People of the Weeping Eye(176)

That morning, the Hickory Moiety men had lost, their defeat humiliating. It didn’t help that five of the goals had been made by Smoke Shield. Morning Dew might hate him, but she had to admire his ability on the field. The man had moved like a panther, catching, throwing, fighting through the press when the ball was dropped.

In the end, however, Hickory Moiety had lost by five. Not even Smoke Shield could prevent that. Sensing opportunity, the celebrants from Old Camp had bet their winnings and more on the women’s game that followed.

The pile of wagered goods had shocked even Morning Dew: stacks of hides, pottery, shells, blankets, pieces of worked copper, baskets of corn and beans and squash, clothing, and slaves.

It could be worse, she had thought. I could be there, too.

Instead she was here, in the midst of the fray, the score tied evenly at fifteen. Only five stakes on each side remained to be taken down as the score built.

Morning Dew slowed, staring back over her shoulder. She felt good, having not run like this since the day of her marriage. Throughout the game she had steadfastly refused to look over at the squares, now hidden by the throng of people watching the game who shouted, Sang, and leapt as the women struggled, gasped, and slammed each other for the ball. Nevertheless, Morning Dow could feel the oppressive presence of the empty squares, and what she had lost there.

So why am I playing for the Chikosi?

Heron Wing, Violet Bead, and several others milled about the edge of the press. In the melee, someone screamed in pain. Morning Dew had lost track of the ones carried or limping off the field, some with broken arms or legs, others streaming blood.

Head butting and striking with the racquets brought penalties. Anything else, provided it wasn’t too blatant, was just part of the game. The referees consisted of ten old women on the sidelines. They walked back and forth, each with a feathered stick. Any foul would be called by them raising their sticks, pointing at the offender. Head butting was a nasty two-point penalty here, while a purposeful strike with a racquet lost one. Touching the ball with a hand meant surrendering the ball to the opposing team.

Vigilant as Morning Dew was, she almost missed the ball when a woman eased out of the melee, wobbling on her feet as if injured, only to straighten and toss the ball to Heron Wing, who now stood well clear. Heron Wing pivoted, finding Morning Dew right where she should be. The woman pulled back, using her entire body to cast.

Morning Dew tracked right, leapt, and felt the impact of the ball into the pocket of her racquet. She turned, sprinting east toward the goal. The defenders, mostly to the north, came charging after her. She did a quick evaluation of the fat women in her way, feinted right, dodged left, and shot away from the first, only to follow suit with the second.

From the edge of her souls, she could hear the frantic shouts of the crowd. Glancing around, she could see no other players wearing Hickory’s white feathers or short dresses.

Dancing and darting, she slipped through the few women in her path. Closing from the side came no less than fifteen women, seeking desperately to intercept her.

Morning Dew broke left, sprinting for a hole, her breath tearing at her throat. Four red-clad opponents blocked her way. Using a trick her mother had taught her, she let them rush, knowing they would try to knock her off her feet, retrieve the ball, and send it back downfield. Instead, Morning Dew slowed, trying to look bewildered, and at the last moment, tossed the ball high over their heads, well above their reach. They stopped in confusion, eyes on the soaring ball instead of her.

Her speed carried her between them, and she used her momentum to slam one of the distracted women into her companion as she burst past. She had the advantage, well ahead of the others, who had to reverse direction, locate the ball, and retrieve it. On the run, Morning Dew swept up the ball and ran full-tilt for the goal, which filled her vision, ever closer as she raced.

She could hear bare feet pounding behind her, set herself, and with years of practice to back her, flung the leather-hide ball through the goal.

The crowd exploded as she trotted to a stop, chest heaving for breath. Four points left. Winded, she walked slowly back as the jubilant Hickory crowd screamed. Old Camp hissed and shouted insults.

She was still panting as she crossed the center line to the cheers of her teammates. “Two goals!” Heron Wing grinned. “I was right about you.”

“Why am I doing this?” Morning Dew gasped, hardly aware of the women who crowded around her.

“You are a matron,” Heron Wing said simply. “It is your calling.”

My calling?

She glanced up as one of the old women was handed the ball. The ranks formed up on either side, leaving the old woman to look back and forth between the sides.