People of the Weeping Eye(17)
A string of captives followed, outlying guards prodding them with clubs and spears. The prisoners were bloodied, men looking downcast and afraid, women staring about in doe-eyed disbelief. All had been stripped naked, and looking close, Paunch could see that each of the men had been scalped of his forelock, the exposed section of skull blackened with dried blood. Lines of it had trickled down their faces.
“Will they see us up here?” Paunch asked.
She stepped up beside him, emptiness in her eyes. “They see nothing but their victory.”
At the end ran a final warrior. He was young, strong-limbed, and agile. A bulky wooden box was strapped to his back like an awkward pack. An ornate thing, its sides had been intricately carved and inlaid with white shell; exposed wood had been brightly painted, and the bas-relief images it sported were clad in beaten sheets of polished copper.
“He carries the war medicine box, Whippoorwill,” old Paunch noted. “A great deal of responsibility for one so young. Is he their leader?”
The girl narrowed her eyes as she watched the young warrior pass and vanish into the trees. “It is well that we can only see as far as our Dreams, Grandfather. That young man drowns in visions of glory, status, and honors. In the eye of his souls, he is already standing atop the Chief Mound in White Arrow Town. His bed is filled by a warm and willing woman, and all bow before him. In his Dream he is aging, surrounded by his many children. Chiefs from all over seek his audience and advice. He wears a wealth of shell, copper, and fine white fabric adorned with feathers of every color. His enemies tremble.”
The old man glanced back at the black smoke plume hanging over Alligator Town. “But that is not to be?”
“There is no more tragic a fool than the one who lives only in his Dreams.” She had fixed her depthless eyes on him. “The Dream becomes obsession, doesn’t it? It Dances behind our eyelids at odd moments, and swirls like a current … only to carry us to certain doom.”
“So the young man is a fool?”
She smiled, flashing strong white teeth. “He is the single stick in the beaver’s dam. Remove him, and the whole structure will disintegrate into a flood of brown water that will wash everything before it.” She arched an eyebrow. “Can you swim, Grandfather?”
“Then, you see the end?”
Her eyes grew distant. “The fool has made his play. His blood will run hot and red across the ceremonial sword and stain his lover’s fingers. Power is stirring. Old blood cries out for revenge. Forgotten passions simmer. Brothers must be crossed before all will be made anew.” She glanced off to the north. “My sister brings the father of my child.”
He shook his head. Whipporwill’s mother was long dead. There would be no sister. “The father of your child?”
“He thinks he can outrun destiny. But the net is closing as Power draws the lines tight.”
“And then we will be free?”
Her only answer was a bitter peal of laughter.
Five
Old White considered Two Petals as he paddled out into the Father Water’s lazy current. Her clansmen had literally tossed the bound woman into the bottom of his canoe. She looked like a war captive: dirty, wild-eyed, and disheveled. Was this bound and gagged creature really the woman he had been looking for? The Dream had only come in fragments: Often the images had been so ambiguous. What if she wasn’t the Contrary that the Forest Witch had spoken of so many moons ago? Indecision ate at him.
He used his paddle to correct his course, aware of the slanting of the western sun. This late in the year, the great river ran smoothly, its surface placid for the most part. The current had a green clarity. When the sun was high, he could see the bottom, much of it thick with moss and water plants. On occasion he’d spot a great paddlefish or sturgeon gliding along the bottom.
As Old White followed his bow downstream, he cast mild glances at the willows that lined the shore. It was possible that one of Fast Palm’s warriors might have followed, heart set on taking a parting shot by launching an arrow in his direction.
He took another swipe with his pointed paddle and turned his attention on the still-trussed female. She reminded him of some huge fish, a trophy landed and dropped amidst the various packs, robes, and baskets that lay in the bottom of his dugout canoe. Wrapped in her rope, the gag in her mouth, she looked pathetic. Her eyes fixed on his; passion and fire, like gleaming dark coals, burned behind her thin face.
“Would you like that gag removed?” he asked.
She shook her head violently, mouth working as if she was trying to spit out the dirty cloth.
Old White leaned forward, grasped the cloth, and pulled it free.