People of the Weeping Eye(101)

Shelter had come in the form of an abandoned village a half day’s journey up the Tenasee, or the Sister River, as the Illinois called it. As the first drops had fallen from the brooding sky, Two Petals had pointed, saying, “That’s no place to make camp.”

With the storm brewing, no one had objected. They had searched the abandoned village, checking the repair of the houses that still stood. Then they carried the packs up to the house that remained sound. The roof seemed to be good; and its bark construction suggested that it had once belonged to either the Illinois or the Miami. The place was strewn with trash that they swept out, and once a fire had been kindled in the old hearth, it was almost homey.

Then Two Petals had surprised both men, saying, “You know, the last thing I need right now is a woman’s lodge.” She’d stared through the pouring rain, pointed, and declared, “I definitely don’t want that one.”

So saying, she had picked up her bedding and strode off.

Now Trader could crane his neck and see a faint blue smoke rising from around the cracks in the bark roof.

“I just wonder why it didn’t happen sooner,” Old White said from where he nursed their fire. “Of course, sometimes starvation, hard work, or tough times can make a woman miss her moon. I knew of an A’khota woman warrior once who kept herself so fit she claimed she didn’t have to go to the Women’s House except on rare occasions.”

Trader crossed his arms, watching the patterns of rain on the river. “To be honest, I’ve never studied the problem much.” He turned. “The way I was raised, women were kept strictly separate. You know our ways. Men do the things men do, and women do theirs. Then, once I got out on the river, I ran into many different beliefs, most of them contradictory to what our people accept as normal. Where does the truth lie, Seeker?”

The old man poured water into one of their bowls, setting it on three stones over the fire to boil. “That I can’t tell you, Trader. There are as many ways of believing as there are people, and each and every one of them thinks their way is right and proper. Most of them think that their gods have given them the true and correct rules of behavior. Up in the northeast, and among the Charokee, it’s the women who really rule. In other places kin is traced through the men, and the men rule. Or, take the Sky Hand; we trace our lines through the women, and the men still rule. I think it depends on what you learn as a child.”

Trader considered that as rain pelted the forest around them, dripping from the bare trees. In a lower voice, he asked, “What about Power?”

“Now, there you have me.”

“Do you think Power remembers?”

“I think it just is.”

“So, Power doesn’t hold a man’s actions against him?”

“You thinking of this man you killed?”

“My brother. That’s a pretty serious burden to bear. To have killed one’s brother—no matter where I’ve traveled—is considered very wrong. To many it is the most hideous crime a man can commit outside of incest.”

Old White’s voice lowered. “Trader, tell me: Did he deserve it?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. All of my life, up to that moment, I had done everything I could to be different from him. We are taught that life is a balance of opposites: the white and red forces of nature, constantly in opposition. Different yet equal. Rattle and I were like that: twins—equal, and completely opposite of each other. I sought harmony, goodwill, and acts of kindness; while he plotted, schemed, and envied. I never understood. Rattle always got what he wanted; but it was never enough to satisfy his cravings. If I received a gift because of a kindness I had done, he would stare at it. He would be obsessed with possessing it. I knew how it consumed him, so I always put up with his scheming, letting him talk me into something lesser in exchange for that thing … perhaps a toy bow, or a little clay sculpture. In return, I’d let him concoct his intricate lies.

“Once it was a whelk shell gorget I was given by the Hopaye. I had run to fetch his medicine bag when a man was dying. The Hopaye saved the man’s life, and in gratitude he gave me that gorget. It was a beautiful engraving of two rattlesnakes circling, the center open to represent the passage from this world to the Underworld. The cord it hung on was strung with polished shell beads. It became my prized possession.” He paused. “Oh, how Rattle wanted it.”

“What happened?”

“Well, he couldn’t steal it. Not and be able to parade around with it on his chest. So he started offering things in Trade. First it was a crudely carved stick that he claimed our uncle had given him. He told me wondrous stories about how it was filled with Power to call the lightning. Once, he said, he had thrown it into the air, and an eagle appeared, grabbed it in its talons, and dropped it back to him. He even showed me the imprints the talons had supposedly made in the wood. I refused. Just that once, I wanted to keep that gorget.”