by Paul Clayton
Collier felt a great discomfort as Newman’s eyes probed his own. Finally, Newman looked down again at the scrap of cloth he held in his hand.
“I will keep this,” he said.
“Of course, m’lord. I have no use for it.”
Newman rolled the cloth up and put it in his pocket. They turned to go outside.
“M’lord,” said Collier, “if I may be so bold as to inquire, what are these savages to you?”
Newman looked off into the blackness. “None of your bloody business. Just light the way back to my horse and I’ll be leaving.”
Chapter 26
Crying Wolf had seen the terrain change dramatically the last few days as the trail turned north and west, rising in elevation. There were no more palmetto, and the pines were taller, more straight. The earth was drier and Crying Wolf’s feet hurt from the many rocks underfoot. Dust rose in the hot air, stinging his nostrils and throat. He bore his fatigue with disdain, however, for soon this business would be over. Swordbrought had put up a strenuous pace and any other brave would have fallen behind, but he, Crying Wolf, had kept up. Now they had traveled far enough away from the village. As soon as he caught up with Swordbrought, he would take the peace pipe away from him.
Crying Wolf ran faster, noticing the distant, smoke-colored mountains visible through a cut in the tree line. A racket came from a nearby hickory as a pair of squirrels argued over something. They disappeared up a branch when they saw him.
Crying Wolf stopped suddenly. There was no longer any trace of Swordbrought’s passage. He had slipped off the trail a ways back and Crying Wolf had not noticed.
Crying Wolf turned, his neck hairs rising. Had Swordbrought discovered that he was being followed? Had he circled around to come up behind him? Crying Wolf stared back the way he had come. The forest was quiet, empty. Crying Wolf smiled. Swordbrought had not discovered him. He had probably stopped to make camp for the night. That was more likely.
Crying Wolf started back the way he had come, searching for the place where Swordbrought had left the trail. He would find him, and, if need be, kill him. Then he, Crying Wolf, would go to Cussitaw Town and bring back the Muskogee braves.
Swordbrought sat on a flat rock in a small clearing, eating the last of the dried meat Green Bird Woman had given him. He heard a noise behind and turned, reaching quietly for his bow. Nocking an arrow, he watched the bushes at the edge of the clearing. There it was again, a quiver of movement in the bushes. Swordbrought pulled the vane of the arrow back to his cheek. There was a swish of movement and a large rabbit pushed through into the clearing.
Swordbrought smiled as he relaxed the tension in the bow. Brother rabbit, he thought, thank you for the offering. I would love to have you for my dinner tonight, but I cannot light a fire to cook you. I don’t know what people live in this place and I don’t want to be discovered.
The rabbit looked at Swordbrought, still not seeing him. Then it raised its nose to sniff the air. Swordbrought suddenly thought of the trickster rabbit stories he had heard as a child and he remembered the village’s sacred pipe behind him. Was this rabbit tricking him, distracting him?
Swordbrought turned round and his heart sank. The tall, muscled form of Crying Wolf stood a few feet away. He cradled the sacred pipe bundle in his arms as he smiled down at Swordbrought.
“You shouldn’t leave this unguarded, little man.”
“Put it down,” said Swordbrought.
Crying Wolf pulled the bundle close to his chest. “Put down that bow first.”
Swordbrought put his bow on the ground.
Crying Wolf looked at Swordbrought in annoyance. “I was going to kill you just now, Swordbrought. It would have been so easy. But you are not a bad person, and so I will spare you. We are very far from our village. You can go away now and no one will ever know what happened here. I will say that I came upon your body and that I took the pipe and went on. Do you understand? If you don’t do as I say and go away, I will kill you.”
Swordbrought’s chest swelled as his rage grew. He got to his feet. “It is you who will be killed, Crying Wolf.” Swordbrought pulled his stone axe from his belt. “The people chose me to take the pipe to Cussitaw Town. And I will.”
Crying Wolf laughed. He looked down reverentially at the doeskin-covered pipe bundle in his arms, rocking it slowly as if it were a baby. “They should never have entrusted the village’s medicine pipe to one as careless and weak as you.” He carefully lowered the bundle to the rock and stood.
Crying Wolf took his club from his belt. “I give you one more chance, Swordbrought. Go away and you can live.”
Swordbrought’s eyes narrowed in anger. The arrogance of his former friend had grown huge and grotesque. “No, Crying Wolf. I give you a chance to put an end to all of this. Go away now and I will say nothing of this when I return to the village.”
Crying Wolf laughed with contemp. “You will not return.” He screamed out his war cry.
Swordbrought threw himself to the side, barely escaping the powerful swing of Crying Wolf’s club. Swordbrought swung his axe around and Crying Wolf parried the blow with his longer reach. The two men circled and lunged, their muscles taut as their feet threw up a small cloud of dust into the hot air. Swordbrought’s foot turned on a small rock and he lost his balance. Crying Wolf lunged and swung, his club grazing Swordbrought’s shoulder. Pain flooded through Swordbrought, but he managed to dance away from the flurry of blows that quickly followed. The two men continued to circle as they eyed each other fiercely.
Swordbrought’s breathing was ragged and his shoulder raged in pain as he faced the bigger brave. Crying Wolf feinted a lunge and Swordbrought jumped sideways. Crying Wolf laughed with a triumphant howl. “Look around, little man. This is where you will die.”
Swordbrought felt his strength slipping away, while Crying Wolf seemed to be getting stronger. Swordbrought prayed to the hawk spirit for medicine help. He must prevail for his people, for his village! A moment later Swordbrought thought he heard the flight of a swift hawk coming to his aid. It passed a hair’s breadth from his head. It was not a bird, however, but an arrow. And it had raced past him and buried itself deep in Crying Wolf’s thigh.
Crying Wolf grunted in pain. He dropped his club and fell backward as if dead. Swordbrought whirled about. A tall, wild-looking man with a bow slung over his shoulder was running swiftly toward them. Wearing a breechclout, the man had a thick tuft of hair running from the front to the back of his head.
Swordbrought bent and held up the medicine pipe bundle for the man to see. “You!” he shouted. “I bring the pipe of peace!”
The man screamed unintelligibly and continued to come on.
What kind of man was this that didn’t understand speech? Swordbrought quickly set the pipe bundle down as the man kept coming. Swordbrought hefted his axe and braced himself.
Screaming out a war cry, the stranger hoisted a crude wooden club and leapt.
The man’s club nicked Swordbrought’s head, dazing him. Swordbrought felt the man’s hands close around his neck. His stink filled Swordbrought’s nostrils as they fell backward, the man’s body taking the brunt of the fall. They both got quickly to their feet and circled, looking for advantage. Already exhausted from his fight with Crying Wolf, Swordbrought moved too slow and one of the man’s swings slashed a bloody scrape across Swordbrought’s chest. Reacting with fury, Swordbrought lunged and the bigger man backed up, tripping over Crying Wolf’s outstretched leg. Swordbrought wondered fleetingly if Crying Wolf had moved as the wild man fell backward to a sitting position. Swordbrought rushed forward and brought his axe down on the top of the man’s head. The stranger’s closed eyelids quivered spasmodically as blood ran down his face. He pitched forward and was still.
Swordbrought’s breath was ragged as he looked down on the dead man. He looked over at Crying Wolf, who was moving and moaning, his face twisted in pain. Swordbrought helped him up and Crying Wolf tried to pull the arrow from his thi
gh. The tip had passed all the way through and stuck out the other side.
“Did you stick out your leg?” Swordbrought asked him angrily.
Crying Wolf looked at Swordbrought and then back at the arrow. “What, little man?”
Swordbrought pointed angrily to the dead man. “Did you trip him?”
Crying Wolf grimaced in pain as he looked at the dead man. He looked back up at Swordbrought. “You killed him, eh? Now you can kill me, too, little man.”
Angry shouting and the sound of barking dogs came from the distance. Swordbrought couldn’t see any more of the strange men, but he knew more of them would be here at any moment. He looked back down at Crying Wolf and a great anger filled him. Had Crying Wolf tripped the wild man, cheating Swordbrought of a victory? It would have been better to have died than for that to have happened. Still, Crying Wolf said he had not. Swordbrought would have to believe him.
Swordbrought carefully picked up the pipe bundle and started away. He stopped. Despite the anger and suspicion that was in his heart, he couldn’t leave Crying Wolf behind. He went back and knelt beside him. Swordbrought snapped the front of the arrow off and Crying Wolf grabbed him involuntarily, hissing in pain.
“Help me over to that rock there,” said Crying Wolf weakly, “I don’t want to be lying on the ground when they come.”
Swordbrought helped him to his feet. Crying Wolf exhaled with a hiss as pain rippled across his features. Swordbrought walked slowly with him, past the rock.
“There,” said Crying Wolf, “help me sit.”
Swordbrought shook his head, “No! It’ll not be said that I left a Coosa brave behind to be slaughtered. Even one such as you.”
Shame darkened Crying Wolf’s face. “You must, Swordbrought. You will have to run. Remember, the village must get help from Cussitaw Town.”
“Yes,” said Swordbrought. He looked over at the almost naked, dirt encrusted body of the wild man. “Come. We will find a place to hide before his companions get here.”
They went as quickly as they could into the dimly lit cover of the forest.
Chapter 27
All night long the covered cart rumbled along the cobblestone road, finally stopping in the early hours of the morning. Calling Crow was sleeping when the men ordered him to climb out. The air was damp and cold and a knee-deep fog clung to the road. Calling Crow shivered uncontrollably as he stood on the stone road. He looked around. Strange lights shone low in the sky, each one seeming to be the same distance from the other. He studied them for a moment in confusion, then realized they were lamps hanging from iron poles. They followed the road that extended out over a black expanse which Calling Crow knew could only be a broad river or lake. There were houses all along the road over the water and one was decorated with round bundles stuck on poles. Calling Crow had never seen such a sight. On the other side of the water he saw a mass of houses and lights. The sight caused him some dizziness and he turned and held onto the cart.
“Bring him up,” Calling Crow heard someone say.
A great stone house loomed out of the fog behind the cart, a broad staircase leading up to it. A large, powerful-looking man and a smaller man stood waiting in the doorway. Both were dark in color and were not Englishmen. The big one wore a cloth coiled around his head.
Burton walked over to Calling Crow. “Up you go,” he said, and pushed Calling Crow toward the steps. The cloth-headed man watched them in silence as the other, who Calling Crow assumed was his servant, stood obediently by his side. The chains on Calling Crow’s ankles slowed him as Burton led him up the steps. Day was dawning and as Calling Crow neared the top he could see more of the many houses here and across the water.
Burton stopped and pointed to the road over the water and the houses beyond. “Pretty isn’t it?” he said. “That’s the great city of London, right across the London Bridge. Up there in the Tower is where Her Majesty, the Queen, and her court rule.” Burton looked into Calling Crow’s eyes. “You’ll not be seeing much of her though, I suspect.” His harsh laughter echoed off the cold stone building. “Well, go on up now.”
When Calling Crow got to the top of the stairs, Burton called up. “Here he is, Amorgh, as promised.” The big man who was called Amorgh nodded to his assistant and they roughly pushed Calling Crow into the house.
To the left and right, stone stairs led up and down. Straight ahead was a large room with a solitary table in the center and chairs arranged around the perimeter. Woven scenes hung from the great room’s walls and the place reminded Calling Crow of the room in which he and Red Feather had appeared before Samuel’s friends. The memory sent a pang of sadness and pain into Calling Crow’s heart. Where was Samuel now? Had he really been responsible for all of this as Red Feather thought? Calling Crow still could not believe it.
The iron door slammed shut solidly behind them and Calling Crow turned. Amorgh took an iron ring of keys from his belt and inserted one of them in the lock, turning it with a resounding click. He looked at Calling Crow and scowled. Amorgh hocked and spat on the stone floor. He gestured to his helper and the man pushed Calling Crow toward the stairs.
Calling Crow wondered how Red Feather was faring. Calling Crow recalled his last sight of him. Would Red Feather cooperate with Collier until Calling Crow could get back to him? He must! Had not Sees Far said, that in his dream, he saw Red Feather returning with Calling Crow? Sees Far was never wrong in such things. Calling Crow went down the stairs slowly and awkwardly in the ankle chains. Amorgh’s man, sallow of skin, with a long hook nose, pushed Calling Crow, shouting at him to move faster. Calling Crow turned to glare at him and the man pushed him again, causing him to lose balance. Calling Crow tripped and fell onto the stone landing. Getting to his feet, he lunged for the little man, who jumped backward with a cry of fear. Amorgh withdrew a small whip from behind and struck Calling Crow stingingly several times on the face and chest while the smaller man regained his courage. He and Amorgh then each grabbed one of Calling Crow’s arms and they went on.
Calling Crow started down the next flight of steps. At the bottom they walked down a long corridor and came to an opened, cage-like room. Amorgh and the little man shoved Calling Crow inside.
They shut the iron door with a clang and Amorgh locked it with another key from his iron ring. Calling Crow listened to the receding click of their sandals on the stone floor. The footsteps went up the stairs and then it was quiet.
The room was empty except for what looked like a bearskin on the floor in the corner. Calling Crow had another spasm of dizziness and sat on the bearskin. Leaning back against the stone wall, he sang a lament in his native Muskogee.
“Oh, land of my ancestors,
why did I leave you so long ago?
Your moss-draped trees,
and black-water pools,
call to me and I’m filled with pain.”
A voice came from the next room. It spoke in English, yet with an odd accent. “A pretty little ditty indeed. But you had better sleep now while you can. Days are long and hard around here and yours will start soon enough. Sleep now.”
Calling Crow found the strange sounding voice reassuring and slept.
Amorgh’s key clacked in the lock. Calling Crow sat up on the bearskin pallet as Amorgh walked off, the click of his sandals receding down the corridor. Amorgh’s hocking cough rattled momentarily off the walls and then it was quiet. Calling Crow remained sitting. His fever had lifted but he was very weak. He heard the occupant of the next room stirring. A moment later the man stood in the doorway. He was a thin, broad-shouldered man of medium height, with a thick head of brown hair and a bushy brown mustache and beard. His eyes were bright, with an intense green intelligence. Calling Crow noticed that his right foot was misshapen and his right leg about a hand’s breadth shorter than the left. A long, ugly boot he wore made up for the different lengths of his legs. Unlike Calling Crow, he was not chained at the ankles.
“My name is Edward,” the man said, “and I am an Iri
shman. I work in this place and entertain the people who come here. Come and get something to eat. Then we will work.” He turned and walked down the hall with a heavy limp. Calling Crow followed him. They entered a large, dank, dimly lit chamber. Ten small squares, each about shoulder height, divided the room up.
The man called Edward sat at a table in one of the small squares. Calling Crow saw that all of the squares were connected by footpaths. Inside the nearest square, Calling Crow could see a large iron pot half filled with water. It was big enough to cook a large animal whole.
Edward pointed to a round loaf of bread on the table and a wooden plate of foul-smelling English cheese. Calling Crow was so weak with hunger that he took some and ate it. The taste was bitter like the smell, but his teeth felt good tearing through it. He couldn’t remember ever being this hungry. Calling Crow ripped a large piece of the bread away, and ate it quickly.
Footsteps echoed briefly off the stone floor. Then the clink of metal keys. The noise faded.
“You’ve met Amorgh, the keeper of the keys?” said Edward.
Calling Crow nodded.
“He haunts this place like a ghost.”
“Yes,” said Calling Crow. “He and the other man do not look English.”
“They are Turks. The owners of this place, two fine Christian gentlemen, employ them to do the more distasteful things which must be done.”
“Are Turks Christians?”
Edward shook his head. “Not this pair. They believe and worship differently. But Amorgh is a great devotee of Saint George.” Edward laughed disparagingly. “It is said he has a shrine to him in his room.”
“Where is his room?” said Calling Crow.
Edward smiled at him. “No one knows where he sleeps and that’s the way he wants it. Once he was poisoned and almost drowned in one of the baths. Another time one of the girls tried to stab him to death. Last year a customer who fell in love with one of the girls wounded him with a dagger.”
“Why do Christians have a not-Christian working here?” asked Calling Crow.