People of the Thunder(159)

When he looked up, Flying Hawk started. A man was standing on the top step. He looked young and muscular, with shining black hair and dark glinting eyes. As their gazes met, Flying Hawk staggered; Power flashed between them.

The man smiled, flipping back a sleek cloak of midnight feathers. Sunlight seemed to beam from his flesh. Flying Hawk had to squint against it.

The man took one step down, his feet clad in snow-white moccasins, and his long hunting shirt might have been made of the finest tanned leather. A scarlet belt snugged his waist, and a war club hung there.

“Who . . . Who are you?” Flying Hawk rasped. But he knew: the Spirit Being from the night he’d seen the great Seeing Hand weep.

“I have gone by many names, High Minko. Once I was known as Raven Hunter, but that world is long lost. Among your people, I am the Blood Twin, the boy born of First Woman’s menstrual blood as she bathed in the Sacred River just after the Creation. The red Power runs in my veins and is shed from my wings.”

He lifted the arms beneath the raven cloak, only to spread large wings that seemed to suck the very light from the air.

“Gods!” Flying Hawk cried, raising an arm in defense.

“One of them, perhaps,” Raven Hunter replied with amusement. “But do not be afraid. I have come to grant you your greatest wish.”

While every bit of remaining sense told him to run, some odd attraction compelled him to climb those final steps. He stopped just below Raven Hunter. The pain in his knee had faded, and his breath returned, as fresh in his lungs as it had been in his youth.

“What do you want from me?”

“Nothing. Everything.” Raven Hunter lowered his inky wings. “For most of your life you have served me. But Power ebbs and flows.” He looked out over the city, a faint smile on his lips. “I encouraged the growth of red Power among the Sky Hand. It began when Makes War went off to fight the Yuchi, and, well, you know the story.” He chuckled. “But the white Power, too, will pass, and finally, Split Sky City will fade as Cahokia before it.”

Flying Hawk lowered his eyes to the wooden steps. The next one had turned, shifting in the soil. He could see where rot had softened the wood. “Then, nothing is left for me.”

“Nothing here,” Raven Hunter agreed. “But I am curious: If I could grant you one wish, what would it be? What one thing would you change?”

Flying Hawk swallowed hard as he was flooded with memories. He saw again the great fire; the flight in the night to Kosi Fighting Hawk’s; his youth; the murder of his brother; the first man he killed in war; his wife’s death; confirmation as high minko; Smoke Shield’s wound; the struggle for authority; and those final moments when Horned Serpent dragged his nephew below the waves.

Of all the mistakes, which one would he undo?

And then he knew. He stared down at his hand, seeing the angular rock, could feel its rough surface, gripped so tightly. The sunlight changed, grass beneath him, a dead buffalo hunched to his right, its sides bristling with deeply embedded arrows. His brother was staring up at him, horror reflected in his eyes.

Flying Hawk released the rock, letting it fall from his fingers.

The world seemed to swim, shimmering and wavering like heat waves above a great fire.

When the world came back into focus he was perched on the high step. Raven Hunter watched him with knowing eyes that sparked of midnight.

Flying Hawk blinked at the hot tears welling in his eyes. “I would see Acorn again. I would have him laugh, and place his arm over my shoulder as he did when we were young.”

“I, too, know what it is to fight with a brother.” Raven Hunter’s voice was warm with understanding. He opened his great black wings in invitation. “Come. Acorn awaits you.”

Flying Hawk placed his foot on the rotted step, shifted, and felt it roll under his weight. Then Raven Hunter’s wings closed around him, cloaking him in darkness. He felt himself falling. . . .



I am free! The thought filled Heron Wing as she walked down the path at the head of the Sky Hand delegation. Beneath her feet, new grass was springing up. Green shoots rose in the Albaamaha fields, weeds mostly, but the fields lived under late-afternoon sun. A warm breeze was blowing up from the gulf, white puffy clouds marching before it. In the distance, the trees had softened where flowers and the first buds tipped the branches. The living forest contrasted with the forlorn farmsteads. She could only hope that one day soon, they would be full of men, women, and children—that life would return to normal.

She glanced to either side, seeing Seven Dead, Blood Skull, Green Snake, and Old White—or did she call him Hickory now? Just behind, Night Star was borne on a litter, and Vinegaroon—his alligator-hide cape gleaming on his shoulders—followed in his rolling gait.