Calling Crow Nation (The Southeast Series Book 3)

by Paul Clayton

  “You,” came the odd voice again, “stop!”

  Richard turned. At first he saw nothing, then two shadows separated from the others and moved a bit closer. Richard’s panting increased. “What do you want?” he cried.

  “Where is the town called Bristol?” said the ghost.

  Richard’s voice trembled as he pointed. “Take the low road.”

  It was a few moments before Richard realized the ghosts had gone. He moved a few steps forward and stopped. Seeing and hearing nothing, he called to his sheep and hurried home.

  The next day, a small notice was affixed to a signboard outside the village church. It read:

  “Richard Burke, the shepherd boy,

  was pursued and harassed by ghosts last night.

  Running for his life, Richard managed to escape

  his pursuers until they trapped him against the Rockpile.

  There the ghosts demanded of him to know

  the way to the town of Bristol.

  It is thought by some that Richard hath

  stayed too long in the bright moonlight

  and that it hath driven him mad.”

  Chapter 38

  Calling Crow and Red Feather looked out from the woods at Samuel’s estate. The windows were golden squares. Torchlight flickered on the lawns just in front of the house. The rest of the lawn was hidden by the stone walls.

  Armed with his iron club, Calling Crow started across the fields. Red Feather carried the bows over his shoulder as he followed. When they came to the wall, they could hear distant voices.

  “There are many people in there,” said Red Feather. “Perhaps we should wait in the woods and go in tomorrow.”

  Calling Crow listened to the voices a moment before speaking. “Perhaps. But I want to see who is there. Help me over the wall”

  Calling Crow paused at the top and looked down at Red Feather. “Wait for me here. I will come back.”

  Red Feather nodded and Calling Crow dropped down inside the walls.

  Calling Crow headed for the house. As he drew close, he saw that the people had gone inside. Animated voices and the occasional strain of a musical instrument reached his ears. Outside, two torches burned brightly, just down from the main entrance. Calling Crow decided to go around the back. He came to an open window and moved closer. The smell of tallow wafted out, but the dimly lit room appeared empty. He was about to climb inside when he heard a sound and turned. Two men were walking by. One carried a torch. The other was Samuel’s brother, John. They saw him. “You!” said John. “How in the devil did you get back here?”

  “It was you!” said Calling Crow.

  John pulled his sword and turned to his companion. “Get the others.”

  The man ran off and John stepped boldly toward Calling Crow.

  Calling Crow pulled the iron axe from the rope belt around his breeches. “It was you who put us in that place.”

  John ran forward and swung his sword. Calling Crow dived out of the way as a shower of leaves and debris fell around him. John cursed and ran at him, raising his sword for another blow. His face suddenly screwed up in pain and he pitched forward onto his knees. A feathered arrow protruded from his back.

  Red Feather approached and stood in the dim light. “I will not let you out of my sight again,” he said. “Always, I am afraid I will lose you and I see that I am right.”

  Calling Crow was about to reply when Samuel ran up. He knelt and stroked his brother’s head. He felt his neck for the pulse of his life’s blood. “He is dead!” he said in an anguished voice. Bowing his head, he mumbled some prayers, crying sadly. Then he stood and looked at Calling Crow and Red Feather in shock. “You! You are back!”

  “Of course we are back.” Red Feather had another arrow nocked in his bow, this one aimed at Samuel’s chest. “You put us in the fair. Now you shall die like your brother.”

  “What is he talking about, Calling Crow?”

  “Your brother and some men took us that night, Samuel. They took us to Collier’s fair and locked us up there all this time.”

  “How do you know it was he?” said Samuel in anguish.

  “It was he, Samuel. Look inside yourself and you will see. It was he.”

  Calling Crow turned to his tastanagi. “Put down your bow, Red Feather. It was John that did this thing to us, not Samuel.”

  “Calling Crow, you don’t know how much it hurts me not to listen to you. But you have always been blind in this thing. Long ago Samuel must have put some spell upon you, don’t you see? All our suffering is his doing and I shall end that now.” Red Feather pulled the vane of the arrow back to his cheek as four Englishmen ran up with torches, bathing the area in heat and light.

  “Red Feather,” said Calling Crow, “tell me something, for I am confused. How can it be that my very own right arm no longer does my bidding?”

  Red Feather trembled, then released the tension in the bow.

  “Get them,” shouted the men, seizing Calling Crow and Red Feather, pinning their arms behind them.

  “Kill them,” shouted one of the men, pulling his sword.

  “No,” said Samuel, turning to the man. He looked angrily at Calling Crow as he spoke to the man. “Go to the garrison and get the soldiers. The law shall have them. We will keep them here until the soldiers arrive.”

  One of the men struck Red Feather, knocking him to his knees. “Bloody savages! Soon you will both hang.”

  Samuel stared coldly at Calling Crow. “Lock them in the spring house.”

  Chapter 39

  A large fire burned beside a dead willow tree in the middle of the clearing the Timucua were using for their camp. Back a hundred feet, Swordbrought, Little Bear and Fox-Disappears strained uselessly against the hide cords that bound their hands painfully to the tall poles behind them. The Timucua had held them prisoner for three days now, and tonight Mantua would decide what should be done with them.

  Swordbrought heard a tiny noise. He turned to see Crying Wolf creep from the shadows near the river. He crouched beside him, cutting his cords. Swordbrought’s arms fell to his side, temporarily numb and useless. Crying Wolf had turned to go to Fox-Disappears when four Timucua braves cried out and ran over. Crying Wolf spun round with the knife, slashing one brave across the throat. The man went down but several others quickly overcame them and tied them up again.

  “Bring them now,” came a loud voice from the fire. The Timucua cut Little Bear and Fox-Disappears down. Crying Wolf struggled and a Timucua brave clubbed him over the head. He and another brave dragged Crying Wolf by his hair through the mud as the other braves pushed and shoved Swordbrought, Little Bear and Fox-Disappears.

  They stood close to the big fire, its heat burning them. The tall Timucua chief, Mantua, emerged from the crude hut that had been built for him. He stood before each of them in turn, inspecting carefully. Grabbing Little Bear by the hair, Mantua yanked his head closer to look into his eyes, then pushed him away. He pointed to Crying Wolf, who was lying supine on the ground, his head to the side. One of the braves had his foot planted upon his neck.

  “Let him up.”

  The brave stepped away and Crying Wolf got slowly to his feet.

  “Bring me a torch,” Mantua called.

  A brave ran up with a torch and Mantua took it, holding it so close to Crying Wolf that all could hear his hair singeing. Crying Wolf did not move.

  “Yes, I remember you. The one who fought so hard. You would deny us our due?”

  Crying Wolf said nothing, glaring instead at the Timucua chief.

  Mantua sneered and came back to stand before Fox-Disappears. The squat Muskogee brave’s face was flint hard; no emotion escaped his eyes. Mantua studied him a moment longer, then walked on to Swordbrought. He shook his head in puzzlement, then held the torch close as he studied Swordbrought’s features. Sudden realization lit up his eyes and his face twisted into a gruesome smile.

  “Now I know where I’ve seen your features before,” said Mantua. �
��The one who is guided by the crow, the one who left a feather with me to show me that he could have killed me. He must be your father.”

  “Yes,” said Swordbrought. “And he will drive you and your men away and kill you.”

  Mantua backed off and laughed. He addressed the four captives collectively. “My braves have endured much over the past several moons.” He looked over briefly at Crying Wolf. “One of their favorite warriors is now dead and they demand blood revenge. One of you will give them the satisfaction they crave.”

  Mantua stood before Fox-Disappears and glared at him angrily. Fox-Disappears did not flinch. Mantua then stood before Crying Wolf. Crying Wolf scowled at him angrily. Mantua stood before Little Bear and the big brave smiled with disdain. Mantua moved on to Swordbrought. Mantua then nodded to one of his men and he cut the cords around Swordbrought’s wrists.

  Mantua smiled. “You must deliver my message to your father, the Crow warrior.” He reached into his medicine pouch and took out a black feather. He handed it to Swordbrought. “Give this back to your father. Tell him I will be coming for your people soon. Tell him that I will personally deliver both of you to the Spanish!”

  Mantua turned and pointed to Crying Wolf. Several Timucua braves grabbed him and dragged his struggling form toward a small dead willow near the fire.

  Mantua pulled his knife and approached Little Bear and Fox-Disappears. He cut their wrists free. “All of you, come. You will sit with me.”

  Crying Wolf had already been tied to the tree. After Mantua, Fox-Disappears, Little Bear and Swordbrought sat, a large Timucua brave stepped out of the crowd and approached Crying Wolf.

  “Swordbrought,” Crying Wolf called out, “save my name. Tell the village what I tried to do. Tell your father I died brave!”

  The large Timucua brave took a knife from his belt. He cut into the flesh on Crying Wolf’s broad back just above the shoulder blades. Crying Wolf flinched, but did not cry out. The Timucua brave then sawed and tugged, pulling the skin down to reveal the wet flesh beneath.

  Mantua looked over at Swordbrought and the others. Swordbrought looked away in anger. He looked instead at Little Bear’s and Fox-Disappears’s faces. They were expressionless. Swordbrought hoped his own face would show nothing.

  The Timucua brave started another cut, pulling and tugging. Crying Wolf shuddered. His breath whistling through his teeth as the outer skin of his left side hung down from his waist like some half-removed garment.

  Swordbrought watched, struggling to keep his face expressionless. Inside he forced his mind to recall all the lessons his father and Red Feather had taught him of the way of things and of the Great Mystery. He recalled climbing a tree with some other boys to witness a snake raiding the nest of a woodpecker, the snake eating the hatchlings one by one as the mother flew about, shrieking out her horror and despair; he remembered his father waking him with a touch and the two of them watching a panther bring down a buck deer twice its own size; he remembered the deer’s brave, doomed struggle with the panther’s jaws clamped around its throat; he remembered his own, clumsy first kill, when his arrow hadn’t penetrated the deer’s side deeply enough; he remembered looking briefly into the glazed, shocked eyes as he quickly cut the deer’s throat. Now this bloody thing tied to a tree, that panted and writhed, that no longer looked like a man, this was part of the Great Mystery too, as much a part of the Great Mystery as a hawk in flight or a hailstorm--

  But, despite all of these things that he knew to be true, inside Swordbrought, in a tiny little place where no one but he ever went, there was intense revulsion and pain, and sadness too-- all of which he would not allow up and out now, not yet, knowing that at some later time he would exorcise it, perhaps at one of the festivals or in the sweat house. Then he would endure the pain and mourn for this man whom he had grudgingly grown to respect and love as a brother. But now all he would do was to watch with the others, not enjoying it like some, and not showing weakness.

  Chapter 40

  Calling Crow and Red Feather sat in the blackness of the spring house, their hands bound tightly behind them. Neither of them spoke and they heard no noise outside, save for the occasional whinny of one of the horses in the barn. Half the night had passed before Red Feather spoke, “So we will die here after all.”

  Calling Crow said nothing.

  “At least we will die together,” said Red Feather.

  “No,” said Calling Crow, “we will not die. We will go home.”

  “How?”

  “Samuel will take us, just as he promised that day.”

  Red Feather laughed like a crazy man. “Calling Crow, still you cannot see that which is right before your very eyes. Samuel hates us for his brother’s death. He does not want anything but our deaths.”

  Calling Crow’s voice was calm as he answered. “Red Feather, where is your faith? It doesn’t matter what Samuel wants-- He will take us back, just as Sees Far has said. You will see.”

  In the lamp-lit hall, Frances clutched little Catherine tightly. The little girl cried at the sight of her mother and father arguing angrily.

  “I cannot do it,” Samuel said. “Yes, they have killed my own brother, but it was because John stole them out of here that night. He took them and-- ”

  Samuel’s lackey, Robert, entered, his reddened bald head etched with a mass of worry wrinkles.

  “Get over to Fenwick’s house quickly,” said Samuel. “Take my horse.”

  Robert bowed as he waited, knowing there was more. He tried not to look over at the lady of the house and little Catherine, who continued to cry woefully.

  “Tell Fenwick to get William and enough men to crew the Contempt, and get them here within two hours. Tell him to promise them privateering shares, if he has to, but get them here.”

  Robert hobbled quickly out of the room.

  “You cannot go, Samuel,” Frances said, “not after this. They have demonstrated their savagery. I fear for you.”

  He looked at her. “I must. I cannot leave them here to hang.”

  “What about her?” Frances looked down at Catherine. “You’d go off and leave her again?”

  Samuel came over and knelt before Catherine. “I’ll be coming back, child. Father will come back.”

  Catherine reached out to her father, but Frances would not let her go. “John was right to take them to Collier,” Catherine said.

  Samuel drew back. “You knew!”

  “Yes,” Frances cried, “I knew. And he was right.”

  Samuel got to his feet. “See that John is buried properly, Frances. Now leave me, for I am too saddened by all of this to argue further.”

  Frances picked up Catherine and rushed from the room.

  Calling Crow and Red Feather heard the crunch of boots on the paving stones. The door was unbolted from outside and the black silhouettes of several men stood before them.

  “Get in the wagon.” It was Samuel’s voice.

  Calling Crow and Red Feather walked out onto the path and climbed up into the wagon. The other men climbed up and sat behind them, saying nothing. The wagon lurched and rattled along the bumpy roads until it finally came into the town. The wheels clattered over paving stones for a while and then the wagon stopped before a large building. The men jumped down. Someone unlocked the door and a man went inside, returning a few moments later holding a torch aloft. Calling Crow could see Samuel clearly now. Fenwick was at his side in the front seat of the wagon.

  “Samuel,” said Calling Crow, “why do you not listen to me? I want to tell you all that has happened to us since we were taken that night. Then you will understand.”

  Samuel kept his head turned and said nothing. Fenwick turned to look at Calling Crow curiously.

  Calling Crow went on. “Samuel, I knew you would come.”

  Samuel turned to him, his face hard and angry. “You did not have to kill him.”

  “Samuel,” said Calling Crow patiently, “he would have killed me if Red Feather had not shot him wit
h his arrow.”

  “I will speak no more of it,” said Samuel. “I am here for reasons of commerce. I have the muskets and for these you have agreed to pay us in skins. I am here because that vast place that you come from does not belong only to the bloody Spaniard. And, yes, I am here because of a promise I made a long time ago.” Samuel looked away. “From this day on, we will speak to each other only about matters of trade.”

  Two of the men came out of the building carrying a long wooden box. Calling Crow knew it held the shooting sticks. The men went in and out repeatedly, and soon the wagon was stacked high with the boxes.

  Calling Crow could no longer see Samuel and Fenwick in the front. “Let us go,” came Samuel’s voice.

  The wagon moved off slowly, passing the darkened houses and shops. Soon the tall masts of ships came into view.

  Calling Crow and Red Feather stood on the poop of the Contempt as Samuel and his men made ready to cast off. The ship drifted out from the quay. The wind was gentle as it came off the land and over the buildings, shifting, making gentle slapping sounds in the canvas. When they rounded the harborage, the wind picked up, heeling the ship over slightly. When the buildings were very tiny, Calling Crow and Red Feather saw the orange glow of torches arriving on the quay and then they were out of sight of the town.

  Chapter 41

  The crossing was uneventful, the Contempt moving up the Florida coast after six weeks at sea. Then, when they were still two or three days away from Coosa Town, a storm came out of the south and the little ship was driven north with a fury. They anchored in the lee of some small, tree-lined islands, hidden from any ships that might sail past. Samuel reckoned that they were no more than a day’s march from the village. They brought the muskets ashore in three trips. The next day they set off for Coosa Town, leaving six men on the ship. With twelve of Samuel’s men carrying the heavy boxes and barrels, they moved along the forest trail slowly, arriving at the palisaded village toward sunset. A growing crowd followed them as they walked along the main street. Reaching the chokafa, they left the noise outside and entered the large, airy structure.