Blue Heron staggered back, stumbled through the main room and out into the reassuring light of day. To Smooth Pebble, she called, “Quick. Fetch Rides-the-Lightning. We need the earth clans’ priest here now! Run!”
The Spider
Everything in Creation is related. I have spent years in careful study of the world around me. Some thought me mad as I crawled around the forest floor, my eyes even with the leaf mat. The fools had no idea what I was learning. Mostly I watched the spiders as they hunted each other.
Killing another spider, you see, is a most dangerous and deadly game. And some play it better than others. Will you eat, or be eaten?
The successful ones were those who blended with the background, becoming essentially invisible, patient, and cunning. A spider who looked like but another bit of forest duff would remain motionless, undetected as his prey passed heedless within a finger’s breadth. Only when the hunted had passed, its fangs sheathed, and believing itself safe, did the hidden hunter pounce.
You see, the spider who hunts other spiders must strike from concealment. He must act when least expected, and attack from an unanticipated direction. His first bite must be lethal.
But the most important rule of all: the victim, just as agile and venomous, must never know it is being hunted.
I smile crookedly as I watch the Four Winds Clan Keeper’s litter-chair approach. The ornate seat is borne upon the shoulders of strong young men. And following is Blue Heron’s retinue: Old Smooth Pebble, Notched Cane, Two Beads, and her longtime guards, Clay Bell and Fire Temper.
For an instant, nothing seems to have changed. The intervening years might not have passed, perhaps being nothing more than a bizarre dream or vision spun of my imagination.
And then reality snaps back with the clarity and impact of a striking stone maul. I feel the rage. Injustice and pain flood back into me.
Careful. In this moment, at this place, you are hunting another spider—and perhaps the most dangerous of them all!
The crowd milling at the base of the Morning Star’s black-sided mound parts for Keeper Blue Heron; people are touching their foreheads and respectfully bowing.
Once more the hunting spider that I am, I, too, act with humility. Carefully I force the hunger from my gaze, replacing it with worshipful respect lest her eyes accidently meet mine. I am becoming one with the forest litter, my true nature must freeze, still and invisible to my prey.
Blue Heron is lowered to the ground before the sloping ramp that leads up to the first walled terrace of the Morning Star’s great pyramid. Her servants offer a hand and help the Keeper to her feet. Her two guards watch with bored eyes—a fact that makes me smile in anticipation.
The great Avenue of the Sun that runs east-west at the base of the mound is crowded, and I move through the dullards, drawing only the attention my disguise should warrant. The usual collection of Traders, food vendors, and trinket-barterers display their wares. A number of previously emptied litters have been placed out of the way. Their carriers are seated where the mound’s sloping sides meet the avenue in a sharp angle. The black clay here has been smoothed to a perfect crease, and though the lounging porters squat on their heels, none would dare recline on the Morning Star’s sacred slope.
To avoid drawing attention as I reach the bottom of the ramp staircase, I drop to one knee and fiddle with my sandal, as if having trouble with one of the bass-wood cord ties. Dressed as I am in a noble’s wardrobe, my face is painted a most striking blue; a copper-falcon headpiece and scalp bundle are affixed to my tightly wrapped hair. I look like just another elegantly clad lord summoned to receive the embassy that has just arrived from the Yellow Star nation.
This fills me with delicious irony. I’ve never liked Frantic Lightning Mankiller, the Kadohadacho’s, or Supreme Chief’s, spoiled nephew. This cannot be serendipitous. Power is either teasing me or weaving some textile of its own that I cannot yet discern.
Blue Heron remains oblivious to my presence. The woman appears totally preoccupied as she resettles her cape and skirt. The expression on her face reflects a deep-seated worry.
She’s hardly acting like the deadly shadow hunter I expected to stalk.
Which is worth considering. So far the vast throngs inhabiting Cahokia have allowed me complete anonymity and freedom to move and study my prey. A change of hairstyle, a different cloak, a dab of face paint, or any combination of the above, and I draw no more attention than any of the passersby. I have watched her from a distance for several days now.
The agitation the Clan Keeper barely hides has her off balance as she starts up the stairs. Normally she would glance around, catalog the faces and nod to those she knows. Her crafty eyes should be calculating and observant. This time her entire attention is focused on the stairway.