But she had. So had Old Woman Fox. From the size of the city and the huge crowd on the opposite bank, she began to realize the folly she and Screaming Falcon had proposed. Not even her marriage had drawn such a crowd. The Sky Hand and their Albaamaha allies were like the leaves of the forest.
Canoes were waiting at the river’s edge. Still more people crowded around them; the shouts and whoops must have shaken the sky, but when she looked up, it was to see the endless blue unmoved.
The rope binding them was cut, other warriors holding the crowd at bay. She tried to understand the scope of the people’s joy. How can so many Dance, smile, and shout when we are so miserable?
Smoke Shield seemed to swell, his face painted in triumphal red. His white swan feathers waved with the breeze. She fixed on the nasty scar that marred the side of his face. Then he turned, eyes fixing on hers. He smiled, and it hinted at things too terrible to believe.
“Into the boats! Now, you filthy Chahta!”
One by one they clambered into the canoes, taking seats as warriors piled in behind them. She felt the craft pushed off, watched paddles flashing in the sunlight as they were borne swiftly across the river.
I could jump. The thought came from nowhere. Down there, in the depths, I could suck water into my lungs. I would die before they pulled me out.
But she didn’t—wondering if she was a coward, or a fool, to hope for a better fate. Then it was too late; the canoe speared onto the black beach—just one among tens of others.
Hard hands pulled her out. With smacks of the war club, the prisoners were lined out, and Smoke Shield—the wooden war medicine on his back—raised his hands and shouted, “Yo hey hey!”
The warriors broke out with cries of, “Wah! Wah!”
“We bring the White Arrow war medicine!” Blood Skull shouted, lifting the ornately carved box high over his head.
The crowd went wild, screaming until the veins stood out in their necks, faces contorted with the effort as their hands clapped and feet stamped.
The warrior called Fast Legs raised a pine branch cut from along the trail. A second warrior raised another. Both were bent from the drying scalps of her people. The roar bellowing from the crowd deafened her. She flinched from the sound of it, and would have taken a step back but for Biloxi crowding behind her, attempting to be as small as he could.
Then the procession started forward, the warriors Singing “Yo hey hey!”—the time-honored call of victory for the Sky Hand People.
Fear, like a thing alive, twisted around her souls. Despite her raging thirst, sweat broke out on her skin. On trembling legs, she made the climb from the landing up the long ridge inside the high palisade. From the archers’ platforms, children watched, waving cloth, shaking small bows. Around her, the crowd surged along, Singing, Dancing, clapping their hands. Like a flood, the people washed around houses, the press of their bodies shaking ramadas, feet overturning baskets and boxes.
Above it all, Morning Dew could see the high palaces, buildings that made her own small and shabby in comparison. Then they spilled out into the plaza. Smoke Shield, war medicine on his back, led the way to the tchkofa. At the northern extent of the mound, he circled to the right, opposite the path of the sun.
Morning Dew shot panicked glances at the faces in the crowd, seeing the mixture of exultant joy and downright elation. Distinct in the jumble of sound, she heard them talking of their Power, of the might of their warriors, how not even the lords of Cahokia had lived through a day like this. Through it all, the warriors’ shouts of, “Yo hey hey,” were answered by chants of, “Wah! Wah!”
She staggered, terror sapping her legs, as she was prodded around the circumference of the tchkofa. Then they headed north past the red-and-white Tree of Life. The crowd parted. There the towering high minko’s palace stood atop a mound that scraped the sky. Then she saw the bare frames of the squares: one each for Screaming Falcon, Biloxi, Dancing Star, Juggler, and Daytime Owl. Facing them were tall wooden poles, each topped by a carving of an animal representing the captor’s clan.
Her knees buckled. She hit the ground hard. Behind her, Biloxi was sobbing. Hard hands grabbed her from behind. She heard Biloxi’s squeal as a blow landed. While she was dragged like a limp deer to a pole, two warriors drove her brother before them with smacking blows of their war clubs. The crowd shrieked, whistled, and jeered.
“It won’t be so bad,” mocked one of the warriors dragging her. “At least you don’t have to hang.”
Numb with terror, Morning Dew shivered as they bound her to a pole capped with a raccoon head. As tears streaked down her face, she watched Screaming Falcon as he was tied spread-eagled to the square opposite her. The rhythmic chant of the crowd became clear: “Burn them! Burn them! Burn them!”