“What?”
Swimmer perked his ears.
“Oh, that.” Trader cleared his throat. “All right. There was a woman once. I was madly in love with her. She filled my Dreams, day and night. I watched her, and she watched me. It wasn’t that she was forbidden, as Fox Squirrel would have had you believe. She wasn’t a relative. Fact is, she was in a proper clan. My clan representatives had spoken to hers; a marriage was already arranged. I knew that. We knew that,” he corrected.
“I might have been young, but I gave my heart to her, Swimmer. And you know what, she still fills my Dreams. Even after all these years.” He nodded at the dog. “That’s what happened while I was coupling with Fox Squirrel.”
He watched the endless trees crowding the bank. “Why do I tell you things I wouldn’t even admit to myself? What is it about you? Are you really the demon dog those silly farmers thought you were?”
Swimmer thumped his tail again.
“That’s what I thought.” Trader smiled. “Yes, that’s why I left. That’s why I always leave. I meet a woman, like Fox Squirrel, then at just the wrong time, her image seems to bloom like some exotic flower between my souls.”
Trader paddled for a while, an empty feeling inside.
“I’ll bet you’re wondering why I don’t go back and get her?”
He bit his lip, wondering if he could say this, even to Swimmer.
“Because I killed a man over her. By now, she’s long been married. It’s bad enough what my people would do to me. They don’t take kindly to murder … especially over a woman. But the worst thing is, I couldn’t stand the look she’d give me. Maybe it would be hatred, or worse, loathing. And what would I do if her expression proved she despised me? Hatred? Loathing? I guess that’s all right. But being despised, now that’s like a knife in the heart.”
When he looked down, Swimmer was asleep.
But then, being ignored was better than being despised.
Twelve
Power, like air, permeated the world. It could flow like a subtle breeze through a man’s life, or blow like a gale, flatten his house, and send him tumbling to ruin. Unlike air, Power could be managed. To channel it toward a given purpose took specific rituals, and the greatest of respect and preparation. Like fire it could burn just as easily as heat. Do not believe for a moment that humans can ever control Power. The foolish might try, but in the end, they would be consumed by the very force they sought to master. Rather, like a river, it could be used, diverted to a specific end, but eventually its water must return to the river.
For war, the red Power bestowed its wielder with prowess, courage, skill, and endurance. To call Power to his aid, Smoke Shield followed the prescribed ritual: He had painted his body red, with black on his lower face. Then he had dressed in his war shirt, collected his bow and arrows, and his shield. He had slipped his three small white arrows through his hair and picked up his war ax. Three times he had circled the tchkofa mound, calling out for warriors. People had gathered, watching solemnly. Among them, his wives, Heron Wing and Violet Bead. On his last round, he had seen both women retreat through the crowd, each headed to her house where she would clean the place, sweeping any trash to a pile in the corner.
Since both had just recently emerged from the Women’s House, neither could taint any of his possessions. A woman during her moon could pollute a man, cause Power to shun him. After cleaning the house, they would prepare a feast, using care to follow the rituals, never touching the food with their bare hands.
After finishing his three circles of the tchkofa, Smoke Shield had led the way to the Men’s House. For three days the thirty-two men who had joined him had secluded themselves. They had assiduously avoided any contact with females, fasted, bathed in the sweat lodge, and drunk a broth made of button snakeroot.
On the third day, High Minko Flying Hawk entered the Men’s House. He had painted his face red with black bars running parallel across the cheeks. The heavy copper headpiece had been polished to a sheen, and his eight small white arrows—symbols of war honors—had been poked through his hair. He carried a hafted stone ceremonial knife; chipped from fine chert imported from the Charokee lands, it was as long as his arm, and used to ritually execute prisoners. Flying Hawk had worn his best white apron, the tip of it hanging down between his knees.
Smoke Shield watched as the high minko looked at the expectant warriors who sat on the benches. A low fire—its embers carefully carried from the tchkofa fire—smoldered in the central hearth. On the walls hung shields, skulls, and weapons taken from long-vanquished enemies. In the east, on a clay altar covered with a blanket festooned with ivory-billed woodpecker feathers and strips of cougar hide, sat the red cedar box that held the war medicine.