I thank you, Sun Eagle. I must find the Ulunsuti.

 

But at a price.

 

He wasn't surprised. Spirits had their own imperatives. What is your price, O Sun Eagle?

 

You must warn the tribes of the danger that threatens them.

 

But this is what I mean to do!

 

No. This is a different danger, threatening other tribes than yours.

 

This was a surprise. What different danger?

 

The one that destroyed this city.

 

But this city is here! Throat Shot protested. Only the people are gone.

 

There was a ghostly laugh. The people are the city! Without them it is merely a husk.

 

Obviously true. What happened to them?

 

See. The vision resumed. The lodge faded out, and he seemed to be flying up like an eagle, looking down on the complex of all the

mounds, until he saw not only them but the creek leading to the region of the mound, and then the great river it flowed to. It was

an amazing scene.

 

Then he realized that this was what a true eagle would see. Sun Eagle was carrying his spirit up to the level of the clouds so he

could see everything at once.

 

He saw the tiny individual lodges, which were of the type he was familiar with, rather than the strange tipis of the folk who were

here now. He saw the palisade, forming an outline like a great spearpoint pointing south, and the square plazas, and the many

squared-off mounds within and without the protected compound, like so many neatly carved blocks of wood. Some were circular, either

with flat tops or points. He saw the lakes where the earth had been taken to make the mounds. There seemed to be a pattern to it,

orienting on the great central mound of the chief. The whole thing was fascinating, for he had never imagined such an assembly of

mounds, as if they were a conclave of greater and lesser chiefs.

 

The region nearest the largest mound was clear of vegetation. Farther out were fields of corn, and still farther out was the edge

of the forest. But that edge was moving away. The forest was retreating, like a blanket being drawn back, leaving the ground bare.

Why was this?

 

Then he realized that it was because the trees were being cut. The people here had good stone axes, and good tree-felling skill,

and there were many of them, and they were taking down the trees and using their wood to renew the palisade and the calendar

circles and for timbers in their temples, and the fragments were being used for their fires. They had lines of men carrying wood on

their shoulders from the forest to the compound. Other lines of men used ropes to haul larger logs. Still others used levers to

roll the greatest trunks. The forest was being eaten by the city.

 

The lines grew longer as the forest drew back, hurting. Now it required a day for a man to carry his load of wood to the city. Now

two days. Now three. There was wood, but it was too far away; it was reaching the point where all the men of the city would have to

haul wood, doing nothing else. Most of the haulers were slaves, who had no choice in the matter, but still it was getting

difficult, for they had to be fed while they carried, and their food had to be carried by other men. And the food was running out.

 

Now he oriented on the cornfields. They too were retreating. The ones closest to the city, which had been producing the longest,

were not as green and strong as they had been; somehow they were turning yellow, and their ears were smaller and infested by bugs.

The fields farther out were verdant. Then those too faded as if tired. So the corn was retreating in much the way the forest had,

and the people had to go farther to tend it and harvest it and fetch it into the city. The same thing was happening to the berry

bushes and edible roots; they were disappearing near the city. That was why it was getting harder to feed their wood-carriers, or

themselves.

 

He oriented on the buffalo and deer and other animals who ranged near the city. But these also retreated as they were hunted, until

finally there were none close enough to be worthwhile.

 

Yet this was a powerful city, with trade routes extending everywhere. The people traded for corn and meat and the other things they

needed, and had enough for a time. Still, it was getting harder.

 

Finally it became too difficult to manage. The people were hungry and unhealthy, and unable to work as well as before. But other

cities were developing, and the people moved to them and did better. In the end all of them were gone, including the last Son of

the Sun. His lodge was not burned because he was not in the city when he died; he had deserted it. The City of the Sun no longer

existed, except as a grouping of mounds which were slowly losing their form and being overgrown by weeds and bushes and finally

trees. It was a horrendous affront to the Chiefs buried here, but there was no one to maintain the premises.

 

Now there was wood, and animals, even buffalo, though not in the abundance they had been before. Only the people were gone. New

people came, but they knew nothing of the heritage of this great city, and didn't care; they were primitives intent only on

scratching their living from the returning wild things. They stole the great stones for their own use, destroying what remained of

the building. They thought the largest mound was just a hill. The spirits suffered this indignity in silence; it wasn't even worth

afflicting the intruders with illness, because they would not understand its source, or realize that they were being punished. The

grandeur of the past was forgotten.

 

And lo—it was the present.

 

Throat Shot floated back to the collapsing lodge. He had seen the vision, but still he did not understand. O Sun Eagle, I saw what

happened to the trees and buffalo. But why did the corn wither?

 

I did not understand this while I lived, but I think I do now that I have watched it these tens of tens of winters. The land lives,

like a man; it grows tired with labor, like a man. Finally it dies, like a man, and its spirit departs. It must rest before it can

be strong again.

 

The land has a spirit? Throat Shot asked, surprised. He knew that all animals and trees had spirits, but the land itself seemed

dead.

 

I have not seen it, but I believe it does. It may be that the spirit of the land can be seen only by other land. But it is there,

and we must let it rest, or it fails.

 

Throat Shot was dazzled by the revelation. Then it is wrong to make too big a city, and to tire the land. And it is wrong to take

all the trees, and all the buffalo. For then the people cannot live, and all they have made must be deserted and lost.

 

That is the danger you must warn the people of, Sun Eagle agreed. It is too late for my people; they are scattered among other

cities, which have also been cruel to the land and made it die. They have lost their great mounds and now live like the primitives

who never knew better.

 

But the primitives do not do this, Throat Shot thought.

 

That is true. You must warn the people of the danger of being cruel to the land.

 

But they will laugh at me!

 

You must find a way.

 

Throat Shot nodded. I will search for a way to tell them, O Sun Eagle. Will you now tell me where to find the Ulunsuti?

 

I cannot, for it went with my successor, and to his successor, and finally to the one who did not remain. But I will look for it,

and will signal you when I find it.

 

How will I know your signal?

 

You will know it. Go with your friend until I send that signal.

 

But how long—?

 

I do not know. You must be patient.

 

Throat Shot tried to question the Spirit further, but Sun Eagle had had enough, and refused to answer. Realizing this, Throat Shot

made his way out of the lodge and faced the blinding light of day. He staggered across the terrace, then down the steps, across the

next, and down the other steps. Then he reeled and fell.

 

But Gray Cloud was there, waiting for him, and caught him, and let him down gently. Throat Shot let his consciousness fade. His

quest was over—for now.

 

 

 

CHAPTER 10

SACRIFICE

O Spirit of the Mound, I have told you how I came to the Pyramid of the Sun and talked with Sun Eagle. Now I will tell you the Tale

of Gray Cloud, as he told it to me while we traveled, and if I have some details wrong I regret it, but it is only because I have

had no experience with his culture and his adventure. But he was my friend, and I retain the gift he gave me, and he is part of

what I am, and I feel his story is worthy of your attention.

 

 

 

Gray Cloud was strong with the spear and bow, and had more buffalo kills to his credit than any other warrior his age. He was

handsome and quick-witted. The women liked him, and he seldom slept alone. But he was cursed by bad luck. This caused some women to

marry others, though they liked Gray Cloud. One thought that his luck would turn, so she let him know that she was interested in a

more lasting relationship. He was interested too. Then she caught her foot in a bramble, and an evil spirit got into her leg, and

she turned dark and died. After that no women wanted to marry him.

 

Then he encountered Glow Fungus. She was pretty, and competent, and she was not afraid of bad luck. She had already had enough of

that, she said, to last her, and doubted that he could bring her any more. But a vestige of her own luck prevented her from

marrying him: her mother was dead and her father was ill and near death. She was the only one who could take care of him properly

and ease his passing, while her brother provided food for them both. The end was inevitable, and when her father had gone to the

realm of the spirits, she would be free to marry. Her brother, Bear Penis, agreed. In fact everyone agreed. The other maidens

preferred to see Gray Cloud married, so that they did not have to feel guilty for passing him by.

 

Then bad luck struck again. A party was ranging down across the river, looking for buffalo, which had been mysteriously absent from

their usual grazing range this season. They discovered Osage with bright cloths, and skin drums, making displays and noises to herd

the buffalo away from the river and into their own territory. Now it was clear what had happened: the Osage were taking the

buffalo!

 

The Osage were formidable fighters, but this could not be tolerated. The Peoria allied with the Moingwena and the Tamaroa across

the river, and made war on the Osage. But if there was one thing the tribes of the Illini had in common, it was that they were not

very good at winning battles. They tried hard enough, but somehow they generally had the worst of it. This occasion was no

exception; though they had more warriors on the field, they became isolated, and some fell back while others lunged forward, and

Gray Cloud found his band cut off by the enemy.

 

The Osage closed in, and now their numbers were superior. The Illini fought, but it was soon apparent that they could not prevail.

They tried to cut through the ring that was forming around them, and almost made it, but an arrow caught Bear Penis in the chest.

He grasped the shaft with his hand and wrenched the arrow out, making no sound. He staggered forward, determined not to fall, and

Gray Cloud put an arm around him and helped him. But together they were too slow, and the Osage swarmed in to close with them,

their spears ready.

 

Gray Cloud paused. He could not fight while supporting his friend, and even if he had been able to, it would have been hopeless at

this point. He was out of arrows.

 

The Osage Chief approached. He was a large man, taller than Gray Cloud, with no hair on his face: even his eyebrows had been

removed. His head was partially shaved, with only two long braids beginning on the top of his head and two strips of hair running

from the same region to the nape of his neck, in the Osage fashion. Blue tattoos covered his neck and much of his torso. He wore an

armband of buffalo hair. He was quite handsome. He made a throwaway sign.

 

Gray Cloud considered. Should he throw down his weapons, or die fighting? If he tried to fight, both of them would be killed, and

Glow Fungus would lose both lover and brother, and things would go hard with her without a protector or provider. If he

surrendered, they might be spared, and traded back for Osage captives the Illini had taken. It galled him to surrender, and alone

he might not have done it, but it did seem to be the best course. There was no chance to bluff his way out; the Osage were the

fiercest warriors of the region, often at war with all their neighbors; they would kill him and Bear Penis immediately if there was

not a prompt capitulation.

 

He eased Bear Penis to the ground. The man was losing consciousness; too much blood was flowing. Then Gray Cloud unslung his bow

and dropped it to the ground. He drew his good stone knife and dropped it beside the bow.

 

The Osage Chief put his foot on the weapons, claiming them. He had accepted Gray Cloud's surrender.

 

Now Gray Cloud squatted to tend to his friend. He removed his own breechcloth, having nothing else suitable, and tied it around

Bear Penis's chest to stop the flow of blood. The wound was small, and this was effective; the material slowly stained red, but the

blood no longer dripped. The fact that Gray Cloud was now naked did not matter; he was a prisoner, and this merely emphasized that

status. He had found a use for his clothing before they took it away from him.

 

At the Chief's order, an Osage warrior came to take Bear Penis's left arm. Gray Cloud took his right arm. They hauled him up and

half carried him forward, following the Chief.

 

Gray Cloud knew why the Osage had chosen to take them captive instead of killing them. All warriors respected valor, and they had

seen Bear Penis yank out the arrow and keep his feet. They had seen Gray Cloud sacrifice his own escape to help the other.

 

They walked to the Osage camp, where Bear Penis was allowed to rest. They put him in a tipi. He recovered somewhat, and took some

water. But his breathing was rasping, and when he coughed, painfully, red froth showed at his mouth. The arrow had penetrated his

lung.

 

A priest came and saw to Bear Penis, applying a poultice of herbs, giving him a bitter brew to sip, and performing a brief ritual

of healing. Bear Penis's color improved, and he sank into sleep.

 

Gray Cloud made the sign for Thanks, extending his two hands, palms down, in a sweeping curve outward and downward toward the

priest. The Osage were being generous; they could have let the man die without touching him, and been held blameless by the

conventions of war.

 

Now Gray Cloud slept. The fact that this camp consisted of tipis meant that it was temporary; the Osage used this type of residence

only when traveling. There would be a long way to go the next day.

 

In the morning the march resumed, Bear Penis supported by two warriors. The travel was hard for him; without the priest's treatment

he probably would not have been able to survive it. As it was, he was a gaunt shadow of himself by the time they reached the Osage

village several days later.

 

The site for this village had evidently been chosen with great care. It was on a ridge which overlooked low ground, and a river was

near. The lodges were made of wooden posts sunk into the ground, with saplings bent to form a curved roof. The walls were sealed

with reed mats and bark.

 

Now there were women. Osage men were handsome, but the ugliness of Osage women was well known. Their ear decorations did not help;

they were made of clay or shell or bone, and were so heavy that they stretched the earlobes down. Not even their pretty decorations

of porcupine quills or snake skin were enough to compensate.

 

Another priest treated Bear Penis, and a maiden was assigned to keep him warm, for now he was alternately feverish and shivering.

Gray Cloud was given an Osage breechcloth and a collar of black beads: the mark of his captivity. He was bound by honor not to

remove that collar, and not to try to escape while he wore it. By accepting it, he had given his oath again. He was a prisoner

until the Osage freed him.

 

But it seemed there were no Osage held captive by the Illini, so there was nothing to trade. Days passed, then a moon, and the two

remained at the camp. Gray Cloud was given woman's work to do, as another signal of his status. He did it without protest.

Actually, this was one occasion when the women almost became attractive, for they sang as they hoed out the weeds of the corn

patches, making a festive occasion of the chore.

 

Bear Penis improved, but the ravage of his injury remained on him, and he was woman-weak. They set him to woman's work, and

promoted Gray Cloud to man's work. They trusted him not only because he wore the collar and would not try to escape, but because

they knew that he knew that his friend would be tortured to death if Gray Cloud fled. A smart chief never depended unduly on honor.

 

He learned the Osage tongue, well enough to give up his reliance on signs for communication. He came to know the people. He had

seen them as despicable enemies; now he knew that they were merely other people, with conventions differing from those of the

Illini only in detail. There was no doubt about their valor in battle. He gained respect for them even as he gained their respect.

 

Gray Cloud was a good hunter. He could bring down a hawk in flight with a single arrow. He could put a spear through a deer's heart

from farther than any other man. He was an asset to the Osage hunting parties, and they gave him increasing freedom to go out

armed. But never alone. He understood that limit, and did not contest it.

 

A young woman came to his lodge one night. This was another signal of favor; no woman would have done it had the Osage Chief not

allowed it. It was legitimate for Gray Cloud to accept such favors, as it was for the maidens to offer them: as an unmarried male,

he was expected to be virile, and Glow Fungus would understand. The fact that he found the woman attractive showed how far he had

acclimatized; the features that had seemed homely before seemed intriguing now.

 

But there was another aspect. "I am glad for your company," he told the woman. "I hope that if you come again, you will bring a

friend for my friend."

 

Two nights later another maiden came. She had a friend. The Chief had allowed it. This gave Bear Penis status, and he was no longer

given woman's work, but allowed to carry a bow and join the hunt. He lacked endurance, as his breathing had never properly

recovered, but he could handle bow and knife well enough.

 

Then the Osage had trouble with the Wichita to their southwest. It was late in the season, but there was still time to mount a war

mission. The Osage had two groups: the people of the sky, who governed during peace, and the people of the land, who governed

during war. Suddenly the power shifted.

 

The war Chief summoned Gray Cloud for a conference. "You are an honorable man and a good hunter," the Chief told him. "You have

found favor in our tribe. You have Wakonda." That was the Osage concept of the central essence which permeated all things. It could

assume any aspect, but normally enhanced what was already worthwhile. This was a significant compliment.

 

"I am warmed by your favor," Gray Cloud replied.

 

"Will you join us and marry our women and fight against our enemies?"

 

He was being offered adoption into the Osage. This was a singular mark of favor. If he agreed, he could marry any amenable Osage

maiden, and wear the Osage paints, be tattooed in the Osage manner, and be accepted without reservation. There would be no bars to

his freedom, and his sons would be honored as Osage.

 

But he remembered Glow Fungus, and he was concerned for Bear Penis. "Is my friend offered similar favor?"

 

The chief frowned. "Bear Penis has an injury." They had given the man ample time to recover, and he had not. Not sufficiently. That

indicated a lack of Wakonda.

 

Which meant he would be a liability to the tribe. Perhaps they had other reasons not to want the two of them, but that was the one

that could be stated openly without implying dishonor.

 

"Bear Penis is brother to the Illini woman I would marry," Gray Cloud said carefully. "I would not take such a step if he did not

join me." For Gray Cloud still wanted to marry Glow Fungus, and could not do so if he deserted his tribe or her brother, or married

a woman of a foreign tribe. In this manner he informed the Chief of his continuing commitment to the Illini, without impugning the

Osage or implying that he would break his oath of captivity.

 

The Chief accepted it. Perhaps he had not really wanted to make the offer of tribal status, but the elders of the council had urged

it. Gray Cloud would remain a captive.

 

The war party departed without him, for a captive could not partake in such activity. Gray Cloud and Bear Penis hunted for the

tribe during the war party's absence, and now they were allowed to do it alone. Had dishonor been intended, Gray Cloud could have

agreed to join the Osage, then fled when alone. So both of them now had much of the freedom that tribal status brought, though

still technically captives.

 

The war party returned victorious, but it had taken losses. Three warriors had been killed, and two taken captive. They had taken

one Wichita captive, whom they would ordinarily have tortured, for there was bad blood between the two peoples. But one of the

captives lost to the Osage was the son of the Chief. They had to negotiate.

 

While the bargaining session was being arranged, the honors were done for the dead warriors. They were buried under the ground, as

they were not important enough to rate a sitting interment with stones and logs to protect them. They had food, clothing, weapons,

and personal belongings to assist them in their journey to the setting sun. After three days of mourning, parties of the kinsmen of

the dead set out from the villages. They would march in straight lines until they encountered some stranger. They would kill that

man and hang his scalp on a pole by the grave, letting each of the dead men know that vengeance had been accomplished, as well as

giving them company on their journey.

 

The Wichita bargained fiercely, knowing their advantage. In the end they won three for two: the return of their man, and two

others. Why they wanted such captives was not clear, but in this manner Gray Cloud and Bear Penis were exchanged. "We are sorry to

do this," the Chief told Gray Cloud. "We had hoped to trade you back to your own people. But we have no choice. My son thanks you."

 

Gray Cloud understood. The Chief had to recover his son, who would be chief after him. Gray Cloud could have avoided this by

joining the Osage; he had known when he declined that this was the risk he faced. "I am glad to do it for your son," he replied

courteously. "What is to be our status with the Wichita?"

 

"Tied captive," the Chief said with regret. "No honor."

 

"Then we will not be on oath," Gray Cloud said.

 

"Once you are at their camp," the Chief agreed. "We will know nothing of you."

 

In this manner it became understood that Gray Cloud and Bear Penis could flee the Wichita if they had the chance; their oath not to

flee the Osage would no longer apply. But they would suffer the risks of doing so. If they did escape, and made it to Osage

territory, the people would pretend not to see them, so as not to be required to help recapture them. But they would be on their

own. If they made it back to Illini territory, they would be safe; if not, the Osage would not help them.

 

The two of them were ritually bound by the hands, as was the Wichita captive, and turned over to the Wichita contingent. The

Wichita warrior was immediately released, but Gray Cloud and Bear Penis were not. Yet neither were they reviled; they were simply

guarded, so that there was no chance to escape. What was it the Wichita wanted of them?

 

They were marched rapidly back to Wichita territory. Bear Penis tired, and Gray Cloud helped him as well as he could. Observing

this, the Wichita warriors were angry. They stopped and looked at Bear Penis's chest, discovering the scar. They seemed to feel

they had been cheated, but were resigned to it.

 

What did they intend to do with their acquired captives? Gray Cloud had not been easy about this to begin with, and he trusted it

less now. But he knew better than to try to ask.

 

In time they reached the Wichita main camp, where they joined several other captives from other tribes. They were untied, as they

would have no chance to escape from here. With signs Gray Cloud learned from the others what they were here for—and was appalled.

 

There was a levy on the Wichita by the major tribe to their southwest, the Coahuiltec. Every month they had to deliver ten men. It

did not matter whether these were Wichita or captives, as long as they were in good health. Now there were five here, half the

levy; there were probably more in another camp. All of them would be delivered when the time came.

 

And why did the Coahuiltec want them? Because they had to fill a levy by the Mexica to the south. The Mexica had a great need for

blood sacrifice to their spirits, and constantly gathered more men for this. The Mexica gods were extremely thirsty for blood.

 

Gray Cloud had not known of this, and neither had the Osage. The Wichita had kept it secret, knowing that they would have much more

trouble gaining suitable captives if the tribes to the north knew.

 

Gray Cloud shook his head. It would have been better to be adopted into the Osage tribe!

 

 

 

All of them were desperate to escape, but there was no opportunity. They were kept under constant guard. When the time came, they

were turned over to a trader who specialized in slaves and marched south, a walk of many days. It was fall now, and the land was

cooling, but not as much as it would have cooled in Gray Cloud's homeland. Did it matter, considering where they were headed?

 

The Coahuiltec did not keep them either. They were delivered to the Mexica along with a throng of other captives, as tribute, along

with many other staples of food and clothing and things of value. There were large bundles of cotton, the white or yellow stuff of

cloth. The feathers of birds, of many colors. Caged wildcats. Turtle shells. Pearls. Bows. Maidens.

 

It was a long and arduous walk, for captives had to carry some of the parcels of tribute items. Gray Cloud quietly arranged to take

some of Bear Penis's burden, and the captors, noting this, allowed it. It was evident that they wanted to deliver healthy men, and

not lose any on the journey, so they were lenient. But it was also evident that any attempt to resist or escape them would be

effectively dealt with.

 

By the time Gray Cloud and Bear Penis completed the long trek, it was spring. They had marched so far they had lost all notion of

their location, knowing only that it was far south of the world as they had known it. They had passed high mountains and great

valleys. They had not encountered many people; as captives, they were regarded as the lowest sort, and shunned. Even their own

company changed: groups of captives were detached and taken elsewhere, and other groups of captives brought in. Thus they had no

real chance to get to know others well. Only the need for Gray Cloud to help Bear Penis carry and walk enabled them to remain

together.

 

"The Mexica are experienced," Bear Penis remarked. "They let no one associate for too long, lest we form friendships and consider

rebellion and escape."

 

So it seemed. That made their prospect for survival dim. But Gray Cloud was no longer bound by oath, and he intended to escape—when

he could take Bear Penis with him.

 

They came at last to the great city of Tenochtitlán, or the Place of the Fruit of the Prickly Pear Cactus. It was an amazing sight.

It was on an island in a lake, reached by causeways. In its center were phenomenal squares and temples of stone and stucco,

brightly painted. Beyond the enormous buildings were smaller residences, square and solid, quite unlike the tipis and lodges of his

homeland. The city extended on and on, so that he could see no end to it. Several canals crossed it, so that canoes could come

almost to the center.

 

There were more people thronging the broad streets than Gray Cloud had known existed in all the world. They were of small stature,

the men half a head shorter than he, and the women even less, but beautiful. Their clothing indicated their social status. All of

them wore lengths of cotton cloth, yet the manner and quality of it varied widely. Men wore the loincloth, but the capes differed

according to the importance of each man. No two designs seemed the same. The warriors wore feather-covered tunics with bright

designs. Only the highest ranks wore sandals; the rest were barefoot. The women wore ankle-length underskirts and sometimes an

overdress. Gray Cloud knew that every detail of every person's clothing signaled his profession and status, but he could make sense

of almost none of it.

 

Not that it mattered. He would have no chance to wear any such clothing anyway. His tattered, soiled breechcloth and cape were good

enough, until he was killed.

 

At last the group of them was taken to a cell in a building some distance behind the ceremonial center of the city. Here they

joined other captives, some of whom seemed to have been there for a long time. The cell was dank and unpleasant, but at least it

was a place where they could rest.

 

Gray Cloud was tired, but he wanted to learn more of his situation. "Is there anyone here who speaks a tongue of the Illini?" he

asked.

 

He was met with dull stares. Obviously a number of the captives were from far away, but none from the Illini.

 

"They mix up the captives," Bear Penis said. "So the tongues don't match, and we can't conspire to escape."

 

A guard came to the cell entrance. "Silence!" he shouted. That was one of the few Mexica words they had learned to understand,

because blows followed swiftly when the command was ignored. So their captors didn't depend on the confusion of tongues; even if

others spoke Illini, they would not be allowed to talk to each other.

 

Gray Cloud went to signs. I All Sleep, he signed to Bear Penis. The I and All signs indicated "we," so he was suggesting that they

rest.

 

Now another man perked up. His hands moved. Question You Sit? they signed, the final word shown by the closed fist moving down. It

meant "Where do you live?" and, by extension, What was his tribe?

 

Gray Cloud glanced at the door. The guards couldn't hear the signs, and probably wouldn't know their meaning anyway! They could

talk this way!

 

We Illini, he signed. That identified both culture and location.

 

We Ani-Yunwiya, the other signed back, indicating the man beside him. Gray Cloud was not sure of the particular tribal designation,

but that was all right; any man from his region of the world was a friend, here.

 

An extended dialogue followed. It seemed that these were two Principal People, who came from far up a great river. One was called

White Bark, because he was good at working with the papery bark of that tree, and the other was Black Bone. The three of them

traced the river by assorted signed comparisons, and concluded that the Principal People lived in mountains some distance southeast

of the Illini, but that their rivers connected. The Principal People wanted to escape too, but it seemed hopeless. The Mexica city

was so big, and there were so many people, and none of them would help a captive. All were loyal to the great Chief, Moctezuma. The

city was surrounded by a great wall that was constantly guarded. If they reached a canal, and stole a canoe, it still was no good,

because there was a tremendous amount of traffic on the lake, and lodges all around its shore, so that no one could get away from

it without being spotted. In any event, there was no escape by water, for all local rivers flowed into the lake.

 

But suppose it was possible to get away from the city and the lake? Gray Cloud inquired. Could an escape be made overland? Maybe,

White Bark agreed. But that was not for him. Then, at Gray Cloud's query, he indicated his right knee: it was a mass of scar

tissue. He could stand and walk, but he could not run. He had tried to run away once, seeking to escape to the nearby hostile tribe

of Tlaxcala, and the guards had clubbed his knee to prevent it from happening again. That had been effective. Tlaxcala remained,

unconquered by the Mexica, but White Bark would never get there.

 

So escape remained unlikely. But now there was someone to talk with, and to hope with. The Mexica were often at war, Gray Cloud

learned; in fact, they liked to fight, so as to gain honor through capturing men, and the captives were then sacrificed to the

Mexica gods. If an enemy should prevail, maybe the captives would be freed. But this seemed doubtful, because the Mexica were the

strongest of tribes, and almost always won their battles, and when they lost, they sent warriors in greater number so as to win the

next time. Still, it was worth pondering.

 

The next day the captives were put to work. There was construction going on in the city, and a tremendous amount of earth had to be

moved. It was carried in from beyond the lake, across a causeway, and dumped in a pile. The group of captives Gray Cloud was with

had to take that earth and spread it evenly across the site where something was to be built, and tramp it down. The day was hot,

and the sun beat down, but the guards did not care; the captives worked all day, with reprieves only for drinks of water. The

guards were indifferent to their suffering, but had to let them have water lest they die and be lost as sacrifices.

 

That was the way of it, for many days. The captives were fed well, and the guards watched their health. In fact, in some ways they

seemed better off than the poor peasants who worked their poor fields, growing corn and gourds to sell to the nobles. Gray Cloud

learned that, indeed, slaves had a better standard of living than the peasants, and that the poorest folk often sold themselves

into slavery. All a man had to do was appear before four or more witnesses and state his desire to become a slave. He would be

given twenty capes and food to survive, and did not have to actually begin serving until a winter had passed. Even as a slave he

could own land and marry, and his children would be free. If later he was able to ransom himself, he would be free again. Meanwhile

he worked for his owner, and if he was competent he might attain considerable authority in that capacity. But most slaves worked as

porters, carrying the loads of tribute that were constantly being brought in. Such people were able to walk tremendous distances

with their burdens. Gray Cloud had seen them on his own march in, and been amazed that these small, quiet men could work so

tirelessly.

 

Then the entire roomful—ten men—was organized for a march. There was to be a ceremony at Tula, the ancient Toltec capital two days'

march to the north. The Mexica claimed to have inherited the mantle of the Toltec, and still honored the memory, though Tula was no

longer a major city. There were to be a number of sacrifices for the honor of the gods, who were sustained by human blood. It was

time for this group to receive the honor of sustaining the gods.

 

Gray Cloud realized that if he was going to escape at all, it had to be soon. Once they reached Tula, it would probably be too

late.

 

He consulted with White Bark and Black Bone, who agreed. Any attempt to escape would probably mean death, but they preferred to

risk getting cut down in battle to having their hearts cut out of their bodies on an altar.

 

But there was no chance to flee from Tenochtitlán; they would have to wait until they were fairly well between cities. So they

walked dutifully down the street and across the causeway, flanked by five guards. The guards were slaves, but ranking ones; they

could hardly be distinguished from citizens in their attitude, though their insignias clearly indicated their status. They were

well armed and alert; they intended to see that nothing happened to their charges on the march.

 

The group moved up into the mountains that surrounded the great city, and the population thinned out. The lodges became smaller and

poorer, until they resembled the kind that Gray Cloud knew at home. The farmers tilled small plots of corn on the contour, their

narrow leveled fields forming a series of terraces up the slope. No one paid any attention to the traveling party; evidently such

marches were commonplace.

 

They stopped at a way station in a high valley. The ten were put in a tight cell evidently made for this purpose; its only window

was too small for a man to get through. There was a ditch for natural functions behind; a guard took each prisoner out separately

for that, always alert. They certainly knew how to ensure that no captive escaped!

 

In the morning the march resumed. They crossed a high pass, then began the long descent into the valley of the city of Tula. There

had been no good opportunity to escape.

 

Bear Penis had borne up well on the first day, but the march had debilitated him. He started out weaker this morning; his breathing

was harsh. Gray Cloud helped him on the uphill path, but when the downhill part came, the guards forbade it. So he walked alone,

and continued to fade.

 

At midday, in the heat, Bear Penis fell, gasping. The fatigue and heat were too much for him.

 

One of the guards had lost patience. He screamed at Bear Penis in the Mexica tongue and beat him about the shoulders with his light

club.

 

Gray Cloud reacted without thinking. His right hand lashed out and struck the guard on the side of the head. The guard, furious,

lunged at him with his spear. Gray Cloud dodged the spear, caught the man, and hurled him to the side. The guard fell, and his head

cracked into a stone.

 

It had happened so swiftly that no one else had reacted. Gray Cloud turned away from the guard and helped Bear Penis to stand. By

the time he had done that, the four other guards were close. Two were tending to the fallen guard, and two were covering Gray Cloud

with their spears. If he made any further resistance, he would be dead.

 

He put his arm around Bear Penis and helped him walk. The guards let him be. He knew why: if they killed him, their group would be

short one captive for the sacrifice. They would wait until they reached the city, and report what he had done, and let an official

decide what to do.

 

They resumed the march, but without the fifth guard. Gray Cloud didn't know whether the man was dead, but it was possible; his head

had hit hard. It was an interesting situation, he thought: he had done something surely punishable by death, but he could not be

killed for it, because he was already slated for death. They couldn't even torture him, because their bloodthirsty god accepted

only healthy offerings. In fact, it seemed that many Mexica went willingly to the sacrifice, proud to support their gods with their

blood and hearts.

 

Belatedly he realized that he had lost his best chance to escape. If he had grabbed the fallen guard's spear and attacked the other

guards, instead of helping his friend up, then the two Principal People could have joined in, and they could have made their break.

He hadn't even thought of it—and if the others had, they had not been able to act in time. He should have seized the moment!

 

Yet what would have happened to Bear Penis, then? The man could have died just trying to make the effort to escape, for they would

have had to flee across the mountain without protection against the chill night. The Mexica would soon have been after them, and no

peasants would have helped them. Perhaps he had, after all, done what was best.

 

By night they reached Tula. The cell here was larger, but no less secure. There was no chance to break out, even if it had been

unguarded. There was nothing to do but take their rations of corn bread, and sleep.

 

In the morning the guards took Gray Cloud out, held him in place, and expertly clubbed his right knee.

 

Pain exploded. He did not cry out, because his discipline as a man and a warrior gave him strength, but this abrupt injury, coming

when he was not in the throes of battle, was a horrendous experience. When he became aware of his surroundings, he was back in the

cell, and White Bark was tending to his knee. White Bark had suffered this injury himself; he knew how to ease it.

 

They now had the Mexica answer to Gray Cloud's attack on the guard. He had been crippled so that he would have no hope of escape,

even if there should be some opportunity. The six "civilized" captives nodded; they had known it would be this way. They at least

were at peace with their situation, considering it an honor. The primitives were fools to try to fight it, and were only bringing

more discomfort on themselves. Now perhaps they would learn some grace.

 

But White Bark signed a message of hope: he thought escape remained possible. If Gray Cloud could handle the pain, he could still

walk, and carry weight. Indeed, he had to, for the guards made the captives work while they were waiting for the ceremony. They had

to go out and sweep the streets of Tula with special brooms. Gray Cloud learned to walk with his right knee stiff, so that it did

not send excruciating jolts with every step. White Bark showed him how to point his foot out so that he did not automatically roll

off his foot and bend his knee. Now the pain was continuous, but bearable. But there was no doubt at all: he could not run. So what

was White Bark thinking of? Surely only a fleet and durable runner could ever hope to win free.

 

The next evening White Bark signed his plan. The Tototepec were a hostile tribe that the Mexica had not conquered. One part of the

Tototepec territory was near this city. They needed to make their break by night, and flee to that territory, and then Mexica would

not be able to pursue them. Of course, then they would be at the mercy of the Tototepec, but surely those folk would be glad to

help enemies of the Mexica.

 

But Gray Cloud could only hobble along! he protested, touching his knee. He could never get away from any pursuit.

 

Yet there might not be any pursuit, White Bark replied. The concept was hard to convey by signs, but gradually Gray Cloud came to

understand how. He doubted it could work, but it was certainly worth a try, considering the alternative.

 

Bear Penis and Black Bone could read the signs. They made no comment. They were aware that one of the other prisoners could be a

spy for the Mexica, so it had to seem that this was merely a foolish dialogue between two.

 

Then, sooner than they expected, it was time for the sacrifices. They had delayed too long!

 

The ten of them were marched out to the ceremonial site. Their hands were bound behind them, and wooden collars linked them

together. No, there was no chance to escape.

 

Gray Cloud made what peace he could with his aspirations and memories, and knew that Bear Penis was doing the same. There was

nothing to do now but die bravely.

 

They came to the sacrificial plaza where the great temple pyramid stood. It was impressive, as was all the Mexica construction—only

this predated them, being a Toltec structure, and honored by the Mexica, who claimed descent from the Toltecs. This sacrifice was

in honor of the ancient builders.

 

Here a group of priests met them, garbed in their black cotton Xicolli open jackets and breechcloths, their hair bound back under

tight hoods. Their hair was quite long, as it was never cut; the braid of one reached down to his knees. Their bodies were

blackened with soot, and streaks of caked blood were on their temples from self-inflicted cuts: they offered their own blood to

their gods, as well as that of others.

 

The guards retreated, having delivered the captives to the priests. But the end was not yet. The ceremony was in progress, and at

the moment a group of dancers was in the square, moving eloquently as several others sang sacred hymns. Gray Cloud was impressed

despite the peril of his situation; this was a formidable and even beautiful ritual, every aspect accomplished with precision.

 

But soon enough it was time for the sacrifices. The priests approached the group of captives. They took the first captive, who was

one of the Mexica, and stripped him to his breech-cloth. They painted him with red and white stripes, reddened his mouth, and

painted a black circle around it. Then they glued white down on his head, making him look vaguely like a giant bird. He offered no

resistance; indeed, he cooperated, standing proudly for the decoration.

 

They took the second captive and decorated him similarly. They continued until they had done six. All of them stood with their

heads held high, pleased to have been recognized as the best of this sacrificial group.

 

Gray Cloud was the next. Denied his chance to escape, he was uncertain whether to stand as proudly as the others, trying to shame

them, or to spit in a priest's face. It was not that he lacked the courage to face his end unflinchingly, but that he did not

regard this as an honorable death.

 

He decided to spit, then to offer no further resistance. That would show both his courage and his contempt for the proceedings.

 

The head priest gazed at him, then made a negative motion with his hand.

 

He was being rejected? That was too much to hope for!

 

Gray Cloud and the three other primitives were taken to a spot not far from the steps and made to stand facing the altar. When any

one of them tried to look away, the guards quickly became threatening. They were being required to watch the sacrifice of their

companions!

 

Was it coincidence that only these four were being treated this way? Gray Cloud doubted it. But what was the point? Had the priests

anticipated the gesture of contempt and acted to prevent it? If so, they were smarter than he had thought.

 

The sacrificial altar was on a high terrace. The priests escorted the first captive up to the higher level. He walked up the steps

unassisted, still demonstrating how proud he was to do this. He went to the altar, where six hefty priests stood in their white

robes. They took him by the arms and legs, one to each limb, and laid him backwards across the altar. A fifth caught hold of his

head, pulling it back so that his body arched.

 

Then the high priest lifted his fine obsidian knife, the tecpatl, and plunged it into the victim's bared chest. He lifted it and

brought it down again, and again. He was carving a hole in the chest!

 

In a moment he put his hand into the cavity he had opened, and brought out the man's dripping heart. Even from here, Gray Cloud

could see that it was still beating! The priest held it high, as an offering to the sun, then put it reverently in a special bowl.

 

Meanwhile the other priests lifted the body, which was still quivering, and sent it tumbling down the steps. Two men grabbed it at

the base and dragged it away. They looked excited and eager, as if they had gained a great prize.

 

Gray Cloud had seen death before, but never anything like this. The Mexica were traders of death; they joyed in killing those who

did not resist, in the name of their great spirit. It wasn't any spirit Gray Cloud cared to honor!

 

He knew the symbolism here, for White Bark had explained it. The sacrificial captive was the rising sun; the rolling body was the

setting sun. They were reenacting the natural order of the day, and giving the heart and blood to the sun. Perhaps it was sincere,

but he wondered how willingly the priests themselves would go to a similar sacrifice.

 

The second painted victim was escorted up the steps. He was bent back across the altar, and his heart was cut out, exactly as the

first had been served. The priests were obviously well practiced in this technique.

 

All six of the prepared captives were sacrificed similarly. Then the four remaining ones were marched back to their cell. "Next

sun—you!" a guard told them, smiling.

 

Whether this was torture or guidance Gray Cloud couldn't tell. The six done this day had all seemed more than willing and proud;

none had resisted in any way. In contrast, the four remaining had made clear their aversion to the business. Had they been done

first, the others would not have been bothered; as it was, the prospect was that much worse. But perhaps it was just a matter of

privilege: the civilized captives had the right to go first.

 

Gray Cloud glanced at White Bark, who nodded very slightly. They had to make their break tonight.

 

The four ate their evening meal, performed their natural functions, and returned to their cell. They wrapped themselves in their

blankets and lay still. For a time. Then Black Bone rolled over so that his head and arms were near the barred door. Quietly he

scraped under the bedding straw with his hands. The dirt was loose there. He had been working at it for several nights while

feigning sleep, scraping with a small stone he had found and hidden in his mouth. He had loosened the soil of the packed floor some

way down. Now he scraped it more vigorously, drawing out the dirt into a pile to the side.

 

Bear Penis lay with his head facing the door. He was watching and listening, ready to warn Black Bone of the approach of any guard.

But the guards were evidently celebrating this night, not paying close attention. Tomorrow they would be able to go home, their

duty done. They were by the sound of it playing a gambling game with hard grains of corn as counters and dice; their explanations

could be heard irregularly. "Three!" "Five!" "One!" "Ha! I eat you!" "Two!" "One more and you would have killed me!" In another

circumstance Gray Cloud would have been more curious about the details of the game; now he was glad for the distraction it

provided.

 

Black Bone put his head down. The hole was deep enough: his head fitted under the door! But not quite wide enough to let his

shoulders pass. He was a thin man, but he needed more room.

 

Gray Cloud joined him and scraped at the dirt with his fingernails. Progress was painstakingly slow, but only a little more

clearance was needed.

 

Black Bone tried again, and this time managed to get his shoulders under. He scraped through on his back, like a sacrificial

victim, wedging himself under the door. Soon he was out.

 

He stood before the door. It was barred by a heavy plank that could not be reached from inside, or jogged loose, but was no problem

for a man outside. He did not touch it. He only put his face to the tiny window in the door, so that they could see that he had

made it. Stupid captives might have unbarred the door and charged out—and quickly found themselves surrounded by enemies alerted to

the commotion.

 

Then the others quickly filled in the dirt where it had been, tamped it down, and covered it again with straw. It looked

undisturbed. Black Bone smoothed it similarly from outside. Then he went to a niche and flattened himself within it, out of sight

of the main entry hall. He held his breechcloth between his hands, stretched out to make it as long as possible. In that form it

was most of the length of a man.

 

Now Gray Cloud, lying farthest from the door, began to groan. "Oh, my knee, my knee!" he exclaimed in his own tongue. "Oh, how it

hurts!" Indeed it did hurt; the pain had never stopped, but it was relatively slight now. Had he banged the knee in his sleep, it

would hurt worse, however. Of course, he would never have expressed his pain had it not been for the need of this ruse, for he was

a warrior.

 

After a while there was a yell from one of the guards, who were in a chamber down the hall. "Be quiet!" Even if Gray Cloud had not

picked up the words from recent association, the tone would have been intelligible enough.

 

He moaned louder. "Oh, my knee! My knee!"

 

The guard uttered an expletive and came down the hall. He had evidently had to leave his gambling game, and was annoyed. "Be quiet,

you primitive whiner!" Or words to that effect. The ruse was working: the Mexica in their arrogance chose to believe that

primitives had no courage, despite abundant evidence to the contrary. Thus they sent only one guard to deal with this nuisance.

 

Gray Cloud was moaning and writhing with increasing vigor. The guard came to stand before the door, his torch casting a flickering

light into the cell. "Quiet, or I'll give you reason—"

 

He did not finish, for Black Bone's breechcloth dropped over his head and tightened around his neck, cutting off his breath. Black

Bone might be thin, but this task required only brief exertion, and he was quite competent to handle it. There was only silence,

and the wild wavering of the torch.

 

After a pause of about the length required for a man to stop breathing permanently, they heard the bar being lifted. The door

opened, slowly so as not to squeak.

 

Outside was Black Bone, holding the torch, and the body. Bear Penis stepped out to pick up the forepart, and Black Bone took the

legs. They carried the body inside and laid it in Black Bone's place. Quickly they stripped off the guard's clothing, and Bear

Penis, who was the one of the four of them who most resembled the guard in body type, exchanged clothing with him. Gray Cloud

helped, adjusting his friend's hairstyle to match as closely as possible, and advising him on posture. White Bark arranged the

guard under Black Bone's blanket so that he seemed to be sleeping, his face away from the door. With the torchlight, this should be

enough.

 

Bear Penis took the guard's club and joined Black Bone in the hall. Black Bone hid, while Bear Penis pretended to be the guard. He

closed the door and set the plank in place. The whole thing had been done rapidly, for they had rehearsed it carefully, knowing

that any faltering could cost them everything. If the other guards grew impatient with the man's failure to return promptly—

 

Gray Cloud resumed his moaning, louder than before. "What are you going to do, kill me?" he demanded of the supposed guard outside.

"Then you will have no sacrifice!" For they had learned that the four of them, as lesser sacrifices, were to be awarded after death

to lesser folk, and the four guards would get to share one of the bodies for their ceremonial meal. But if any prisoner were lost,

the guards would be in trouble. Trouble, among the Mexica, was likely to wind up on the sacrificial altar. There were different

types of death, and a person slated for a shameful one could make it honorable by volunteering for the sacrifice, and carrying

through in a courageous manner. The bloodthirsty spirits of the Mexica did not like the taste of the blood of cowards.

 

Then there was a call in the Mexica tongue. Bear Penis had picked up enough of it to speak the basic commands they heard so often,

and he was good at imitating voices. Now he sounded a lot like the guard. "Come! He needs discipline!"

 

The three remaining guards came out, one of them with another torch, two brandishing the light disciplinary clubs. They too were

annoyed about the interruption of their game. They barged down toward the cell; Gray Cloud heard their heavy footsteps and muttered

curses.

 

Even as they came, Bear Penis was heaving up the plank, evidently determined to go in there and beat the obnoxious captive into

silence. As they arrived, he dropped the plank and pulled the door open so that he was concealed behind it, only his torch showing

at the edge of the door.

 

Two guards charged directly in. The third, more cautious, or perhaps simply not wanting to crowd the small cell too much, stayed

back.

 

Bear Penis swung the door back, almost banging it into the third guard. The guard made an angry exclamation—which was cut off by

Black Bone's garrote. The guard's torch wavered as he struggled silently.

 

But already Gray Cloud and White Bark were moving. Neither could get up readily because of his stiff right leg, but they grabbed

the legs of the guards and shoved them off-balance.

 

Bear Penis charged into the cell, swinging the club. He caught one guard on the head, hard, and the man went down. The other turned

to face him, but was entangled in White Bark's legs and could not get his own club into action. Bear Penis clubbed him in the face

once, twice, and he went down.

 

Now they got busy, for though they had taken out all the guards, they could not be sure when some higher official would pass. Black

Bone used his garrote to strangle the two Bear Penis had clubbed, to be sure they were dead, while the others stripped the guard

who most resembled Black Bone of his clothing, taking turns holding the torches. Black Bone donned it and arranged his hair

appropriately.

 

It seemed like a long time, but no one came. Evidently the captives were not of much interest until they were bent across the

altar.

 

They left the four guards seemingly sleeping in the cell, emulating the prisoners, and barred the door. They went to the guards'

chamber and found food there, beside the scattered kernels of corn the guards had used in their game. They ate as much as they

could on the spot, and wrapped the rest in skins for Gray Cloud and White Bark to carry. Black Bark and Bear Penis slung the

guards' bows across their backs, and donned quivers of arrows.

 

Then they set out, marching openly down the street in a formation. Gray Cloud and White Bark walked awkwardly, carrying their

burdens, in their own clothing, while the two others carried the torches and held their clubs menacingly. It looked as if two

prisoners were being moved to other quarters for the night.

 

As it happened, there were few Mexica out this evening, and these were peasants. They paid no attention to the party. The four

marched down the long streets to the east—and did not stop at the edge of the ceremonial section. There was no cry of alarm behind,

and no pursuit. They seemed to have made a dean escape.

 

Then they came to the wall that surrounded the city. They stopped at the last corner before the road led to the gate, and took

turns peering ahead at the gate. They had hoped that the gate guards would be asleep, but this was not the case. There would be no

chance to march out unchallenged; they were going the wrong way at the wrong time.

 

"We gambled and won before," Bear Penis said. "This time we have gambled and lost. I lack the stamina to make the long walk home,

or even to paddle a canoe there. I knew I would never see my sister again. I will distract the guard. You three go quietly through,

and never look back."

 

The others consulted quietly, using signs as needed. What Bear Penis had said was true, and Gray Cloud had known it but chosen not

to think of it. Even with the bad legs, he and White Bark had a better chance to win free, because they could paddle a canoe for an

extended period. Bear Penis was choosing to sacrifice himself, to enable them to escape.

 

"We will speak well of you," Gray Cloud said, and the two Principal People nodded. Each of them touched Bear Penis on the shoulder,

briefly, in the mark of respect accorded to a warrior about to set off on a dangerous mission.

 

Then Bear Penis lifted his torch, held his chin high, and marched out alone to the gate. This was merely a narrow gap in the wall,

angled so that it was necessary for those who passed it to walk single file under the eye of the guard, who stood in an alcove

beside it. There was only one guard, as there was no immediate threat to the city.

 

Bear Penis waved his torch, calling out something indistinguishable. The guard looked, perplexed.

 

Then Bear Penis stumbled. He almost fell, staggered a few more steps, and called out something to the guard.

 

"Get away from here!" the man exclaimed, evidently afraid that a bad spirit would afflict him. But Bear Penis struggled on,

reaching for the guard as he made choking sounds. He seemed either badly injured or inhabited by an evil spirit. The guard shoved

him away, cursing.

 

Meanwhile the other three, their torch doused, walked quietly behind the guard and through the unwatched gate. In a moment it was

done. They emerged outside the city and hurried on, never looking back.

 

But when they got a suitable distance from the wall, they paused and waited, hoping to see one more figure come out. It did not

happen. Bear Penis probably had not even tried to leave, but had recovered and returned to the city streets after he knew they had

passed. Maybe he could hide in the city, disguised as a peasant.

 

Unable to speak the Mexica tongue, other than a few words? Gray Cloud knew better. His friend was lost, and they could not wait.

Grimly, they resumed their walk in the darkness.

 

But this was only the first stage. Once they were well clear of the city, they took the guards' knives from the two bags, so that

each of them was armed. The two "guards" had bows slung across their backs, and arrows, but it had not seemed wise to have the

captives carry bows. One bow had been lost with Bear Penis. If they were discovered at this point, they would have to fight with

what they had.

 

They continued walking east, toward the Tototemec territory. It was wearing for Gray Cloud, swinging his stiff leg out and around,

but he kept a good pace. They had to get far from Tula by dawn!

 

"How is it there is no pursuit?" White Bark asked in his tongue.

 

Gray Cloud had been pondering the same thing. They had now been walking for what seemed like half the night, and there should have

been a change of guards by now, or a routine check by a more important person. The authorities had to know of the escape. "They may

be afraid that there will be terrible punishment if it is known that the captives escaped," he said. "Rather than that, they are

hiding it, and rounding up other people for sacrifice. Peasants, perhaps."

 

"But if that is so, then there will be no pursuit!" Black Bone exclaimed, amazed.

 

"That may be the case," Gray Cloud agreed. "But I think we had better keep moving anyway."

 

But Gray Cloud and White Bark were tiring, because of their bad legs. They slowed the pace, but didn't like it. If day caught them

marching like this, the farmers would know something was wrong, for they should be marching toward the city, not away from it. In

any event, two of them could not walk much farther.

 

Then they spied a stream. They had reached water! They scooped it up to drink. "A canoe!" Gray Cloud exclaimed. "If we can find a

canoe—!" For that was the rest of their plan: to paddle out to the great sea, and along the shore to the great river, and home.

 

They walked along the bank of the stream, and soon they did find a canoe. Gray Cloud did not like stealing it, even from an enemy,

but they had to have it.

 

In this manner, without any commotion, they escaped the empire of the Mexica. The stream took them through the territory of the

Tototemec, but the peasants there took them for traders and let them pass unchallenged. Two paddled and one rested, taking turns.

They followed the river all the way down to the great sea, and then they followed the coast for many days, staying clear of others

as much as possible. In the shallows they were able to kill fish by shooting them with arrows, and they ate them raw. They came to

the great river on whose tails all three of them lived, and forged up it.

 

Because the season was late, they did not take the branch of the river that led to Gray Cloud's tribe, for that would strand the

two Principal People for the winter. They went directly to the Ani-Yunwiya territory, with the understanding that Gray Cloud would

be treated well there and would be given a good canoe to return when a companion could be found for him.

 

Thus it was that Gray Cloud came to stay with the Principal People—waiting, as it turned out, for Throat Shot to appear. But now

Throat Shot would have a similar problem getting back to his own tribe.

 

If that was what he was supposed to do.

 

 

 

CHAPTER 11

TALE TELLER

O Spirit of the Mound, I have told you Gray Cloud's tale of the dread civilized Mexica. I am glad I am primitive! Now I will tell

you how Throat Shot became the Tale Teller among the Principal People.

 

 

 

They decided to paddle up the river to Gray Cloud's tribe of the Illini, the Peoria. There Throat Shot could decide where to go

next, since he had no instructions other than to go with his friend and wait for Sun Eagle's signal. He hoped it would come soon,

but he had no certainty of that. The spirits took little heed of time.

 

They reached the tipis of the Peoria ten days later. Gray Cloud was greeted like a dead man returned to life: with limited

enthusiasm. Soon it was apparent why: things had changed in the tribe during the past two winters, and there really was no place

for a returned, ranking, disabled warrior. Glow Fungus, deprived of both brother and lover, had married another and now was great

with child. Gray Cloud's presence was awkward.

 

"Now I think that I should not have left Red Leaf," Gray Cloud said, speaking of his Principal People maiden. He seemed neither

completely surprised nor completely disappointed. "Will you go with me back to the Principal People?"

 

That seemed to be as good a prospect as any. Throat Shot had been told to go with his friend, and Gray Cloud was his friend. So

Gray Cloud informed Glow Fungus of the heroic fate of her brother, Bear Penis, and wished her well. Then they set off on the return

trip, paddling down the river, and to the junction of rivers, and the next junction, and up the final river to the land of the

Principal People. Winter was pressing close as they completed it, and they paddled hard and long, making good distance each day.

They worked well as a team, and it was good.

 

The Principal People welcomed them back, for Gray Cloud was good with the bow and was an asset to their hunts. Throat Shot knew how

that was; if any animal or bird passed the man, that creature was dead. All that was required was to drive the creatures toward

Gray Cloud. Gray Cloud had been learning the art of birch-bark canoe making from White Bark, and showed excellent promise in that,

and such craftsmen were valued. It also seemed that Red Leaf had been quite downhearted at Gray Cloud's absence, and not subject to

cheer by any other man. Now she was happy again.

 

In fact, Red Leaf turned out to be an attractive woman, older than Gray Cloud but quite deferential to him. Perhaps it had been her

knowledge of his loyalty to the brother of his former woman that charmed her. Gray Cloud had made it clear that first commitments

came first, and that he had a commitment to Glow Fungus in his own tribe and had to return to her. Were that not the case, he would

have been willing to marry Red Leaf—if she were willing to join him among the Illini. She had not been, so for two reasons their

liaison had been temporary. Now both reasons had changed, and Gray Cloud's first loyalty was to Red Leaf and her village. Red Leaf

had gambled and won, as she saw it—and she welcomed Throat Shot as one who had benefited her by bringing her man back, though he

tried to demur.

 

But what of Throat Shot himself? He could be no asset to the hunt, and he had no woman waiting here. Yet Gray Cloud spoke well of

him, and so he was treated as a welcome guest. He felt out of place.

 

He tried to help Gray Cloud with his chosen work, making birch-bark canoes. The man was now doing it alone, with the understanding

that White Bark would assist if needed; but Gray Cloud hoped to demonstrate his ability to get through without that. It was

somewhat like a boy's initiation into manhood: he had to prove himself without the help of the instructor. All stages of the work

required great care and patience, and Throat Shot was able to be useful. First they had to locate a good birch tree, and it was

pleasant exploring the high slopes for them. When they found one, they had to fell it carefully, so as not to damage the precious

bark. They built a fire around its base and charred a ring, keeping the bark above it wet so that it would not burn. They pounded

out the charred region and renewed the fire several times, until the trunk narrowed and the tree was ready to fall. They burned it

unevenly, so that it would fall uphill and in a spot where there was nothing to bruise the trunk. When it finally came down, Gray

Cloud inspected it carefully, then marked off a section three times a man's length. He cut a circle around the trunk at each end,

and then cut the bark lengthwise and used wood wedges to help peel it off in one great piece.

 

After that they flattened the great curved section of birch bark by toasting it with a carefully applied torch. They used split

sticks to hold burning pieces of waste bark to the moist inner side of the canoe strip. Throat Shot was amazed to see it slowly

flatten until it lay like a blanket on the ground. Then they rolled it very carefully, again like a blanket, the bark side in, and

carried it to Gray Cloud's place of canoe making.

 

Here he had stakes set out in a rough canoe pattern on level ground. He used these as a frame to hold the bark in place and in the

proper shape while he fitted lengths of cedarwood to form the ribs of the canoe. This task was so delicate that he allowed no one

else to do it, and it was not proper for anyone to assist, and so Throat Shot's usefulness here was at an end. He thanked Gray

Cloud for allowing him to participate this far, and departed; it was all he could do.

 

A thin man with scars all over his body approached him with a signed question: You Walk Fast (Run) Good? When Throat Shot agreed

that he could run well, the man made an offer: run with him to the various villages of the Principal People, and learn their tongue

and dialects, and perhaps he would find some way to make himself useful among them.

 

Throat Shot realized that Gray Cloud must have set this up. He agreed to do it. Question You Called? he signed.

 

The man rubbed the back of his hand in the sign for Color, then pointed to a black section of bark on a nearby tree. Then he signed

Die, Long Time, touched one leg, and pointed to a white flower. That meant Bone.

 

Black Bone! This was Gray Cloud's Principal People friend who had escaped captivity with him! Suddenly Throat Shot felt he knew the

man well.

 

They set out on what turned out to be a long series of runs, visiting every village of the immediate region. There appeared to be

quite a number; the villages here were set closer than those of the Toco, and many had more people. They ranged in size from hardly

more than ten lodges to two tens of tens of lodges, each with its family, which could be extensive. In the center of each village

was an open square for dancing and ceremonies. Many were surrounded by walls of stakes set in the ground, and these walls were

guarded, so that no one could enter unchallenged. The fortifications were not nearly as formidable as the palisade around the city

of the ancient Pyramid of the Sun, but were sufficient.

 

They spent the nights with families who had room for them. Each house was four-sided, longer than wide, made from impressively

solid logs, with a roof that sloped up to a high ridge. In the center was a scooped-out fireplace with a large flat hearthstone

used for baking bread or cakes made of corn. Possessions were stored on one side, and the people slept on the other side. The

houses were amazingly large, up to six man-lengths long, and some even had a second level for storage or for special meetings.

 

The beds were strange, too, for they were on platforms raised well above the floor, instead of close to the ground. It took Throat

Shot a while to get used to it, but he discovered that there were fewer biting fleas at that level, because they could not jump

that high, and he got to like it.

 

On occasion they stayed at a winter house, which was smaller and circular and made partly under the level of the ground, like those

of the tribe across the river, the Faraway People, who called themselves the Children of the Sun.

 

They usually fed themselves between villages by killing birds or small animals. Black Bone preferred to employ a weapon with which

the Principal People were more skilled than any others of this region, the blowgun. He showed Throat Shot how to use it. It was a

tube longer than the height or reach of a man, fashioned of a type of cane that the Principal People knew how to find and cure and

polish inside. It used a tiny wood dart, feathered with thistledown and dipped in a special poison only the priest knew how to

make. At first Throat Shot found it hard to appreciate how such a delicate thing could be of use in hunting, but he learned that it

was more effective in many cases than the bow and arrow. When Black Bone put in the dart, put his mouth to the end, aimed the

blowgun, and blew hard, the dart flew out the other end so fast that it was difficult even to see it, and scored on its prey

instantly. The dart did not really hurt the animal, but the poison soon brought it down, and then they could pick it up and kill

it. Throat Shot resolved to obtain one of these hunting weapons for himself when he was able to, for it was something he could use

one-handed, when he propped it appropriately.

 

Black Bone usually met the village Chief in the local council hall, which was a seven-sided building which could be of enormous

size, depending on the village. Seven was the Principal People's sacred number, and it showed often in their ways of doing things

or describing things. Sometimes a man would say "seven sevens," and it took Throat Shot a moment to realize that he meant a number

close to five tens.

 

It seemed that the Principal People had a big ball game coming, the seventh of the season before winter shut things down, and Black

Bone was alerting seven villages to the time and place. Five villages were not participating; only two were doing that. They were

Gray Cloud's home village of Five Birches and the neighboring village of Shallow Stream. But their interest was high because this

was also a betting event, and huge value might change hands as a result of individual wagers. At each village he introduced Throat

Shot as a visitor, which meant that each village Chief would recognize him if he came again, and treat him well. This was a very

nice gesture, for otherwise his bad arm could have caused a cold reception. Villages were not partial to extra mouths to feed in

winter, if the visitor could not do a man's work.

 

Black Bone was a good runner. He was thin, as runners tended to be, and had endurance. He set an easy pace, which was just as well,

because even though Throat Shot could run indefinitely on the level ground, he was not used to the constant slopes of these

mountains, and had to acclimatize. Still, he did not slow the other man's pace very much, and of course he never objected to it. He

knew he was making a good impression.

 

At each village he listened carefully, picking up the words. He had already learned many from Gray Cloud, but since Gray Cloud

spoke this tongue imperfectly, there was much relearning to do; now it was mostly a matter of attuning to the dialect of the

region. He did this quickly and well, and knew he was making a good impression in this, too. By the time they had completed the

circuit of villages, he was able to speak well enough to be understood by any tribesman.

 

That was to his advantage, for now the other villagers were coming to the game site, and Black Bone had to help organize the teams

and the attendant festivities. This was evidently to be a considerable occasion. Throat Shot was on his own.

 

But as it happened, many people now knew him from the tour of the villages, and some asked him for information about the

arrangements. He answered as accurately as he could, and became more competent, because more people were constantly arriving and

were in need of similar information.

 

Anetsa, he learned, was a ball game, called "the little brother of war." It was played only by young men of the greatest physical

prowess, and a good player had much prestige. Black Bone had been a good player, and so he remained respected though he no longer

played. Each village had its team, and the players on that team suffered rigorous training. They did not eat rabbit, because the

rabbit was readily confused and frightened; its reaction to danger was to bound away and hide, its body quivering nervously. They

did not eat frog meat, because the bones of the frog were easily broken. They did not eat the sluggish sucker fish, or the young of

any animal, for the young were weak and prone to error. Neither did they eat hot food, for the fierce wolves and wildcats did not,

nor flavor their food with salt, for truly strong creatures did not require anything to make their food more tasty. They did not

touch a woman for a number of days before the game, because women were soft and weak. If a woman even touched a ball stick, it

became unfit for use in the game; that softness was contagious. In fact, if a man's wife was with child, he could not play, because

it was obvious that some of his strength had gone into the making of that child. It was said that there had been a time when men

who broke these rules were put to death, but this seemed unlikely, since they would be punished enough by losing because of their

weakness.

 

The rivalry between villages might be friendly, or it might become bitter. Sometimes players would consult priests, in an effort to

weaken or even kill rival players. Thus it became rivalry between priests too, and this could be as important a factor as the skill

and preparation of the players. It was Black Bone's suspicion that he had been taken captive, and almost sacrificed by the Mexica,

because of a hostile spell put on him by the priest of a rival village. Gray Cloud had helped him overcome this, which was one

reason his village welcomed Gray Cloud.

 

Throat Shot saw that he owed much to Gray Cloud, though he had not understood this until spending time with the Principal People.

Gray Cloud had a bad knee, but he had had a friend who had given his freedom and probably his life to help two Principal People

tribesmen escape horrible death, and he had seen them all the way home. He was also a good man and a good hunter in his own right,

and therefore an asset to the tribe. The Principal People had not barred him from leaving them, but had hoped he would remain. When

Throat Shot had come, they had brought him to Gray Cloud, seeing that the spirits wished this. But when Throat Shot had brought

Gray Cloud back, in much the way Gray Cloud had brought White Bark and Black Bone back, Throat Shot had been met with similar

favor. Of course, he was on trial until they could judge just what kind of man he was, but they were giving him the winter to

establish his credits as a man.

 

Yet like Gray Cloud, Throat Shot was not in a position to commit. He was on a mission of his own, and could be called away by the

Spirit of the Mound, Sun Eagle, at any time. He appreciated the Principal People's generosity to him, but he wanted to earn his own

keep, and was searching for some way to do that. If he did not find it by spring, he would seek some other region, so as not to be

a burden to this tribe. But he hoped that a way would manifest, because already he liked these people, and he liked Gray Cloud and

Red Leaf and Black Bone.

 

He did not want to go among strangers again, where he would face similar problems.

 

Men continued to arrive. Some came by canoe—and one had a bad knee. Throat Shot knew him instantly: White Bark. Gray Cloud's

instructor. The one who made the excellent light canoes, so was valued despite his bad knee.

 

But Throat Shot's bad arm made it doubtful that he could learn such a trade, for there was much armwork in the harvesting and

preparation of the bark, and much skill in the crafting of a canoe. By the time he could become competent, even were his arm no

problem, he would probably have to go, because of the signal of the Spirit. He needed to find something to do that required no long

apprenticeship, and that would not leave another person without help if he abruptly left.

 

On the night before the big game, Five Birches staged a dance. Its location had been secret, to prevent magical sabotage by a rival

village, and was announced only just before the start. If a rival knew the spot, its priest could spread a potion on the ground,

made from rabbits, so that any players who danced there would become timid and readily confused. The players fasted from supper of

the night before the game through the game itself, but that would go for nothing if they were polluted by the region of the dance.

 

Throat Shot hurried to notify the folk of the location. The other village had its own dance elsewhere, taking similar precautions.

Actually, this was more show than substance, for the two villages were friendly. Still, the games with other villages were not

necessarily friendly, so it behooved the players to honor the conventions. Indeed, the local priest had been trying hard to locate

the site of the other village's dance, so as to do something to it, but without success.

 

The dance began after dark, so that those who weren't near one of the small fires could be recognized only by their voices. It was

by the bank of a stream, where the ground was almost level under stately beech and maple trees and the underbrush had been cleared

away. The folk of the village came: men, women, and children. The little ones were wrapped in blankets and laid under bushes to

sleep. Others leaned against trees or sat on the ground, watching.

 

The dance itself was done by groups of men and women. The men were the players of the game, who were with their ball sticks and

moved around a larger fire, wearing only their breechcloths. The women were seven, specially selected, one for each clan, near two

upright posts that were connected by a crosspiece.

 

The drumming started, and the figures began to move. The men danced in a circle around their fire, while a performer shook a rattle

as he circled outside them.

 

The women formed into a straight line not far from the men. They were in full dresses, with their hair garlanded with the pretty

colored leaves of fall, and individually and as a group they were so lovely that it was a delight to watch them.

 

Now the women began to move and sing, advancing toward the men provocatively. But before they got there, they wheeled and danced

away again. They re-formed their line and advanced again, keeping time to the drum, but again did not go all the way. They were

taunting the men, pretending to approach them but declining their favors, in accordance with the pattern of the dance.

 

The men, in response, continued their dance, and called upon the spirits to make them strong against such temptations, and to

enhance their prowess in the coming game. They asked the spirits for swiftness and endurance as runners, and to be made elusive and

quick-witted. They waved their ball sticks threateningly. Each stick was about as long as a man's arm, fashioned from hickory or

pecan wood, bent into a loop at the end. The loop was laced with animal skin or strong vegetable fiber, and might also incorporate

bat whiskers or colorful bird feathers, to make the sticks' motions as swift and accurate as these flying creatures. The sticks

were not clubs, but looked as if they could be used as such.

 

The women sang of loss of strength and the onset of weakness and confusion. Their songs were directed at the opposing players,

because their weakness was as important as the home team's strength. There was a large flat rock to one side of the dance arena, on

which were black beads representing the players of the other team. Every so often the women would get up on this stone, close to

those beads. In this manner they hoped to weaken the other players by exposing them to the heaviness and sluggishness of women.

Throat Shot had to smile at this gesture, for though he understood the symbolism, the women were not at all as represented. They

were light on their feet and lively, and any man who got close to any of them would have been inspired to rise to new heights of

performance. Perhaps not in the game, however, which might be the point.

 

Actually, the women addressed two groups. When they sang of the players of the home village, they called for victory. To this they

added another kind of inducement, promising that tomorrow the players would get to sleep with their wives and be well rewarded for

their efforts. When they sang of the opposing players, they suggested that they had slept with their wives too recently and

weakened themselves, or that they had touched pregnant women in public, or done other debilitating things. They also sang of the

opposing priest's probable incompetence, using the wrong magic and weakening his own team. Some of the details were funny, and

there was a rumble of laughter from the watching people.

 

The male and female dancers were separate, never directly interacting. But both danced to the same drumbeat, and they did not

interfere with each other's songs. Thus their dances made a harmonious whole, showing both the opposition of the two sexes and the

nature of their larger interaction.

 

After a while the women were relieved by other women, for endurance was not supposed to be their nature. But the same men danced

throughout the night, periodically shouting war whoops in the direction of the rival village. At the end of each interval of

dancing the men ran toward the women, frightening them, and the spectators would shout "Hu-u!" This was the ritual greeting to the

Great Sun.

 

The only other break for the men was when they paused to go to the river, to purify themselves by splashing the cold water on their

bodies. They were indefatigable, as was proper for a winning team.

 

In due course a man called the Woodpecker and garbed as a bird left the dance and walked toward the rival village. He stood facing

it, raised his hand to his mouth, and made four great yells. The players answered with choruses of yips. The fourth yell was

prolonged and quavering, like the cry of the largest woodpecker who ever existed, resounding through the night forest and echoing

weirdly from the surrounding hills.

 

Throat Shot remembered his friend called Woodpecker, with whom he had gone on his first hunt. Now that man was called Striker of

Warriors. Was it only a winter and a summer ago? How long it seemed!

 

The Woodpecker ran back to the dance ground. "They are already beaten!" he cried. It was a hope rather than a fact, but it carried

such conviction that it was easy to believe.

 

The dance continued through the night. When dawn approached, the players took boughs from the sacred tree, the pine, and threw them

on the fire. The flames blazed up hungrily, and thick clouds of smoke roiled out, enveloping the dancers. No men coughed or showed

discomfort, though their eyes and lungs must have been stinging. This was the smoke that would protect them from the other

village's head priest and make it difficult for the opposing players to see them during the game.

 

Sunrise came, and the dance was over. The players got no rest. They set out immediately for the assigned site of the game. The

priests and priests' assistants went with them. Black Bone and Throat Shot went too, for it was their job to report on the progress

of the game to the villagers who were unable to see it directly.

 

The route was circuitous, because the other village's priests might have planted magical traps to weaken them. The players were

pure and strong, but could never be quite safe until they were there. As it was, they stopped four times for additional

purification by water, in case they had inadvertently been fouled by hostile magic. Each time, the priest performed a rite for each

individual player. Nothing was taken for granted.

 

Because of this necessary care, progress was slow. It was noon before they actually reached the game site. The players were

forbidden to sit on a stone or log or anything other than the ground itself, if they sat at all, and were not allowed to lean

against anything except the back of another player. They all knew what could happen to a player who violated these rules: he could

be defeated in the game, or if he was lucky, only bitten by a rattlesnake. This was very much like war, and the rules of war were

honored.

 

While the priest was administering rites to one player, the others had to wait, but they did not rest. They twisted extra strings

for their ball sticks, adjusted their clothing or their decorations, and talked about the coming contest. After the fourth water

purification, the head priest gave an inspirational speech to the players. All the omens were favorable, he told them; they should

play to their utmost ability, and their victory would be applauded by all who knew them and bring great honor to their village. It

was a dramatic speech, and the players interrupted it several times with their exultant yells.

 

They came in sight of the playing ground. The Woodpecker advanced again and gave four whoops similar to those of the dance. The

players answered with a shout and charged off the path to make their final preparations.

 

The priest marked off a small area of the forest floor: a symbolic representation of the playing ground. He took a small bundle of

sharpened stakes, each about as long as a man's foot. As he stuck each stake in the ground, he told the players what positions they

would assume when the game began. Each stake stood for a player, and the pattern was clear enough.

 

Then the players stood for the ordeal of scratching. This was done by one of the priest's assistants with a kanuga, a special comb

made of seven sharp splinters of turkey-leg bone tied to a frame made from a turkey feather. The turkey was a fierce, warlike bird,

so this sharp comb would impart these qualities to those whom it scratched. The splinters were tied so that only their tips

projected from the body of the comb; the instrument was useless as a weapon, but capable of giving great pain.

 

Every player was scratched four times on each upper arm, the scratches covering about half the length between the shoulder and the

elbow. Another four scratches were done on both forearms, and four more for each upper and lower leg. Each scratch was shallow but

painful, and every set of seven was excruciating, but no player even winced. Then the kanuga comb was used to scratch the chest in

the form of an X, which was then crossed from shoulder to shoulder, with a similar pattern across the back.

 

When it was done, the players had blood welling from an overlapping network of scratches all across their bodies. But they knew

that this ordeal was necessary for the game, and they were glad to endure it. Now Throat Shot understood how Black Bone had come by

the scars on his body. This was like the Toco preparation for the rite of manhood, but much more extensive.

 

The priest gave each player a piece of medicinal root to chew. They spit the juice on the scratches and rubbed it in. It evidently

helped, for the skin became less inflamed. Then they went to the river and washed off the blood. The ritual preparation was almost

done.

 

Now they smeared their bodies with bear grease to make them slippery, so that opposing players could not get hold of them. They put

eagle feathers in their hair for keenness of sight, and a deer's tail for swiftness in running, and a snake's rattle to make them

terrible to their opponents. In this manner they invoked spiritual help from the air, the forest, and the ground. They marked their

bodies with red and black paint, and the black was charcoal from the dance fire that had been made of the wood of a honey locust

tree that had been struck by lightning but not killed. Everything had to be exactly right, to invoke the most powerful spirits.

 

Dressed and purified and ready, they went to the water one last time. The priest chose a bend in the river that enabled them to

face east while looking upstream. The men stood side by side, gazing down into the water, with their ball sticks clasped across

their breasts. The priest stood behind, while an assistant spread red and black pieces of cloth on the ground, with red and black

beads set on them. There was one red bead for each player on the team, and one black bead for each opposing player.

 

The first player approached the priest. He was a tall young man no older than Throat Shot, with an intense expression. This was

obviously no game for him; it was a spiritual mission.

 

"Tell me your name," the priest said formally. He obviously knew the names of all of them, but the ritual had to be followed

exactly.

 

"I am Split Spear, of the Deer Clan," the man said.

 

The priest took a red bead in his right hand and a black bead in his left hand. He held them high and spoke to the river. "O Long

Man, we exult in your power, which can toss great trunks about in white foam. We beg you to lend your strength to this fine young

man, Split Spear, so that he will be able to toss his opponents about." The priest invoked the powers of birds and animals to

enhance the player's abilities. He spoke of the seventh level of the world, which the player sought for ultimate success.

 

Then the priest addressed the player. "Split Spear, who is your most hated opponent?"

 

Split Spear whispered the name to him. The priest now spoke that name. "Fox Foot, of the Wolf Clan, I lay this curse on you! I

invoke the Black Fog to smother you, and the Black Rattlesnake to poison you, and the Black Spider to drop down his black thread

from above you to wrap up your soul and drag it to the darkening land in the west, and there to bury it in a black coffin under

black day so that you will be unable to prevail against the mighty Split Spear of the Deer Clan, and you will fall ignobly and be

humiliated before everyone."

 

That was a curse such as only a favored priest could give! Split Spear looked well satisfied.

 

The priest performed similarly for each of the players, raising each to the seventh level of the world and damning the worst

opponent of each in splendidly potent terms. At the end the players shouted once more, with the vigor of those who expected to

forge to victory with all the power of the relentless current of a flooded river.

 

Now the players walked in single file to the ball ground. Their opponents came from the other side. The ground was completely

surrounded by spectators from the two villages and from other villages, including those who were betting on the result, relatives,

and many who were fascinated by the game, regardless of who was playing it.

 

The challenging team from the local village furnished the ball, but before it was used, the other team examined it carefully. They

wanted to be sure that nothing was wrong with it. For example, it might be made so small that it would slip through the netting of

their ball sticks, while the challenging team would be prepared with tighter netting. Or it might be the wrong color, so that it

matched the sticks of the challengers and could not be seen, while it would show up clearly on the sticks of the other team. There

were any number of tricks that might be associated with the ball. But this one passed inspection; if there was anything wrong with

it, it was magical, and that was hard to detect by a physical inspection.

 

Already the betting was starting. Bettors could get so involved that they even removed their clothing to offer it as stakes. The

players waited until the bets had been established, for each team wanted those who bet on it to be sure of their winnings.

 

Now the teams shouted as they lined up opposite each other, each player with his two ball sticks lying on the ground before him,

pointing toward the sticks of his opposite number. In this way they made sure that the teams were evenly matched. The number of

players might vary, but the teams always had to be even.

 

Throat Shot asked Black Bone about the names of the other team's players, so that he could get them straight. He learned that Split

Spear's nemesis, Fox Foot, was the chief player, a short but broad and powerful young man who moved swiftly and silently, like a

fox. Throat Shot did not like him, affected by the priest's curse on him.

 

An old man walked out, holding the ball. He made the final speech to the players. "Remember, the Sun is looking down on you. You

must observe the rules and show good sportsmanship. After the game each of you must go along a white trail to your white lodge."

What he meant was that the game should end in peace. Then he shouted, "Now for the twelve!" and threw the ball high into the air,

and hurried out of the way. The game had begun.

 

The players dived for their sticks and then for the ball. Split Spear got it, perhaps because the priest's blessing on him and

curse on his opposite number had been first and most potent. He scooped it up in his right ball stick and ran for his goal.

 

But two players from the other team converged on him. Fox Foot tripped him while the other knocked his stick, jarring the ball out.

It bounced on the ground. Three more players dived for it, tripping one another. In a moment there was a pile of players of both

teams—while the ball scooted out to the side.

 

The pile had formed near Split Spear, but he was not in it, because the ball had been knocked away from him. He now scrambled down

and got it again, and this time was able to dodge around the pile and run for the goal. An opposing player pursued him, but one of

his teammates stuck out a foot and tripped the pursuer, and Split Spear got away. He charged the goal and hurled the ball between

the standing poles before another player could stop him.

 

There was a cheer from the local villagers. The home team had scored the first point! The first team to make twelve goals would be

the winner.

 

The ball was brought back to the center, and play resumed. The game got rougher as players collided and sometimes wrestled with

each other even after the ball was gone. Players were not supposed to try to injure those on the other team deliberately, but some

of the accidents were suspicious. The ball traveled up and down the field, changing sticks often, before the next goal was scored.

When one player found himself trapped, he would try to throw the ball to a teammate, who would then resume the advance on the goal.

The sticks were well suited for throwing, being like extensions of the players' arms. The young men had evidently spent much time

practicing; Throat Shot knew that he could not have handled such sticks well.

 

Meanwhile, in a secluded place, the team priests were taking ritual measures to bring their teams to victory. It was possible to

tell when one priest was doing well, because the ball seemed unable to get out of the section of the field nearest that goal,

giving that team the advantage. Each priest was kept informed of the progress of the game by an assistant—in this case, Black

Bone—who was in turn advised by seven counselors who had been appointed to watch the game. Throat Shot went along with Black Bone,

intrigued by the whole thing. This was a better celebration than the Toco had!

 

The game continued fiercely. The score changed sides almost as often as the ball did, seemingly. The players could not drink water

during it, only a beverage concocted from wild crab-apples, green grapes, and similarly sour ingredients. The injuries mounted.

This had started as a friendly, or at least not a grudge, match, but it was becoming uglier. It was indeed like a small war.

 

As dusk approached, not a man was unscarred, and several were limping badly. The teams were almost evenly matched, and neither

could get far ahead. But finally Split Spear emerged from a pileup to knock Fox Foot back, stagger to the goal, and put the twelfth

ball through. The home village of Five Birches had won.

 

There was a great cheer from the winning villagers, and silence from the losers. The spectators and players settled their bets, and

the players went once more to the river, where the priest protected them from the curses of their defeated rivals. They washed off

the dirt and blood, tended to their injuries as well as they could without showing unmanly discomfort, and dressed. Now at last

they were allowed to eat and drink, though exhaustion diminished their hunger.

 

 

 

On the following days Black Bone and Throat Shot went to the neighboring villages and told about the details of the game. The women

and children who had not been able to attend were hungry for news of it, and when Throat Shot realized this, his descriptions,

augmented by signs when he needed words he had not yet learned, became fancier. He had always had a good memory for detail, which

had served him when he had been a messenger among the Toco, and the game was fresh in his mind. Soon he found himself the center of

an avid circle of youngsters wherever he went, for news of his narrative powers was spreading.

 

"...and when the score was six goals to six, the men of Shallow Stream forged ahead with the ball, knocking all others out of the

way as they charged the goal. Their priest had invoked one of his three most powerful spells, and it seemed that nothing could

stand against it.

 

"But as Fox Foot was about to hurl the ball through the goal, his archenemy, Split Spear, leaped for him, and caught him about the

waist, and threw him around so hard that he rolled to the edge of the field, his two sticks clattering. But the ball remained in

the web of his right stick, held there by the spell.

 

"Then Split Spear called upon the foaming power of the great river to lend him strength, and the river answered, and he struggled

with Fox Foot's arm and wrested the ball from him. He put it in the webbing of his own right stick, and scrambled to his feet, and

charged toward his goal. But three players of Shallow Stream converged on him, crying that the true power of the water was theirs.

One tackled him, another grabbed his arm, and the third took away the ball.

 

"But by this time the other players of Five Birches were there, and they caught the third man and bore him to the ground. The ball

popped loose and rolled off the field and into the water. Now there was a pileup in the water, as they fought for the ball, and it

was fortunate that no one drowned.

 

"It was Split Spear who came up with it again. This time he dodged behind one of his own players, so that the men of Shallow Stream

could not get at him, and looped around until within range of the goal, and he hurled it through for the score just before being

tackled again. The folk of Five Birches gave a mighty cheer!"

 

So it went. The more he embellished, the more closely the audience listened, and the larger it grew. He was careful never to

deviate from the facts, and to remain impartial in the telling, for there were partisans of both villages in many of his audiences.

But his memory was good, and there was much to tell.

 

"Do you know," Black Bone remarked, "you have a talent for tale-telling. This is something we value. Do you know stories of other

tribes?"

 

"Many," Throat Shot agreed. "But—"

 

"Tell them."

 

Throat Shot tried it—and found his audience growing. The villagers liked to listen to him, despite his imperfect command of their

tongue, because of the clarity of his vision and the novelty of the far episodes he related. To them, the Toco childhood stories

were new and intriguing, and his adventures and misadventures with women were hilarious. He had to explain what palm trees were,

but even that was interesting and even magical to these people who had seen none. He told only the truth, but it seemed that he had

art in telling.

 

He tried telling a more general tale about the origin of tobacco, with similar success, especially among the children. They had

already heard it, of course, but they liked the way he told it. So did some of the older people.

 

 

 

There was once a young warrior who was required to guide a maiden to another village for a special ceremony by her clan. She was

pretty, but many men of her village had been killed in warfare, and she had found no husband. On the other hand, there were too

many men in his village, and he had found no wife. The farther they walked together, the more intrigued they became with each

other, for they had many interests in common and knew some of the same people. She was a member of the Bird Clan, which perhaps

accounted for her birdlike prettiness, and he belonged to the Twister Clan, also called the Longhair Clan, which might have

accounted for his ability to find his way accurately to any place he sought no matter how long, twisted, and devious the paths that

went there. It occurred to them that there had been no recent marriage between these two great clans.

 

"But it is said that the members of these clans are not sexually compatible," she remarked. "That the penises of the men of one

clan point in a different direction from the clefts of the women of the other, so they cannot merge."

 

"I have heard this," he agreed. "But not everything that is said is true."

 

"It is better to test a thing before challenging it as untrue."

 

"I agree. Let us find a suitable place to test it."

 

So they left the path and found a glade where nothing grew. They laid down their cloaks and he removed his breechcloth and she

removed her skirt. "I do not think your penis is pointing the wrong way," she remarked. "It is aimed straight up at the sky."

 

"Perhaps it is your cleft that points the wrong way."

 

"I am sure that is not the case."

 

So they lay on the cloaks and tested the alignments, and there did not seem to be any problem. They then proceeded to an episode of

sexual expression so sweet that the honey seemed sour.

 

"It is certainly false," she breathed as they embraced.

 

"It is an awful forked tongue," he agreed.

 

But to be quite certain, they decided to try it again after a little while. He stroked her full round breasts, and she kissed his

muscular neck, and they merged again, and it was sweeter than before.

 

"Whoever said that must never have tried it," he said. "The alignment is as perfect as your great beauty."

 

There was something about his mode of expression that pleased her. "Maybe he did not want anyone else to know," she suggested. "For

I agree that the alignment is as wonderful as your strength and virility."

 

He was almost as impressed with her insight as he was with her body. "That must be it! All this time everyone has been fooled into

believing what was not true!"

 

But it occurred to them that it would be best to test it once more, to be absolutely sure there was no mistake, for it was a

serious matter to challenge the wisdom of the ages. So in a little while they indulged a third time, and she wrapped her firm legs

around his hips, and he thrust so deeply into her that there was scarcely any room remaining for the honey. The alignment remained

perfect.

 

"Oh!" she cried. "I wish we could do this forever!"

 

"We must marry," he decided. "Just in case we are the only two members of our clans who are compatible."

 

"Yes, we would not want to look foolish if it did not work for others," she said.

 

So they married, and the two clans were pleased to discover that the old saying was not true. The warrior and the maiden were held

in high regard for this discovery, and became important in the tribe, and had many children, all of whom were in perfect alignment.

 

Later, on a hunting trip, the man passed the place where he had come to know his wife. There in the glade he found a pretty plant

growing, with broad hairy leaves and three funnel-shaped flowers on the end of its tallest stalk. When he came close, he discovered

that the leaves were scented. Because he had three fond memories of this place, and thought the flower might be imbued with the

magic of the experience, he dug it up carefully and took it back to his people. "Surely this is the plant of harmony between

clans," he said.

 

"We shall dry the sweet leaves and smoke them," the clans-men said.

 

"And we shall name it 'Where We Came Together'," his wife said.

 

They did this, and when the dried leaves of the tobacco plant were smoked, the people felt at peace and contented. They knew it was

because the plant had originated where the warrior and the woman had such harmony, and that everyone who smoked this plant would

experience similar harmony.

 

For this reason, tobacco is always smoked at council meetings, and it has helped promote peace and friendship between the tribes.

Wherever people come together from different backgrounds, there is tobacco to help them. This is why it is an honored tradition not

only with the Principal People, but with all the other tribes.

 

 

 

"I think you have found your occupation," Black Bone said. "You will be the Tale Teller."

 

Surprised, Throat Shot agreed. So it was that the village of Five Birches had a minor ceremony and bestowed that new name on him.

Henceforth he would go from village to village, and entertain and educate them with his stories, and the people would give him

hospitality and gifts for the pleasure he brought them, and in this manner he would earn his keep.

 

As it turned out, he did more than that. As the Principal People learned that they could trust him with messages, they used him to

send greetings or insults to acquaintances in other villages. He established a regular route, going to each village where invited,

remaining for several days, then running to the next. The children turned out for his arrival, and there was always a lodge waiting

for him, sometimes empty, sometimes with a family. They gave him gifts, and in time he received the one he most desired: a good

blowgun. He practiced with it, in private, at first with unpoisoned darts, then with real ones, until he was able to bring down

squirrels and rabbits at will. It was not good for larger game, but he was satisfied. Now he could bring his own game to the fire.

He was to this extent a man again.

 

But one thing was missing. The Principal People were more open about the sport their maidens indulged in, and a woman could do

exactly as she pleased. But maidens did keep a clear eye on prospects, and a young woman generally bestowed her favors freely only

if she was considering a man for a serious association. Tale Teller had three marks against him in this respect: he was not of the

Principal People, he had only one useful arm, and he could not commit himself to remaining here. At any time the spirits of the

mounds might summon him away.

 

Occasionally a woman did come to him, as a matter of courtesy, but she made it plain that this constituted appreciation for the

service he rendered the village, rather than any direct interest in him as a man. He accepted what was offered, but it distinctly

lessened his pleasure in the experience. This was a far cry from what Beautiful Moon had given him, though she too had made no

pretense of permanence.

 

Yet he could not fault the women. Their attitude made sense, and was consistent with their culture. Were he ready to join the

Principal People tribe, and agree to remain here, he would be a better prospect. But that he could not do.

 

So he told his tales, and was at the same time the most popular and least popular visitor among them. He continued to learn the

tongue and ways of the Principal People, never speaking of his private dissatisfaction.

 

 

 

In the beginning, water covered everything. Living creatures existed, but their home was up in the sky, above the rainbow, and it

was crowded. "We need more room," the animals said. "We are tired of being all jammed together." So they sent Water Beetle to look

around to see if he could find something better.

 

Water Beetle skimmed over the surface, but he could not find any solid footing, so he dived down to the bottom and brought up a

little dab of soft mud. When it came to the surface it spread out in four directions and became a huge island. To prevent it from

sinking, Someone Powerful took rawhide ropes and tied them to the four corners: north, east, south, and west. The ropes were

anchored to the ceiling of the sky, which is made of hard rock crystal. If those ropes ever break, this world will come tumbling

down, and sink under the water, and all living things on it will drown. Then it will be as it was before, as if the land never

existed.

 

But the new land was soft, moist, and flat, which was not much good for living on. The animals were eager to live on it, so they

kept sending down birds to see if the mud had dried and hardened enough to hold their weight. The birds reported that there was no

spot they could perch on. But they did not fly across the whole of it, for the mud flat was quite large; indeed, it was hard to see

from one side of it to the other.

 

"I will look into this," Grandfather Buzzard said. He was the biggest bird and the strongest flier of them all. He flew down quite

close, and saw that the ground was still soft. But he continued to look, and when he passed what was to be the country of the

Principal People, he glided low and found that the mud was getting harder.

 

But by this time even this great bird was getting tired, and he was too low. When he flapped his wings down, they touched the earth

and dented it, making valleys. When he swept them up, they dragged earth with them and made mountains. He tried to gain elevation,

flapping harder, but it only made the valleys and mountains deeper and higher.

 

The animals watching from above the rainbow saw this, and were worried. "If he keeps on, there will be only mountainous country!"

So they called to Grandfather Buzzard to come back. He turned around, and managed to get far enough above the earth so that his

wings no longer touched, and he returned to the rainbow. This is why there are so many mountains in the land of the Principal

People, and not so many elsewhere.

 

At last the earth was dry enough and hard enough, and the animals came down to inhabit it. But it was dark, and they could not see

well, because the Sun and Moon remained up beyond the rainbow. "Let's grab the Sun and bring her down too!" they exclaimed. Many

tribes are too ignorant to know that the Sun is female and the Moon male; they get it backwards, and only the Principal People

remember it correctly.

 

So they pulled down the Sun, and told her, "Here is a road for you!" Indeed, they had prepared a path, so that the Sun could travel

all the way across the land, from east to west. The Sun was happy to do this, for she too preferred not to be crowded.

 

Now they had light, but it was too hot, because the Sun was too close to the earth. The crawfish had his back sticking out of a

stream, and the Sun burned it red. His meat was spoiled, and the people would not eat it.

 

The people went to the priests. "The Sun is too close and hot!" they said. "You must put her higher!" So the priests pushed the Sun

up as high as a man, but it remained too hot and parts of the earth were getting burned. They pushed her higher yet, but it was

still too close. They kept trying, and stood upon each other's shoulders so as to push the Sun as high as they could. After the

fourth time, they finally had her high enough, and the heat was just right. Everyone was satisfied, and the Sun remained at that

level, and she is there today.

 

Someone Powerful first created plants and animals, and told them to stay awake for seven days and seven nights. But most of them

couldn't manage it. Some fell asleep after one day, some after two, and others after three. Only the owl and the mountain lion

remained awake after seven days and nights. So they were given the gift of seeing in the dark, and now they hunt in the night.

Among the plants, only the cedar, pine, holly, and laurel were still awake at the end of the allotted time. To them was given the

gift of not losing their foliage in the winter, and now they remain green all the time.

 

Then Someone Powerful made a man and his sister. The man thought there should be more than just the two of them, so he poked her

with a fish and told her to give birth. After seven days she had a baby. Seven days later she had another. She kept having more

every seven days. The human people were increasing so rapidly that Someone Powerful was concerned that they would soon squeeze all

the other animals and the plants off the earth and ruin it for everyone. So he changed the woman, so that it would require more

than a fish to make her have a baby, and she could have only one child a year. After that it was possible for the human people to

live together in harmony with the animals and plants, and it was good.

 

The Principal People came to the mountains, and remain here, and this, too, is good.

 

 

 

CHAPTER 12

MAD QUEEN

O Spirit of the Mound, I have told you about the great ball game of the Principal People and how Throat Shot became Tale Teller and

told the tales of the game and the tobacco and the origin of the land. Now I will tell you how the child Tzec fared, for later I

was to meet her again and learn her story of the Castile Woman and the Mad Queen of the strange, distant Tribe of Castile.

 

 

 

Tzec was sad when Throat Shot left, for he was the man she intended to marry. By the time he returned, she would be old enough. The

spirit of the little mound at the Wide Water had told her that. But he had to marry elsewhere first: the Spirit had told her that

too. She was fiercely jealous of his first wife, but she intended to make him forget her when he returned.

 

Meanwhile, she had what turned out to be a good life here with the Trader. His sister, Three Scales, was a forbidding but good

woman who asked only that men and children stay out of her way. Tzec found herself in league with the Trader to do that, avoiding

the woman's cutting tongue. It was evident that the unmarried state made women sour. But the lodge was well kept, the food was

good, and the tongue was the only weapon the woman used.

 

The Trader was held in respect among the Ais, and so was his family. Tzec was allowed to associate with others her age, and she

soon enough picked up their tongue. She learned the things of the Ais, and they were like the things of the Calusa and Toco, but

different in detail. It didn't matter to her, as she regarded herself as a civilized Maya on an extended visit to the primitive

world. If she ever had the chance to return, and if she could be sure her father the Trader would not suffer by her absence— But

her thought always ended there, because she did not want to leave the Trader. Also, she had to be here when Throat Shot returned,

so she could marry him.

 

In the spring it was time to make the trading circuit. The Trader gathered his wares, some of which he had gotten from other

traders who came from the north or the south, and she helped him haul them to his canoe on the inland river. This was the hardest

part of it, because the loads were heavy, but she was resolved to show that a daughter could be as strong as a son, and she carried

her share. What a relief it was to get into the canoe!

 

She took the front seat and plied her paddle vigorously. She had practiced this over the winter, knowing that what the Trader

needed most was a strong supplementary paddle. He had paddled himself before, but as his age advanced, his muscles tired, and a

canoe was much easier to handle with two. That was why he had been willing to pick up Throat Shot, in part, and Throat Shot, though

one-armed, had done a good job. Tzec was an apt learner, and she intended to do as good a job.

 

They moved up through the lakes, and into a stream, northwest. At times the water seemed about to expire in a mudhole, but they

pushed on through. In one place it became no more than a muddy channel the Trader must have made by hauling his canoe along it in

past years. Had there not been a good rain recently, they would have had to portage here. But that was not an accident; the Trader

had been alert for the weather, and had been glad when it rained. Now she understood why.

 

But soon enough they had to portage anyway, in a fashion. They did not unload and carry the canoe; they got out and hauled it with

ropes, loaded, so at least they did not have to carry the stuff on their backs. The ground was mucky, and there were snakes; she

wished fearless Throat Shot were here to banish her fear, as he had before. There really was something magical about him; he

associated with the spirits, and it showed, especially when there were bad snakes around.

 

Both Tzec and the Trader were covered with sweat and grime by the time they reached a north-flowing river that he said would hold.

But they would have to wash before they reached the first village along it, he said. She didn't know why, but knew he knew best. So

they took turns watching for snakes and alligators as the other washed both body and clothes. In due course they were wet but

clean.

 

"You are young and small," the Trader remarked. "But you are nearly a woman. One more winter, I think."

 

She thought so too. Her smallness came from her mother; it did not mean she was not maturing. She wanted to achieve her maturity so

as to be ready in case Throat Shot returned early.

 

They dried in the sun, then resumed paddling. It was still slow, as the water was shallow, but they did not have to get out of the

canoe.

 

They reached the village. The people shook their heads as they signed greetings, recognizing the Trader. Where was his river

through the swamp? they wanted to know. They could not pass it without getting all muddy, yet he and his child had evidently never

left their canoe.

 

It was a trade secret, the Trader signed good-naturedly. Now Tzec understood why they had had to wash: it was to mystify the

villagers and give themselves an advantage. It was easier to strike an advantageous bargain with people who did not understand your

ways well enough.

 

They were provided a small lodge, so that Tzec was jammed right next to the Trader and the woman who came to him, honey-laden. It

was dark, but Tzec took advantage of the proximity to study in detail exactly what went on. She wanted no mistakes when it was her

turn to entertain some young man. She had never been able to see quite enough when Throat Shot did it, and in any event he was new

at it, and was limited by his bad arm. The Trader was thoroughly experienced, as was this woman, and they made a fair game of it,

teasing each other before concluding it with abandon.

 

So it went, from village to village, trading goods and news at each. Tzec helped by modeling the fine feather cloaks so that every

feather showed off to full advantage. Because she was small, they looked larger on her, and even more valuable. The Trader was

pleased; he was doing well. "It was a good day when the spirits brought me a daughter," he murmured in Ais, and it was all she

could do to mask her pleasure, lest the villagers think she was laughing at them.

 

In due course they came to the village where Throat Shot had lived, Toco Atafi. She inspected it carefully, for one day she hoped

to live here with him. The villagers were surprised to see the Trader with a daughter, when they had not known he had one; they

assumed she had been too young to travel before.

 

Then they reached the village where she had lived among the Toco for a winter, pretending to be mute rather than speak their

barbaric tongue. Her attitude on that had changed when Throat Shot came! He had been the first to respect her as a person, and to

make a genuine effort to communicate with her. She had been wary, distrusting any friendly overture, but soon knew that despite his

bad arm he was a good man, with a fine and ready mind. His arm would distract most women, who saw things only superficially, but

Tzec had already had enough experience to know how to look deeper. She had wanted this man to buy her, but he lacked the wealth.

Then, as they traveled together, she had come to understand her real desire, and that was to many him. When she was ready. It had

all started here in the village of Ibi Hica, one year ago.

 

Here they recognized her. "You have not sold your slave?" the Chief inquired of the Trader. He used signs, not realizing that Tzec

had learned enough of the Toco tongue to translate. She elected not to clarify that, and the Trader kept a similar silence. They

both knew why: there was advantage to be gained when the other party did not know you could understand his private consultations.

 

"She is my daughter," the Trader signed in return.

 

The Chief and the others were amazed. Why should a man waste a good prospect for trade by adopting a slave? For they knew that if

the Trader had a secret hankering for the sexual use of children, he would have indulged it without adoption. Such use of his

daughter would be shameful. The adoption had to be genuine.

 

The Trader let them ponder for a moment, then added in signs: "She saved my life."

 

Their amazement faded. So it was gratitude! Traders were not known for that sentiment, but it was possible.

 

They proceeded to the trading, and Tzec modeled the feather cloaks of the type that had constituted her purchase price before. The

women gazed at her, and saw how lovely she became in the feathers, and believed that the cloaks were responsible, and their desire

for these items increased. The men saw the same, and it occurred to them how much better any man or woman would look in one of

these, and how much status such a possession would confer.

 

The bargaining became brisk.

 

After it was done, Tzec knew she had earned back her purchase price by her enhancement of the cloaks, because the villagers had

paid more for them than they would have. She had also murmured to the Trader when anything was said that he should be aware of,

helping him keep track. The Trader had made a good bargain when he adopted her, and that pleased her, for she preferred to be truly

beholden to no one.

 

She was invited to share the night with the children she had known. She glanced at the Trader. "Do it," he murmured in Ais. "It

will give me more room with my woman."

 

She smiled. It was the first indication he had given that her presence bothered him, and she knew it was false. He liked to have

her near him, even when he clasped a woman. He knew her, and he trusted her, and it was a bond between them that had strengthened

over the year. But he wanted to give her some freedom. She was truly his daughter.

 

So she joined her erstwhile companions, who were eager to know where she had been and what she had done. She surprised them by

speaking Toco; now that the trading was done, it didn't matter. Her vocabulary was not large in this tongue, because she had not

been long enough with Throat Shot to learn it all, but she had the basic terms. Also, she had picked up some on her own while here,

making it easier.

 

She told them of her canoe journey down the river and out to the sea, and of the Calusa people with their island village and odd

double canoes, and of the great Wide Water that was not the sea but the biggest lake anyone could imagine. She told them of the

mounds she had visited with Throat Shot, and how he talked with the dead. She did not mention her own experience in that regard,

not being quite sure of it. Finally, she told how Throat Shot had helped her have the courage to handle a bad snake so it did not

bite the Trader, and how the Trader had then adopted her as his daughter.

 

They were awed, but they believed. They all remembered how the one-armed man had picked up the rattlesnake without being bitten.

"He has no fear!" they said in wonder.

 

"He has no fear," she agreed. That was perhaps the thing that had truly quickened her interest in Throat Shot. She had liked him

from the start, but the sight of him with that dire snake had affected her profoundly. Many claimed to have had experience with the

spirits, but he had proved it, because the Spirit had truly taken his fear. Surely there was no other man like that in all the

world of the living.

 

She enjoyed her visit much more than she had liked her stay here before. She was now not a possession waiting to be traded, but the

Trader's daughter, and that made all the difference. She had the respect accorded a person with a family.

 

 

 

They continued on the trading route, exchanging wares for others more valuable where they were going. Tzec loved it. She was caught

up in the spirit of striking bargains, of outwitting opposite numbers so as to come out ahead despite seeming not to. It was as if

the Trader's spirit had entered her and made her similar, as if she had always been his daughter.

 

The Cacique of the Calusa was as hospitable as before. He, too, recognized Tzec. "So you adopted him as your father?" he inquired,

smiling. His eyes narrowed appraisingly. "Next year you will come to me with the honey, eh?"

 

Tzec, astonished, was unable to respond. It had never occurred to her that so prominent a chief could desire so insignificant a

child.

 

The Trader laughed, covering her confusion. "My daughter is innocent in the ways of men. She has no notion that she is beautiful."

 

"She will learn," the Cacique said, joining the laugh.

 

Actually, Tzec did expect to be beautiful, because her mother had been. But the Cacique had access to the loveliest grown women of

his tribe, which was a different matter.

 

They proceeded to the trading, and Tzec assisted, and it was good. But her mind remained on the Cacique's remark. She well

understood it; what had surprised her was that he should bother to make it, for he knew her origin. She was too small, and she had

no true culture other than that of her mother, and her mother was dead. Probably it was just his way of complimenting her, in order

to please the Trader and perhaps gain an advantage in bargaining.

 

That night Heron Feather, the Cacique's beautiful young wife, came to the Trader. Tzec remembered her well; she had initiated

Throat Shot into the mysteries of sex. Tzec had learned a tantalizing amount, being unable to see the detail. This time she watched

even more carefully, studying what it was that made a man react most directly. She saw that it was not just the woman's good body,

but the way she moved it, accentuating the parts of it that drew a man's eye. There was art to this, and it had to be done just

right, or the effect was weakened or lost.

 

And when the Trader was done with her, Heron Feather was not done with him. She continued to stroke him and speak to him,

whispering what a fine man he was and how happy he had made her, though she had been the one working to make him happy. She made it

seem as if she had never before encountered as skillful a lover as he. The Trader was not for a moment deceived, yet he evidently

enjoyed hearing it. That was another lesson: the man was willingly deceived.

 

They slept, and Tzec slept too. In the morning Heron Feather teased him awake and into action again, twining around him like a

serpent, forcing him to respond while making it seem that it was his initiative. It was as if she were doing a dance, with every

aspect just right. "You wear me out with your power!" she breathed without the slightest indication of humor.

 

When they were back in the canoe and alone on the river that traveled inland, the Trader spoke. "You noted what we did, as you did

last year?"

 

"Only twice, for you," Tzec replied.

 

"Twice is enough, for an old man. Heron Feather is the best I have encountered. If you learn from her, you will learn well."

 

"The Cacique," she asked hesitantly. "Did he really mean...?"

 

"He has an eye for beauty, and you will be beautiful," the Trader said seriously. "He was complimenting you, but it was not empty.

He thought to make you react as you did, most fetchingly."

 

"But the honey—"

 

"You will still be young, next year, but I think not too young. It would be a great compliment to him if you asked him to teach you

the way of honey, that you might learn first from the best."

 

"Is he the best?"

 

"Of course not! But you must never let a man know that. Did not you see how Heron Feather flattered me?"

 

"You liked it, though you knew she pretended."

 

"That is the folly of men. Do that with the Cacique, and he will be generous, though you will fool him no more than Heron Feather

fooled me."

 

And future trading would be good. She saw the rationale. Yet she doubted. "What if I am not good with him?"

 

"A girl need not be good her first time. A man values it anyway, for there can never be another first time. The Cacique especially,

for he counts the number of firsts to his credit."

 

"But suppose he wanted to keep me? I do not want to leave you, my father."

 

"He has no need to keep any who do not wish to stay, for there are many who do wish to stay. I will, if you wish, make clear that I

cannot do without your help on my rounds."

 

She considered that, and it seemed good. Here would be an excellent way to learn, without commitment. The fact that it might also

improve the Trader's reception by the powerful Calusa made it that much better.

 

The Trader mistook her silence. "I do not urge this course on you, my daughter. Only if you are ready, and wish it. This matter

must always be the woman's choice, until she marries. I merely advise you what is good."

 

"It seems good to me, my father," she said. And it did.

 

They completed the circuit, having made an excellent season of it. Tzec had helped the trading, and even the Trader's sour sister,

Three Scales, was hard put to it to conceal her pleasure at this success.

 

During the winter Tzec's body began its development, and so at ten and one winters she was nubile, though her breasts were as yet

small. She asked Three Scales about honey, and the woman, acting in the capacity of mother, got a pouch of it from the priest. "Use

it sparingly," Three Scales warned. "This much at a time, no more, lest it be wasted." She demonstrated by dipping a fingerful.

"Every spring, get new; it does not keep longer than a summer and winter. Do not use it when you see no need; the men smell it." So

it was that Tzec's sexual education was completed; she was now ready to be a woman, when she chose.

 

On the Trader's next circuit, Tzec did as he had suggested. When she saw the Cacique, she knelt and lifted her hands in the

prescribed manner. When he touched her hands, she murmured with unfeigned hesitancy, "Illustrious one, you spoke of honey last

year. I have saved my first honey for you because I wish to learn from the best. Will you teach me?"

 

The Cacique had evidently forgotten his remark of the prior year, but now he looked closely at her, becoming interested. He glanced

at the Trader. "Your daughter—"

 

"I must have her help on my rounds," the Trader signed, approximately. "I am getting older, and she makes it easier. But I can

spare her for one night."

 

The Cacique turned to Heron Feather. Without a word, the woman took Tzec by the arm and guided her to the women's chambers. There

they ate, and after that Heron Feather took her to a special room to get ready. "You must be in a better outfit," she said, and

brought out a fine, almost translucent cloak. "We will keep your moss skirt for you." She made Tzec stand naked, and washed her

body with a sponge. "He will like you; you are young but pretty."

 

"But what do I say? What do I do?" Tzec asked, worried. "I have seen it many times, but never done it, and I fear—"

 

"Say yes, always, unless he asks whether you are uncomfortable. Do whatever he says. Do not sleep until he sleeps, and wake when he

wakes. If you bleed, apologize. He will treat you well, for he likes you."

 

"I am frightened," Tzec confessed.

 

"So was I, the first time," Heron Feather said. "He expects it. He will try to be gentle. He is very pleased that you came to him,

and his pleasure is a good thing."

 

"So my father said."

 

"And ever after, until you marry, you must say that the Cacique was best."

 

Tzec nodded tensely. She understood the protocol.

 

As evening came, Heron Feather saw to her application of honey and brought her to the Cacique's chamber. "May the spirits be kind

to you," she murmured.

 

Tzec stepped inside. The Cacique was waiting for her. He had an elevated bed that looked very soft. "Come to me, lovely little

woman," he said.

 

After that her memory fuzzed. She remembered the feel of his hands on her small breasts, and of his mouth on her mouth, and of his

great hard penis deep inside her body, but the rest was vague, except that she had been tense at the start and was less so at the

end. She hoped he had had good pleasure with her body, but she had had none with his.

 

"Have you enjoyed it, little woman?" he inquired.

 

"Yes, illustrious one," she replied.

 

"It is not true, but I thank you. I think you are just a little too young, but you will not be too young for the next man. I will

make you glad you came to me."

 

She was afraid he was going to do it again, but instead he slept. Relieved, she let herself join him.

 

He stirred several times during the night, and each time she woke, tense again, ready to do what he asked, but he did not ask. When

morning came he smiled at her. "You did not cut out my heart, little woman."

 

Tzec's mouth dropped open. "Oh illustrious one, I never—"

 

He laughed, and kissed her on the forehead. "Go to the women's room, and then to your father. You have done well."

 

Somewhat tired and somewhat sore, she donned her cloak and went. Heron Feather wasn't there, but another woman was and she knew

what to do. "You have pleased the Cacique, and he will please you," the woman said as she cleaned Tzec up and put her regular skirt

on her. "Now eat, and I will take you to your father."

 

Tzec was hardly hungry, but she did take some fruit. Then Heron Feather returned, looking as if she had had a far better night's

sleep than Tzec. "He is pleased," she said.

 

Everyone seemed to know that, but Tzec wasn't sure. She knew she had not performed at all the way she should have; she had been

tense no matter how hard she had tried to prevent it, and the Cacique had known. She had seen Heron Feather in action, and knew

that the Cacique would have been much, much better off with her.

 

Then at last she was taken out to rejoin the Trader. Only now could she truly relax. He saw her and smiled. "You pleased him," he

said in Ais.

 

As they went to their canoe, they paused, for it was different. There was a pile of beautiful shells in it, any one of which was an

excellent trading item. Their trading venture had abruptly become much better than before.

 

Now at last Tzec understood just what the Cacique's pleasure was worth.

 

 

 

When they were well away from the Calusa island and paddling up the river, they talked about it. "My daughter, I know the first

time is hard," the Trader said. "I see you are tired. We will find a place to camp, and you can rest for a day."

 

"No, I can paddle!" she protested. But his offer had opened the subject, and she continued. "I know I did not do well. Why was he

so pleased?"

 

"He did not hurt you?"

 

"He did only what a man does, but I was so tense I am ashamed. He treated me well, but I was afraid."

 

"My daughter, that is the difference between the first time and the other times. No matter how often she has seen it done, and how

well she is prepared, a girl cannot do it well at first. At best she is tense, and at worst she hurts and bleeds. He expected that.

I have done it with first-time girls, and I know."

 

"Then why did he want me? Heron Feather would have been so much better!"

 

"Three reasons. First, because you are beautiful."

 

She paused in her paddling, turning around to face him. "It is true, my father?" Somehow she always needed to be reassured on this,

though she knew she was being foolish.

 

"It is true. You are small, and your breasts are slight and your hips narrow, but that is because you are young. Next year you will

attract the eye of every man who encounters you. But already your face is one to make men dream. I know that when the Cacique's

wives cleaned you and garbed you in fine clothing, you were lovelier than any of them."

 

"Not Heron Feather!" she protested.

 

"Heron Feather has a body like none other, and her face is pretty," he agreed. "But she is two tens and two or three winters old,

and so has lost the perfection of youth. You are prettier than she now."

 

She suspected he was flattering her to make her forget her ignominy of the night. He was succeeding. "What are the other reasons he

wanted me?"

 

"Because it was the first time for you. It is special mettle for a man to be the first to do it with a woman. There is only one

first time, so it is important. When you came to him and asked him to be your first, it magnified him in the eyes of all his

people."

 

"But he must have had many firsts!"

 

"Certainly—and he values each one. It shows that he retains his appeal and his prowess. You are not his subject; you did not have

to seek him. You flattered him in the best way he could be flattered. Others will speak of this for a long time: how the girl from

afar sought him because he is the best."

 

"But how could he be sure that it was my first? I mean—"

 

"He is experienced. He knows. There are things a woman cannot pretend. What you thought made you poor actually confirmed your

inexperience. That pleased him."

 

It made sense now. The Cacique had not wanted mere sex, he had wanted to be the first—and she had given him that. "What is the

third reason?"

 

"It is who you are."

 

"Your daughter!" she said immediately, pleased.

 

He smiled. "That, in part. But more, it is that you are your mother's daughter. Your mother had a certain notoriety."

 

"She was a Maya!"

 

"She cut out the heart of any man who took her by force."

 

Suddenly the Cacique's remark of the morning fell into place. "He said I did not cut out his heart! But I never intended—"

 

"He knew that. But the notion added spice. Others will say he is a special man, because the daughter of the Maya did not cut out

his heart, after he possessed her and slept in her presence. No other Chief can make that claim."

 

Tzec shook her head. "And you have a fine collection of shells! I am glad I chose him to be my first."

 

"He knew you would be. He is a fair man, and you gave him much. Those shells are yours."

 

"Oh, no, my father, they are yours!" she protested. "You are the Trader."

 

"They are yours," he repeated firmly. "When you marry, your husband will be wealthy."

 

"I thank you, my father," she said, near tears in gratitude.

 

"You have given me more than shells," he said.

 

"You have given me more than anything," she responded.

 

They continued paddling, and her body remained tired and sore, but her heart was high.

 

 

 

When they returned to the Ais village, and Tzec's time was free, she considered the matter, and then went to the lodge of a young

man she knew had not much experience. His face was scarred from a childhood accident, and because the scar had not been acquired in

battle, it shamed him rather than being handsome. Thus he was called Scar Nose. The girls were fickle, and avoided him. Tzec went

to him because she knew he would be grateful.

 

He was unbelieving. "You—the most beautiful girl of the village?" he asked. "Do you come to tease me?"

 

"I come to you only this night," she said. "But it is not to tease you. I know you are a better man than others think." She kissed

him, knowing that he smelled her honey and was aroused by it.

 

He found that easy to accept, in the fashion of men. He was relatively clumsy in the sexual act, and she had to help him, and it

was not any genuine pleasure for her. But she complimented him on his performance, and indeed she was pleased that she had done

this. She had proved that she could handle it, and that she was competent even when the man was not. She also knew that she had

enhanced Scar Nose's status in the village, especially among the men. That gave her a feeling of power.

 

She did not go often to young men's lodges, but did it enough to gain the experience she needed. Now she felt competent to make a

man happy, when she chose.

 

 

 

The third trading circuit went well. Tzec was conscious of the eyes of young men on her at each village, and sometimes she chose to

go with one of them for the night, especially when this enhanced the prospects of trade. When they reached the Calusa island, she

sought the Cacique, and this time she gave him much more pleasure of the body and less of reputation, for she was obviously

experienced. "I have had men," she told him, "but none to match you, my first."

 

"I have had women," he replied. "But none to match you, my loveliest."

 

"Really?" she asked, thrilled, forgetting herself.

 

He laughed. "My tongue can be as forked as yours! Never question a compliment."

 

She knew then that she was n