People of the Weeping Eye(35)

“Yes. Gods, I could just lie back and sleep.”

“Liar.”

Smoke Shield smiled. “How do I look?”

“Marvelous. Power rides with you. Your mixture of the colors was extraordinary.”

Smoke Shield opened his eyes, glanced at Thin Branch to read satisfaction in his expression, then climbed to his feet. They had been seated on one of the double-knotted rush mats in the palace great room. The high stool with its cougarhide covers stood before the back wall. Behind it, a huge copper relief of Eagle Man hung from the wall. So, too, did old shields—war trophies from Flying Hawk’s colorful exploits in combat. Mixed with them were assorted masks, some carved from wood, others from whelk shell, and a few from gourd husks. Each had been painted to accent the features of the Spirits, gods, and sacred beings they represented: Old Woman, Long-Nosed God, Horned Serpent, Eagle Man, Morning Star, and lesser beings.

Thin Branch handed him his palette—a round sandstone disk, its border scalloped and bounded by three thin lines that represented the worlds of Creation. A man’s palette was one of his most precious possessions. Creating colors was a sacred process, akin to the Creation of the worlds. Colors were not only an affirmation of life, but by their very nature attracted and concentrated different types of Power. White symbolized order, goodness, reflection, and peace. War, chaos, creativity, and struggle lived in the color red. Blue and purple were the sky colors, symbolic of air and the Above World, domain of birds, thunder, and the cloud beings. Yellow was that of healing and growth, while brown became death, corruption, and the Underworld with its creatures. Black was the color of mourning—of nighttime and the creatures that prowled it.

With the application of colors, a man’s souls could attract the essences of those Powers to him, incorporate them, share them for whatever task was at hand. In this case, Smoke Shield was preparing for a war council. He had chosen red for his forehead, lower cheeks, and chin. The tattooed bar across his upper cheeks and the bridge of his nose was rendered in black, the forked-eye tattoos around his eyes were in a pale gray, while a single blue line ran down from his lower lip to his chin, homage to the justice of his cause in instigating war, and the risks that such behavior entailed. Three large white beads cut from the columella—or center swirl of a whelk shell—hung from his forelock.

“I think it is time,” Thin Branch said, hearing Flying Hawk’s brisk steps from down the hallway that led to the back.

Smoke Shield swung his arms to loosen them, slipped his palette into its wooden box, and slung his triangular white apron around his hips. He tied it securely, and checked to make sure the long point of it hung down straight between his knees. Finally, he reached into a cedar-wood box and removed three small white arrows. He admired them for a moment. Each had been bestowed as a token of honor for his exploits as a warrior. Among the Sky Hand People, no greater honor could be granted to a warrior. Smoke Shield was slipping the last one into his hair as Flying Hawk strode into the room.

“Ready?” his uncle asked, giving him a thorough scrutiny. Flying Hawk had dressed himself in a similar white apron, the center of it decorated with an elaborate eye-in-hand motif. His face had been carefully painted: The black bar tattooed across his cheeks had been darkened with charcoal; bright hematite-red covered the rest of his face with the exception of a thin black line running straight down his forehead, nose, mouth, and chin—a symbol of the grief he expressed for those so ruthlessly slain at Alligator Village. He wore his heavy copper hairpiece: an arrow splitting a cloud. No less than eight of the small white arrows had been laced into his greased hair.

“Ready.” Smoke Shield reached for a copper-headed war club and gestured for Flying Hawk to precede him.

As they left the room, Thin Branch began replacing Smoke Shield’s paints in their small wooden case. As he did, he gently Sang the ritual song of thanks for the Powers imparted by the colors.

“Have you given thought to your words?” Flying Hawk asked as they walked out into the morning. Golden sunlight spilled out of the southern sky and cast a lattice of shadows from the high palisade that surrounded the mound top upon which they walked. To either side of the palace entrance, two guardian posts had been carved into the shape of watching eagles, beaks painted yellow, their eyes black and shining. The outline of intricately feathered wings had been carved in the sides, as if they draped possessively around the poles.

Two steep stairways descended from the gated heights: the Star Stairs to the north, and the Sun Stairs to the east. Hawk led them to the latter, passing through the heavy oak gate and descending the worn wooden steps. Split Sky City spread around them. It thrived as its people went about their daily lives, some walking or packing loads, others pounding corn in hollow mortars. The sound of shrieking children mingled with flute music. Wreaths of blue smoke bent off to the south, borne by the fall breeze. Hundreds of houses lined the plaza, their gray roofs stippling the ground beneath the city’s high wooden walls. The slanted morning light gave them a slightly hazy look as it passed through the moist air.