People of the Thunder(82)
He watched Paunch shrink down before him. Gods, he hoped that his words would be prophetic.
In the silence, he asked, “Now, Albaamo, you once mentioned Amber Bead. When we arrive at Sky Hand City, I think it would be best if we meet with the man.”
Paunch blinked, taking to fingering his hair again, as if wary of having it cut. “You would see the councilor?”
“I would. We will need to know things when we arrive at Split Sky City. Some we can learn at the canoe landing; for other things we must have additional sources.”
“Only a few threads remain,” Two Petals said softly. “All is coming together. What a curious weave it is.”
“Instead of all this weaving,” Trader muttered, “have you ever thought about taking up pottery?”
“Just so it isn’t squares that she’s filling in,” Old White added in Natchez. He had the beginnings of a plan coming together, but it would necessitate their being able to move unfettered through Split Sky City.
It was one thing to have a wish come true, but quite another to know what to do with it. That notion perplexed Amber Bead. He sat beside the river and looked up at the sky as a rain shower passed to the west. Around him, several Albaamaha women used discarded pieces of cloth to make salt pans. Salt was one of the prized Trade commodities, and Albaamaha women specialized in making the pans used to evaporate seawater. This was a fortuitous arrangement. The right kind of clay was available along the lower Black Warrior Valley to produce the pans. The Pensacola, down to the south, didn’t have much in the way of clay. Most of their soils were sandy silts washed down from the great rivers, and the few hills around them were made of crumbling sandstones.
The Chikosi and Albaamaha needed salt; the Pensacola needed drying pans. It worked out neatly. To make the pans, Albaamaha women hollowed out a shallow bowl shape in the river sand to the dimensions needed for the salt evaporators. When the basin was shaped just so, old fabric was laid smoothly inside the basin. This provided the mold. Wet, tempered clay, mixed to just the right consistency with river water, was carefully pressed into shape, making a bowl as thick as a woman’s little finger. The interior was smoothed with a round pebble to create a slick, burnished surface impermeable to water. Then the whole was allowed to sun dry.
After the bowl was sufficiently dry, two women stood on either side, lifting the fabric carefully, using it to free the shallow pan from its mold. The fabric was then peeled off, leaving its impression in the bottom of the clay. The wide shallow bowl was left to dry further, and finally fired.
Amber Bead watched the process—enjoyed the sun peering through the partly cloudy sky—and pondered his problem. He had come here because no one looking for sage advice or demanding definitive answers was likely to think of this place. They would be looking in the seats of authority, around the tchkofa, near the chiefly palaces in Split Sky City, or around his abode just outside the walls. The last place anyone would think of searching for him would be down near the river where women were making salt pans.
He had Lotus Root hidden just outside of Bird Town, close enough to be handy should he need to call on her, far enough away that no one looking specifically for her would stumble upon the woman while she was out using the latrine.
All he had told his cousins was that she was a recent widow, up from the south, and could she stay with them for several days? The story that he and Lotus Root had concocted was that her husband had been killed in the Alligator Town raid. Her house had been burned, her family killed. Having no house to mourn in, she was here. When her mourning period was over, she would look over the local supply of husbands, and perhaps make a new start in the Bird Town locality.
Amber Bead’s cousins knew enough not to pry. They had already been inspected once by Chikosi warriors just after Paunch disappeared.
Paunch? Now there was a problem he hadn’t had time to ponder much recently. He looked off to the west, wondering just where his over eager friend and pretty young Whippoorwill had vanished to. The forest was crawling with warriors. Chahta scouts were watching the trails, and Chikosi were keeping track of them. At least they were when they weren’t dressing up as Chahta and killing Albaamaha.
He sat on the log, his butt growing sore, his back bent, chin propped as he watched the women chatting and forming their clay.
Chikosi dressed as Chahta. And Smoke Shield right in the middle of it. Now that was a thick knot to pick apart. As Lotus Root had told her story, he hadn’t even been amazed, though the sight of those twenty-three Albaamaha scalps had sent eerie shivers up his spine. Blessed Ancestors, didn’t the woman fear for the safety of his aged souls, even if she didn’t fear for her own? Scalps were Powerful things, often carrying the essence of their previous owners’ souls. And here she came, traipsing around with them, heedless of the screaming and angry ghosts that followed after, howling for revenge for their untimely deaths.