People of the Weeping Eye(86)

“She is.” The lie might serve him well here. Prestige accrued to a man married to a manitou among most northeastern peoples.

“Yes, I am,” Two Petals agreed in a singsong voice. “Wife, wife, wife, forever.”

“You must be great to marry a woman with Power.” Three Bucks seemed slightly incredulous.

“So it is said. You indicated that you would like to Trade?” Old White reminded.

“This way.”

Old White reached into the canoe, removing one of the smaller packs Silver Loon had given them. Without a word, he handed it to Two Petals. To his relief she shouldered it, though she kept working her hands. Cramped no doubt from the death grip on the rope.

People were already running down the hill, calling in excited voices. Shouts of glee went up as Three Bucks lifted the scalp.

“Bees,” Two Petals whispered. “Swarming around. Please, don’t let them sting me.”

“Not if I can help it,” Old White muttered.

In reply to the shouted questions from above, Three Bucks turned to Old White. “They want to know if you are captives.”

He shot Three Bucks a sidelong glance. “Have they never seen a Trader’s staff before?”

“Be at ease. I have told them you are guests. In our town, all are treated with respect once they pass our gates.” He shot Old White a sidelong glance. “That is, if they come in peace.”

“Oh, we do.”

A steep forest path led up the silty slope to a cluster of cornfields on a high terrace. The town itself had been constructed on a small knoll. To defend Lightning Oak Town, a log palisade rose behind a deep ditch that forced attackers into the unenviable position of having to attack uphill while the defenders rained arrows down on them from gaps between the logs. Entry was through a narrow passage that forced attackers to run a gauntlet of arrows released from no more than an arm’s length.

Once inside, the town consisted of forty houses, several granaries, a charnel house, men’s house, several menstrual lodges, and what passed for the Council House. A tall log structure with bark-covered roof had been erected atop a low rectangular earthen mound. From its ridgepole a rudely carved eagle glared out at the world through painted wooden eyes. Even in light of the dilapidation of Cahokia, the place was shabby at best.

They were greeted by a larger crowd, the women dressed in deerskins, fox and wolf capes hanging from their shoulders. They had pulled their hair up tightly to their heads. The men, hair shaved in roaches, their skin dabbed with red or yellow paint, had deer- or buffalohide hunting shirts, some with bear-claw necklaces, others wearing bone beads dyed different colors. Dogs ran about, barking, wagging tails, and sniffing. To the rear, an unadorned collection of women and girls—slaves, no doubt—wore simple brown dresses, their expressions wary. Most stood with arms crossed under their breasts.

Shouted questions brought laughing responses from the men. The Inoca women immediately began singing, clapping their hands, and Dancing. The men took up the chorus. Someone brought a sapling, perhaps the height of a man, and Three Bucks tied the scalp to it. He led his war party forward in a shuffling half step; his voice, too, added to the song.

“Happy, aren’t they?” Old White asked Two Petals.

“Sad. Their hearts are like a stormcloud on a sunny day.” She looked to the side, saying, “I wish you wouldn’t say things like that.”

“Like what?” Old White asked.

“I was talking to her.” She pointed over by the side of the palisade. “To that old white-haired woman.”

Old White saw no one of that description. In fact, no one stood where she pointed. “You see a woman there?”

“Yes, that one. That old woman. She says that the Inoca are rootless. That’s silly. People don’t have roots. Not with feet like those.” She pointed at the Dancers who were rising, ducking, and prancing.

“Just between the two of us,” Old White offered dryly, “I wouldn’t mention to the Inoca that you see people they don’t.”

Two Petals gave him an annoyed look. “How am I supposed to tell the difference?”

“Just ask me if I can see the same person you do before you start talking, all right?”

“It’s hard to think,” she told him, pressing her hands to her ears and squinting. “How can you even hear with all these thoughts in the air? They keep pulling at me, buzzing all the time. They’re all bees. So busy, so happy.”

All eyes turned toward the Council House when an elderly man stepped out of the doorway. A clutter of feathers stuck out of the roach atop his head; both sides of his shaved scalp were tattooed with parallel lines of circles. His long shirt was made of finely tanned buffalo calf hide adorned with brightly dyed quillwork. The man’s arms and legs were tattooed with bands and flattened chevrons. He lifted a long-stemmed pipe high over his head. The crowd went silent as he began chanting a Song of thanksgiving, his voice rising and falling in the cool air.