People of the River(38)
"The Sun Chief is waiting. Can you make it, or would you like help?"
She inhaled deeply, as though using the rich scents of smoke and river to fortify her will. "I have obligations to the gods, kidnapper. I'll manage." Then she bowed to the Six Sacred Persons, a soft lilting chant issuing from her lips, the sound unearthly in the hush.
Badgertail lifted the door-hanging out of the way so she could enter the main hallway, then ducked through after her into the warm radiance. The temple was an intricate maze of light and shadow. Twelve corridors intersected this main one, six coming in from each side, creating blots of darkness in the halo cast by the firebowls that sat at the bases of the walls; the spiced hickory oil they burned sent a fragrant current through the temple. Six red door-hangings shielded the rooms of the Blessed Starbom, who inhabited this foremost section of the temple.
They walked side by side past the spectacular wall paintings of Bird-Man, Spider, Rattlesnake, Wolf, the Eye In The Hand, Wood Duck, Woodpecker, and all the others. Carved faces of Tharon's ancestors had been placed along the route, their old eyes watchful. Had their expressions always been so distasteful, or had the carvings begun to change?
Every so often Nightshade would lift her hand to smooth her fingers over one of the wall figures, usually that of a serpent or a spiral. Affectionately, she patted the faces of Grandfather Brown Bear and First Woman. The tenderness of the gesture made Badgertail wonder whether she hadn't painted some of those hallowed images herself—a very long time ago in another life.
Nightshade bowed again when she reached the entry to the Great Sun Chamber. Before she straightened, Tharon's shrill, childish laughter wafted into the hall. Laughter, and the soft, muted cries of a little girl: Tharon's nine-summers-old daughter Orenda, no doubt. An odd child, she seemed to cry constantly. Nightshade flinched. She threw Badgertail a dull glare before she squared her shoulders and stepped into the brilliance beyond. Her steps did not even slow as she strode to stand directly in front of the raised altar where Tharon lounged insolently over the sacred pedestal. The twelve sacred fires cast yellow light on the wealth of Cahokia: a radiance shone on polished sheets of worked copperplate; on exquisite wooden statues and masks painted in glossy colors; on nacre conch shell and endless strings of shell beads. The finest pottery in the world circled the room, the pieces decorated with incised swirls, punctations, or effigies, the best pearlescent and shining. Beautiful fabrics, each dyed in a brilliant color and bearing a complex design woven in contrast, covered the walls and floor.
"Tharon," Nightshade said to him, "I see you've changed very little. You're still blaspheming the gods."
Tharon looked away, whispering, "So . . . you're here at last."
Over twelve hands tall, Tharon had the triangular face and sharp nose of a bat. Red concentric circles tattooed his cheeks, the lines running all the way to the copper ear-spools dangling from his lobes. He looked irritable and tired tonight. Indigo smudges of exhaustion darkened the puffy flesh beneath his brown eyes, accentuating the prominence of his cheekbones. A headdress of bright yellow tanager feathers caged the black coils of hair piled on top of his head. Mica beads, the stone from their local quarries fashioned by Tharon's artisans, encircled his hem and collar, glittering wildly with his every move. Galena bracelets and anklets covered his arms and legs. Any other man so ostentatiously attired and bejeweled would have been thought contemptibly effeminate—^but not the Great Sun Chief.
Tharon fumbled for his handspike, then tapped it irritat-ingly against the pedestal. The spike, a stylized war club, was sculpted from the finest white chert; it served as his symbol of office. It flared at the top and narrowed to a point. He tapped the spike four more times and apparently gained the courage to speak again, but as he opened his mouth. Nightshade turned away to the Tortoise Bundle, which sat on a tiny table at the edge of the altar. Its red, yellow, blue, and white spirals had faded to near nothingness, as though untended for cycles. The hand that Nightshade extended to stroke it with trembled.
In the heavy silence, Badgertail walked between two of the twelve spokes of firebowls that radiated out from the raised altar. The bowls' artist had sculpted the clay so that a variety of birds' heads rose above the lips of the vessels: eagles, falcons, and occasionally the head of a dove appeared. Father Sun had created birds to serve as assistants to Bird-Man, carrying messages between humans and other types of beings. Legend foretold that if any of the bowls in this sacred chamber ever went out. Father Sun would flare and the world would die.
"Oh!" Tharon had spied Badgertail. He dropped his handspike, trotted down the three steps from the altar, and ran across the floor. He began clapping his hands as he jumped up and down like a five-summers-old boy. His eagle-feather cape fluttered extravagantly. "Oh, Badgertail, I'm so glad to see you! What did you bring me? Where is it? Where is it?" He scrambled around Badgertail, touching his warshirt and boots. Badgertail lifted his arms, the way he always did, to let Tharon search him. "I know you have something. What did you bring me? Give it to me. I can't wait!"