People of the Morning Star(137)
“One rumor says it was jealousy. Another is that Morning Star finally had his fill of the boy’s unseemly behavior.”
“So I’ve heard.” The pipe bowl glowed red in the darkness. “What I know is that I woke up one morning and was informed that warriors had escorted my nephew to the canoe landing, and that he was going downriver to a new life. No sooner had that shock soaked in, than I was told that Night Shadow Star had entered the women’s house for her first menstruation.” She paused. “In one stroke, Chunkey Boy’s, my nephew’s, and Night Shadow Star’s lives were transformed.”
“Keeper, people whisper behind their hands that Chunkey Boy and your nephew were, how do I say, in trouble a lot? That but for who they were, they might have been, um…”
“Severely disciplined?” She blew smoke through her nostrils. “More than once we paid out to Earth Clan families to compensate for the boys’ indiscretions and unfortunate choices. On occasion we had to resort to other measures. What could we do? They were the Tonka’tzi’s sons and daughter. And young.”
“Which, of course, absolves them of any kind of punishment and places them above the sanctions mandated for lesser beings?”
“I don’t like your tone.”
“If you think my tone is unsettling, you haven’t been paying attention to the lengths someone is going to in an attempt to destroy your family. And Cahokia with it.”
“I suppose.” She rubbed her face anxiously. “Lace has always been the good one of the bunch. Why is it that she’s the one they’ve taken? Where’s the justice in that?”
“The justice? It’s everywhere. She’s Four Winds Clan, the Tonka’tzi’s daughter. And young. I’d say someone Chunkey Boy, Night Shadow Star, and your maybe-or-maybe-not-dead nephew really hurt now wants revenge. Some significant person? A family? An entire House? Perhaps someone denied justice and unfairly exiled, sent off to found one of your colonies? They’ve been waiting, biding their time. They’ve chosen now to strike.”
He paused, glancing sidelong at her. “Who might that be, Keeper? Where in the abuses of the past do we find explanations for the actions of today?”
“There are so many, thief. I wouldn’t know where to begin.” She bowed her head, the tobacco having gone cold in her pipe.
The Web
In the darkness, I can see the Keeper’s pipe. She sits at the southwest corner of her palace, her feet at the edge where the mound surface slopes away; her back is against the wall. Someone is with her, though in the darkness, I do not know who. Some old lover, perhaps? I can’t think of anyone else she’d share a pipe with.
The person’s identity is inconsequential. My joy comes from the fact that she’s out here at all. I’ve known her to spend entire nights perched there in solitude, her brooding eyes fixed on the Avenue of the Sun as it heads west-southwest through the cluttered city. I’ve always wondered if, deep in her souls, she’d like to follow the road, just head out and vanish to someplace quiet and small. Perhaps some woods-surrounded farmstead with a creek and fertile fields where no one would demand anything of her.
She only escapes to the seclusion of her mound edge like this when events have taken a turn for the worse, when she’s dispirited, confused, and feeling defeated. To see her so, delights me. I have her completely off balance, reeling.
I now know two things. Bleeding Hawk is dead. And while his capture was unforeseen, I’d nevertheless planned for that eventuality. I’ll probably never know the details of what went wrong; nor do they matter. Any damage is forestalled; the Keeper will be preoccupied trying to work out the details of Right Hand’s treachery, desperately hoping to find the clue that will lead her to me.
“Search, Keeper. Search hard and diligently. Keep your eyes on the east, send your agents to scour the uplands and poke among the dirt farmers for my hiding place.”
The moment I learned that they had raided War Duck’s warehouse, found the red serpent I painted on the back wall, I rid myself of that fool High Dance and hurried here. The Keeper’s agents will be quizzing old War Duck, sniffing around his household, seeking any hint that he’s involved.
“Sniff hard, you little camp dogs. Dig up his garden, piss on his pots. I wish you all the luck as you infuriate War Duck and sting his pride.”
I am reassured. If she had any inkling of my plans, the last place she would be is outside her palace smoking. Tomorrow I will take them all by surprise. My web is now spun. I have my sticky tendrils everywhere I need them. All I have to do is draw in my mired prey.