Images kept replaying of the days since her arrival. She saw snippets of the mocking Sky Hand and Albaamaha who had come to jeer, peer, shout, or throw insulting things at her. She had heard them laugh, seen their pantomimes of how the captives would be treated.
Was it so long ago that I did the same? She remembered the captives in their squares in her own plaza. How could the earth have turned upside down so quickly? A sob tried to choke her as she remembered the lingering deaths of the captives taken from the Alligator Town raid. The memories of how her people had burned, cut, and beat the helpless men in the squares was now too real.
The same is happening to my beloved Screaming Falcon. She had forced her thoughts away from the inevitable—tried to still the horror and pain in her souls.
The process of washing her hair had touched her for some reason and brought her back from the misery inside to the external world. She was able to make an assessment of her surroundings. The house was well made. The wall poles were set upright in a trench, the roof high and pitched. Unlike so many houses, the plaster here was clean, as if freshly done. Sleeping benches on either side were neat with folded hides and brightly dyed fabric blankets. Beneath the benches, pots, jars, and baskets had been placed in orderly rows. The wooden plank boxes were all carved, inlaid with shell, the wood polished to a fine sheen. Cooking vessels had their own place, each capped with a wooden lid to keep rodents out. The matting, though worn in places, looked clean. On the rear wall a carved wooden image of a panther had been hung. The workmanship was excellent, the panther reaching out with one clawed paw, its mouth open to expose white teeth. The single eye—made of polished oyster shell—gleamed in the firelight. To its right a doorway led into a small storeroom where she could see larger baskets and boxes.
As the women continued to scrub and rinse her long hair, she closed her eyes. Just for a moment, she could imagine she was a girl again, and it was Old Woman Fox’s fingers that she felt. What had happened to Grandmother?
“The world is a cruel place,” the old woman’s voice came back to haunt her. “You must never forget that. Breath Giver made it that way so that only the strong would survive. No matter what, you must always be strong, girl.”
But she wasn’t. Oh, Grandmother, you would be so ashamed of me.
She wished for death—anything to avoid this horrible new reality. No matter what ministrations these Sky Hand women did, it was only preparation for the moment she was led to Smoke Shield’s bed.
When would that be? How would she endure? Would it be smart to just lie there? Could she pretend that it was Screaming Falcon who climbed onto her? Could she make herself fly away from her body? Perhaps send her souls to some happy place where her mother still smiled?
It will only be my body that he possesses. And if she lay like unresponsive meat perhaps he would simply get it over with, strangle her, or break her neck.
“Oh, she’ll make Smoke Shield a happy man,” Wide Leaf growled, as if hearing her thoughts. “Don’t see what he wants with this one. He’d be happier with one of the slaves. At least they pant at the thought of his touch.”
“That will be enough,” Heron Wing had warned.
In the end, they had finished, leaving her in a seated position, inspecting their work as her hair dried by the fire. “That will do for now,” Violet Bead had decided. “I wouldn’t worry about the perfume until just before he calls for her.”
“And we have to get that dress cleaned and repaired,” Heron Wing had said.
“I’ll attend to it.” Violet Bead had yawned. “Pine Needle can wash it first chance she gets. She should almost be finished cleaning up.” She grabbed up Morning Dew’s soiled dress. “Oh, the cape.”
Heron Wing stepped over to one of the cedar-wood boxes, lifted the lid, and removed a fine quillwork cape. This she handed to Violet Bead before the woman ducked out into the night.
“Gods,” Heron Wing had said, “I’m tired.”
“Too many days without sleep,” Wide Leaf agreed, her scowling eyes still fixed on Morning Dew. “We going to leave her just sitting there, naked?”
“Give her one of my work dresses. Smoke Shield will be busy. After the celebration the Council will break for a couple of hours’ sleep, and then they’ll want to get into the Albaamaha trouble and discuss the political situation with the Chahta.”
Political situation? A flicker of hope grew in Morning Dew’s breast. Then perhaps ransom was still not out of the question? For that she could endure. Once back in her own lands, she would dedicate herself to the destruction of the Sky Hand if it meant selling off her territory piece by piece to the Natchez, the Yuchi, and the Pensacola. Forge a grand enough alliance and even the stunning magnificence of Split Sky City could be brought to its knees.