Reading Online Novel

People of the Morning Star(27)



“It is not wise.”

She hesitantly walked to the great wooden door. Two young priests, staring at her with mouths agape, muscled the door aside. She stepped out into the night, thankful that a layer of clouds blocked the moon and a fine rain fell.

As she descended the polished wooden stairs of the temple mound, the hollow voice repeated, “Remember what I showed you…”

An image flashed between her souls, a man bending over a bed, bits of movement that ended in a gushing of blood.

As if of their own volition, her legs carried her forward, toward the great plaza.

“Go. Look into his eyes, before it is too late.”





Nine

The warrior known as Cut String Mankiller huddled in the claustrophobic darkness of the large wooden box. He made a face and wondered if he’d ever have feeling in his legs again. They’d gone to sleep several hands of time past, and now ached numbly. He forced himself to endure.

He was a blooded and honored warrior, after all. Since childhood he’d trained his body to ignore discomfort. As a boy he’d been forced to run for an entire day under the blazing midsummer sun. Only at sunset had he been allowed to spit out the full mouth of water he’d carried since morning despite a killing thirst. Had he given in to the temptation to swallow even a sip of the precious liquid, the punishment would have been merciless. Father had made him break ice in winter, and to crouch in the frigid water until, on the verge of losing consciousness, he was pulled out, and made to run barefoot across the snow.

As the bravest and most honored warrior in his lineage, this final duty had fallen to him.

“The fate of our clan lies in your hands,” Uncle had said, some deep-seated worry hidden behind his hard brown gaze. The old man had cocked his head. “You can do this thing? Succeed where others would fail, even though it will mean your life?”

Of course he could. And should he succeed, the greatest glory would be heaped upon him by his noble lineage. No man except the one chosen as the home for Morning Star would have more prestige and status.

And I myself might be chosen for that greatest of all honors.

A possibility not without reason.

Assuming he somehow managed to survive.

The time to act had been thrust upon them. Word was that Morning Star had already decided that Cut String, and families of his lineage, would be chosen to lead and establish a new colony in the far north. Allegedly the Morning Sun had chosen him because of his war record, and the land in the north was now open after the defeat of Red Wing town and its dissidents.

As Cut String well knew from his battle walks in the north, establishment of a town, let alone a priesthood to convert the wild tribes, would be a hard-fought and chancy thing.

And, finally, he had no interest in spending the rest of his life in the bitter and cold north, waging constant war on wild men. Cahokia was more to his liking. Who’d trade an overgrown thicket of forest for the excitement, color, and energy of Cahokia?

The time had come.

He fought the ache of blood-starved muscles as he lifted the lid high enough to see out into the great room. The eternal fire burned brightly, two young men dozing before it. Their job was to ensure the fire never went out. Glancing this way and that, Cut String noted a few of the benches along the walls were occupied by sleepers.

Carefully, he maneuvered the heavy box lid to the side and rose from the cramped interior. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he straightened his back. Propping his arms on the box sides, he lifted himself, knives of agony shooting through his legs as circulation was reestablished.

He glanced down at the box in distaste. The thing had been a gift from some Southern chieftain, its sides and lid intricately carved in designs of Horned Serpent. Shell, precious stones, and copper had been inlaid into the relief.

Cut String endured while blood flowed into his deadened limbs. With the stoicism of decades, he waited out the cramps, and then—in case his legs failed him—stepped carefully from the box. Should he fail, and another need it in the future, he carefully replaced the blankets he’d stashed beneath the closest bench.

Closing the lid, he reached for his battered war club where it rested out of sight behind the box. Lastly, he retrieved the remarkable, finely flaked, chert knife Uncle had provided him. As long as his forearm, it resembled a giant claw, the concave interior edge so sharp it would shave hair.

On cat feet, he progressed across the intricately patterned mat floor. His heart began to pound. The faint gurgling of his empty stomach seemed like thunder in the quiet room. But no one stirred.

He could hear the wind as it whispered through the high thatch and whistled around the Spirit Guardians on the roof. Thankfully, the Powers that guarded this place would only notice another Four Winds Clansman. One who had passed this way many times before.