Piers Anthony

Tatham Mound

 

 

 

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CONTENTS

 

Introduction

 

 

 

Chapter 1 — Spirit

 

Chapter 2 — Trader

 

Chapter 3 — Maya

 

Chapter 4 — Little Blood

 

Chapter 5 — Calusa

 

Chapter 6 — Sweet Medicine

 

Chapter 7 — Wide Water

 

Chapter 8 — Signs

 

Chapter 9 — Mound

 

Chapter 10 — Sacrifice

 

Chapter 11 — Tale Teller

 

Chapter 12 — Mad Queen

 

Chapter 13 — Twice Cursed

 

Chapter 14 — Renunciation

 

Chapter 15 — Wren

 

Chapter 16 — Castile

 

Chapter 17 — De Soto

 

Chapter 18 — Search

 

Chapter 19 — Battle

 

Chapter 20 — Return

 

Chapter 21 — Mound

 

 

 

Author's Note

 

 

 

 

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INTRODUCTION

 

In 1983 Brent Weisman of the University of Florida (UF) was searching for Seminole Indian sites relating to the Second Seminole

War. One was believed to be in Citrus County, near the sweeping bend of the Withlacoochee River called the Cove of the

Withlacoochee. He had assistance from a team of volunteers from the Withlacoochee River Archaeology Council (WRAC). They hoped to

locate the secret stronghold of the famed Seminole leader Osceola in the nineteenth century, when he hid from the white man's

troops and conducted the war that the United States was never quite able to win. Instead, to their surprise, they discovered an

unnatural hill in the level swampy area near the river. It was two meters (six feet) high and twenty meters (sixty feet) across,

and overgrown with brush and small trees. It looked very much like an earlier Indian burial mound, hidden in the wilderness of the

Cove.

 

Brent returned with Jeffrey Mitchem, also of UF, and conducted a "shovel test": they selected appropriate spots and started digging

a square hole. Less than a foot down they encountered pay dirt: part of a human skull and some long-bone fragments and pottery

sherds. This was enough to confirm the mound as a Safety Harbor site. Historically the Safety Harbor peoples of the Tampa Bay

region are known as the Tocobaga Indians, who were first contacted by Spanish explorers early in the sixteenth century. Relatively

little is known about them because they disappeared before Florida was settled by the Europeans.

 

The mound was on land that had been safeguarded in its natural state by Mr. Tatham. Thus the mound was titled Tatham (TAY-tham)

Mound, and preparations were made for its archaeological excavation by the University of Florida. One might consider such a project

to be hardly worthwhile, because available evidence suggested that this region was a relative backwater even in Indian terms.

Certainly little money was available for such things. However, the parents of one of the girls in WRAC got interested and decided

to underwrite the excavation of Tatham Mound. Thus this project became viable at an early date, and the work proceeded.

 

There is a question about the excavation of burial mounds that needs to be addressed. The disposition of the dead was a serious

business to the Indians, as it is to us of the contemporary world, and for similar reason. We do not bury our lost beloved for the

purpose of having some stranger muck about in the grave and play with the remains. If you believe, as many in both cultures do,

that there is a spiritual association with the physical body, the desecration of those remains assumes a greater significance. Have

we of one culture the right to interfere with what those of another culture set up? Shouldn't we honor their beliefs and practice,

as we wish others to honor ours? In short, shouldn't that mound have been left alone?

 

On the other hand, our approach to the mound is not one of disrespect. Little is known of the Indians of southeastern America, and

almost nothing of those of central Florida, and less yet of the Tocobaga. Their heritage was in danger of being entirely

lost—unless it could be recovered through research and fieldwork. This mound represented perhaps the last significant opportunity

to learn about these Indians, and if it was not excavated, their culture could indeed be lost. If the burial of the dead is

intended to maintain the memory of the lives and culture of the tribe, this memory can better be facilitated by study of those

burials. In fact, in this age of literacy and of computer technology, the museum may be a better repository for those bones than

the ground.

 

I remember when I was young, reading James Fenimore Cooper's The Last of the Mohicans, and being struck by the horror of an entire

tribe dying out. I lived at that time in Vermont, where the Mohicans (or Mahicans) once were, and was deeply moved by that notion,

though the novel itself may have been unrealistic adventure. Now I live in Citrus County, Florida, and this mound showed that there

were Indians here too. To me it would seem a crime to let their memory perish.

 

Perhaps these views balance out: the sanctity of the original mound versus the preservation of the knowledge of the culture. But

there is a practical factor. Once a mound is discovered, it will not be left alone. It will be looted by unscrupulous scavengers,

who will sell the beads and other native artifacts, put the pottery on mantels, and carelessly scatter the bones. No respect for

law stops these lawless; they simply come and take what they can find. After they have passed, what remains has diminished value as

either sacred burial or for research. Also, many mounds have been bulldozed flat by developers or farmers clearing their fields for

planting. That was why Tatham Mound might be the last chance: of the many other Safety Harbor mounds known in the state, only this

one remained intact and unlooted. Those of us who care for either Indian heritage or the sanctity of the dead may be outraged, but

it was a fact: the mound would not be left alone.

 

Therefore there was only one answer: it had to be excavated now, carefully, under competent supervision, so that its record of this

tribe, and therefore of the Indians of this section of the country, could be salvaged. Perhaps ideally it would have been better to

leave it alone, untouched—but that was not a viable choice.

 

What was found in that mound? Several hundred burials, perhaps the largest collection of early sixteenth-century Spanish artifacts

associated with the North American Indians, and convincing evidence that these natives had had contact with the explorer Hernando

de Soto. The face of local archaeology was significantly changed. Much more is now known about these obscure Florida Indians than

was available before. There is a longer discussion of such matters in the Author's Note at the end of this book.

 

But what of the people buried there? These folk lived and died, and their demise as shown by the evidence of the mound was tragic.

What was their personal story? We can never know precisely, but this novel represents one conjecture. This is a vision of the

living folk of the region, whose bones were found in Tatham Mound. It could have happened this way.

 

We do not know the language of the Tocobaga Indians, but assume it was affiliated with the large Timucuan group to its immediate

north. For convenience, the language employed to tell this story is modern, with place names usually rendered as their meanings.

Thus, for example, the Withlacoochee River is the Little Big River. Where the Indian concepts do not align perfectly with ours,

approximations or vernacular terms are used, though this may seem anachronistic. The point is that these were living, feeling human

beings whose vanished culture is worthy of respect, as is our own. We honor them to the best of our ability by coming to know and

understand them, and by living for the time of this novel in their world. Let them not be completely unknown or forgotten.

 

 

 

CHAPTER 1

SPIRIT

I am the Tale Teller. I am dying. But before I join the realm of the spirits, I must tell my final tales, that those I love who are

buried here may be properly introduced.

 

O Spirit of the Mound, I begin with you, for it was you who warned me, you who would have saved us, had I been able to honor your

stricture. You were right, you spoke truly, and now the grief you prophesied has come to pass. I always believed you; it was only

my failing as a man, my grievous misunderstanding, that prevented me from doing what you urged. How great is my grief for that

failure, for now those I love are dead, when they should have lived. I beg you to welcome their spirits, for they are blameless.

Only I am guilty, and only my bones will not join yours, and only my spirit will be lost. The wild animals will drag my body away

and defile it. In this way I will pay for my failure, as I deserve. But the others are worthy, O Spirit, and they should be fit

company for you, though they died too soon.

 

I count on my hands, my fingers, the winters since we met: it was ten, and ten more, and ten more, and five more. I was a stripling

of ten and five winters, in quest of my manhood. I still used my childhood name, for I had not yet earned a worthy title. How long

ago that seems, how far away, though time is as nothing to the spirit realm and this is the very place it happened. It is as though

it was a different person, that innocent youth; I am embarrassed for him, for his naïveté, his innocence, and his ignorance. I must

speak of him as if he were another person, but you will know the truth, O Spirit of the Mound. You will know it as you have always

known it. I must tell it, and make known the tragedy his error allowed, for my words are all I have remaining to give. Then my onus

will be abated, and you will remember me though my spirit is gone. You will know the good people I have known and loved, not only

here but elsewhere. I do not ask your forgiveness, only that you listen.

 

O Spirit, here is how it started, when Hotfoot came to meet you.

 

 

 

They had laughed when the child ventured onto the sun-heated sand, to dance madly as his bare feet burned, and ran mincingly back

to his mother, crying. Hotfoot, they called him, and that became his youth-name. Hotfoot, who had not heeded his mother's warning,

and had strayed too far. It was derisive, yet also apt, for he grew to be swift on his feet, and to wander far, and to get into

much trouble, even as he had started.

 

When he was fifteen winters old he was the fastest runner of the village. No one could catch him, not even grown warriors. When

they held contests among the clans, it was the Eagle Clan who won, because of Hotfoot. He could maintain it too, for he liked to

run, and the more he did it the farther he was able to go without tiring. He became a messenger between villages as far as a day

distant, for he could reach them and return in the time it took another to walk there. Sometimes he was several days away, and had

contact with tribes that spoke other tongues. He had proved as swift with language as with his feet, and had learned the tongues of

the Cale to the north and the Calusa to the south. Not perfectly, but well enough to get by, with the help of sign language and

pictographs in the sand.

 

But he was not yet a man, and that was an increasingly grievous fault. He was not entitled to wear body paint or to speak at a

ceremony. He wore his hair loose, in the manner of a woman, not permitted to tie it back in the manner of a man. He could not marry

or, indeed, have a woman for sex, because none would touch a boy. With manhood several would be available; they had ways of letting

him know. But mostly it was pride: he needed the status of a man.

 

That was why he teamed up with Woodpecker and Alligator to make their first genuine war-party raid. They had of course indulged in

many mock raids; virtually the whole of a male's youth consisted of just such games. First they had learned to hunt the simplest

creatures, bringing down squirrels with their small arrows, and worked their way over the years up to deer. Then they had

approached the most difficult prey: man. They matched clan against clan, and threatened each other fiercely, but never seriously,

for the clans were all parts of the great tribe of the Toco. They believed they were ready, and they were certainly eager. They had

gone to Chief Slay-Bear for permission, and it had been granted.

 

For this the clans united, and the respect they had learned for each other in the mock contests could be acknowledged in this real

one. For courtesy, and the sharing of a taste of adult honor, they referred to each other by their clan names. Thus Woodpecker,

rather than the child-name that would soon be lost, and Alligator, and Eagle rather than Hotfoot. This gave them each a sense of

importance and responsibility, for it was not merely themselves they represented, but the honor of their clans. The youths of the

other clans, the Rattlesnake, Tortoise, Deer, Bear, and Panther, would be envious of the honor these three won this day. Hotfoot's

father was a Rattlesnake, but he would not begrudge the Eagle Clan this day, though in any tribal function he would support his

own. A person's clan was determined by that of the mother, and no one could marry into his own clan, for all were brothers and

sisters in name. Thus every father had to watch the success of his son without applause, but with secret pride.

 

Now they were crossing the Little Big River in their canoe, to Cale territory. It would have been extremely bad form to raid an

affiliated village, but the river was the cultural and political boundary between tribes. The Cale were suitable enemies; they

spoke a different tongue, used different pottery, and made similar raids into Toco territory. Therefore it was only fitting that

prior grievances be redressed. He was not on business now, as a messenger, so had no protection from assault, and no need to honor

any truce.

 

They had prepared with suitable ceremony, performing the Preparation Dance, enduring an overnight vigil, drinking and vomiting the

White Drink to purify themselves, fasting, and accepting the painful ritual scratching on their forearms and calves without

flinching. But that was merely the preparation; manhood came only with verified heroism in war. They would serve as witnesses for

each other, and were bound to tell the truth; to do otherwise was to risk correction by the spirits, and bring shame not only on

them, but on their families for rearing them, and on their clans, and on their village, and on their tribe. To deceive an enemy was

a great feat, but to deceive a friend was evil.

 

Now they were dressed in their loincloths with leggings to enable them to get through the thorny brush, and armed with bows,

arrows, and knives. Spears were too long and clumsy to carry on a secret raid; if they could not strike at arrow distance, or

defend themselves with their knives, then they were not fit to be warriors. They had made their bows themselves, finding the best

saplings, molding them in the hot ashes of a fire, carving them carefully and stringing them with deer tendons, and had cut their

own arrows similarly. They had good knives, their stone blades chipped from the quarry to the west and bound to secure wood

handles. But Hotfoot hoped he would not have to use his knife, because that would mean he was within reach of an enemy warrior's

knife, and he could be stabbed and die even if he managed to kill the man. He hoped that this thought did not make him a coward.

The priest had told them that fear was natural, but that a warrior did not yield to it. So now his fear was not so much of getting

hurt or killed, but of yielding to fear itself and disqualifying himself as a warrior. Humiliation was worse than death: as a child

he had doubted, but now he knew.

 

Hotfoot had the lead paddle, and Alligator the rear; both stroked swiftly and silently as Woodpecker knelt in the center, bow

ready, watching for enemies. If they were careless they might be attacked before they had a chance to strike, or the enemy might

wait and steal their dugout canoe, so that when they returned they would be stranded. Either would be disaster. Their objective was

to come upon the enemy unobserved, strike, and escape unscathed, leaving behind only the Toco arrows they used. Those arrows would

make clear what tribe had inflicted this devastation on the Cale, completing the honor for the raiders and the dishonor for the

victims.

 

Hotfoot had been nervous during the vigil, and probably would not have been hungry even if he were not fasting. So many things

could go wrong! But as he started out on the mission he felt only excitement. Now his mood was level and grim: he intended to

accomplish his heroism no matter what the cost, and be a man at last. He knew his companions felt the same.

 

They had justification, of course. The Cale had severely wounded an elder tribesman of Atafi half a moon before, and gotten away

cleanly. Retribution was required, and the three of them had volunteered to achieve it. To their surprise, this mission had been

granted. Perhaps it was because most of the men were currently hunting deer, to get a supply of flesh for drying and smoking. More

likely it was because the elders judged it was time for these boys to become men.

 

The crossing was uneventful. No enemy spied them. Hotfoot had not entirely trusted Woodpecker's alertness; he had peered closely at

the riverbank between paddle strokes, verifying it. He had glanced into the dawn sky too, to make sure no bird of prey passed over

them; that would have been a sure signal of mischief, unless it was an eagle. But all was well.

 

They coasted in to their landing at a spot hidden by overhanging palmetto. They stepped out singly, and drew the canoe up, hiding

it under old palmetto fronds. It was important that it be both invisible to outsiders and ready for instant launching, for the

pursuit could be close on their return.

 

Now they set out on foot toward the nearest Cale village. They knew its location because it was on the trade route, as was their

own town of Atafi. They were not following the trade path now, for that would have invited discovery. Instead they cut through the

oak hammocks, stepping carefully so as to leave little or no trace.

 

But the hammocks were like islands in the swampy region, and they had to venture through marsh and even some standing water. This

was nervous business because of the poisonous water snakes, but they moved slowly, made it through, and stepped out without leaving

footprints. Then higher ground, and a deer trail, so progress was easier.

 

But they did not approach the village closely. Instead they circled around it. It would be foolish to raid the closest one; pursuit

would be too certain and swift. They had to raid a more distant one that did not anticipate this, and whose inhabitants would at

first be confused. By the time the Cale oriented, the raiders could be far away, and perhaps would never be tracked. To get away

cleanly—that was the ideal.

 

They scouted their route more carefully as they drew closer to their objective. Haste was not necessary; they took the time

required to spy out the best unobvious trail so that they would know it and use it without hesitation on the return, while the

pursuers floundered. The ideal was a network of trails with divides and dead ends that would cause the pursuers to get lost

following them. Since this was enemy territory, they had to use what existed, but could change from one trail to another according

to a pattern they decided on. That way they could move rapidly on trails, instead of slowly through brush and brambles, while the

pursuers could not do the same for fear of losing trace of them. The thoroughness with which they prepared for their escape was

critical, because they were on man's business now. All that they had rehearsed in play, all their lives, was about to be put to the

proof. Any mistake could forever deny them the manhood they sought, because those who were caught raiding were enslaved or killed.

The same was true for the Cale raiders caught by the Toco.

 

There was one other complication: it was now late afternoon. They would have to make their raid and escape by night. That would

help them hide, but would also make it easier for them to lose their way. This would be a test of their ability to retrace their

set route—in changed circumstances.

 

Now Hotfoot got nervous again. They had undertaken the mission, and they had reached the vicinity of the village. What now? They

could not simply charge in and start clubbing enemy warriors; they would be overwhelmed in short order.

 

"We'll ambush the first warrior to use this path," Woodpecker said as they spied a heavily traveled trail. "Then we'll kill any who

pursue."

 

Woodpecker was the nominal leader of this party, being sixteen winters old. If any of them did not get home, it would be his

responsibility. He had made his decision; now they would discover whether it was good.

 

Almost immediately someone came. They drew on their bows—but it was only a child, a naked little girl, running toward the village

with her hair flying back. She was not fair game, and they let her pass. She never knew they were there, for they were well

concealed.

 

Then a warrior came, a grizzled veteran, leading his old woman. Woodpecker was entitled to the first shot. He loosed his arrow—and

it flew true. It caught the man in the left shoulder.

 

The warrior grunted and staggered. The woman screamed.

 

But the man was only wounded; the shot had not killed him. That meant that Alligator had the next turn. He fired—but the warrior

was twisting forward and down in his agony, and the arrow missed. Meanwhile there were answering shouts; the woman's scream had

alerted the people of the village. In a moment the warriors would be here.

 

The three boys knew what to do. They fled. They had drawn blood, and that was the most they could hope for. Now they had to get

away, before their own blood was spilled.

 

They ducked down and followed their escape route, which was the one they had scouted on their way in. In their games of youth they

had learned to remember the details of landscape and vegetation well, so that it was natural to retrace any trail, and Woodpecker

was especially good at this. Behind them, the cry intensified; there were whoops as the Cale warriors arrived on the scene and

recognized the arrows.

 

At first the three of them gained, exactly as planned; the confusion of the Cale worked to their advantage. With the favor of the

spirits they would get so far ahead that the pursuit would never get close.

 

They lacked that favor. Cale warriors were spreading swiftly out, cutting off their escape. Hotfoot could hear them; they were not

bothering to be quiet. They were forming a line that crossed the marked route.

 

There seemed to be three choices: duck down and hide, hoping the Cale would not spy them before dark; proceed forward, hoping to

slip past the line of enemies; or make a mad charge for it before the line was tight. All three were dangerous, because the Cale

were now aroused and alert and had a fair notion where the fugitives lurked.

 

Woodpecker elected to try the first. This was not cowardice, but a sensible appraisal of their chances; it would be their victory

if they escaped undetected. If they were found, they could still make their break for home. He ducked below palmetto fronds,

disappearing into the thicket. The others followed. In a moment they were lying together, absolutely quiet, while the Cale closed

in.

 

Soon a warrior came close, peering this way and that. There seemed to be little chance that he would overlook their hiding place.

Indeed, the moment he spied the palmetto clump he strode directly toward it, his war club ready.

 

It was Hotfoot's turn. He had his bow ready, held horizontally at ground level, the arrow nocked. It was a technique he had

practiced; he could shoot an arrow accurately from this position. The point quivered, and Hotfoot realized how nervous he was. He

didn't want to do this! But he had to. Slowly he drew back the string, lifting the point. If the warrior turned aside and passed

beyond them, then there would be an excellent excuse not to shoot. It was better to escape detection than to start the commotion

all over.

 

The warrior did not pass. He poked at the fronds with his club, his head moving so that he could see beyond them. No chance now to

escape unnoticed!

 

Hotfoot lifted the point and loosed his arrow at point-blank range. It happened before he realized it was going to. It was as if

his arms and hands belonged to someone else, someone with twice the nerve he could ever have. The arrow passed through the

warrior's neck. The man did not cry out; he could not, for it was his voice the arrow had transfixed. He simply collapsed, looking

surprised.

 

"I never saw a neater kill!" Woodpecker breathed, awed. "No sound at all!" He was speaking of animal kills, of course; none of them

had seen a warrior die in battle before.

 

Hotfoot did not answer. He was stunned. He had killed squirrels and rabbits, and was reckoned to have a good arm for the bow. But

this was a man! He had known this was no game excursion they were on, but still had not until this moment appreciated the full

seriousness of it.

 

"Take his scalp!" Alligator said.

 

Hotfoot just stared at the dead man, making no move. The death of a man!

 

"We must run," Woodpecker whispered. "They'll find him soon. No time for the scalp."

 

They moved out, silently, into the closing dusk. But Hotfoot was in a kind of trance, seeing only that warrior, the arrow through

his neck, his eyes widening as he sank down. There was no glory in this kill, only horror. How could he have done it? Why couldn't

he have missed, as Alligator had, or hit the shoulder, as Woodpecker had?

 

Because the man would have cried out, and attacked them, and then they would have had to try to kill him more messily, and if they

had succeeded, by that time the other Cale would have been there, and that would have been all. He had had to do it; he knew that.

Yet still he was appalled.

 

In this numbed time of flight and thought, Hotfoot knew that he was no warrior. Woodpecker had covered for him, giving him a

pretext not to take the scalp, though of course he should have. None of them had experience in cutting heads; they would have

bungled it, and indeed, they had no time. But it was more than that. Hotfoot knew with absolute certainty that he never wanted to

kill again. That was why he was no warrior.

 

They gained distance, because the Cale did not at first discover the death of their warrior. They assumed that no outcry meant no

discovery, so the rest were still searching their own sections of the closing net. That was good fortune for the raiders, for every

moment that passed now made escape more likely. It was almost impossible to track fugitives in darkness, if the fugitives had any

skill at all in silent travel.

 

Now they heard the outcry behind as the Cale discovered the slain warrior. But the night was near; as long as they kept quiet, they

were safe.

 

The problem was that the same factors that inhibited the pursuit also inhibited the three of them. They could no longer see the

signs they had left, or judge the lay of the land they had noted. What had been reasonably familiar was now unfamiliar. Also, the

creatures of the night were emerging, including mosquitoes. The biting blackflies of day could be squeezed off when they alighted;

they tended to come in swarms, and lost interest when motion stopped. But mosquitoes were inexorable, and invisible in the dark.

The three of them had put on no fish oil to repel these, because its odor would give away their location. Unfortunately, the

bloodsuckers had no trouble locating them.

 

They kept moving, regardless. Their progress became noisier as they made missteps, and they blundered into brush and muck, surely

leaving a trail that would be obvious by daylight. But they knew that the pursuers would make similar noise, unless they used

familiar paths.

 

"Let's use the paths!" Hotfoot urged. "We can move faster and quieter, and that is less risk than this."

 

"But they'll be watching the paths!" Woodpecker protested.

 

"Not if they're searching for us in the brush. They won't expect us on the paths."

 

Woodpecker considered a moment, then agreed. They cut across to the nearest established path, paused to listen for pursuit, then

got on it. They were alone; either the Cale had given up the pursuit, or they were not in this vicinity.

 

This helped greatly. They proceeded at almost daytime velocity, for there was no danger of going astray here. In fact they were now

traveling faster than they had by day, for they were no longer establishing an escape route.

 

They reached the river. Now they had to cut through the brush again, for their canoe was hidden well away from the regular path.

This slowed them down, for the thickest of the vegetation was near the river. There were brambles and dense thickets, and the

ground was marshy. They feared for snakes and alligators. But they were getting close to their canoe, and once they recovered that,

they would have an easy time getting the rest of the way back to Atafi.

 

But they couldn't find it in the dark. They ranged back and forth along the slushy bank, searching for the particular palmetto

thicket they had used, but they had hidden the canoe too well. In the night they were baffled.

 

Finally they consulted, and decided to wait for dawn, when they should be able to spot it readily. They took turns sitting guard,

one always alert while two slept.

 

Now Hotfoot became thoroughly aware of the incidental injuries he had taken: the scratches that were not of the ritual preparation,

the insect bites, the bruises from stumbling in the darkness. He was also hungry, for he had not eaten in a day and two nights, and

tired, for he had not rested in that time either. The excitement that had sustained him on the mission was now exhausted. He was

not sleepy, just phenomenally weary.

 

But the worst thing was the image of the slain warrior, the arrow through his neck. That man's spirit was surely orienting on

Hotfoot now, seeking retribution. The living men could be avoided, if one was clever enough, but not the spirits of the dead. The

spirits could only be diverted by the intercession of a priest—but until Hotfoot got home, the priest could not intercede. He was

vulnerable now. The horror of his action rose like a dark mass before him, seeming to take animate form, and he was afraid. Afraid

because of his coming shame. Because he was no true warrior, having no joy of killing. Too late, he had learned that he was a

coward.

 

But the spirit did not attack immediately. At least, not tangibly. That was not the way of spirits, though. They did not make

physical mischief, they acted more subtly. They seeped into the body of the offender, entering through his nostrils, his mouth, his

anus, and spreading out within, taking time to choose their targets. Often it was the joints, which slowly coalesced, so that they

operated only with decreasing range and increasing pain, making a cripple of a man without leaving a mark on him. Sometimes it was

more subtle yet, so that he sickened and died, and no priest could cure him. One could never be sure that a malignant spirit had

not intruded; one had to be always on guard against it, and free of pollution. Hotfoot knew that he was not free; he was now an

easy target for the spirit's wrath.

 

Dawn came, and he gazed about, for his watch had been last. Now the locale became increasingly familiar; they were not far at all

from the place they sought. Had the night not changed things so much, they should readily have found their canoe.

 

The others stirred. Silently, Hotfoot indicated the direction, and they nodded.

 

They moved to it, and it was there, exactly as they had left it. Their hiding place had been secure—almost too secure. Next time,

they would be sure to memorize the position in such a way that they could find it by night as well as by day!

 

They launched the canoe and climbed carefully into it. Alligator took the rear paddle this time, and Hotfoot the lead, while

Woodpecker knelt in the center as before. They would trade off at intervals, for now they were tired and would be traveling

upstream.

 

They glided into the center, and beyond, seeking the familiar channel that lacked the main current. The Little Big River was

gentle, easy to ride, but still it was pointless to oppose the current unnecessarily.

 

The river narrowed—and disaster struck. Abruptly a canoe shot out from the bank ahead, to intercept them. It carried six Cale

warriors. The Cale had been watching the river—as the three of them should have anticipated.

 

Immediately Hotfoot and Alligator spun the canoe about, heading downstream, stroking with suddenly renewed strength. But the Cale

craft followed, and it had four paddlers. It was overhauling them rapidly.

 

"Shore!" Woodpecker snapped. Indeed, they were already turning to get to it; it was their only chance to escape.

 

They cut close to the dense foliage of the bank, heedless of whatever landing they might make. On land they would have a chance to

hide, to lose themselves in the thickets. This was Toco territory; the war party would not dare remain long, for fear of discovery

by Toco warriors.

 

The canoe crashed into an overhanging oak branch—and Hotfoot felt a stunning blow to his left shoulder. His left arm went numb, and

his hand lost its hold on the paddle. It didn't matter; he had to scramble out of the canoe as it halted, and splash to the shore

behind the other two.

 

Alligator and Woodpecker were fighting their way to land as the enemy canoe came close. An arrow whistled past Hot-foot's head to

graze Woodpecker's thigh. Woodpecker seemed not to notice it as he scrambled through the brush. Then they were all through, and a

screening of foliage protected their rear for the moment. The Cale would not shoot blindly; arrows were too precious to waste.

 

Alligator turned to speak to the others—and paused, staring at Hotfoot's shoulder. Hotfoot looked, and was amazed.

 

An arrow was projecting from his shoulder. The head was deep in the flesh, the shaft and feathers behind. That was the blow he had

felt!

 

"Hold him!" Woodpecker whispered.

 

Wordlessly, Alligator grabbed Hotfoot from the front, clasping him in an embrace that held him anchored. Hotfoot clenched his teeth

and stood still, not resisting, knowing what was coming. He could not afford to make a sound, for that would show unmanly weakness,

and could attract the Cale.

 

There was a wrench, and a terrible flare of pain. Woodpecker was yanking the arrow out, as he had to, but it wasn't coming readily.

It tore at the muscle and sinew, the agony of it radiating out through Hotfoot's whole body. He clenched his teeth, making no

sound, though all his world was agony. Then the arrow snapped.

 

Woodpecker held the shaft up. It had broken off, leaving the arrowhead embedded. Hotfoot knew that was bad; it meant the malignant

Cale spirit of the arrow remained in him, and it would surely cause him much grief.

 

As the surge of pain abated, he felt the wetness on his back, and knew it was his blood flowing down. That, too, was bad, for it

was good blood that leaked from this region, not bad blood.

 

Now there was a clamor behind. The Cale were landing!

 

The three ran, Woodpecker leading the way, weaving through the brush. But Hotfoot found that he could not keep the pace; his

shoulder was throbbing and his feet were tiring.

 

In a moment Woodpecker realized what the problem was. The wound was weakening Hotfoot. "Hide," he said. "We will lead them away

from you."

 

"They will follow the blood," Alligator pointed out.

 

Woodpecker scooped his hand along Hotfoot's back, soaking it in warm blood. "I will lead them with blood!" Then he was away, his

hand extended, the blood dripping from it.

 

Hotfoot stumbled to the side, hunched over so that more blood would not drip, and crawled between low palmetto fronds. As he heard

the Cale charging, he stretched out under the fronds, facedown, his left arm dragging. If the ruse worked, he would be safe; if

not...

 

It worked. The Cale warriors paused only to inspect the blood at the spot where the three had stopped, then charged on after the

drops Woodpecker had planted.

 

But Hotfoot knew he had to move on, because it would not take long for the Cale to realize that they now pursued only two, and that

the blood had stopped. They could come back, rechecking the trail, and then they would find the offshoot. They would be after

Hotfoot, and he could not outrun them.

 

Indeed, he could hardly run at all now. He hauled himself to his feet, and almost collapsed. He staggered on, away from the

direction of the other path. He knew he would have to stop soon. He was defenseless, for he had lost his bow and arrows in the

chase. Where could he go, where he would not be followed?

 

Here.

 

He gazed Wearily about, trying to identify what he had heard. Who had called? Had he really heard anything?

 

Then he realized that he was close to the ancient holy place, where youths like him never went. The spirits of the dead were here,

guarding their burial ground. There would be terrible retribution against almost any living person who defiled this site. Only a

priest could come here.

 

Yet he had heard a call. Where could it have come from, except here?

 

Was he about to die, and the spirits knew this? But he was a mere stripling, a boy, not worthy to share their habitat. They should

have only contempt for him.

 

No. He was now a man. He had made his first kill, and received his first serious wound. If he died of it, he died a man, even

though he had not yet been awarded a man's name. The spirits would know that. They did not make mistakes; they knew who was worthy

and who was not.

 

He staggered on toward the low mound, knowing where it was. The scene seemed to be tilting crazily, and the trees were whirling

around him, but somehow he kept his feet until the sacred hill was there.

 

It was not high, only up to his belly, but it spread out widely. It was just a small rise, overgrown with brush and small trees,

undisturbed. But everyone knew what it was. No one ever confused a burial site.

 

Hotfoot felt his consciousness fading. "O spirits of the mound," he gasped. "I come to you as a supplicant. Accept—"

 

Then he fell, his invocation unfinished. He lay sprawled on the mound, the light of the day dimming in his awareness.

 

 

 

Hotfoot never moved, but somehow he saw. A man was standing over him, looking down at his still form.

 

"Who are you?" Hotfoot asked without speaking.

 

"Do you address your elders thus?" the man demanded in the same manner.

 

Then Hotfoot knew that this was no mortal man. "I abase myself," he said. "O Spirit of the Mound, I apologize abjectly for this

intrusion, and beg your indulgence, for I cannot rouse my body. I am Hotfoot, a boy of the Eagle Clan of Toco Atafi."

 

"A boy? Do not seek to deceive me thus! You have made your first kill."

 

"It was only in desperation. I take no joy in it. I am sickened; I wish I had missed. I am no warrior."

 

The Spirit considered. "You judge yourself too harshly. No sensible man truly joys in killing; he does it because he must, as you

did. You are a man; you will assume the title of a warrior, and be a credit to the Eagle Clan."

 

"O honored Spirit, I think not, for I am dying. But if it is enough for you to accept me here, then I shall be satisfied."

 

"I am Dead Eagle, chief spirit of this mound," the man said. "I am of the Eagle Clan, and your ancestor. I do not accept you here,

for you must not yet die."

 

Hotfoot received this news with confusion. "You are of my clan, but you refuse to let me be here?"

 

"I will accept you here only when your mission is complete."

 

"My mission?"

 

Dead Eagle nodded. Hotfoot saw this, though his face was to the ground. "There is a terrible danger coming. You must warn the

living, and seek the means to avoid it. Only when you succeed in this may you join us here."

 

"O Spirit, what danger is this?"

 

"I do not know its nature, for I can foresee only imperfectly with the quartz crystal. The threat is too great and distant for such

magic. It can only be accurately seen with the most potent crystal of all, the Ulunsuti, the great blazing transparent diamond on

the forehead of the Uktena."

 

"The Uktena!" Hotfoot cried, appalled. "The terrible snake!"

 

"The same," Dead Eagle agreed. "You must go to the monster, and take the crystal, and use the crystal to see the exact nature of

the threat. Then you will be able to warn your tribe, which is our tribe too, and to devise some stratagem to counter it. Then you

may die and join us here."

 

"It is too much!" Hotfoot protested. "I am only a stripling, I am afraid, it is beyond my power! I am a coward. Even to see the

Uktena as it sleeps is death to a hunter's family! It is almost impossible to wound the monster, and only a great hero can kill it

and take the Ulunsuti! I would be terrified and flee, shaming myself and my tribe, accomplishing nothing."

 

Dead Eagle's visage clouded. "Make no excuses, warrior! You are of the Eagle Clan! I put my mark on you, and I take from you your

fear; never while you live will you experience it. Accept the mission, and do not return until it is done." He reached down, and

his hand passed through Hotfoot's injured shoulder.

 

Abruptly the fear was gone. "I accept the mission, O Spirit," Hotfoot said. "I will not dishonor you." Then his consciousness faded

again.

 

 

 

CHAPTER 2

TRADER

O Spirit of the Mound, I have told you of the stripling Hotfoot who came to you so long ago, whose fear you took and to whom you

gave the quest for the Ulunsuti. Now I will tell how he started that quest, and how the proof was made of his loss of fear, and of

the girl he met who was to change his life. Already your wisdom was manifesting, O Spirit!

 

 

 

He woke again within his own lodge; he recognized the individual smell of it immediately. He was on a raised pallet of pine

needles, his head on a cushion of moss. The heat of the small cooking fire warmed his right side, and the aromas of the smoke and

the pot were comforting.

 

As he stirred, his mother heard and came immediately. "Do you know me, my son?" she asked, her voice anxious.

 

"I know you, my mother," he said weakly.

 

For a moment she just held his hand and gazed at him. But he felt the emotion in her, and knew that his survival had been

uncertain. He could guess what had happened: the other boys had returned to the village and told of his injury, and warriors had

come to search for him, and had traced his trail to the mound. They had carried him back, but he must have seemed dead, for he had

no awareness of anything between his communion with Dead Eagle and this moment.

 

The Spirit of the Mound had saved his life, for the sake of the mission. Otherwise he surely would have died.

 

His mother fed him soup and acorn bread, and his strength returned. The priest came to the lodge, and was pleased to see that his

curative dance had worked. Hotfoot did not have the heart to tell him that his recovery owed more to Dead Eagle than to the dance,

for the decision had been made before his body was recovered.

 

Woodpecker and Alligator came, explaining that they had been unable to double back because of the pursuit, but that they had been

successful in leading the Cale war party so far afield that Hotfoot had been forgotten. Then the Atafi warriors had emerged, and it

had been the Cale's turn to retreat. "And we told of your heroism," Woodpecker said eagerly. "How you slew that warrior with a

single arrow through the throat!"

 

As with the priest, he lacked the will to tell them that he took no pride in that shot. He confirmed their own heroism, bearing

witness to the manly deeds they had done, especially in leading the Cale away from him. There seemed no point in telling about the

protection the Spirit of the Mound had given him, as that would only diminish their accomplishment. He was glad enough to be alive!

 

But there were two things that remained from the experience, that changed his life in ways that none of them had anticipated. The

first was immediate and obvious: his left arm no longer functioned fully. His uncle of the Eagle Clan had drawn out the arrowhead

and stanched the bleeding, but the damage had been done. The pain gradually subsided, but his shoulder was immobile. He could still

flex his elbow, and his hand worked perfectly, but his upper arm was locked against his side. It was no longer possible for him to

use a bow or to do anything that required the extending of that arm. The Spirit of the Cale warrior he had killed had achieved its

vengeance by destroying his ability ever to kill again with that weapon.

 

The second was the mission that Dead Eagle had given him. He had to find the Ulunsuti, the great transparent crystal. He had to use

it to avert the terrible danger to the tribe. But he had no notion of how to go about such a quest. This question preyed on his

mind during his physical recovery. What was he to do?

 

So it was that when he was able to go about again, and to function as before, except for his arm, he sought the priest. "I am to be

a warrior now, but I have no stomach for it," he confessed. "I want never to kill another man, and I have a mission whose pursuit

baffles me. I need your counsel."

 

The priest stared at him and through him in the disconcerting way he had. "You met with the Spirit of the Mound," he said.

 

Hotfoot was startled. "How do you know that?"

 

"How could I not know? The mark of the dead is on you."

 

"What mark?"

 

The priest tapped him on the shoulder, just beyond the healing scar of his wound. "This mark. In the shape of a ragged eagle. Did

you not know?"

 

Hotfoot was startled again. "I did not know. I thought it was only a scar." He twisted his neck to look, but could not get a clear

view. Yet now he remembered: Dead Eagle had said that he put his mark on Hotfoot, when he took his fear.

 

"The mark of the dead," the priest repeated. "And you would be dead too, if the Spirit had not accepted you. No man could spend the

night at that holy site and live, otherwise."

 

Hotfoot realized that it was true. He had defiled a holy place, and instead of being struck dead, he had been saved. "The Spirit

Dead Eagle spoke to me, and gave me a mission. I am forbidden to return until it is done. But I do not know how to do it."

 

"And what did the Spirit take from you?" the priest asked cannily.

 

"Take from me? He gave me back my life!"

 

"What a spirit takes is always equivalent to what it gives. Dead Eagle gave you life; what did he take? That will suggest how you

should proceed."

 

Hotfoot was flustered. "He took nothing! He only gave me my life and the mission, and said I should not return until it is done. I

accepted, and now I must do it."

 

The priest considered. "What was the mission?"

 

"He said there is a terrible danger coming, and that I should warn the living and seek the means to avoid it. It can only be seen

accurately with the Ulunsuti—"

 

"The great transparent crystal!" the priest exclaimed. "No one can find that! The monster snake would kill any who tried!"

 

"I told him that. I said I was afraid, but he said he would take my fear—" Hotfoot broke off, startled.

 

"Dead Eagle took your fear?"

 

"Yes. He said I would experience it no more while I lived. But—"

 

"So you are not afraid to seek the Uktena?"

 

"Well, not afraid, but I have no idea how—"

 

"Truly he means you to accomplish this mission! Only the bravest of men would dare undertake such a thing, knowing he will very

likely die without success."

 

"But I am not brave! I never want to kill again!"

 

"And you with only one arm!" The priest shook his. head. "The spirits have little regard for mortal weakness!"

 

"I was a fool to accept it," Hotfoot said. "But when he took my fear, I had no caution."

 

"When a spirit commands, no mortal man denies," the priest said. "Now it is clear: you will assume your warrior's name, and go on

your mission. You must travel until you find the Ulunsuti, and bring it back and use it to see the danger."

 

"But where should I search for it?"

 

"No mortal man knows. But perhaps the spirits know. You must seek the places of the dead, the sacred mounds, and consult with them.

This does not frighten you?"

 

"I do not wish to profane the sacred places!" Hotfoot protested.

 

"You fear to?"

 

"I have no fear, only proper respect."

 

"Then you have only to ask permission for the intrusion. If you truly have no fear, they will grant it, and perhaps will help you

if you tell them who sent you."

 

Hotfoot brightened. "They will honor Dead Eagle's mission?"

 

"Surely they will. The spirits know their own. If they do not, show them your mark."

 

"Then this is what I shall do. I thank you, priest, for this good counsel."

 

"I could do no less, for one the spirits have honored." But he looked doubtful about the nature of the honor.

 

 

 

Next day they had the Ceremony of Manhood for the three youths. They had spent the night secluded from the village, remaining alert

after purifying themselves with deep draughts of the White Drink and vomiting. Now they stood forth in turn as the elders spoke of

their deeds and presented them with their adult-names. Woodpecker became "Striker of Warriors" because of his first shot at the

Cale. Alligator became "Deceiver of Enemies" because of his clever ruse with the blood, leading the enemy away from his wounded

companion. And Hotfoot became "Throat Shot" because of his single kill; this was so dramatic a deed that it needed no

qualification.

 

Now the village turned to celebration, with feasting and dancing and congratulations all around. The three were men now, and could

participate in the duties and privileges of men, including the council deliberations and the smoking of the village pipe. On this

day, Throat Shot's dead arm was a badge of honor instead of a liability; it was a serious injury taken in battle. But privately he

wished that he had not experienced either the killing or the injury; the one had wounded his self-esteem as much as the other had

wounded his body.

 

That night a maiden came to him, in his corner of the barracks lodge used by unmarried males. It was Deer Eyes, whose eyes were

indeed great and dark. He had always found her attractive, but as a boy had been entitled to no sexual privileges. Now he was a

man, and she had come to complete his initiation. She smelled of honey.

 

But the memory of the killing he had done was on him, and of the loss of the use of his arm, and he was aware that he would soon be

leaving the tribe. He felt ashamed and unworthy. Deer Eyes was a nice girl; she could do better, and perhaps share her favors with

a warrior who might in due course marry her. Throat Shot could not; he would be gone from the tribe a long time. He doubted that it

was right to do this with her.

 

He tried to explain this. She was surprised, then angry. "You say you are too good for me?" she demanded.

 

"No, I am beneath your notice," he explained.

 

"You were waiting for some other girl?" Her mixed outrage and injured pride were manifest.

 

"No, no other girl! I have always wanted you! But look at me." He touched his slack left arm with his right hand.

 

"Or for a man, perhaps?"

 

This was worse yet. There were men who wore women's clothes and lived in the way of women. He was definitely not one of them! "No,

no man! I want you! But I am unworthy." She gazed at him for a moment, and he knew that if she simply refused to go, and lay down

with him, he would forget his unworthiness and do what he desired. But then she turned away in disgust, and his chance was gone. He

had managed to misplay this most important occasion, and generate only misunderstanding and anger. Why had he even opened his

mouth?

 

No maiden came to him the following nights. The word had gotten around. They thought him less than a man now, and not because of

his arm. Steeped in the shame of their belief, he slept alone. It was indeed best that he depart this tribe; he had won his honor

as a warrior, only to lose it as a man.

 

At the next council meeting he spoke of his mission. The warriors nodded; he had been visited by a spirit, and had to do as that

spirit directed. They all saw the twisted eagle mark on his shoulder. He must go in search of the Ulunsuti so that the terrible

danger might be discovered and averted. It was a worthy mission. Especially, it was left unsaid, for one who could no longer

effectively fight or hunt. His absence would cause the tribe no significant loss.

 

 

 

The Trader came down the Little Big River in his canoe. His hair was tied back in a roll, through which were struck two bones which

were sharpened at the ends like arrowheads. He was of the Ais tribe, far to the east, but he was known to all the other tribes of

the region, and none offered him harm. This was because he brought marvelous items for trade, and took the more common local items

in exchange. The women, especially, eagerly awaited his arrival.

 

He did not speak the Toco tongue. On other trips he had had an assistant who translated during the bargaining; evidently something

had happened. But they knew him, and sign language was enough for this purpose. They could see what he had, and show him what was

here for trade.

 

This time he brought fine feather cloaks and small dishes made of copper, that strange and wonderful stone that was so unlike clay

pottery. But copper was precious, and all they had was chert for arrowheads. The Trader looked at that with scorn; he had fine

flint already.

 

But the Chief was clever. "I note you have no front paddler for your canoe, no carrier for portage," he said via sign language,

pointing to the empty place in the canoe and making a gesture as of paddling, then of carrying. "We will trade the services of a

man for that, all the way back to your home, for six of these feather cloaks." He pointed to a heavyset warrior, and to the cloaks.

 

The Trader was outraged. "These are the best cloaks in the mortal realm! See their fine craftsmanship! I had to pay dearly for each

one!" His gestures indicated the cloaks, and he picked one up to spread it out and show its qualities. Every feather had been split

at the base of the quill, and turned back in a loop so that it could be firmly fastened to the material. "Why should I let any go

for the sake of another mouth to feed?" His glance at the warrior, who had obviously eaten well, was disdainful. No one wanted an

appetite like that along!

 

The Chief pondered. "Then an interpreter, a man good at speaking." He made the gesture to his mouth. "Who will facilitate your

bargaining, and also help portage."

 

Now the Trader was interested. "A slave?" He made the signal of subservience.

 

The Chief shook his head in negation. "No slave. A warrior. To translate and portage."

 

The Trader nodded. "One cloak."

 

Now it was the Chief's turn to laugh, and the warriors laughed with him. "Three cloaks."

 

"Two."

 

The Chief sighed. He had never been able to best the Trader in dealmaking. "Two," he agreed.

 

"Show me the man."

 

The Chief beckoned Throat Shot. He stepped forward.

 

"A mere stripling!" the Trader protested. "A child!" He made a gesture as of patting a toddler on the head.

 

"A man," the Chief insisted. "He killed a Cale warrior with one arrow through the throat." He jammed at his own throat with the

point of an arrow.

 

The Trader gazed at Throat Shot with increasing respect. "He is that one? They speak of him there!" He was talking as he made the

signals, and Throat Shot, who had been listening intently all along, was beginning to pick up the words. He remembered some he had

learned from the Trader's prior visits, and was beginning to get a feel for the tongue. There were points of similarity between the

Ais speech and the Cale, and the man was echoing his words with sign language, so that anyone could follow his gist.

 

"They came after him," the Chief said. "They shot him in the shoulder." Now he put his hand on Throat Shot, and turned him so that

his scar tissue showed. "He can no longer fight, but he can speak."

 

The Trader was quick to pick up on the arm injury. "How can he paddle? How can he portage? This is no good!"

 

"I can paddle," Throat Shot said in the Trader's tongue.

 

The man, amazed to hear the words, watched as Throat Shot got into the canoe, lifted the paddle with his right hand, bent his left

arm at the elbow, and caught it with his left hand. Then he moved the paddle in the air, in a vigorous paddling motion, his right

arm doing most of the work. It was relatively clumsy, but he could do it. "I can carry too; my legs are good." He had to

demonstrate for the legs, because he had not yet picked up that word.

 

"What tongues do you speak?"

 

"Cale, Toco, Calusan. Ais, if you teach me. I learn quickly." Words and gestures made that clear.

 

"You learned this much of Ais just by listening now?" This time the Trader's hands were still; he was deliberately avoiding sign

language, so that only the speech counted.

 

Throat Shot caught his meaning as much by his attitude as by his words. He repeated them, changing only the first. "I learned this

much of Ais just by listening now."

 

"You will serve me loyally while you travel with me?" the Trader asked in bad Cale. "No stealing, no cheating?"

 

"I am a warrior," Throat Shot replied in good Cale. "I do not steal or cheat. I will serve you loyally."

 

The Trader lifted two feather cloaks and gave them to the Chief. It was done.

 

 

 

The Trader spent the night at the village, enjoying the hospitality, now that the business had been completed. No one bothered his

loaded canoe; it was a matter of honor to safeguard such things, once hospitality was extended, and of course everyone in the

village wanted him to come again. He sat with them by the evening fire and told of his recent experiences in his stumbling Cale,

and Throat Shot translated to Toco, already serving in the agreed capacity. Everyone loved to hear of far places and events.

 

Naturally a maiden visited the Trader in the evening, completing the hospitality. It was Deer Eyes. She made sure Throat Shot knew.

He tried to show no emotion, but he felt it. She was wasting herself on a man she might never see again, for the sake of some

trinket he might give her. She could as readily have wasted herself on Throat Shot. He had been a fool.

 

Yet he had done what he thought was right. All he could do now was to learn from the experience, and make sure he was never again

such a fool. Dead Eagle had taken his fear, but his other emotions remained, and shame was the one that ruled him now.

 

 

 

In the morning they started off down the river. Throat Shot took the front, paddling only on the left side. But he paddled well; he

had worked at this, adapting his technique so that he could travel by canoe alone if he had to, and it was easier with another.

 

He was prepared for a long journey, for he did not know when he would return. His pack contained parched acorn flour to make bread

in case he could not find other food, a fishhook he had carved himself from a large hollow bird bone (after ruining three prior

bones), a root digger stick, his stone knife, three stone spear points, a length of fiber cord, and a small firepot whose punk,

buried in ash, hardly smoked at all. With these he could do well enough, when he had to.

 

But soon after they were beyond the village, the Trader called a halt. They let the canoe drift in the slow current. "Turn about,"

the Trader said. "Face me, Toco Atafi warrior."

 

Throat Shot shipped his paddle and turned, careful not to rock the canoe. It continued to move, drifting with the will of the

spirit of the river. What did the man want?

 

"You agreed to serve me," the Trader said.

 

The words were becoming more familiar with repetition. Also, he had picked up a number during the evening, when the Trader had had

to hunt for Cale terms he did not know; he had expressed the concepts in Ais, and Throat Shot had offered words in Cale until the

right one was found. Then Throat Shot knew the equivalent Ais word too. "Yes."

 

"Then you must know my language better. Before we reach the next village."

 

Throat Shot was happy to learn it. The Trader named every item that he had to trade, and Throat Shot repeated each name, getting it

straight. He knew now that another person could not have done this; there were many terms, and he had to concentrate to fix them in

his mind. Then the Trader covered key concepts, and a number of these related to terms Throat Shot already knew, so it was easier.

The syntax of Ais was similar to that of Toco; once he had the words, the statements settled into place.

 

"It is good," the Trader said at last. "It was a fair trade." By that he meant that he believed he had gotten the best of it,

because an apt translator was more valuable than two feather cloaks.

 

"Yes," Throat Shot said in Ais, still practicing to make it seem natural.

 

But the Trader was no fool. "Then why did Chief Atafi think he had done better?" he demanded.

 

Throat Shot, caught by surprise, did not answer.

 

"Remember, you promised to serve me," the Trader repeated. "The trade was made, it is done. Now you must tell me the truth. I will

not be angry; I just want to know."

 

"I was going to travel," Throat Shot said. "I have a mission. I did not want to travel alone."

 

The Trader slapped his knee. "So I could have charged to take you! The Chief made me pay to do him a favor!" He was using the sign

language again, helping Throat Shot to pick up the words.

 

"I will serve as agreed," Throat Shot said somewhat stiffly, still augmenting his own words with signs to cover concepts he did not

yet know in Ais. "All the way to your home. We did not cheat you."

 

The Trader laughed. "No, you did not cheat me. No one cheats me; I am too clever. I knew there was a reason for you to go, but I

did not know what that reason was. I feared it was to betray me to thieves."

 

"I gave my word!" Throat Shot said, annoyed.

 

"Yes, you did, and you did not lie. I know; I can tell. But Chief Atafi thought he was getting the better of me, and I had to know

why. If he told an ambush party to watch for a warrior with one arm—"

 

"He would not! That would be an act of treachery!"

 

"I did not think he would. I have dealt with him before, and he has never betrayed me. But this time there was something hidden; he

thought he was being clever, and I had to find out why. It is a cruel world, young warrior; a traveling man has to be alert. Not

every person I meet is honorable."

 

Throat Shot nodded. "I have heard of dishonor. But never here."

 

"I will teach you how to spot it, if you wish to learn. It will help you serve me better. I will show you the signals of a man who

is lying."

 

"I would be most pleased to learn that!" Throat Shot said. "But surely they are not like the sign language I know!"

 

"Surely they are not!" the Trader agreed with another laugh. "They are made with the eyes, the mouth, the body, and the liar does

not know he is making them. You are clever, and you are honest; I will teach you what I would not teach another."

 

Throat Shot was inordinately pleased by this compliment. He tried to conceal this, but could tell from the Trader's smile that he

was failing. He was in effect trying to lie, and could not.

 

"But I would like to know the nature of your mission," the Trader said. "Why must you travel? Is it to find a cure for your sick

arm?"

 

"I must seek the Ulunsuti," Throat Shot said. "Only that powerful crystal can enable me to save my village from great harm." And he

told the interested Trader the whole story, using Cale terms when he lacked Ais terms.

 

The Trader stared into the water. "You know that even the bravest warrior, with both arms and the finest weapons, would fear to

approach the Uktena, for it is almost certain death. How can you, with one arm, dare to do this?"

 

"I have no fear of the Uktena, only a concern about failure," Throat Shot said. "Dead Eagle took away my fear. If I die, then I

fail, and the danger comes upon my people. But I shall try to enlist the spirits of the dead to help me, and with their help

perhaps I will succeed."

 

"I have never met a man with no fear."

 

"I have not made proof of it," Throat Shot admitted. "Perhaps I misunderstood the Spirit."

 

The Trader shrugged. "Surely the proof will come, in due course. Serve me well, and I will introduce you to another trader with

whom I meet, who travels far to the north. Perhaps you will find what you seek there."

 

"I will serve you as well as I am able," Throat Shot said gratefully.

 

"Now we are ready to proceed. You surely know the folk of the next village."

 

"Yes, I have been there on occasion; they are Toco, like us, on this side of the river. What do you wish me to say to them?"

 

"Only translate what I tell you, and tell me what they say. I shall not cheat them, but I shall drive the best bargains I can.

Remember that you serve me now, not them, though they be your friends."

 

"I shall remember," Throat Shot agreed.

 

They resumed rowing. It was now afternoon; they had eaten some bread during their long talk, and were refreshed. The canoe moved

rapidly along.

 

 

 

They drew to shore near the village of Ibi Hica, the River Village, and the Trader put a conch to his mouth and blew a loud note to

signal his presence. In a moment children were running down the path to the water, eager to guide the visitors in. This was much

smaller than Atafi, but the people were compatible, and relations were good. That meant that the two villages did not raid each

other. The river was the boundary; beyond was raiding territory.

 

In due course the trading commenced. The Trader brought out one of the beautiful feather cloaks. "What have you to trade for this

fine item?" Throat Shot inquired of the Chief.

 

The Chief answered with a question. "You, with the bad arm—are you not Throat Shot, who killed the Cale warrior?"

 

"Yes. But now I am translating for the Trader, as he does not speak Toco."

 

"He needs slaves?"

 

"I am not a slave!" Throat Shot said indignantly. "I help him because I travel with him."

 

"But does he trade for slaves?"

 

Throat Shot put the question to the Trader. "Not ordinarily," the Trader replied cannily. "It depends on what is offered."

 

The Chief summoned a girl, by the look of her barely into her first moss skirt. Children normally ran naked except in cold weather;

modesty was a quality limited to adolescents and adults. Her face was pretty, but her breasts and thighs were undeveloped. "Wren is

a good girl," the Chief said. "But she is growing up, and we have no need for another woman in our tribe right now. Five cloaks for

her."

 

The Trader squinted at Wren, then spoke in the Ais tongue. "Five of these valuable feather cloaks for one unnubile child? He must

think me an idiot! One Cloak, if she's healthy."

 

Throat Shot spoke to the Chief in Toco: "The Trader appreciates your offer, but feels that you ask too much for one so young. One

cloak, if she's healthy." He knew that the Trader knew enough of the language to follow the dialogue, but the bargaining could

proceed faster and better this way.

 

"He must think me an idiot!" the Chief exclaimed, echoing the Trader's sentiment in the standard fashion. "This girl will soon be a

fine young woman, beautiful, worth a phenomenal price as a bride. Look at her lines; she is without blemish. Four cloaks."

 

Throat Shot relayed this offer to the Trader, who had surely understood it, but preferred to pretend otherwise. "She probably eats

like a bear," the Trader said. "Suppose she runs away before I can place her? Two cloaks."

 

Throat Shot relayed this to the Chief, who was already primed for the next offer. "She eats like a chickadee," he said. "She's a

good, obedient girl who will not run away if not mistreated. Three cloaks."

 

The Trader considered this. It was obviously the figure they had both been heading for. "Ask her if she will run away."

 

Throat Shot addressed the girl in Toco. "Will you run away if you are not mistreated?"

 

She looked at him, but did not reply.

 

"Wren, you must answer," Throat Shot said. "Do you understand what the Trader wants?"

 

The girl shook her head as if confused.

 

Suddenly Throat Shot caught on. "She does not speak our language!" he exclaimed. "She is a captive from afar!"

 

"She is still a good girl!" the Chief countered. "She can grow corn, she can make pots, she can do the things a woman does."

 

"Find out what language she speaks," the Trader said.

 

Throat Shot addressed the girl in Cale, but she did not respond. Then he tried Calusan. At this she reacted, and answered, but

haltingly.

 

"What is your native language?" he asked.

 

She said something completely alien, but with such finesse that it obviously was a language. This intrigued him; how could she

speak a language whose like he had never before heard?

 

He relayed the information to the Trader, who again had picked it up pretty much for himself. "Ask her where her homeland is," the

Trader said.

 

Throat Shot asked. The girl glanced at the sun, oriented, and pointed southwest. "Far, far," she said in Calusan.

 

"I'll take her," the Trader said. "Three feather cloaks." He brought them out and proffered them to the Chief.

 

Throat Shot was amazed. "But there is no tribe there!" he protested. "Far, far in that direction is the great sea!" He was also

privately nettled that the child had fetched a better price than Throat Shot himself had. Of course, she was a slave, while he was

giving service for only a limited time. Still...

 

"Don't you want to visit the local burial mound?" the Trader asked him. "Have the girl show you the way—and learn her language. I

will bargain here for lesser trades. I can do that well enough in sign language. She may be more valuable than we know."

 

Still dazed by this sudden settlement, Throat Shot asked the Chief if he could be permitted to visit the mound, with the girl to

show him where it was.

 

This surprised the Chief. "That is a holy place, and a dangerous place for the uninitiate. Why do you want to go there?"

 

"When I was wounded," Throat Shot explained, touching his bad shoulder, "I fell in a faint on an ancient mound, and the Spirit of

the Mound spared my life so that I could go on a mission. He told me to inquire of other spirits."

 

"Are you not afraid to approach so hostile a region? They will not be the spirits of your own town there; they may do you

mischief."

 

"I have no fear."

 

The Chief shrugged. "Then go; the girl knows the way."

 

"I thank you." Throat Shot turned to the girl. "Take me to the burial mound," he said carefully in Calusan.

 

Wren understood. Her eyes went round. "Bad spirits!"

 

"They will not harm us. Take me there."

 

Reluctantly, she led the way down the appropriate path. The mound was some distance away, so there was time to talk.

 

Throat Shot pointed to an oak tree. "Name?" he asked in Calusan.

 

"Oak," she said in the same language.

 

"No, in your tongue."

 

She glanced at him, surprised. She said a word in the strange language.

 

Throat Shot repeated it. That surprised her again.

 

He pointed to a palmetto clump. "Name?"

 

She gave it in her language, and he repeated it.

 

He pointed to himself. "Man. Name?"

 

She gave another strange word. She was quick enough to understand, and that was a good sign. She was no idiot, just a girl whose

language was foreign.

 

He took her through the words for girl, arm, leg, hand, foot, head, eye, mouth, nose, and so on, getting the basics down. The

strangeness of her tongue was a real challenge for him, but this was his talent: to remember tongues. Once he had a term, he

remembered it. He also acquired the words for interaction, so that he was able to make simple sentences in her tongue. Her

perplexity gradually became joy; it had been a long time since someone had spoken her tongue, even haltingly.

 

Then they were at the mound, and her fear returned. "Wait here," he said in her tongue. "Do not move; the spirits will not hurt

you. I must talk to them."

 

Wren stopped, glad to advance no farther. He was already assured that she would not run away; the Trader had perhaps understood

that she would not flee someone who tried to communicate with her.

 

He went to the mound. "O spirits of this mound," he intoned. "I come from Dead Eagle, and I beg your help. Will you speak to me?"

 

He waited, but there was no response. The spirits of this mound would not talk to him.

 

"I apologize for intruding on you," he said with regret. "I will not return."

 

He left the mound and walked to Wren, who stood staring at him. "You speak to the dead?" she asked, having to use the Calusan term

for "bones" to convey the concept.

 

"The dead, yes," he agreed. "Name?"

 

She gave the name for the dead in her tongue.

 

"But they did not speak to me," he concluded. "The spirits speak only to whom they choose to. But I know they listened, because

they did not try to harm either of us."

 

"Yes!" she agreed, relieved.

 

They returned to Ibi Hica, where the Trader was concluding his business. Then they were invited to share the hospitality of the

village, as was the custom.

 

The Trader turned to Throat Shot. "She will not run away?" he asked in his own tongue.

 

"She will not run," Throat Shot agreed.

 

They spent the night, the Trader with a nubile girl of the village, Throat Shot in a separate house with Wren. It was now his job

to watch her; if she fled it would be his responsibility. He was satisfied; they talked late in the darkness, exchanging words. He

found in her a mind as quick as his own. He assured her early that warriors did not seek female favors of children; it seemed she

had some doubt, but he did not pursue that aspect. She was after all a captive, and captives had no rights; she could have suffered

anything. He preferred to assume she had not, without asking. She became increasingly friendly as she gained confidence in him,

until he had to remind her that he served the Trader, and it was the Trader who would decide what to do with her. She would

probably be traded away when a profitable opportunity came. That reminder seemed to sadden her, but it was necessary.

 

In the morning they emerged quickly and took care of routine needs: they washed in the river, scrubbed their bodies with fine sand,

urinated, and reset their hair. They would not eat until noon, after getting a fair morning's traveling done. Wren fitted in

perfectly, evidently quite satisfied to be traveling with these two men. The Trader led the way to the loaded canoe, which was

undisturbed. He slid it into the water. About to step into it, he paused, dismayed. "Bad omen!" he muttered.

 

Throat Shot looked. There was a rattlesnake curled within the canoe, just waking from its sleep. Evidently it had crawled into the

dry place for the night, and would move on when the day warmed.

 

"He means no harm," Throat Shot said. "The canoe is protected and warm. I will move him."

 

The Trader backed away, evidently thinking this was a joke. Wren stood her ground, but she was not as close to the canoe. Throat

Shot leaned over and put out his right hand, slowly. "Brother rattlesnake, you are in our canoe," he said soothingly. "We do not

begrudge it to you, but now we must travel downriver, and you would not wish to go there. Let me help you on your way." He put his

hand on the snake, just behind the head, and lifted, gently.

 

The snake felt the warmth of his hand, and understood that this was not an attack. It was lethargic from its cooling of the night,

and not eager for a quarrel with a creature the size of a man. It slithered forward, but not aggressively. Throat Shot let it

slide, moving his hand to guide its head to the edge of the canoe where it still touched the land. When it saw the solid ground, it

slid on beneath his hand, and soon was out of the canoe and moving gracefully into the brush.

 

"I bid you good hunting, brother rattlesnake," Throat Shot called. "We had no quarrel, and hope for none tomorrow."

 

He straightened up and turned to the others. Both the Trader and Wren were staring at him—and now the others of the village were

there too, similarly astonished.

 

"He meant no harm," Throat Shot said, feeling defensive. "There was no reason to kill him. Indeed, I would not want either his

spirit or my friends of the Rattlesnake Clan angry with me for doing such a thing."

 

The Trader recovered. "You are right," he said briskly. "It is a good job. We must be on our way." He checked the canoe carefully,

then stepped into the rear. Throat Shot followed, stepping into the front, and then Wren stepped into the middle. They pushed off

and started paddling.

 

The villagers were still standing silently, staring after them, as they moved out of sight of the village.

 

"You spoke truly," the Trader said. "You have no fear." He was evidently impressed.

 

"You picked up a rattlesnake!" Wren exclaimed. "And it didn't bite you!"

 

Then Throat Shot realized what he had done. In all his prior life he had been highly wary of poisonous snakes, as were all the folk

he knew. Such snakes were like gods, and their presence could signal deep trouble, and even when it didn't, they remained

dangerous. It had been his dread to tread on one by accident. Yet he had been conscious of none of that at the time; he had simply

done what needed to be done. He had handled it as he would have handled a stranded burrowing tortoise, with concern for the welfare

of a totem. Dead Eagle had indeed taken away his fear.

 

"Ibi Hica will never forget you," Wren said. "They thought you had been lucky in battle. Now they know how great a warrior you

are."

 

"I am no warrior," Throat Shot said, shrugging his left shoulder to remind her of the arm. He suffered a surge of pain, and

resolved not to do that again. "I do not like killing. I took the easy way out."

 

"You could have fetched a net, or poked it out with a long stick," Wren said.

 

"Brother rattlesnake would not have liked that." But she was right: any other person would have done it that way.

 

"You may not be a warrior," the Trader said. "But you are a man like no other. I would have paid all five cloaks for your service,

had I known."

 

Throat Shot could make no answer. Now, in retrospect, he was amazed at this verification of what Dead Eagle had done. He had never

doubted, yet he was surprised.

 

They continued downstream. Wren had nothing to do in the middle, and talked with Throat Shot in her own language, continuing to

acquaint him with the words, while the Trader listened with approval. A talking girl was worth more than a mute one, and a smart

one more than a stupid one. Also, she showed animation and prettiness when she spoke, and that, too, added to her value.

 

Throat Shot knew the thoughts of the Trader, and was not at ease with them, for Wren was rapidly becoming a person to him, rather

than an item of trade. But what she told him was fascinating, and he couldn't help himself: he had to encourage her, and listen.

The Trader required him to translate it periodically, and he did so to the best of his ability. The Trader, too, was interested,

and it seemed not purely for commercial reason. His motive might differ from Throat Shot's, but he was interested in learning new

things.

 

During the next several days, they moved down the river to the sea, traveling slowly, trading at every village. This was the

Trader's main region for business, and he evidently enjoyed the hospitality of the villages. In this period Wren told them the

story of her mother and herself. It was an amazing tale.

 

 

 

CHAPTER 3

MAYA

O Spirit of the Mound, I have told you how the stripling Throat Shot began his journey at your behest, and made proof of the fear

you took from him, and met the girl called Wren. Now I will tell you her history, as she told it to him, and as I remember it these

three tens and five winters since. She told first of her mother, in her wonderful distant land, and then of herself, among the

primitives. Finally she told of her impressions of Throat Shot himself, though it was at a later time that she did this. I put it

together for you in the form of this tale, O Spirit, so as not to be tedious.

 

 

 

The Lady Zox was the daughter of the noble Jaguar Hide, and was the latest in a long line of beauteous women. Her body was

exquisitely tattooed in the most devious and symbolic patterns, with only her fine breasts unmarked. Her front teeth were filed to

sharp points. Her hair was so long it touched her knees even when intricately braided. She wore a richly woven dress and a necklace

of ornate stone and shell so heavy that it bruised her shoulders. Precious gems were set in her pierced ears. She bathed daily at

the public bath, and perfumed herself on the shoulders and breasts with fragrant oils. There was an irregular purple mark on her

spine just above the buttocks of unusual color and definition, considered to be her most lovely aspect. She painted her face red,

symbolic of blood. She always carried a few pretty flowers, and sniffed delicately from time to time. Even her sandals were of the

highest-quality tapir hide. She was without a doubt the most splendid woman of the region.

 

Indeed, this was no surprise, for her nobility extended beyond this state. Her mother was full Maya, from the capital city of

Utatlan of the southern highlands, brought here as a signal of political favor and alliance. With her she had brought the culture

of the highest class, and it showed in every aspect of her life. Her father was directly descended from the Toltec princes, but

even he deferred to the enormous knowledge of the Maya. The Toltecs were the rulers, but the Mayan women had established their

culture, subtly, steadily, until even the language was theirs. This was the true way of conquest, which the men did not understand.

 

But times were hard for her father and for the people of the State of Ceh Pech. They had suffered recent reverses in war, and many

of them had been captured and taken for living sacrifice. They needed strength, and so the chief was forced to make an alliance

with the barbarian Aztecs of far Mexico. That meant the marriage of a noble's daughter to an Aztec chief. The Lady Zox was selected

for this honor because she was the youngest and most beautiful of those available.

 

But she was her father's only girl-child, and he had hoped for a better position for her. An alliance with one of the other Mayan

states would have been excellent; one with the distant Aztecs might be good for the Maya people as a whole, but not necessarily for

Ceh Pech or this family. So Jaguar Hide arranged for a delay. He bribed a trader from the great commercial center of Xicallanco to

carry her away to a far Mayan city in disguise, where she would remain until some other bride was found for the Aztec. Then she

could return, and a few well-placed bribes would make it all right.

 

Jaguar Hide had good reason for his caution. The Aztecs were comparatively new to civilization, and their manners were uncertain.

They had in their early days been wife stealers, and now they made many thousands of human sacrifices each year. Such sacrifice was

proper, of course, but it was best kept in proportion; the gods could hardly appreciate a horrendous mass of living hearts all at

once. The Mayan priests were experts, but surely the Aztec priests were butchers who tried to make up in quantity what they lacked

in quality. Who could know how many beating hearts they wasted by incorrect ritual?

 

For example, there was the story of the Aztec uncouthness in a former liaison. They had served as mercenaries to the more powerful

tribes of their region, before they assumed dominance by expertise and treachery. They had displayed such valor in one such war

that their sponsor proffered a boon. They asked for the daughter of the chieftain himself, so that through her they could fashion a

more worthy lineage. Pleased with this request, the chieftain agreed, and sent to them the beautiful girl.

 

In due course the chieftain arrived with his entourage, gloriously garbed for the festive occasion of the wedding. It was then that

he learned that the Aztecs had sacrificed the girl, cut out her beating heart, flayed her, and made her skin into a garment to

drape over their high priest so that he might impersonate the Nature Goddess.

 

That had been an unfortunate move on the part of the Aztecs. The girl's father was most annoyed. Few of that group survived the

bereaved chieftain's expression of that annoyance. But there were other Aztecs, and they grew in power until they were dominant.

Now they could flay beautiful women when they chose, and they chose increasingly often. Jaguar Hide did not want to risk having his

own daughter among them. Sacrifice was important and necessary, but there were limits.

 

Accordingly, Zox was spirited away before the liaison with the Aztec chief could be completed. What price her father might have

paid for this device she never learned, for she never returned. The trader told her that he knew of no Mayan city where she would

be safe from discovery, so he took her to a region no one would know of, across the sea to a strange, primitive land. And there,

abruptly revealing his perfidy, he robbed her of her jewelry and fine shawl and sold her to the natives for a basket full of pretty

conch shells.

 

Zox was stranded in this hostile land across the sea without even what remained of her clothing, for the Calusa savages quickly

stole it. She knew no word of their tongue. But because she was the most beautiful woman they had seen, they did not mistreat her.

She was made a concubine of the cacique. When she refused to indulge his sexual appetite voluntarily, he did not strike her, he

simply did not feed her. It was not as if he lacked for women; he had several wives already, one of whom was his sister. He wanted

to make Zox come to him and ask for what he desired of her. She had to live on only those scraps she could somehow find herself.

She lost weight, and her beauty suffered. They fed her then, but only enough to keep her functioning, waiting for her to claim a

better life by agreeing to please the chief. All this was done without verbal communication, for she refused to learn their

primitive tongue, let alone speak it. She spoke only her own, civilized dialect, aloud and to herself. She kept her heritage fresh

for the day when she should be rescued and returned to her father's domain. Surely he was looking for her now!

 

Finally the cacique gave up on her. He was no longer very interested in her as a concubine, for she had become extremely thin and

dirty, and she refused to give him any hint of accommodation. He cut off her hair and traded her to a rival chieftain to the north,

where life was more primitive.

 

There they were not as scrupulous. She was given to a warrior, who promptly raped her. She waited until he slept, then took his

flint knife and tried to cut out his heart. Unfortunately, she was not strong enough or skilled enough to lift it beating from his

chest; she only made a mess of his chest, splattering blood all around, and it took some time for him to die.

 

The folk thought her possessed of an evil spirit. No ordinary woman would stab a man simply because he exercised his sexual rights

to her. They put her in charge of the priest, to exorcise the spirit. He performed his rituals, and she seemed to respond.

Actually, she had realized that she was not suited for killing people; she had not liked the experience at all. Though she refused

to speak the local dialect any more than she had the Calusan tongue, she was beginning to understand it. These folk were genuinely

confused, and were trying to do what they understood to be right. It was also evident that if the treatment was not effective, they

would kill her.

 

She began to eat. When the priest worked with her, she smiled at him. Each day they made a little more progress, and each day the

flesh returned to her body, and her beauty re-manifested. By the time she was cured, the priest was thoroughly enamored of her.

 

But he did not seek to use her sexually, for that would have been an abuse of his office. He had to return her, cured, to the

chieftain, though it was evident that he desired her. The chieftain then gave her back to the priest as a reward for his

success—and perhaps also out of caution, for she might relapse and kill someone else.

 

Now the priest was free to indulge with her. He gazed at her, and she smiled at him, and went with him to his hut. Even so he

hesitated, asking her whether she wished it, and she knew he would not force her. She had made her point, and was satisfied. She

made him very happy, and she did not offer him any violence. He was a more important man than she might otherwise find herself

with, and she had resolved to make the best of her situation until such time as her father was able to rescue her.

 

In the privacy of their home, she now spoke to him, in his language, showing that she had learned it well enough. But it was her

desire that no other member of the tribe know this. She had ways of demonstrating her pleasure as well as her displeasure, as he

well understood; he kept her secret, and was fittingly rewarded.

 

Thus it remained for some time.

 

 

 

In due course she bore him a baby. The priest was inordinately proud, for it demonstrated his manhood and proved that he had tamed

the madwoman; it was known what she did to those who forced their attentions on her. The child was female, and tiny, like her, and

beautiful, lacking only the purple mark on her spine. This birth, more than anything else, caused the women of the tribe to accept

the Lady Zox: she had contributed to the strength of the tribe.

 

She named the girl Tzec, and lavished attention on her. But the call of necessary woman's work meant that she had to leave Tzec in

the care of others at times. She still would not speak, to any outside the family, but her daughter grew up among the girls of the

tribe, and she had no reservation about the language. Indeed, Tzec was an apt student, learning rapidly and well. But she concealed

the full extent of her ability, in deference to her mother.

 

Still, Lady Zox spent much time teaching Tzec her own language and culture, for she wanted the child to be prepared for that day

when they returned to the land of the Maya. She told her of the splendid cities there, and the phenomenal buildings and pyramids,

great and golden in the sunshine. She told of Dzibilchaltun, the city so old it might have existed from the beginning of time, but

now was falling into ruins. She promised to take Tzec there one day, after they returned to their people, for it was within the

territory of Ceh Pech. They would walk down the ancient central avenue to the Temple of the Seven Dolls, with its vaulted corridor,

its windows, and the inner chamber which showed the key alignments of the sun. The priests there had always known when the seasons

and holidays were coming, without having to leave the temple. She narrated the great histories of the sacred text of her people,

the Book of the Community. She taught Tzec the unique Calendar, with its eighteen months and the Uayeb, the five unlucky days left

over. Each month had its special name and symbol, and the girl learned these, pronouncing the syllables and scratching the symbols

in the sand. Indeed, her name was Tzec because she had been born in the fifth month, Tzec. This was not normal practice; usually a

person was named for the specific day of his or her birth, rather than the month. But in the horror of her betrayal and captivity,

the Lady Zox had lost track of the exact days, and did not care to gamble on an inaccurate one. So it was simply Tzec.

 

But that was only the "vague" calendar, so-called because it was not exact; it tended to creep up on the seasons, interfering with

the planting and harvest dates, which was a nuisance. There was another, more precise ceremonial calendar, consisting of the same

twenty days, but these were not arranged into months. Instead each was preceded by a number, one through thirteen, and the men were

named by these numbers and days, according to the dates of their birth. The thirteen numbers and twenty days cycled through until

all had been cross-matched, and this required two hundred and sixty days. The ceremonial calendar was thus out of alignment with

the vague calendar; only once in fifty-two years did they coincide, and this was a time of the greatest significance, when temples

were rebuilt and special sacrifices made.

 

Zox taught Tzec how to mark such numbers in the Maya system, in vertical columns, with a shell for zero, dots for one to four,

horizontal lines for five, and their placement denoting whether each should be multiplied by twenty, three hundred and sixty, seven

thousand two hundred, or a hundred and forty-four thousand. Such concepts were difficult, but the child was bright and she mastered

them. She appreciated immediately that such feats of numbering could not be matched by the savages who had to count on the fingers

of their hands. More than that, it represented proof that the wonderful world her mother described was real, for here were its

numbers, unknown among the local natives.

 

Tzec was eager to learn this mystic lore, and the pictographs too, understanding that very few, even among the Maya, had such

knowledge. Thus, even as a child of six summers, she was becoming literate, and spoke the exotic language of her ancestry. The

priest allowed this, on condition that the tongue be spoken between them only privately, and the symbols shown to no others. He

allowed it because he had become dependent on the favor of the Lady Zox, and she asked only this; he limited it because he knew

that others of the tribe would not understand, and he could become a laughingstock and perhaps lose his position if it were known.

If that happened, the Lady Zox and her daughter would have no protection, and could suffer. So he compromised, and Zox made him

glad that he did, for she remained beautiful and increasingly useful to him. She could count well and record numbers of any size,

and there were ways in which such records facilitated his business. By day, outside, she was a completely subservient wife; by

night, in privacy, she had things her own way.

 

The truth was that the priest was a gentle man, and he treated Tzec well, liking her for herself and for her potential as another

person who could record numbers. This was not always the case with fathers and daughters in the tribe, and Tzec understood this.

She learned the ways of concealment and privacy early, and so no other people in the tribe knew how this family differed from

others. Tzec's life was happy, with the approval of her father and the marvelous lore of her mother, and her friendships with the

other girls of the tribe. The fact was, she was willing to wait for the return to her mother's land, across the great sea to the

southwest. The life she knew here was satisfactory.

 

Then the terrible Toco raided. Suddenly the houses of the village were ablaze and women were screaming in the night. The warriors

tried to fight, but most were out on a hunt, and those remaining were no match for the attacking war party.

 

Two painted men burst into the priest's house. The priest tried to challenge them, but he died in an instant, a spear through his

heart. One warrior drew a knife and carved at the priest's head, scalping him. The other turned on the woman and her daughter,

speaking unintelligibly, menacing them with another knife.

 

"Make no resistance!" Zox whispered to Tzec. "You must survive alone!"

 

The warrior caught Zox by her hair, which had regrown to its full natural lustrous length, and hauled her in to him. He ripped open

the blanket she had wrapped about herself against the cool of the night, and gazed at her body. He grunted approval. He gestured

with the knife, and Zox walked where he pointed, saying nothing. In a moment they were gone outside.

 

Tzec remained where she was, hoping the other warrior would not notice her. She was horrified by what was happening, but part of

her was numb; she knew that she was helpless, and could only watch.

 

The other warrior completed his circular cut and ripped the blood-soaked scalp from the priest's skull. He tucked it in a pouch,

then looked up. He saw Tzec. He gestured at her with the dripping knife.

 

Tzec stood, wrapped in her own blanket. The warrior grunted, and she opened the blanket to reveal her naked torso, as her mother

had. She knew what men did to women, but normally they did not do it to children. But she had no certainty that this barbarian

honored such customs. The warrior grimaced, but decided to take her captive anyway. He produced a cord and looped it about her

neck, drawing it just tight enough to make her understand that it would throttle her if she tried to escape.

 

In this manner she was brought to the village of her captor. Once there, she knew there was little hope of escape; she could hardly

make it back to her own village alone, and realized that there was little remaining there for her anyway. Her father was dead, her

mother was gone.

 

She was turned over to the warrior's squaw, who cuffed her to let her know her place, then offered her some gruel. Tzec neither

cried nor resisted; she kept quiet and ate.

 

She slept huddled where they left her, her life desolate. She knew the way of captivity; her mother had described her own early

days, and she had seen the captives of the Calusa. Grown males might be tortured to death; grown females were made into concubines;

children were slaves. Slavery could become ordinary status in time, if the slave worked well and made friends in the tribe. No one

remained a slave forever; once she knew the ways of the tribe and honored them, she was adopted. It had happened for her mother.

 

But now her mother was gone, and with her the wonderful world across the sea. Tzec doubted she would ever see the Lady Zox again,

because she knew her mother's nature, and the nature of warriors. The warrior who had captured Zox would rape her, and in the

morning he would be dead. The Toco were violent barbarians; everyone knew that. They would kill her immediately. That was why Zox

had told Tzec she must survive alone.

 

She understood it all. Nevertheless she cried herself to sleep.

 

 

 

It did not take long for the warrior to conclude that it was too much trouble to maintain a child who could not speak the Toco

tongue. It was not something he had thought about before; otherwise he might simply have slain her instead of taking her captive.

So he did the next best thing: he traded her to a warrior of another village to the north, for a good bag of corn. Corn was

precious among the Toco, for they grew little of it themselves, yet it was useful for bread when mixed with acorn meal.

 

The new master was willing to have his wife teach the slave child the tongue, but Tzec was not willing to learn. The Toco had

destroyed her pleasant life, killed her father and probably her mother too. She wanted nothing to do with them. Before long she was

traded off again.

 

In this manner, over the course of a summer and a winter, Tzec traveled north to the village of Ibi Hica. There she stopped,

because the Little Big River barred the way beyond. She could not be casually traded with the Cale, for they were in a state of

chronic war with the Toco. They would have to wait until some ignorant trader passed; then perhaps they could get rid of her.

Meanwhile they treated her well enough, and she behaved well enough. They thought her mute, because by this time she could have

learned at least a few words otherwise. But they recognized her incipient beauty, and knew that in due course her value would grow,

if a warrior who did not care about speech came looking for a woman.

 

These Toco were truly primitive. They wore little clothing, and the children none. The adult men had only loincloths, and they

painted their bodies according to their status. That in itself was not primitive, for her mother, Zox, had been well tattooed and

painted, but the patterns of the Toco were mere decorations, rather than symbolic of the great deeds of antiquity. The women wore

moss from the trees, which they had to hang in the smoke of a fire to abolish the tiny mites which otherwise would raise

uncomfortable welts in their private places. They ate mostly shellfish from the river. But they were all right as people.

 

Now she had been traded, for a better price than anticipated. She did not know what her future would be. Was Throat Shot interested

in acquiring her? She saw that he had a bad arm, and that diminished him, but she knew now that he had an ability to learn and

speak other tongues quickly, and that enhanced him. He was not cruel, and he was smart; these were compelling arguments. Most

positive of all, he was marked: the discolored scar on the back of his left shoulder vaguely resembled an eagle. Primitives put

great store by such marks, believing them to indicate the favor of spirits, but to Tzec it had a different appeal. Such a mark was

beautiful. Her mother was marked, so she knew. It was as if this man had some affinity to her mother, being similarly set apart

from ordinary folk.

 

She smiled at him, and her beauty manifested; she was indeed a lovely child, as the surface of calm water assured her. She was now

nine winters old, and soon enough would verge on womanhood; it would be best if she caused a good man to choose her, rather than

taking a chance on who else might purchase her from the Trader. She had seen and understood how her mother managed men; she knew

what to do. Throat Shot was a good man; he had a ready mind, and he knew tongues she did not, including the way of talking swiftly

with his hands. She was too young as yet, but whatever appeal she could generate would be worthwhile, to make him understand what

she would offer as she matured. Actually, she now realized that the sexual treatment she feared from a strange man would not

necessarily be onerous from this man, if it served to make him value her. A girl had to use whatever she had.

 

"Why do you smile?" he finally inquired, practicing her Maya tongue, which made their dialogue private. He had finally realized

that she was signaling him. Men could be slow about such things, but persistence could get their attention. He was facing away from

her at the moment, paddling the canoe, but anytime he turned she caught him with a smile.

 

"I wish you would buy me. I will do anything you want, as well as I am able, and I will get better as I grow older."

 

Now indeed he understood, and she saw an unmanly flush at his neck. He paddled for a while, facing forward, evidently uncertain

what to say. But in time he figured it out.

 

"I cannot buy you, Tzec. I have no shells, no beads, no fine feather cloaks to pay for you! I am just a young man, serving the

Trader so that I may travel with him and seek to fulfill my mission. Even if I had wealth, I—you—"

 

Tzec sighed inwardly. He was pleading poverty, and this seemed to be the case. Still, he might have something he was not admitting

to, and demurred because she had not sufficiently impressed him. Probably he was not sexually attracted to an undeveloped girl, and

while she was glad of that on general principles, she regretted it in this case. She might be sold to a brute of a man who would

use her and throw her away damaged.

 

In such a circumstance, her mother would be gracious. "I understand. Of course you do not want a child. I should not have asked

you."

 

"Oh, that was all right," he said, as he had to. "I—" Then he ran afoul of the implications again, and lost his words. At least now

he would be aware of her in this respect, and judging her as a prospective future sexual partner. That was a significant gain.

 

Increasingly she assumed the chores of women, for she was female: preparing meals, cleaning utensils and putting the canoe in

order, gathering edible mushrooms and anything else she spied. One night there was not a woman for the Trader, so Tzec went to him

and massaged his shoulders, which were tired from the day's paddling. A good woman was a useful one, and she had learned what she

had to, to survive in this society, even though she did not speak its language. The Trader acquiesced approvingly, seeing that she

was young but competent. That meant that he would not be in a rush to trade her away. That meant, in turn, that she would have more

time to impress Throat Shot.

 

She talked to him whenever she could, and that was often, because she was learning his tongue. She tried her best to interest him,

and since he was interested in the dead, she searched for whatever she knew that related to that. She found something.

 

"How many souls do your people have?" she asked.

 

"One for each person," he replied. "How could it be otherwise?"

 

"The Calusa have three souls for each person."

 

"Three?" he asked, suitably astonished. "How can that be?"

 

"One is in the shadow he makes when he walks in the sunlight," she said. "I think it hovers just inside his skin near where the

shadow should be, when he has no shadow, looking for its lost home, so he has to be careful then. Another is in the clear water

when he looks down into it and sees it; it looks just like him, but backwards. So he must not go too far from water, or that soul

suffers. The third is in the pupil of his eye, and that one is always with his body, even when he dies."

 

"The third soul!" he said, considering it. "The one that remains in the burial mound!"

 

"For the Calusa, anyway," she agreed. "So if you go to talk to a Calusa spirit, that would be the one you find."

 

"But Toco have shadows and reflections too!" he said. "Is it possible that we too have three souls?"

 

She shrugged, pleased to have amazed him with this. "I don't know, but I think they may, because I have seen Toco get sick."

 

"What does that have to do with it?"

 

"Among the Calusa, when a person loses one of his souls, he gets sick, and the priest has to go look for it and herd it back to him

so he can be well again. Sometimes the soul is unwilling to return, and many people must surround it and drive it, like a fleeing

deer, so that it has nowhere else to go. He is sick until they drive it back. When they finally do, they put a fire at the door of

his lodge, and at the windows, so that the soul is frightened and will not dare go out again, until it is content to stay in him

where it belongs, and he is well."

 

"How do they put the soul back into him?"

 

"The medicine man makes a ceremony to squeeze it in through the top of the man's head. But it doesn't like to go in, once it is

out. If two souls leave his body, then he is like one of the dead, and will surely die if they don't return. They enter some animal

or fish, and if the people kill that animal, that soul enters a smaller creature, and so on, until if they keep killing, the things

it comes to vanish. But if the soul realizes that it will die, because every animal it takes will be killed, then it may decide to

return to the man."

 

Throat Shot shook his head. "I thought all souls were like ours. Now I am not sure. I think I will watch my shadow and my

reflection, just to be safe."

 

"I do," she admitted. She was quite pleased with herself for being able to help him in this way. Indeed, she was rewarded, for now

he smiled at her as if he really cared about her. She had been inadequate to impress him with her body, but was having better

success with her mind.

 

 

 

They reached the mouth of the river, and saw the great sea. Throat Shot gazed at it with open amazement; it was evident that he had

never seen it before. He was an inland dweller. That was all right.

 

They followed the coast south, staying close to the land. This was no seagoing craft, certainly, and she knew that a storm could

rise at any time.

 

Throat Shot became nervous, but not about the sea. There was something else on his mind. He spoke to the Trader, and in due course

the Trader nodded. They followed another river inland, and in due course came to a series of huge mounds by the shore.

 

Ah! Throat Shot visited every burial mound they passed. He must have known of these, and insisted on seeing them. That was all

right. The spirits of the mounds refused to talk with him, so his visits did not take long.

 

They landed the canoe, and Throat Shot went ashore. Tzec followed, preferring his company to that of the Trader. This was not

because the Trader had been in any way unkind to her, but because he was her owner, and regarded her as merchandise. Throat Shot

saw her as a person. Perhaps it was because his physical handicap gave him tolerance for her linguistic one. Or because she had

tried so hard to flatter him and impress him. Or maybe he was just a more feeling person. She needed a feeling person.

 

The mound rose steeply to about six times her height. Tzec fancied that it suggested the pyramids her mother had described, though

they were of stepped stone and larger, with lime plaster on the walls and hieroglyphic patterns on the plaster. The whole of a

city's history could be read from its illustrated walls, in that magic land. Still, this was impressive enough, and it was right

here where she could see it. Her mother surely would have been interested in this, primitive as it was in comparison with those she

had known among the civilized Maya.

 

Throat Shot paused at the base. Then he resumed walking, north.

 

Tzec hurried after him. "Aren't you going to talk with its spirits?" she asked in Calusan, their common language.

 

"It's a temple mound," he said gruffly. "No spirits remain."

 

Oh. She wondered how he knew. But of course he had known that this mound was here, so he must know which mound was which.

 

Soon they came to another mound, which was lower and longer than the first. He remained at this one, his eyes closed, his face

blank. He was finding spirits here.

 

Tzec did not know whether she believed in his ability to commune with the dead. The dead existed, certainly, but they seldom had

interest in the affairs of the living. She wanted to learn more about him, and why he sought the dead, but she was hesitant to ask.

So she stood silent, some distance behind him, so as not to disturb him in any way. She did not have to believe or understand; she

could support him regardless, and be here when he finished.

 

Throat Shot stood for some time. He must be doing it! He had not remained this long at any of the other mounds. But was he truly

talking with a spirit, or was he merely imagining it?

 

At last he turned. He walked toward her. "Your people have been here," he said.

 

Tzec's mouth fell open. "Mine?"

 

"A long time ago. Their boats—they traded here."

 

"The boats still come here," she said. "My mother—"

 

"Regularly. Before my tribe was separate. Some went to your land. But then it stopped."

 

"There were wars," she said.

 

"The spirit recognized you. He did not want to talk to me, until he saw you. I am a barbarian, but you are of the lineage of

civilization."

 

She had told him that. It needed no spirit to account for his knowledge. But she did not care to argue. "Yes."

 

"Tell me of Little Blood."

 

Tzec jumped. She had not told him that! "I will. But why?"

 

"The spirit says it will change my life and help me search for the Ulunsuti."

 

Tzec began to believe. "It—it is a long story. My mother took many days to tell me. It will take me many days to tell you."

 

He nodded. "While we travel, then. I must know all you remember of it."

 

"But you must not laugh," she said. "It is sacred to my people, and not like the tales your folk tell."

 

"I would not laugh at anything the spirits of the mounds told me to do. Only through them can I achieve my quest. I do not have to

understand what they ask of me. Perhaps they knew I would meet you, and that you would have something to help me."

 

She liked that notion very well. She hoped that her story would be what he needed. She hoped he would like it so well that he

decided that he must acquire her and keep her. Perhaps he would change his mind about seeking his magic crystal, and work for the

Trader for a longer time in order to purchase her.

 

So it was that she shared with him the lore of the Book of the Community, the sacred text of the Quiché Maya. She remembered the

effect it had had on her when her mother told it, and she hoped it would work the same magic on him. If she had anything that was

capable of fascinating him, at this young age of hers, this was what would do it.

 

The joy of it was that he had asked to hear it. The spirit had told him of it. The spirit must have decided to help her as well as

him. She was coming to appreciate the spirits of the dead.

 

 

 

CHAPTER 4

LITTLE BLOOD

O Spirit of the Mound, I have told you of the girl, Wren, whose real name was Tzec, and how she came to live among the Toco folk.

Now I will tell you of the tale she told of her people, of whom the spirit of the great mound near the sea knew. This was the tale

that changed the young man's life, as surely you knew would be the case. But at the point Throat Shot did not realize this, and

even when he did realize it, he knew only the half of it. But you knew, O Spirit; you always knew. You could have saved us all, if

only I had not failed you, if only I had been as worthy as you hoped.

 

 

 

This is the story of the traditions of Quiché, the land of many trees, as recorded in the sacred Book of the Community. But there

is too much to tell at once, so this is only part of it: the adventures of two men who were cruelly betrayed, and of a woman who

enabled them to achieve vengeance on those who had betrayed them. This was the time before there were true men; indeed, at the dawn

of the world there were many wooden men, who walked and spoke like men but were not. But after this adventure, the real men lived.

 

In the long night before there was truly sun, moon, or man, two ancestors lived. These were Xpiyacoc and Xmucane, or Shpiyacock and

Shmucanee in this tongue, and they had two sons, whom they named after the days of their birth, as is the custom of our people. One

was One-Hunter, and the other Seven-Hunter, or in our language Hun-Hunahpu and Vucub-Hunahpu. Hunahpu is the twentieth day in both

our calendars, and it means chief as well as hunter, and is an auspicious day.

 

One-Hunter grew up and married a woman called Xbaqui-yalo, or Shbakeeyalo, her name meaning "of the uneven bones." They had two

sons, named after their birth-days Hun-Batz, meaning One-Monkey, and Hun-Chouen, meaning also One-Monkey. This is because they were

twins, born on the same day, and so one was named for the Quiché name of the day and the other for the Maya name of the day. There

is no conflict in this, because the Quiché are both Maya and Toltec, with roots in the south and the north, and both traditions are

honored among them.

 

One-Hunter did not stay home with his family, for that was the duty of a woman. But when the twin boys grew, he and his brother,

Seven-Hunter, taught them all things manly and artistic. All four of them were great flautists, singers, painters, sculptors,

jewelers and silversmiths, and also excellent shooters with blowguns. The four would get together to play the ball game of tlaxtli,

one pair against the other pair, and there were none to match them. It seemed they hardly noticed when the mother of the twins,

Xbaquiyalo of the uneven bones, died; the twins' grandmother, Xmucane, assumed the household responsibilities. Xmucane's husband

also died, but she was competent to carry on.

 

The news of their proficiency spread far. One day Voc the hawk came there to watch them, and Voc told of their ability, until even

the chiefs of Xibalba, or Shibalba, the underworld, heard about them. The lords of Xibalba were Hun-Camey and Vucub-Camey,

One-Death and Seven-Death, and they were fearsome enemies of the living.

 

"What are they doing up there on earth?" these dread chiefs demanded, for they were resentful that any living folk should achieve

such notoriety. Also, they coveted the ball-playing equipment of these people: their leather leggings, which protected their legs

against the blows of the heavy ball: their rings, which were collars to protect their necks; their gloves for the hands and wrists;

their crowns, which adorned their heads during the game; and their masks, which protected their faces. All this gear was necessary

because the ball game was extremely violent. The equipment was excellent, and of considerable value, for anyone who used it would

be a better ball player than otherwise, and might achieve great honor in victory. So these nether lords planned to kill the players

and take their equipment.

 

The lords of death sent their messengers, which were four great owls. One was swift as an arrow, another had only one leg but was

very large, another had a red back, and the last was distinguished by its head, for it had no legs. These owls flew out and went to

the men, and told them that the lords of death wished to play ball with them.

 

One-Hunter and Seven-Hunter were amazed. "Did the lords One-Death and Seven-Death really say that we must go with you to their

domain?"

 

"Yes," the four owls replied. "They said to bring all your playing gear, and your rubber balls too, and come quickly to play ball

with them and impress them with your skill, for they have heard wonderful things of you."

 

The two men looked at each other. This was certainly a rare honor! "We must say good-bye to our mother," they said. They meant

their grandmother, who was now assuming the role of their mother.

 

Then they went home, and told Xmucane about the invitation. "But those are the dread lords of death!" Xmucane protested. "You must

not stay there!"

 

"We shall not stay there," they reassured her. "We are going only for a while, only to play ball with them. Here, we will leave our

ball here, so that you know we will come back to play." They hung the ball in the space under the rooftree.

 

Xmucane was not very much reassured, but there was nothing she could do. She burst into tears as they departed. This was of course

a woman's privilege, and her way of reminding them that she had misgivings about this adventure.

 

"Don't worry," they called back. "We have not died yet." Then they accompanied the four owls to the dread underworld.

 

The road there was strange and wonderful. First they went down some very steep steps, like those of the great temple, only these

went down deep into the valley. At the bottom they came to the bank of a river which flowed rapidly between narrow ravines. They

had to leap across it, and if they had fallen in they would have been swept away to their doom. Beyond this was a second river,

which flowed among many thorny calabash trees, and they had to walk carefully lest they get hurt by the thorns. Then they came to a

third river whose waters were poisonous, but they did not drink from it, being cautious, so came to no harm.

 

The owls led them to an intersection of four roads. One was red, another black, another white, and the fourth green. Which one were

they to take? They did not know, for the owls flew away.

 

The black road spoke to them. "I am the one you must take," it said. "I am the way of the lord of death." But that was not the

whole truth, for all the roads led to the region of death, but the black one allowed no return to the region of life. They did not

know this, and walked on the black road, and therefore they were doomed.

 

They arrived at Xibalba, where their doom awaited them. They entered the council room of the chiefs of the underworld, not

realizing what cruel tricks they would suffer. There they saw the two lords of death, seated on their thrones.

 

"How are you, One-Death?" they said to one. "How are you, Seven-Death?" they said to the other, politely.

 

But the figures did not answer. Perplexed, the men approached, and finally touched the unmoving figures—and discovered that they

were made of wood. They were only carved figures.

 

Instantly the assembled lords of Xibalba burst into laughter. They considered the ruse great sport, and there was nothing the men

from the surface could do. Of course a good host would not have ridiculed his guests, but the lords of death were not nice folk.

 

At last One-Death spoke. "Very well, you have come. Tomorrow you shall prepare the masks, rings, and gloves, to play the ball

game." But this was further mockery, for the lords of death had no intention of letting them play. All was deceit, in this terrible

realm.

 

"Come and sit down on our bench," Seven-Death said.

 

The two men went and sat on the bench. But it was of heated stone, and when their weight came down on it they were burned. They

squirmed in discomfort, and then had to stand, for otherwise their rumps would have been scorched. As it was, they were most

uncomfortable. It had been all they could do to avoid leaping up with a yell.

 

The lords of death burst out laughing again, harder than before. They had never had such a good joke. They laughed until they

doubled over, they laughed until they writhed with pain in their stomachs, they laughed until their bones twisted, until it seemed

that they were the ones who had sat on the hot seat. One-Hunter and Seven-Hunter could only stand and wait for the laughter to die

away; they were helpless, for they had been fooled, and they did not wish to seem impolite.

 

In due course One-Death recovered enough to speak. "Go now to that lodge," he told them. "There you will get your fat pine torches

and your cigars to smoke, and there you will sleep."

 

This seemed more positive. Perhaps the jokes were over. The two men went to the indicated lodge, which was closed up and without

windows or vents for light; there was only darkness within it. Indeed, it was called the Lodge of Gloom, and was no nice place to

sleep. They crouched in the darkness, ill at ease until the porter arrived with their torches and cigars.

 

The fat pine sticks were round and resinous, so that they would burn a long time and make light. The lords of death sent each of

them a lighted cigar, from which they could light the pine torches. The pine blazed up, and the gloom was dispersed.

 

Then the porter said: "The lords of death have told me to tell you that you must return your pine sticks and cigars whole at dawn,

or you will forfeit your match."

 

"What?" One-Hunter demanded. But the porter was gone, and the door was closed and barred behind him.

 

They were confined within the Lodge of Gloom, with an impossible requirement, because their torches and cigars were already partly

burned and could not be rendered whole again. This was the land of death, and death's laws governed; they could not change that. So

they burned up the fat pine sticks, keeping the gloom at bay, and smoked their cigars, which were really very good. It seemed that

the lords of death knew how to enjoy tobacco. They hoped that this was merely another cruel joke, and that they would be allowed to

play ball in the morning.

 

But when dawn came, and they were let out to stand before the lords of the underworld, One-Death demanded, "Where are my cigars?

Where are my sticks of fat pine?"

 

"They are all gone, sir," One-Hunter replied.

 

"Well. Then you have forfeited the match, and today shall be the end of your days. Now you both shall die. You will be destroyed;

we will break you into pieces and your faces will remain hidden. We shall sacrifice you." And the lords of death were pleased.

 

The two men tried to protest, but it was no use. The lords of death lifted the sacrificial knives and cut out the beating hearts of

One-Hunter and Seven-Hunter, and they were dead. They were buried together by the ball court. But first the minions of death cut

off One-Hunter's head, for they wished to heap further indignity on him despite his being dead.

 

"Take that head and put it in that tree which grows on the road," One-Death said. So they put the severed head in the tree, as if

it were fruit. They had another good laugh over its comical appearance. Imagine a tree growing a head!

 

Now this was a calabash tree, which had never borne fruit. But in a moment their laughter faltered and faded out, for now the tree

was covered with fruit, and ever after it bore fruit, in honor of that head.

 

One-Death and Seven-Death gazed in amazement at the fruit on the tree. It was round like the head, and covered with a hard rind.

They thought to remove the head from the tree, realizing that special magic was operating here, but they could not distinguish it

from all the fruit. Every item on that tree looked the same. It was almost as if the tree were laughing at them, and they hated

that.

 

Then they feared it, for they could not fathom its magic. So they tried to protect themselves from this magic. "Let no one come to

pick this fruit," Seven-Death said. "Let no one come to sit under this tree." And they resolved to keep everybody away from it,

lest its magic come to harm them in some way. For though they were the lords of death, their power was not complete; they could be

vulnerable to magic they did not understand.

 

 

 

But the thing that had happened to the tree was so remarkable that news of it spread widely. The animals spoke of it, and the

birds, laughing behind their wings, for none of them liked the lords of death. In due course the folk of the living realm heard

about it.

 

In time a living girl heard the wonderful story. Her name was Xquic, or Shkeek, and she was the daughter of a Chief named

Cuchumaquic. She was a maiden, unmarried, and interested in strange things. She was also somewhat willful, but she got away with

this because she was beautiful. So when she heard the story of the fruit of the calabash tree from her father, she was amazed and

intrigued.

 

"Why can't I go see this tree they tell about?" she exclaimed, but not in the hearing of her father, who would have told her why

not. "The calabash has never borne fruit before; surely this must be the most wonderful harvest! I would love to go and eat some of

it!"

 

The notion preyed on her mind, for she was without a man and had time to think about things. Finally she left the lodge, and

traveled alone to the place of the ball game. It was a daring thing she did, because of the long steps, and the treacherous rivers,

and the colored roads. But she went carefully, keeping out of sight, lest someone see her and report her to her father, who would

then stop her. So it was that no one saw her. At last she came to the crossroads, and went along the green road because she

distrusted the other colors. The lords of death were not around, because they were staying away from the tree, and she arrived at

it unobserved.

 

"Ah!" she exclaimed, thrilled. "What is this fruit which this tree bears? How wonderful it is to see it! Oh, I must pick one of

these special fruits! Surely it will not kill me!"

 

Then the skull hidden in the branches of the tree spoke up: "What is it you want, woman? These round objects are nothing but

skulls. Surely you don't want one of them!"

 

Xquic was startled. "Who is it, up there hidden in the branches?" she asked, afraid she had been discovered.

 

"I am the skull of One-Hunter, put here by the lords of death who betrayed and slew my brother and me. The tree protects me from

discovery, so that I may in time obtain our vengeance."

 

Xquic believed the skull, though it frightened her. "Tell me what happened," she said bravely.

 

So the skull told her the whole story, and more it had learned by listening to the words of the lords of death when they passed

this way checking to be sure the tree remained undisturbed. "We were fools," it concluded. "If I had known then what I know now, I

would defeat the lords of death and bring ruin upon them. But alas, I am dead and decapitated; it is too late."

 

"But I am not dead," Xquic said. Listening to the skull's story, she had come to love the bold man it had been. "How can I help

you?"

 

"I can give you something that will make vengeance possible," the skull said. "But it will not be easy, even with the help of my

magic. It will bring a hard time for you, and danger, and it will take twenty winters to accomplish. I think you would be happier

if you turned around and went home and married a man your father will choose for you and bore his sons, and nurtured them, in the

manner allotted to women."

 

"I do not want that man's sons," Xquic said. "I want to help you achieve your vengeance." She really had a somewhat strange notion

of the proper place of a woman. She preferred adventure to subservience.

 

"Do you really want what I offer?" the skull asked again, not quite certain of her constancy.

 

"Yes, I want it," the maiden answered.

 

"Then stretch up your hand to me, and touch me." And now she saw which one was the skull. It was hideous, with little of the flesh

remaining, and moisture caught within it.

 

But she resolved to see this thing through. "Very well," she said, and reached up and touched it.

 

In that moment a few drops of liquid, the saliva of the skull, fell into her palm. It tingled, and she drew her hand quickly away

and looked at it, but there was nothing there.

 

"In my spittle I have given you my descendants," the skull said. "Now my head has nothing on it anymore; it is nothing but bone.

This is true for all the great princes; it is only the flesh on their skulls that gives them a handsome aspect. When they die, men

are frightened by their bones, which are no prettier than mine. So, too, is the nature of their sons, who are conceived of the

spittle of their loins. Men do not lose their substance when they go; they bequeath it to the sons and daughters they beget. This I

have done with you. Go, then, lovely woman, to the surface of the earth, that you may not die. Believe in my words, that it may be

so." Then the skull was silent, for it had done all it could do.

 

Xquic believed. And so it was that the spittle entered her body through her hand, and coursed through it to the region of her

womanhood, and the maiden was impregnated by One-Hunter, by the will of the eldest gods.

 

 

 

She returned home, having immediately conceived the sons in her belly just as if she had lain with the living man and had his seed

directly. This was the first of the magic that was to enhance those sons. In this manner were Hunter and Little Jaguar begotten,

Hunahpu and Xbalanque. But she did not tell her father, fearing his reaction. She tried to pretend that she had only taken a walk,

which was a small part of the truth. Women in those days, as now, were excellent at deception.

 

But after six months had passed, her father, Cuchumaquic, noticed her condition. He remembered how her mother had been before

birthing Xquic, and understood that she was pregnant.

 

He was extremely upset, and sought to discuss the matter with the lords of death, with whom he was on reasonable terms. The old

tend to be closer to death than the young. He went to the underworld and held council with One-Death and Seven-Death.

 

"My daughter is with child, sirs," he exclaimed when he appeared before the lords. "She has been disgraced! She is nothing more

than a prostitute." This was of course the very reaction Xquic had anticipated in him.

 

Now, the lords of death had a notion of what had happened, having pieced together certain hints. They had seen the maiden's

footprints near the calabash tree, and understood how such an event might occur, for there had been precedents elsewhere. They knew

they had to be rid of Xquic and her offspring, or there would surely be mischief to come. But they did not care to tell this to

Cuchumaquic, who might have been no better pleased with them than he was with his daughter.

 

"Very well," One-Death said after due pause for thought. "Command her to tell the truth, and if she refuses, punish her."

 

"How should I do that?" he asked.

 

"In an honorable manner, for she is, after all, your daughter and of noble blood, though she be a whore. Let her be taken from your

lodge and sacrificed."

 

"Very well, honorable lords," he said, grateful for this good advice. Had he known the full story, he might have been less

grateful. He departed the underworld and made his way home.

 

Promptly he braced Xquic: "Whose is the child you carry, my daughter?" he asked firmly.

 

The woman knew that the truth would damn her more surely than a lie, for she had seen where Cuchumaquic had gone. Yet it was not in

her to lie to her father. "I have no child, my father, for I have not known the face of a man." Indeed she had not, for the

expression meant the face and portions below, and she had touched only a skull. And she had no child, but rather two sons.

 

"You really are a whore!" he cried, enraged. Then, to the four great owls who were the messengers of death: "Take her and sacrifice

her; bring me her heart in a gourd and return this very day before the lords of death."

 

The owls assumed human form, took the gourd, and set out carrying the girl in their arms. They brought with them the flint knife

with which to open her breast and cut out her heart. They were not evil folk, these messengers, but they served the lords of death.

 

But when they came to the altar for sacrifice, and bared Xquic's breast for the terrible stone blade, she pleaded with them most

winsomely. "It cannot be that you will slay me, oh loyal messengers, because you must know that what I bear in my belly is no

disgrace. It was begotten when I went to marvel at the wonderful calabash tree with its sudden fruit, and communed with the severed

head of One-Hunter. You know how he and his brother were tormented and betrayed when they came to play a ball game. You know that

the lords of death did not deal honorably with them. By the will of the gods I have One-Hunter's sons within me, and they must not

die before their time. So you must not sacrifice me, oh messengers!"

 

They were moved by her plea, for they had indeed seen the fate of the two Hunters. The four owls had led the men to the underworld,

but they had not known that the lords of death would trick them and cheat them of the ball game. They had lost respect for the

lords of death, but had not known what to do, for they were only messengers, of little consequence.

 

"Then what shall we put in place of your heart?" they asked, gazing at her bared bosom where her heart lay ready for the sacrifice

beneath her full breasts. "Your father told us to do this thing and to return quickly to the lords of death with your heart in this

gourd. We do not wish you to die, but we dare not return without that heart."

 

"Very well," she said, considering. "You must have something in the gourd, but my heart does not belong to the lords of death.

Neither is your proper home in the underworld, and you must not let them force you to kill folk like this. Later, I swear, the real

criminals will be at your mercy, and I will overcome One-Death and Seven-Death. So then, only the blood shall be given to them, and

my heart shall not be burned." For she knew that the lords intended to burn her heart in the fire, as they had burned the hearts of

the two Hunters. "Gather the product of this tree," she told them, indicating a nearby tree.

 

They were doubtful, but they went to the tree. It was as tall as an almond tree, and the leaves and stems were white. They cut into

the trunk, and the sap came out, as red as the blood of a dragon. Now part of the magic of the woman showed, bequeathed to her by

the saliva of One-Hunter: her name contained blood, and the tree she designated, which had been ordinary, now also contained blood.

From that day on it was known as the Tree of Blood, because of this quality, and in its way became as remarkable as the tree with

the fruit like skulls.

 

They gathered this sap in the gourd, and it looked so much like real blood that they were astonished. When they had enough they

brought it to the altar, and it dotted, and they made a ball of it in the shape of a heart. It was as if they had cut out Xquic's

heart and put it with its blood into the gourd.

 

"Now we have the heart," they said. "But in time the lords of death will surely learn how they were deceived, and then it will be

our hearts in the fire!"

 

"There is no need for that," she said. "Come to me when you are done. Here on earth, among the living, you shall be beloved, and

you shall have all that belongs to you." They took one more look at her bared breasts, and were convinced. It would be a shame to

cut into that perfect flesh!

 

"So shall it be, girl. We shall go there to complete our mission; then we shall return to serve you. Meanwhile you go on your way,

while we present the sap instead of your heart to the lords of death."

 

"I shall," she agreed, and she got down off the altar, donned her shawl, and walked away, seeking a lodge she knew of where she

would be safe.

 

 

 

The four messengers resumed their owl forms and flew rapidly down to the underworld, carrying the gourd. When they arrived, all the

lords were waiting.

 

"You have done the job?" One-Death asked.

 

"All is done, my lords," said the first owl. "Here in the bottom of the gourd is the heart."

 

"Excellent! Let us see it!" exclaimed One-Death. He grasped the gourd and raised it, squeezing it with his fingers. The shell

broke, and the blood flowed bright red from the interior of the heart.

 

One-Death smiled, believing that the enemy of death had been destroyed. "Stir up the fire and put it on the coals," he said.

 

They did this, and the heart heated and burned and was rendered into ashes. The lords of Xibalba drew near and sniffed it, and

found the fragrance of the heart very sweet. They believed that once the heart was gone, no life or magic could remain in the body.

They had been mistaken in the case of One-Hunter, who had retained his essence in his skull, but they knew that the maiden's skull

would not impregnate anyone.

 

And as they sat deep in thought, savoring their seeming victory with the fumes of the burned heart, the four owls quietly departed.

They flew like a flock of birds up from the abyss to the realm of the living, to become the servants of the maiden. But they did

not do this in an obvious manner, for they knew that the course of these events had not yet been completed, and there was as yet

much danger.

 

In this manner the lords of death were tricked and ultimately defeated by the woman Little Blood, whose association with blood was

more special than they knew.

 

 

 

Meanwhile One-Hunter's mother, Xmucane, lived with One-Hunter's two sons by Xbaquiyalo of the uneven bones. The two boys were named

Hun-Batz and Hun-Chouen, both meaning One-Monkey, but we shall simply call them Batz and Chouen.

 

It was to this lodge that Xquic came for shelter and sustenance, for this was the line of her twin sons, who were to be born not

long after. She approached the old woman and introduced herself. "I am your daughter-in-law and therefore your daughter, mother,"

she said, entering the lodge.