People of the Morning Star (6 page)

A boundary beyond which he dared not contemplate.

He could have raised his head, looked beyond the gunwales to the broad river—its cool green surface swirling, welling, and sucking. Beyond the living water he would have seen the western bank as it ghosted past in a tree-lined glory of cottonwoods, elms, and willows.

Desolation made even that effort unworthy. What point would be served by watching the last of his world slip away? Misery and humiliation, pain, and ultimately ignominious death awaited him; and though he knew the river’s Power bore him no malice, it seemed to be rushing him south to Cahokia.

Once there, after his hanging body endured the brutality, the thirst, the slicing and searing of his flesh, they’d chop him apart. His leg bones would be stripped of meat and sinew, cleaned, painted or engraved, and given away as gifts.

His arm bones would hang from some wall. His head would be carefully skinned, the skull polished to a sheen before being painted. Thereafter his gaping eye sockets would vacantly stare out at some Cahokian Men’s House. Or perhaps it would grace the wall of the Morning Star himself.

Pustule of an imposter that he is!

Fire Cat winced and tried to shift his aching arms. They’d been bound behind him; the tight cord ate into his wrists. But what was that compared to the dull agony in his legs? Or the pain that burned through his wrenched back, shoulders, and arms. No sensation remained in his hands.

I was once the man known as Fire Cat Twelvekiller, high war chief of the Red Wing Nation. Now I am a dead man.

For whatever capricious reason, Power had abandoned him, his family, and his nation.

He dared not glance over his shoulder where what remained of his family crowded in the canoe bottom. He could feel his sister White Rain’s body where it pressed against the back of his thighs. On White Rain’s other side, his youngest sister, Soft Moon, huddled in misery, her head down. And, back to them all, Fire Cat’s mother, Matron Red Wing, sat disconsolately, hands bound behind her. Her agonized stare remained fixed on the north as it vanished behind the river’s forest-lined loops. Everything they had lived, dreamed, and hoped now receded as the current and the strong paddlers rushed them inevitably toward the south. Toward Cahokia … and death.

Fire Cat had only a foggy memory of the days since the Morning Star’s warriors had taken them by complete surprise. Dazed by the impossible, his memory was a confusion of sunrises, shivering and endless nights, disconnected events, and half-remembered images.

He still wasn’t sure how the Morning Star’s warriors had accomplished the impossible feat of moving several thousand battle-hardened veterans upriver without raising an alarm. Or how—even more impossibly—the thousands had penetrated Red Wing town’s palisades undetected that last fateful night.

Behind the soothing darkness of his closed eyelids, he relived that terrible moment. He’d been sound asleep. Where could a man feel more safe than in his own bedroom in the Red Wing palace atop its mound, his wife’s warm body snuggled against him?

The impact of hard bodies as they slammed him down into the bedding had shocked him awake. His startled yelp rang in his ears. He’d frozen in that instant of confused disbelief. The screams of his second wife, False Dawn, tore at his memory as freshly as when she’d been dragged, clawing frantically at the blankets, from their bed.

Fire Cat had struggled for all he was worth, bellowing, trying to strike out as callused hands grasped his arms, legs, and head. Through the fog of his memory, the number of assailants remained a mystery. Five of them? Perhaps six or more? Who knew?

All he’d glimpsed in the darkness was shadowy arms, shoulders, and elbows as he was grabbed by the hair, his head pulled back. A leather wad was thrust into his mouth. Then a hide sack had been dropped over his head. They’d ripped the blanket away, wrenched his arms back, and bound them. The mass of their bodies proved too much to dislodge; his thrashing legs had been tied.

They’d borne him silently from his room. He’d heard False Dawn’s pleading and whimpering as they’d carried him across the matting in the main room, out into the night, and down the wooden stairs.

No sound of his first wife, New Fall Moon, or their two infant children had come to his ears. All he’d heard was the elated murmurings of his captors. He’d felt only his body bouncing as they bore him away into the night.

Through it all, his souls had quaked with a panic and fear like nothing he’d ever known.

They had dropped him in this canoe, followed by the gritted order, “Do not resist. If you do, your family will be killed. Do you understand?”

Somehow, shaking with terror, he’d managed to nod. Only upon hearing the bitter weeping of his sisters did he begin to understand the extent of the tragedy.

“So,” a man had said softly, “that’s the great Red Wing Fire Cat? The one they call twelvekiller? The scourge of the north? Doesn’t look like much, does he?”

“Not bound up like a puppy fit for a starving dirt-farmer’s stewpot, he doesn’t,” another answered.

“Quiet, all of you,” a commanding voice growled. “Anyone who could destroy War Chief Makes Three and the Morning Star’s squadrons so effortlessly isn’t to be taken lightly.”

Someone cleared his throat and said, “It would be worth it to be there when the Lady Night Shadow Star gets her hands on him. When she heard Makes Three had been killed … Well, it’s said she’s been crazy with grief ever since.”

“The lady Night Shadow Star deeply and truly loved her husband.”

“Some people say she was unnaturally attached to him. Like an obsession. Devotion like that isn’t healthy.”

The commander growled, “Shut up. All of you. We’re not out of this yet.”

And then, moments later, the voice had announced, “Here come the others. They have the Matron.”

Not ten heartbeats had passed before Fire Cat felt his mother’s body dropped in beside him. Then the voice ordered, “Take them to the Morning Star.”

The sick fear in Fire Cat’s gut had left him nauseous. The Morning Star’s forces had taken Red Wing town, and in doing so, had crushed the last bastion of Petaga’s descendants.

Fire Cat’s Red Wing Clan had its origins in Cahokia, but his ancestors had fled two generations ago after the defeat of High Chief Petaga’s Moon Moiety in a terrible civil war.

Being followers of Petaga and the terrifying priestess Lichen, Fire Cat’s ancestors had escaped northward up the river. Far beyond the reach of Cahokia, they had established Red Wing town, carved it out of virgin wilderness. Despite those first tenuous years of starvation, warfare with the local Oneota tribesmen, and brutal winters, they’d survived.

Then, everything had changed when the Morning Star had blazed for nearly a moon’s time in the midday sky. Borne by Traders, the miraculous story filtered up the river. At Cahokia—it was said—the Four Winds clan had attempted, and achieved, the impossible: They had resurrected the souls of the Hero Twin, Morning Star, into the body of a living man! It had been accomplished at great cost. Calling a soul—especially one so exalted—from the Sky World required that something had to be sacrificed to maintain balance between the Sky World and earth. Grisly reports of the elaborate ritual told of tens of young women who had been clubbed, strangled, or bled to death before being deposited in a mass grave—all offerings to the Powers of the Sky World to atone for the “borrowing” of Morning Star’s celestial presence.

All of Red Wing town had scoffed at the wild tales. People didn’t just summon a hero’s Spirit soul to fill a human body! Ridiculous! This was but one more trick perpetrated by the evil Four Winds Clan on the gullible people of Cahokia.

How—the Red Wing had asked—could a mortal body hope to contain the life-soul of a supernatural hero as Powerful as Morning Star? It had to be fraud, a hoax perpetrated to concentrate and solidify the Four Winds’ hold on volatile Cahokia with its fractious politics.

Over the years even more stories made their way upriver—tales of the massive leveling and rebuilding of the old town, of thousands upon thousands of pilgrims, all picking up pots, packs, and portables, and moving from distant lands to Cahokia to bask in the presence of the living god.

When Fire Cat had been a boy, the first sign of trouble came when River-Washed-Mountain—one of the upper river’s landmarks a day’s travel south of Red Wing town—was claimed by Cahokia as an outpost.

“A base from which the blasphemous dogs can launch attacks against us!” Fire Cat’s uncle had cried. And forthwith, an assault was planned and launched, overwhelming the small party of Cahokians who’d begun clearing land on the craggy hill that jutted up from the river.

Blood forever calls for vengeance. Over the years, Red Wing town had beaten off various attacks. Sometimes years would pass before some slight would goad the so-called “Morning Star” to send his forces north again. Then had come word that the god’s human body had died. All of Cahokia was said to be in mourning.

“At least that’s over!” Uncle had proclaimed with relief.

Until the news burned its way upriver the following spring: The soul of Morning Star had been resurrected yet again. This time in Chunkey Boy. And, by so doing, the hero was now guaranteed immortality. His human bodies might age and die, but Four Winds Clan would always have another ready to act as host to the god’s souls.

The night of his capture Fire Cat had heard the warriors clambering into the canoe, wooden oars clunking as they were picked up. Men chuckled among themselves, soft voices laden with the rich delight of victory.

Nothing could mistake the sensation of a canoe being pushed off, or the rocking as it shifted under the weight of warriors as the last of them leaped aboard, water trickling from their feet.

“Upon your lives,” the voice had called from shore, “you’d better deliver all four of them to the Morning Star!”

Someone had called back from the canoe, “You think
we’d
disappoint the Morning Star? They shall be delivered alive, Spotted Wrist, upon our honor!”

Spotted Wrist!
Fire Cat had longed to face the renowned Cahokian war chief, but in his fantasies it had been in battle. There, Fire Cat imagined they would fight, war club to war club, shield to shield, dodging, dancing, slashing, and circling. And in the end, Fire Cat had always known he’d strike the Morning Star’s greatest war chief down. He’d place his foot on Spotted Wrist’s neck, and cave in his skull with one, final, well-placed blow.

Fool!

When the end finally came, he’d never even cast eyes on his formidable adversary. Unless, of course, the war chief had been one among the jumble of elbows, shoulders, and hands in that mad melee atop his bed.

My fault. All my fault.

White Rain shifted in the cramped canoe and whimpered in pain. Her sudden movement jerked Fire Cat’s bound wrists back, wrenching his arms. To keep from crying out, he ground his teeth and stared dully at the wood grain so close before him.

I am taken. Prisoner of the Morning Star.

He considered the nameless warrior’s words:
“It would be worth it to be there when Lady Night Shadow Star gets her hands on him.”

She was the eldest of the Morning Star’s sisters. Heir to the matronship of the Four Winds Clan. She was said to be a great beauty, a tempestuous young woman of remarkable abilities and passions.

“And I killed her husband,” Fire Cat mouthed the words.

She and the Morning Star would be waiting.

*   *   *

The black bowl—known as a well pot—brimmed with water. The exterior had been polished until its deep luster reflected the world around it. The well pot sat cushioned on a black-panther hide atop a four-sided altar that rose from the floor. Night Shadow Star’s altar stood in her personal quarters, a separate room in the rear of her palace.

She lowered herself before the well pot; her triangular face and naked body reflected disproportionately in the bowl’s mirror-black surface. The intricately woven cattail mat she knelt upon ate into her unprotected knees. As she bowed her head above the bowl, raven waves of hair slipped from her bare back and slid across her arms like a silken veil that served to exclude the world.

“Sister Datura, I beseech you. Know the longing in my souls. Hear the echoes of love that resonate from my empty heart. Hollow. Feel the aching want in my womb, the longing in my sheath. All that makes me a woman is desolate. Look into my souls, Sister. See the shattered memories … the hope and warmth of my husband’s smile torn away forever. Hear the words he once spoke to me, overflowing with love and concern. See his face, gone dead and cold. Feel the ghost of his touch slide across my skin. The warmth of his body next to mine is nothing more than the bitter cold of an endless and frozen winter.

“Hear me, Sister. Fill me with the essence of your Dance. I am blind. Allow me to see between the worlds of the living and dead. Enfold me in your arms, dear Sister. Hold me. Sway with me. Free my souls to journey to him, past or present, here or there.”

She swallowed in her misery. “All is hollow and blackness.”

The visions had grown worse since his death: flickers of movement at the corner of her eye; faint whispers that she alone heard. Voices of Power that spoke out of thin air. When she turned, she’d find no one there. She had stopped asking her house staff if they, too, had heard. Their wary glances in one another’s directions had left her feeling foolish. Her people were already leery of her. More than once she’d lashed out at them in her grief.

Husband? You helped me, kept the voices in check. You never mocked me. I
need
you to help me understand.

She reached down, her slender fingers dipping paste from a small ceramic bowl that rested beside her right knee. Thick with crushed datura seeds, and the consistency of mud, the paste chilled her fingers. Slowly, carefully, she began massaging the mixture into her temples. As she did, she hummed a lilting melody, waiting for Sister Datura’s Dance to slip around her like a protective cloak. Waiting for the freedom that would allow her to float away from this world and down through the well pot’s portal into the Underworld. Down, until she could feel her husband’s muscular arms around her. A place where she could once again look into his sparkling dark eyes. Where she could seek the endless reassurance of his smile. Soon now, he would speak to her again; his voice would be rich and melodious as he chastised her for such silliness.