last of the bundles. “You and Breuger get the last one. Put it just aft of theirs and check that the load is well placed so that the skiff does not upset in the surf.”

  Miles and Breuger picked up the heavy bundle and hoisted it onto the skiff. Miles climbed aboard while Breuger stood in the waist-high water, steadying the load. Then Breuger climbed aboard and they wrestled the bundle forward. As Crying Wolf and the other man were attempting to leave the skiff, Miles clumsily, but not intentionally, bumped into Crying Wolf, knocking him backward. Crying Wolf went over the side and splashed into the water.

  Breuger and Miles set their bundle down.

  Swordbrought called up to them. “You knocked him into the water.”

  Miles’s face was red but he was smiling. “It was an accident; there was no room”.

  “Then why do you smile?” said Swordbrought.

  Miles shook his head. “Aw, to hell with him, and you too.”

  Breuger and Miles laughed.

  Crying Wolf had regained his footing by this time and was pushing through the water. His face compressed in anger, he reached over the gunnels and grabbed Miles by the shirt.

  “No, Crying Wolf,” shouted Swordbrought, “you must not.”

  Oblivious to everything but his rage, Crying Wolf pulled Miles into the water. By the time the Englishman found his feet and rose, sputtering and coughing, Crying Wolf’s axe was already in his hand and rising. Swordbrought plunged into the water. He twisted Crying Wolf’s arm around behind him, causing him to drop the axe. Miles staggered up the muddy bank as the other Englishmen stood ready upon the skiff, their swords drawn.

  Swordbrought relaxed his grip on Crying Wolf’s arm and the brave broke free, retrieving his axe from the muddy bottom. Turning, he glared hatefully at Swordbrought.

  Swordbrought met his look. “Calling Crow said there was to be no fighting.”

  Crying Wolf backed away and climbed the muddy bank.

  “Let’s go,” said John Newman as he took his place at the rear of the skiff. Miles and Breuger sat at the oars. Saying nothing, they rowed off, and as the skiff disappeared around the bend in the river, their harsh laughter floated back along the black water.

  Chapter 16

  Bright Eyes walked into the water of the small stream that was her bathing place. The beaver people had built a dam above and the clear, cool water was waist deep. Bright Eyes had worked most of the morning in the corn, pulling bores from the tender green plants, and this bath was most refreshing. As she wiped the cool water across her belly, she thought about the tiny thing that was now growing in there. She had already told Samuel, thinking that perhaps now he would not go back to England. He had said that he must, but that he would return. She believed him; after all, her father was going with him to bring back the shooting sticks.

  She remembered the ugly, frightening face of the Timucua chief and felt a chill. She got out of the water and picked up her things. She had only just finished pulling her skirt around her when she heard someone coming. She was about to run when she saw that it was Red Feather.

  Her relief was evident as she smiled shyly at the man her father had chosen for his tastanagi. “Oh, it is you.”

  Red Feather’s face brightened with hope. “Hello, Bright Eyes.” He pulled around the skin bag he carried over his shoulder and took a wrapped bundle from it. “It is venison.”

  Bright Eyes’s initial impulse was to reach for it, but she did not. She saw the awkwardness her inaction was causing Red Feather, but still she could not take it. She began to grow angry at his coming here. He could have waited until she had returned to the village and there were others around to offer his gift.

  “I was blessed on our hunt,” he said, extending the wrapped piece of meat to her.

  Bright Eyes still would not take it.

  Red Feather looked at her, the slightest quiver about his eyes giving away the intensi
ty of his feelings. “You and your mother will enjoy this.”

  She didn’t like to see this proud man her father had personally trained behave this way, but neither would she allow herself to be pushed. She had chosen the Englishman, Samuel, despite his strange behavior, and Red Feather knew this. Still he pursued her.

  “We already have more than we need, Red Feather. Perhaps you should give it to someone who is sick or old.” Bright Eyes surprised herself when she said this.

  Red Feather’s face grew dark. He put the meat back into the bag and went away.

  Bright Eyes hurried to the village and her meeting with her mother. She felt sorry for Red Feather but she was angry too. She had decided! Anyone with eyes in their head could see that. No amount of gift giving would change her mind.

  Calling Crow sat in the house of Green Bird Woman and stared into the fire. Not far away, his wife and daughter talked quietly as they cooked at another fire. Calling Crow had heard Bright Eyes tell her mother of Red Feather’s gift, and his reaction when Bright Eyes refused it. But he was not concerned. Very soon they would leave for England. Over there, Red Feather would not be suddenly saddened by the chance sight of Bright Eyes. And when they came back, there would be fighting, and Red Feather would lose his sadness in the thrill of battle.

  Outside, a thick, starless sky engulfed the world. Out on the sea, the English ship was rising and falling on the swells like a gull, waiting to take them and their skins. It had been two moons now since they had agreed on the trade and started collecting the skins. It was good that they were now ready, for, with the exception of Samuel, Fenwick, the old silver-haired iron maker, and a few young men, the English were rude and arrogant to his people. Many people were glad that they were now ready to go away. The exceptions were the four young women who were now ripening with children sired by the Englishmen. Bright Eyes was one of them. These Englishmen had promised to return with Calling Crow and the shooting sticks, but that could not assuage the young women’s sadness. The others who did not want to see the English go were the old people and the young children. The English had given them much to see and hear, and much to talk about.