People of the Weeping Eye(52)

The two warriors flanking the captives reached over and pushed the women forward. “Kneel,” one ordered.

Both women dropped to their knees before Biloxi Mankiller. Neither raised her head.

“They will serve you well,” Bow Mankiller said evenly. “If you have any trouble with them, and decline to discipline them for whatever reason, I personally will be happy to remind them of their status.”

“I think we can handle them,” Biloxi replied.

“And if they should run”—Bow Mankiller grinned meaningfully—“we will take it as a personal affront.” Bending down, he said loudly to the women, “My kinsmen would run them down like dogs in the forest.”

“Your gift is kindly received,” Biloxi answered. “Perhaps you might tell my mother who these women are?”

Bow pointed a finger at the older woman on the left. “This one is of the Sky Hand Raccoon Clan. She was once the wife of the minko at Alligator Town.” He glanced back at the hanging captives in their squares. “It is believed that she no longer has use for that husband.

“This one”—Bow Mankiller indicated the younger—“is her daughter. Both are from the lineage of which the man called Seven Dead Mankiller is head.”

“The tishu minko of Split Sky City, I believe.” Biloxi almost chortled.

“That is correct. These women are cousins.” Bow Mankiller bowed slightly, enjoying the theater.

Biloxi, as was his right as high minko, spoke for his clan. “We thank you, good friend. Your gift comes at the perfect time. Our hunters have brought in many deer in preparation for the marriage feast.” He glanced skeptically at the captives. “They don’t look like they have much practice fleshing hides. I have heard that Seven Dead’s kin are accustomed to much softer labor.”

Laughter broke out among the warriors.

Morning Dew full well knew what that implied. Since returning from the raid, half the men on the war party had been between the captives’ legs.

“We thank you for your gift,” Sweet Smoke said politely, but Morning Dew could see the worry behind her eyes. “They shall be a great asset to this household.”

“We are humbled by your thanks.” Bow Mankiller nodded again. “Oh, and Matron, a certain young man sends his fondest regards. From the looks of things, after his final purification, and immediate marriage, he will be unable to address you with his respect and appreciation.”

Bow Mankiller referred to the strict rules of avoidance that the Chahta practiced between mother-in-law and son-in-law. It would be a terrible breach of manners, protocol, and custom if they so much as spoke to each other after the marriage. The origins of the behavior went back to the Creation, when Eagle Man’s mother-in-law, growing infatuated with him after he married her daughter, seduced him to her bed. The offspring from that union   had been a wicked young man who did much evil before Eagle Man was finally able to kill him.

Morning Dew flushed with pride. The gift of two slaves—let alone such high-ranking ones—was a most auspicious wedding offering. The news of it would be on every tongue by evening. She had to use all of her control to keep from bouncing on her toes.

“A most pleasant day, Matron,” Bow Mankiller said, and nodded. “And to you, High Minko.” With that, he signaled his warriors, turned on his heel, and headed back the way he had come.

“Slaves!” Morning Dew cried as soon as they were out of earshot.

“Well,” Sweet Smoke said with resignation, “there are hides to flesh.” To her son, she added, “Make sure you get enough work out of them to justify the food they eat.”

“Get to work, slaves,” Biloxi ordered.

For the first time, the older woman looked up.

The woman’s expression startled Morning Dew. Her face was slack, and emptiness lay behind her eyes, as if her center had been cored out, and her souls gone hollow.

A shiver ran down Morning Dew’s spine. No matter what, I shall never be such an abject thing. This I swear!





Eleven

The sweat lodge consisted of a circle of saplings set into the ground, bent over, and tied to their opposites to create a low dome. Other saplings had been woven between the bows, then thatched and the whole of it sealed with clay. Snow had covered it with a white mantle when they arrived to kindle a fire in the low pit outside.

Old White sat naked in the pitch darkness, his bony butt on a doubled blanket. To his right, Two Petals clasped her knees to her breasts. He could sense the girl’s fear, a tangible presence in the heat that poured off the stones. They had been cooked to a red glow in a roaring fire outside and carefully carried into the lodge perched on smoking sticks.