Everyone craves copper.
His scowl deepened.
Home. The word popped between his souls like a turtle rising from the deep. In that moment, he could see the green grass, hear the songs of the Albaamaha as they worked in the fields. Images of the Green Corn Busk crowded each other in the eyes of his souls. He could almost feel the stamping feet of the Dancers, smell the feast cooking on the smoke-scented air.
Her eyes gleamed, a smile lighting her lips.
Then came the memory of his war club, its copper-sheathed blade whistling as it dove toward his brother’s head.
“Gods,” he whispered.
Swimmer, sensing his upset, rose stiffly, stretched, and prodded his hand with a cool nose. The soft tongue licked tentatively at his hand.
“In all the world,” he said gently, taking the dog in his lap, “you’re the only friend I have.”
“Trader,” the Contrary’s voice haunted. “He’s happy traveling alone, with no name, and no place to call home.” Somehow, he had thought he was, until she had said that. Now an uncertain and dark future opened before him.
Swimmer remained happily in his lap, licking his hand in reassurance as Trader petted him. Two lost beings, they had only each other and impossible Dreams.
For generations, peoples had congregated around Cahokia. Far from discouraging it, the lords of Cahokia had enticed people to settle in their environs. They pointed out where fertile soils could be had, and extended their knowledge of planting, field management, and crop production. Then, as the soils slowly exhausted themselves and harvests grew ever smaller, the Power of Cahokia and its lords had dimmed.
That same mismatched stew of peoples who had once flocked into the countryside surrounding Cahokia and adopted its ways began to trickle outward.
The territory around the confluence of the Mother Water with the Father Water was dotted with towns. The Michigamea held the lands to the west, and High Town on the bluff overlooking the river. The Illinois Confederacy held the river’s north bank, while the Miami resided farther east, controlling the confluence of the Sister River, as they called the Tenasee.
Old White considered this as he used his paddle to keep them centered in the current. Silver Loon had warned him about hostilities in the area. In the bow of the canoe, Two Petals sat, facing him. From the moment they’d left Cahokia, she’d tried to paddle. Problem was, she took this Contrary thing to heart, absolutely infuriating him as she insisted on facing backward and paddling against him. In the beginning, they’d just gone around in circles. In final frustration, he’d hollered, “Stop it!”
At which command, her brow had furrowed, and her tongue protruded from the side of her mouth. She had attacked the water with her paddle; the fury of it only drove them backward in a circle—and splashed him with enough water to thoroughly soak him.
“Go!” he finally cried in defeat. “Paddle your heart out! Paddle, curse it.”
And she’d stopped cold, head tilted as she inspected him curiously, the paddle gripped in her small hands.
That she seemed incapable of working to their benefit was of little consequence on the way downriver, but what was he going to do when they turned into the Mother River’s current? True, he’d paddled all the way upstream from the Natchez lands, but the Father Water was a wide thing, full of backwaters. The Mother River was a whole different matter; entrenched as it was between high banks, the current flowed swiftly. Could he propel them both?
Oh, such interesting times, Silver Loon had promised.
As they neared the confluence, the highlands off to the east narrowed to a point. There, visible for some distance, he could see the first of the Illinois towns.
“Do we have trouble up there?” He indicated the distant town. Several large buildings could be seen above the palisade.
“Never any trouble. Not for us,” she declared.
“I see.” And he eyed his packs, wondering how much passage was going to cost him. On the journey upriver, his canoe had been empty, only carrying provisions. Now, however, the gifts bestowed on them by Silver Loon would pique any chief’s interest.
“Keep it all,” Two Petals told him. “We need every bit of it.”
He chuckled, amused by his sudden instinct to hoard. “You’re right. They’re just things. I suppose it was spending a night with that Trader. His greed must have rubbed off.”
A traveler who had nothing was of no interest to petty chiefs. And he was, after all, Old White. As he had done for years, he could barter stories in return for a hot meal, a dry bed, and a roof. Sometimes he could perform a Healing, or dispense some of his medicine herbs. On other occasions his magic tricks would do the job.