“You and Wide Leaf have been together for a long time.”
Heron Wing smiled. “She raised me. I asked her once if she’d like to go home to the Koasati, but she just smiled. She told me she’s been here for most of her life. She’s not sure she’d know anyone down there. Honestly, it was a relief. Allowing her to be a spy worries me, though. People know we’re close.”
“You didn’t send her?”
“It was her idea. For years now, she has shared my counsel. Offered her own, in fact.” She made a face. “Once, years ago, I didn’t listen to her advice. I’ve never made that mistake again.”
“What advice was that?”
“She told me that if I married Smoke Shield, I would regret it.”
Enough said there. “You seem to inspire loyalty from your slaves.”
Heron Wing laughed. “I have found that I can get more out of people by treating them with respect, listening to their ideas, and helping them than by ordering them around.” A pause. “It’s a skill that has served me and my people well over the years.”
“You would have made a formidable matron yourself.”
“No. Then I’d have to spend my life tied up in plotting, mischief, and politics.”
Morning Dew chuckled. In a more serious tone, she said, “I want to thank you for everything you’ve done for me. But for your advice, I’d be dead now. Or worse, broken and beaten. If I ever leave here, I hope that I can act with your wisdom and skill.”
They touched their foreheads as they passed the Tree of Life pole with its red-and-white spiral. To the right, the high minko’s palace rose as if to challenge the skies. A team of young girls were practicing stickball, passing, running, their long black hair flying out behind them. A group of boys watched, more interested in the girls than the game.
They passed Minko Vinegaroon’s massive mound, not as high as Flying Hawk’s but with a larger building atop it. Not only did the structure serve as the Skunk Clan chief’s, but its large council chamber was used to conduct most of the Old Camp Moiety’s internal business. At its base were the houses of the Skunk Clan leaders, their granaries, and society houses. Winding through these, Heron Wing called greetings to people.
Occasional dogs and children stepped out to watch them pass. The workshops where shell was processed sent the familiar onion odor into the air as men and women cut, ground, and incised beads and gorgets. To the northwest stood the charnel house. When a member of the Skunk Clan died, he was taken there, laid out on benches, and his flesh carefully removed from the bone. Only after the proper rituals were completed were the bones given to relatives for final burial.
Morning Dew, though familiar with the scent of death, had never particularly cared for it.
Just past that they walked around the stoneworking shops where men ground and polished sandstone, granite, and claystones. Most of Split Sky City’s pipes, statuary, axes, adzes, and war clubs were finished here. Two lineages—with workshops across from each other—specialized in shaping sandstone disks for paint palettes.
Winding through tightly packed houses, Heron Wing led the way down the slope to the canoe landing. Morning Dew tried to remember the last time she had been here, walking in a half daze as she climbed the slope, her mind on captivity and the fate of her husband and family.
It seemed like a lifetime past. That day she’d been unable to see much for the press of people who had come to watch the returning warriors enter the city in triumph. Now, on an average day, the beach was lined with canoes drawn up parallel on the sand. The ground was black, stained from old campfires, rotting refuse, and almost glittering with flakes of stone, bits of broken pottery, and rocks spalled in the fires.
Ramadas were placed haphazardly: occasional shelter for Trade goods brought in from up and down the river. Here visitors from the other towns landed and displayed whatever goods they had brought with them. The blankets laid out on the ground created a colorful patchwork, their surfaces crowded with wooden bowls; boxes; folds of fabric; jars of corn, beans, squash, dried fruits, nuts; haunches of meat; hides; tools; and the other minutiae of Trade.
Heron Wing slowed as they passed a blanket set out by an Albaamaha family. A line of fish had been laid out, the dead eyes starting to dry, mouths agape.
“A good catch,” Heron Wing noted.
“Power was with us, great lady,” the fisherman said. His wife looked up, nodding, unsure what to say in the presence of a high-born Chikosi.
“Where are you from?” Heron Wing asked, bending down to inspect the largest of the catfish.
“Our farm lies south of Hickory Town. Just to the south.”