People of the Weeping Eye(45)

The path ran past sunken storage pits and the rubble of long-decayed houses. Potsherds gleamed in the bottom of the path along with flakes of stone and bits of charred bone and corncobs. Cahokia was a place of trash.

They passed the base of the great mound, entering the grand plaza. To the right was a square mound topped with a thatch-roofed farmer’s dwelling much smaller than the splendid temple that had once graced its heights.

“Are we going up?” Two Petals pointed at the ramped stairway leading to the tiered heights of the great mound.

“Our destination lies there.” He pointed across the plaza to the south, past two low mounds. There a conical mound stood west of a larger square mound topped by a thatched structure. It was to the latter that Old White was headed.

“Charming place, I’m sure.”

“She has her ways,” Old White replied.

Two Petals’ gaze sharpened, and he could see her struggling. “Why did we come here?”

Old White smiled to himself. “To finish something started long ago. To say good-bye. To close a circle.” He paused. “And to see if she can help you.”

“Circles, circles,” she chided, slipping away again. Her eyes had taken on that vacant look. “Round and round. Like the world. Nothing straight.”

Old White glanced back at the great mound, seeing a lone figure high atop the stairway watching them. “No, nothing straight.” He led the way out onto the plaza, the grass at the side of the trail rustling as if trying to grab his legs.

The wind battered at them, almost knocking him sideways. Not as spry as I used to be. The pack seemed to weigh a ton. His cloth pack swung back and forth; it might have been maliciously trying to counter his balance. Did he feel the smooth stone within humming in time to the wind? How many years had he carried it, the weight forever reminding him of the past?

Should have left it behind years ago. But the stone had become part of him, his burden and curse.

“Only the young walk with a sprightly step,” she said in a singsong voice.

“If only you knew.”

“I know everything.”

“Must be comforting.”

“Like a leaf in the wind.”

They followed the path in silence to the foot of the mound. Though dwarfed by the great mound, it was still huge. But being close, he could see slumping along the east side where a patch of earth had slid down to leave a scar. Virgin levels of clay and colored soil could be seen in the exposed profile.

Old White led the way to a stairway consisting of logs laid into the steep side of the mound. Some had been recently replaced, as evidenced by their color, and disturbed earth marked where one had been dug out. He was winded by the time he made it to the top.

As he stopped to catch his breath, Two Petals climbed up beside him, looking back across the grand plaza with its abandoned mounds. The vista only emphasized the great mound with its three-story palace to the north.

“The ghosts yawn,” Two Petals said wearily. Her gaze had fixed on the palace. “He’s watching us.”

“I saw. Probably the guard. Our business isn’t with the chief.”

“No, not him. The old man with white hair. He’s worried about spiders.”

Old White shot her a sidelong glance. “What old man?”

“He’s there.” She pointed at the palace. “Just like he’s always been.”

A scratchy voice behind him said, “I see him often.” Old White turned. The crone stood in the doorway of the two-room house. The dwelling fit the woman. Its thatch had weathered beyond gray to a dirty white, as had her hair. Reminiscent of the woman’s skin, chunks of plaster sagged or had fallen from the walls to expose the poles beneath. Once-bright paintings of birds, people, and deer had faded into faint patterns on the remaining plaster. The old woman, too, had been beautiful. Her skin was tattooed with a series of dots that ran down from her chin. She wore a long dress of threadbare fabric, and a ragged blue-feathered shawl hung from her shoulders. Now the wind tugged at the feathers, threatening to tear them away.

“It’s been a long time, Silver Loon.” Old White stepped forward.

She squinted. “A great many winters have passed since I have gone by that name. Do I know you?”

“Perhaps. But that was long ago. I was a different man then, and went by another name.”

She watched him approach, curiosity in her dark gaze. “Refresh my memory.”

“You took me in, called my wounded souls back to my body. You called me your ‘broken pot.’ Not the most flattering of the names I’ve had over the years.”

“Runner,” she said flatly, eyes narrowing. “After all these years. Should I throw my arms around you, or poison you the first chance I get?”