“We are all Mos’kogee. It hasn’t been that long since their Ancestors and ours lived under the mantle of Cahokia. Like us, they, too, came to this country, subjected the people they found, and built a nation. Screaming Falcon Mankiller’s great raid will bring a response. And it will come soon,” Old Woman Fox said softly. “Like us, they do not forget the ghosts of their slain. They know that the dead will never rest until their blood has been avenged.”
Morning Dew arched a disbelieving eyebrow. “My man will repulse them. They’ll run back east to their walled city, wailing and crying through the forest-covered hills. And then they’ll quake in fear, knowing that Screaming Falcon will be coming after them.” She paused. “Especially that putrid worm Smoke Shield. Remember how he watched me? He couldn’t keep the drool from running down his ugly chin.”
Old Woman Fox pursed her thin brown lips, the lines in her face deepening.
“What?” Morning Dew asked. “Put in words the disapproval I see in your face.”
“First you complain of being nothing more than a walking womb. Then you spout silly nonsense. You are smarter than that, Morning Dew. But if you’re not, well, at least you have that wonderful sheath. Let us hope that Screaming Falcon Mankiller’s seed fills it with many children so that our clan is at least replenished.”
“You don’t think Screaming Falcon will be great?”
Old Woman Fox pulled at her grizzled white hair, speculative gaze boring into Morning Dew’s eyes. “I think he will unleash the winds, girl. But I am not sure he can deflect them. If the winds blow us away, what then? If it falls to you, how will you save our people?”
“It won’t come to that,” Morning Dew replied saucily. “Seriously, Grandmother, could the Sky Hand People have anyone who could compare in war with Screaming Falcon and our White Arrow warriors? Surely not that scar-faced Smoke Shield, with all his superior strutting.”
Old Woman Fox continued to watch her for several heartbeats. “Humor me. How would you save our people?”
Morning Dew snorted, giving her grandmother a condescending stare.
In a toneless voice, Old Woman Fox said, “That’s what I thought.”
Morning Dew glowered. “You’ll see, Grandmother. A new day is coming to our people. My man is going to make sure of it. And if he doesn’t, I will.”
“Ah.” Her eyes narrowed. “So you will accept responsibility for your people, no matter what?”
“On my blood.” Morning Dew crossed her arms, absolutely justified in taking her people’s most binding oath.
A cynical disbelief formed behind Old Woman Fox’s eyes.
His full name was Flying Hawk Who Calls the Morning Mankiller, but his title was simply high minko, or hereditary ruler of the Sky Hand Mos’kogee. Age had settled into his skin, bones, and muscles, leaving its legacy in wrinkles, aching joints, and sapped abilities. His mind, however, remained keen behind a knowing brown gaze. As a young man he had been tattooed with forked eyes that mimicked a peregrine falcon’s, and a wide red bar across his nose and cheeks indicated his clan status. Tattoos, he had discovered, never looked as striking in sagging old age as they did on fresh young skin. In contrast he made sure that the copper ear spools that filled his enlarged earlobes were polished until they shone. The feathers bound to his arms were bright red, blue, and yellow. He wore colorful fabrics dyed in bright colors, and the copper hairpiece that proclaimed his status as high minko had been polished until it shone like the light of the sun.
He sat in the middle of the great war canoe, paddles rising and falling as muscular young men drove them forward amidst a V of smaller craft. The waters of the Black Warrior River had a clear green translucence common to the late season. Gone was the muddy opacity of the summer caused by constant rains and floods. Down in the depths, he could make out the moss, clusters of mussels, and the occasional large fish.
Normally he wouldn’t have been traveling this late in the season, but the attack on Alligator Town belied any sense of normality. War parties were a thing of summer, not the late fall, when straight-thinking men should be out hunting deer, their wives collecting nuts from the forest floor. No, this was unexpected, like a sudden slap from a longtime lover. It had kindled a slow-burning anger, one he would be happy to feed until it burned brightly among his people.
On the left bank trees thinned to a clearing. At its base a canoe landing could be seen. Beached craft, like driftwood logs haphazardly laid out, rested on the dark sandy bank. Through the trees he could make out a pall of white smoke.