People of the Weeping Eye(164)
“Should be quite a party,” Old White observed as he panted his way to the top.
“They will be doing the same at home, you know.” How odd that he had started referring to Split Sky City that way. “Everyone will be arriving, canoes laid side by side at the landing until there is hardly room to walk.” He closed his eyes, almost able to smell the wood smoke and cooking food. A sudden pang of homesickness, like he hadn’t felt in years, filled him.
“I will share it with you this summer,” Old White promised. “We will enjoy the Busk together.” He sighed. “But for the moment, let us see what this high chief is like.”
“He’s Yuchi,” Trader muttered. “Probably some overblown, self-important old man with delusions of inflated glory.”
They turned and stepped through the gate to find a packed clay compound with two guardian poles to either side of the walkway to the palace. One was a rendition of Crawfish, the other of Vulture, his long wings carved down the sides of the log. A log pestle and mortar stood to one side, a ramada to the other.
They walked to the plank door, Old White calling out in Trade Tongue, “Greetings, High Chief of the Tsoyaha! Old White, the Seeker, and the man called Trader would speak with you.”
A young woman, her swollen belly marking an advanced pregnancy, swung the door open on its leather hinges and smiled at them. “You are welcome. My husband will see you in a moment. May I get you some tea?”
“That would be appreciated,” Trader said easily. He reached into his belt pouch, producing a large copper-clad wooden bead. “May we offer this token of respect for your kind hospitality? You will honor it with your beauty.”
She took the gleaming bead, gasping with delight as she held it up to the sunlight. “It’s beautiful! Come in! Be seated. I will get you tea.”
Stepping into the great room, Trader glanced around. To his surprise, the structure had two stories, with a ladder leading up in one corner. The room measured perhaps five paces by ten, with a thick pole ceiling. On the wall to the right was a beautifully carved image of a warrior with a long, beaded forelock holding a turkey-tail mace in one hand, a severed head in the other. Finally, the wall to the left sported a flat round plaque consisting of two circling rattlesnakes coiled about each other, the heads facing an open center. Their long tongues protruded, almost touching. A three-legged stool stood behind the large fire pit, a series of raccoon hides sewn together for a covering. Wooden boxes, intricately carved, were tucked neatly under the pole benches built into the walls.
He blinked at the incongruity of toys scattered around the rush matting that covered the floor. Some were corn-shuck dolls; others consisted of deerhide balls, small stickball racquets with net-filled loops for playing the children’s version of the game, and little clay figurines of turkeys, dogs, and what might have been raccoons. Weapons—obviously the high chief’s—rested on a stand near the door. Trader saw a bow and arrows, several war clubs, and a fine shield with the three-legged spiral surrounded by the rings of circles and the scalloped cloud motif.
Doorways led off to either side, the rooms obscured by fabric door hangings decorated with opposing turkeys facing a spiral-striped pole. The bubbly laughter of children could be heard behind the doorway to the right.
Trader walked to one of the benches. There, displayed in a beautiful open box, were four highly polished chunkey stones, the sides convex with dimples in the center, and behind them lay four perfectly straight lances. He considered the pieces, then stared up at the huge carving on the rear wall. Portions of the three-legged spiral were clad in copper. The central disk had been painted in bright yellow.
“You are looking at the sky,” a voice called from behind him.
Trader turned to see a tall athletic man emerge from the right doorway. Several small children peeked around his legs and the door jamb. These, the man shooed back, and then he stepped into the room.
He wore his hair up; a copper headpiece of the familiar lightning design with an arrow splitting a cloud rested atop his head. His face had been tattooed in the forked-eye design with a pattern of lines running down and to the sides from his nose and mouth. Gleaming copper ear spools filled his elongated earlobes. Trader estimated the man’s age at less than thirty winters. The coarsely woven apron he wore was stained with what looked like food.
Following his gaze, the man looked down, smiled self-consciously, and shrugged. “I know. A great chief should greet such exalted visitors in his finest, but I don’t get much time to play with the children. We are preparing for the solstice ceremonies, and I will be called upon to be very formal during the coming days.” Then he saw Swimmer, and a smile beamed as he dropped to his knees. “Hello there! Come here. That’s it. Who are you?”