People of the Thunder(17)
“You’d think we would have heard if one had.”
Heron Wing paused, then asked, “Morning Dew, when you were at White Arrow Town, did you ever hear of any Chahta plotting with the Albaamaha? Perhaps even the silliest rumor of any Chahta clan, no matter how obscure, treating with the Albaamaha?”
“No. We Chahta think even less of them than you Chikosi do. And, believe me, had anyone been inciting them, for whatever purpose, someone would have said something to Mother.”
“And among the Red Arrow Moiety?”
“War Chief Great Cougar has his own ways. But not even he would deal with Albaamaha.” She shook her head. “Not the man I know.”
“You know him well?”
“Well enough.”
“Would he have sent a man to kill the captives?”
“Had he been behind it, every Chikosi in the world would know. Great Cougar is never subtle.”
“My wish,” Heron Wing finally said, “is that we never learn who killed your husband, brother, and the others. It would be better as a forgotten mystery. But I fear that Smoke Shield will never let it rest. In the end, it could bring us all to grief.”
As if you knew the depths of grief! She winced; the very thought had been unkind.
“Grief,” she whispered, rubbing her hands as if to sponge them free of blood. “That’s all I have left.”
An orange-red morning sun hung low over the southeastern horizon and cast its gaudy light over Rainbow City. It colored the thickly plastered house walls, even softening the gray-black of old thatch on the high roofs. Under the crimson light the packed clay of the plaza, with its chunkey and stickball grounds, was made to glow. The sacred red-cedar pole, crafted from the trunk of a mighty tree, seemed to burn with an inner fire. High atop their mounds, the palaces and temples rose proudly against the sky. Even the smoky haze that rose from so many morning fires had a cherry hue. In the distance, beyond the packed houses, elevated corn cribs, and ramadas, the high city palisade made an irregular barrier against the distant sky. A fuzz of winter-bare treetops was barely visible in the distance.
What should have been a lazy morning was anything but. Long before the faintest glimmer of day, people had begun to gather before the two storage houses where Trader’s winnings from the fabled chunkey game had been stored.
Old White stood before one of the storehouses. Beside him were Trader and the Contrary, Two Petals. Trader’s dog, Swimmer, sat at Trader’s feet, ears cocked, watching the proceedings.
Old White was a weathered man, his hair almost snowy. It was said that he had been from one end of the earth to the other. That he had traveled more lands, seen more people, than any other man alive. To many he was known only as the Seeker—a man whose exploits bordered on legend. Nevertheless, he stood tall, his shoulders still broad. On this day he wore a buffalohide cloak that hung down to his knees. Through the open front could be seen a white fabric hunter’s shirt belted at the waist, where a large pouch hung. Over one shoulder he carried a sturdy fabric bag, some heavy object pulling down at the cloth. His right hand clutched a Trader’s staff made of supple ash, bent over at the top to form a crook, its end terminated in a finely carved ivory-billed woodpecker’s head. From the crook hung three white heron feathers. The staff had been carved to represent spiraling serpents, one red and the other white.
For the moment Old White stared thoughtfully at the river of humanity that had formed up along the plaza perimeter. He could see people stretching along the southern boundary in front of the Warrior Clan Palace, past the Men’s House, and on to the Winter Solstice Temple. From there they lined the eastern plaza edge along the river’s steep bluff, the Healer’s temple, and finally the high chief’s palace atop its great mound on the northeastern corner of the plaza. The crowd then continued east, edging the chunkey grounds, and extending past War Chief Wolf Tail’s house atop its low mound. The crowd was watched over by Yuchi warriors under orders to keep things civil and orderly despite the myriad of old rivalries and slights that always infected a population.
“How many?” Trader asked from behind him.
“One is as good as none,” Two Petals said cryptically. One got used to hearing cryptic sayings from her.
“Thousands.” Old White shrugged. “I hope we have enough to go around.”
“Never enough? Are you sure?” Two Petals asked some phantom only she could see in the empty plaza before them.
“There will be enough, Seeker,” the Kala Hi’ki said as he approached from around the storehouse. The old shaman was led by two of his white-robed Priests.