Well, now we see if the story we concocted works.
The Kaskinampo were a Mos’kogean people. Like the Sky Hand, they had invaded this country, taking the three falls of the Tenasee River from the original inhabitants. Those unlucky folk had fled farther east, only to be crushed and enslaved by the Yuchi and Charokee. Their name was no longer spoken. As to the Kaskinampo, some still lived in the old towns west of the Father Water. Contact, Trade, and communications continued to be maintained between the groups.
Because of their location on the Tenasee—and the heavily fortified towns they had constructed on the heights—they controlled all Trade up and down the river, offering their services to portage around the rapids for a reasonable fee. For the most part the ambitious Yuchi, farther upriver, left them alone. It didn’t hurt to have the Kaskinampo to take the brunt of Miami, Illinois, and Shawnee war parties headed upriver; and for their part, the Kaskinampo never got too greedy about the Trade. They took a fair share for their services, and did their best to facilitate the movement of goods up and down the river. They believed that a smaller share of a lot of different goods served them better in the long term than a discouragingly large cut from fewer and fewer canoe loads.
The Michigamea should be so smart.
By the time Old White’s canoe nosed into the beach, a dozen helping hands were waiting to pull the craft up onto shore. Others performed a similar task for Trader, though wary of Swimmer where the dog perched atop the packs.
“Greetings,” Old White called, raising his Trader’s staff. “I am Old White, sometimes called the Seeker. The woman is Two Petals, a Contrary. This other man is Trader. We come in need of portage past the rapids. For this service, we offer Trade.”
One of the older men stepped forward, touching his breast by way of greeting. “I am Buffalo Mankiller, of the White Earth Clan. My lineage has charge of the lower landing. What can the Kaskinampo do to help you?”
Old White grimaced as he stood stiffly. “I’m not as young as I used to be.” He could feel the ache up and down his body. His lower half was cramped from sitting, his upper body pained from paddling.
“None of us are,” Buffalo Mankiller told him with a smile.
Trader stepped out of his canoe, trying as best he could to swing his heavy cloth pack onto his shoulders in a way that made it look light. He added, “We need to Trade for passage up past the third rapids. Is Long Hand still chief here?”
“It is with sorrow that I tell you that he has passed to the Sky World two winters past.” Buffalo turned his appraisal to Trader, and the obviously heavy pack he carried. “You knew him?”
“I used to travel this way often.”
Buffalo Mankiller indicated Trader’s tattoo with a finger. “That looks like a minko’s tattoo, but unfinished.”
Trader smiled humorlessly. “To have finished it, I would have had to have completed my initiation. Some things in life are disrupted by Power, fate, or destiny. In my case, the disruption was from the Hichiti. I was lucky to escape with my life.”
Old White thought it was a smooth lie.
“And your town?” Buffalo Mankiller asked.
“It is gone,” Trader said with great facility. “Most were taken by the Hichiti. Some fled to the Ockmulgee. Me, I turned to the river, and to Trade.” He made a throwing-away gesture. “Living in the Trade is so much better than serving as a slave, don’t you think?”
“It is so.” Buffalo shot an evaluative stare at Two Petals. “You said the woman is a Contrary? This is true?”
Old White nodded. “It is. Two Petals is from the far north. She has no understanding of your culture, and all that she does is backward. Power rides on her shoulders like no woman I have ever known. For that reason I would warn you, and ask you take any precautions necessary around her. We are here in peace, and for the Trade. We wish only to pass through your country as quickly as possible, without incident.”
Buffalo’s scrutiny intensified as he stepped unconsciously back from Two Petals. “If she is so Powerful, how do you travel with her?”
“We carry our medicine to protect us.” Old White indicated the heavy pack on Trader’s back, and his own wooden box. He reached down, lifted it, and swung it onto his shoulder. Then he grabbed up his weighted bag and shouldered the strap. His pouch of herbs he tied to his waist.
“What medicine is that?” Buffalo asked, pointing to Trader’s sagging bag.
“It is a slab of carved stone,” Trader told him straight-faced. “It contains Spirits in each of the carvings on its surface. As long as it is covered, none of those Spirits will wake. This is another reason we wish to pass as quickly as possible through your country.”