“What is?” Trader had replied indignantly. “They’re hiding something.”
“They are showing us everything,” she’d insisted. “Naked, without clothes. You can even see the bones.”
White Arrow Town, the southernmost Chahta settlement, was a mess. Old White’s party had landed below the town, finding not one, but four grim-eyed warriors guarding the landing. They had nodded, reluctant, but still honoring the Power of Trade. One had run to fetch the war chief, a man named Otter Mankiller. He had looked suspiciously at their cargo, then at Paunch, and said, “The old matron gives you leave to Trade. A place has been made for you.” His stern orders ensured that the guards would allow no one close to the canoes and their precious cargo. Trader ordered Swimmer to stay with the packs, just to make sure. He didn’t look like much of a guard dog, but then, dogs, like men, could be deceiving.
The town itself was in a state of chaos. Burned buildings had been torn down, and most were in the process of being rebuilt. Rings of charcoal marked where granaries had been incinerated; most consisted of charred posts rising in black spikes toward the sky.
Atop the high minko’s mound, a group of slaves labored to dig old posts from the hard clay, sending them rolling down the steep slope to the ground below. These in turn were scavenged for firewood. One thing White Arrow Town had plenty of was partially burned firewood.
They had set up in the plaza, doing their best to stay upwind from the newly rebuilt charnel houses. The odor was disquieting to the senses.
Despite a large crowd when they laid out their goods, Trade had been desultory at best. Most had come to look, to marvel at the goods, and hear the news from upriver. But the people—at least those who weren’t in a kind of daze—had little to offer. Trader found himself substantially undercutting value, unable to resist the hollow-eyed women, their hair shorn in mourning, or the thin children who tagged about their legs. By noon most had wandered off, having more pressing concerns to attend to. Now the Traders sat alone, even the children called away by their mothers.
“I think we should head south in the morning,” Old White said. “This place doesn’t need us right now.”
“Have you noticed something?” Trader asked softly.
“The lack of men?”
“Most of the building is being done by women and children.”
“Maybe the men are out cutting wood, chopping grass for thatch; and by the gods, they’ve got to hunt, fish, and collect to feed themselves.”
Yes, that made sense. Things in White Arrow Town were difficult enough, let alone finding food.
“You should see them,” Two Petals remarked.
“Who?” Trader asked, following her gaze out to the plaza. “The men?”
“All the people. Laughing, running. And what a feast. It’s the grandest marriage in a long time, you know.”
“Marriage? Where?” Trader asked.
“Right there,” she said. “Look at her run! He’s hard-pressed to catch her.”
“Who, Contrary?” Old White asked in turn.
“Trader’s wife,” she replied calmly.
Trader shot Old White a skeptical look, shrugged, and went back to making a count of his goods. Not many of his pressed weasel-hide bags were left. Up in the north, weasels turned white for the winter. Skinning them, with their thin hides, was an art. He had opened one of the packs for Trade, figuring that the small skins might be unique to a people whose local weasels remained brown year round. The notion had been that the White Arrow Town people could use them for Trade with their neighbors for items more relevant for their survival, like food and clothing.
He glanced up at the setting sun, and began to carefully replace the remaining hides in their pack. People were already turning to the chores attendant to cooking the evening meal. From what he could see, most of the pots were filled with a watery stew. Not as many people were in town, most having moved out to farmsteads near the forest to hunt, or to camps along the river where fishing and trapping waterfowl was easier. The normal food stocks had been burned during the attack.
They were lacing up the packs when a single warrior happened to stop by. “Greetings. I heard that Traders were in town. Not much to Trade, I suppose?”
“Oddly,” Old White answered, “we are pleased. The goods we offered will help. Little things from the north that people can tempt their neighbors with.”
The warrior looked at the collection of little stick figures, wooden beads, occasional bits of shell, packs of hanging moss, and carved bone. The Trade looked dull and lusterless beside the few northern goods displayed.