Then the man on the ground rolled over, sat up, and drew the robe away from his head. It was Sweet Medicine! He had overheard their

conversation, and knew that they were ready to accept him.

 

"Is it true, what the boys said?" his brother asked after welcoming him.

 

"Yes, that is what I said. Now put up a big double lodge and level the ground nicely inside. When it is ready, send for me."

 

They hastened to set things up as he directed. When it was done, Sweet Medicine went there. The news of how he had fed the little

boys had spread throughout the tribe, and the remaining food had quickly disappeared. "O Sweet Medicine!" the people cried. "Take

pity on us and help us get food, as you did for the children!"

 

Sweet Medicine sat down in the big lodge and said, "Go fetch an old buffalo skull and put it in the opening in the circle." They

did this. Then he began to sing. As he sang, the head moved toward them. It filled out, becoming a buffalo head, but without any

body. Then it grunted, as if it were alive, but still it was only the head.

 

"Take it into the back of the lodge," Sweet Medicine said. "Put it near the fire."

 

Then he spoke to the others. "I have been gone four years, though it seemed like only an afternoon to me. I know that you are

starving because there are no buffalo. I want you all to remain in this lodge for four days and four nights. Whatever happens,

remain here, for if the magic is interrupted it will end, and you will not achieve what you desire."

 

They promised to do this. Then Sweet Medicine sang again, and they sang with him, to help him do what he had to do. They sang for

two days, and every so often the buffalo head near the fire would grunt as if calling someone.

 

On the third morning there was a shaking of the ground, and the grunts of the buffalo head were echoed in the distance beyond the

camp. They looked out, and there was a great herd of buffalo ranging toward the camp, blowing and grunting in the manner of their

kind. The people wanted to go out and kill some buffalo, but they knew they must not. Instead they remained inside and helped Sweet

Medicine sing.

 

On the fourth morning the buffalo were all through the camp and surrounded the lodge. They were grunting back and forth to the head

inside, which they could not see. It was as though he were the chief of the buffalo, calling them to him.

 

Then Sweet Medicine said to the people, "Now go out and kill as many buffalo as you need for food for yourselves, but no more than

that. I will remain here and sing, and they will not go away."

 

They went out, and it was true: the buffalo did not flee, and they were able to kill a number quickly. But they heeded Sweet

Medicine's warning, and killed only the number they needed. The remaining animals walked out through the gap in the formations of

lodges, and disappeared into the forest.

 

So it was that the people lived better and had more to eat than before. Because they had killed only what they needed, more buffalo

remained in the area, and could be hunted after the first were used up. The people marveled at this, and were grateful to Sweet

Medicine for what he had done.

 

Sweet Medicine told them the whole story of how he had listened to the spirits in the mountain, and learned from them. He showed

them the arrow bundle. "You have not yet learned how to live in the right way," he told them. "That is why the spirits were angry,

and took away your buffalo. Now you must live as they tell you, and you will prosper."

 

They agreed to do this, and Sweet Medicine taught them all he had learned from the spirits of the mountain. When he had done this,

the Chief of the tribe gave him his daughter to be his wife. She was a very pretty girl, and she was very grateful for what Sweet

Medicine had done for the tribe. She had been a child of twelve winters when he left, but now she was quite another person.

 

"But I cannot marry yet," Sweet Medicine said. "I have to return to the mountain, to report to the spirits there, and tell them

that I have done their bidding." This was true, but it was also true that he had little experience with women and was alarmed at

the prospect of being bound to one. It had been said that he had no father; it was also true that he had no mother. The old woman

who had cared for him as a child was the only one he had known well, and though she had been a good woman, he could not imagine

being married to one like her.

 

"Then I will go with you," the girl said.

 

"But it will be a hard trip!"

 

"I will make it easier." She smiled at him, and her beauty caught hold of him and would not let him go, and he could not deny her.

He felt a desire rising, and did not know what it was, except that only she could satisfy it. Indeed, he had much to learn about

ordinary life and the ways of love!

 

So it was that Sweet Medicine set out for the mountain, accompanied by the girl. The people gave him a good dog with a travois, to

haul supplies, and they started walking.

 

The journey took several days, and when he rested at night the girl rubbed his tired feet and kneaded his muscles and covered him

with a blanket and lay down beside him, and she was quite warm and soft and pliable. It occurred to him that it might not be a bad

thing to be married.

 

They reached the great lodge within the mountain. They entered by the secret way, and the spirits there said, "Ah! Here is our

grandson, returned with his wife!"

 

"No, I have not married," Sweet Medicine protested.

 

They glanced at each other, knowing better than he. "Let her sit aside while we converse with you," they told him. "She must not

speak or gesture."

 

The girl agreed, not knowing what they intended.

 

The spirits in this lodge were not ordinary spirits. They were all the beings that belong in the world. There were human people and

buffalo and antelopes and birds and trees and grass and rocks. All the things that grow or exist on earth were there, each

represented by its spirit. But they all looked like people, for they could assume any forms they wished, for their convenience, and

speak in any tongue.

 

Four of them seemed to be the principal men. To the right of the door as he entered sat a black man, and to the left was a brown

man. At the back was a white man, and near the front was another brown man. All of them were as handsome and well made as he had

seen, being perfect men except for their odd colors. They neither spoke nor did anything; they just sat there.

 

"Choose one of these four to be yourself," the chief spirit said. Sweet Medicine looked at each man, and he liked them all; he

would be glad to resemble any of them. The chief seemed to be making signs with his lips that he should choose the black or the

white one. But Sweet Medicine did not know why he should do that, and he was wary of the strange colors of those men. He chose the

brown man to the left of the door instead. "I will be like that one," he said.

 

There was a moment's pause. Then the girl made a sad exclamation, and all in the lodge made low groans. They were sorry for Sweet

Medicine, for he had made a mistake.

 

He looked around again, but the men were not there. Where the white man had been was only a great white, smooth stone; the black

man was a smooth black stone. The brown man near the center was a tall, slender weed-stalk, while the one he had chosen was a

pretty weed as high as a man's knee, with green leaves and pretty flowers.

 

The chief spirit pointed to one of the stones, and then to the other. "You should have chosen one of those. Then you would have

lived to old age, and after you grew old, you would have become young again. It would always have happened; you would never have

died. The man you chose is a mere fish-bladder in comparison. You could have lived forever with the black or the white stone. I

placed both where you would see them first, hoping you would choose one."

 

One of the spirits got up and left, saying, "That man is a fool."

 

Sweet Medicine did not like that remark, but the chief spirit said to him, "Follow him; he has great power."

 

This time Sweet Medicine took his advice. He and the girl went out of the mountain and followed the spirit man for a long time. It

seemed as if they went all over the world, till at last they came back to the same place. He was afraid they had made a fool of

him, but the chief spirit smiled. "You succeeded in staying with him; we shall reward you." For the man they had followed was the

wind, and few people could keep him in sight for very long. They told him of many of the things that were to come to pass in the

world, so that they would not catch him by surprise, and he could warn his tribe.

 

They gave him a feather, from the same eagle whose feathers had completed the sacred arrows. He put this feather in his hair, and

he was to wear it ever after, as his token of honor.

 

Then he departed, with the girl and the dog, and made the long journey back to the tribe. By the time they got there, Sweet

Medicine understood that he was married, and was to be a father, for the girl had led him into pleasurable things which had that

effect, and he was satisfied.

 

But another four years had passed since their departure from the tribe. Sweet Medicine was not surprised, but his wife was, for she

had not experienced this before. Her little sister now seemed as old as she, for neither she nor Sweet Medicine had aged in that

time.

 

They settled down near Sweet Medicine's brother, who now had children who seemed as old as they were, and made a family. But Sweet

Medicine's pattern of life was odd, because of his choice of men in the mountain. All through the summer he was young, but when

fall came he looked older, and by the middle of the winter he seemed old, and walked bent over. But in spring he became young

again, like a stripling. His wife did not change that way; she aged in the normal fashion. She indulged his changing needs as the

seasons shifted, being like his mother in the spring, and his lover in summer, and his daughter in winter. If she preferred one

role over another, she was too smart to say so.

 

But Sweet Medicine could not live forever, because he had chosen wrongly. His several phases of life all became older, until he was

a middle-aged man in spring, and a gaunt skeleton of a man in winter. When he knew he would not survive another winter, he summoned

the people and spoke to them.

 

"I shall not be with you much longer," he said. "I chose wrongly, in my youth, preferring appearance over reality, and so I paid

the price for my folly and now must die. I have endured as long as I care to, and I do not wish to be a burden to my good wife and

sons, and so I shall depart. But do not forget what I am telling you this day, lest the tribe suffer again as it did before, and

come to nothing. You must guard the sacred arrows, and honor their precepts always. You must come together often and talk over the

principles I have taught you. A time is coming when you will meet other people, and fight them, and your two tribes will kill each

other because each wants the land of the other. This is folly, for there will be a much greater threat coming from far away across

the great sea, and you will need all your strength to stand up against this. Keep the peace with other tribes, and do not fight

each other foolishly, or everyone will suffer grievously."

 

Sweet Medicine died, and his wife and brother mourned him, and the people respected his memory. But in time they did resume their

quarreling with their neighbors, and weakened themselves. Whether they will pay the penalty Sweet Medicine foresaw remains to be

seen.

 

 

 

CHAPTER 7

WIDE WATER

O Spirit of the Mound, I have told you the Trader's Tale of Sweet Medicine, and how he brought the four sacred arrows to his tribe,

which was far distant from here. I wonder if you knew him? Surely you were a leader like that, when you lived! Now I will tell you

how we came to the enormous inner lake called the Mayaimi, the Wide Water, and what the spirit of the mound there told me.

 

 

 

The rain had at last abated, and they were ready to resume their journey. Throat Shot, absorbed in the story, was a bit surprised

to return to the swamp. He had not been as deeply moved by this one as he had by Tzec's, yet there was magic in it, and things to

think about.

 

They turned over the canoe and loaded the goods back into it. They were damp, but had survived the storm well enough. What could

have been a disaster had become an interesting session.

 

They made their way back to the main channel of the river, and forged on east. They did not speak. As night closed, the Trader

directed them to a place he knew, and they found a ridge of land solid enough for them to camp on. Tzec gathered brush and dry moss

and sticks, and Throat Shot brought out his punk pot, fed its slowly smoldering belly, and made a fire. That was something he

didn't want wet down! It was possible to make a fire by twirling a stick against a hole in a piece of dry wood, but with his

limited arm this was difficult and even painful; far better to save the fire he already had. The Trader shot a fat turkey, and

cooked it over the fire, and the heat and food were very good. Then they damped the fire down, making it smudge and smoke, to keep

the mosquitoes and other creatures of the swamp away, and slept. There was no need to be alert, for only the Calusa would pass this

way, and they were friendly, while the fire would keep the dangerous animals away.

 

In the morning they went on, following the continual winding of the diminishing river. Grapevines hung on the trees, so close they

could have been harvested from the canoe, had there been anything ripe on them. The curtains of moss were so thick they gave the

trees an almost ghostly quality. Throat Shot almost fancied he saw faces of spirits in the deep shadows under that thick foliage,

but when he peered more closely he realized they were only great spiderwebs. This was like a land apart, beautiful in its richness.

Tzec was staring too, fascinated by this region of the birth of the great river.

 

In due course they came to the final narrowing, and then to a series of shallow grassy lakes that had water only because of the

recent rain. Throat Shot was afraid they would have to portage, but the Trader knew where the channels were, and they were able to

get out and slog through the sharp-edged grass beside the canoe and haul it along through the muck. Finally they slid it over a low

bank and came to the huge lake that was not quite its source: the Wide Water.

 

Both Throat Shot and Tzec stared at this. It seemed to be quite shallow, with reeds and water plants growing up through it in many

places, but it extended as far as they could see. It was indeed an inland sea. Birds floated on it, and flew above it, questing for

their food. Dragonflies of several colors darted busily, pursuing insects. Fish swam close beneath the surface. Otters played, but

moved out of bowshot range as the canoe approached. Turkeys took flight from its bank. Only the alligators refused to give way to

the canoe, until the Trader splashed violently with his paddle, causing them to back off for now. Bubbles rose from the water's

depths, popping as they touched the light. This was the Mayaimi, the greatest of lakes.

 

"That way flows the River of Grass," the Trader said, pointing to the southeast. "There are folk there, but I have nothing left

that they might want in trade, and it is a treacherous region because of the storms. But if you ever have a chance to go there with

someone who knows his way, it is a great experience."

 

"It was enough of an experience just getting here," Tzec remarked. Then, as an afterthought: "I liked your story."

 

"I liked yours," the Trader said.

 

Throat Shot did not comment, knowing that the Trader would not let storytelling interfere with business. When he found a suitable

price for the girl, he would sell her.

 

The canoe turned north, following the nebulous fringe of the lake, finding channels through the reeds and shallows. Not far along

there was another river, this one flowing into the lake instead of away from it, and this one was navigable. They followed this

toward the setting sun, and came to a landing where there was a solid dugout canoe similar to their own. They glided in to dock

beside it.

 

"I was here two seasons ago," the Trader said. "Speckled Turtle was young then, twelve winters, but she should be a fine woman now,

if she's not married."

 

Throat Shot didn't comment. The Trader liked his women, but they did have to be nubile. Throat Shot was glad of that, for Tzec's

sake.

 

There was a path leading generally southward through palmetto and marsh vegetation. They followed it until they reached an

east-west ridge overgrown by slender plants.

 

"Corn," the Trader said approvingly.

 

Corn! Throat Shot went to the ridge and examined one of the plants. Sure enough, there were green ears on it. He had seen corn so

seldom that he hadn't recognized it. On its edge grew squash, its vines reaching down toward the marshy area.

 

"Maybe they're civilized," Tzec murmured. She knew about corn; her ancestors were indeed civilized.

 

At the end of the long ridge was a lodge, at about the same height. It occurred to Throat Shot that there might be periodic floods

here, as there were along the Little Big River of his home, so that they had raised their house and garden to protect them. It took

only one flood to command respect, and the Toco watched the level of the river when it rose, and moved their belongings away.

 

The members of the family came out. There was a solid adult man, his similarly solid wife, two grown sons, and Speckled Turtle: not

the fairest of girls, but young and healthy and not yet running to the fat of her parents. She was bare to the waist in the common

Toco and Calusa mode, and if her breasts lacked heft, they had good form. That was the advantage of youth.

 

"Speak to them," the Trader said. "I have trinkets for each, and hope they have room for us this night."

 

Throat Shot did so. "The Trader was here two years ago, and remembers you with pleasure," he said. "I am translating for him as I

travel with him, and the girl was taken in trade. The Trader has gifts for you, and hopes you will welcome us this night."

 

The man smiled broadly, "He spoke in signs before," he said, waving his hands illustratively. "He was a good guest, but we could

learn only a little of his news. Now we can hear it all! You are welcome!"

 

It was a good start. This was Corn Husk and his wife, Corn Tassel, who lived on the corn they grew and traded it for other items.

Once this had been a larger community, Corn Husk explained, but now they were the only family remaining, except for a few others up

Fish Eater River. They were hungry for contact with others. For one thing, they had a daughter to marry off.

 

Speckled Turtle flushed demurely. The gesture became her. Surely the Trader would have her for the night.

 

They fed on corn fritters and squash, excellently prepared, with fermented palm drink. Throat Shot had the wit to take it slowly so

that it would not have a full effect on his mind. Throughout the meal the Trader told of the events of the distant regions to which

he had traveled, encouraging Throat Shot to augment the descriptions liberally. When he spoke of the Cacique and his fine lodge and

several wives, Corn Husk nodded knowingly; he had been there. But Speckled Turtle listened eagerly, evidently wishing she could

visit.

 

As evening came, Speckled Turtle showed them to an outlying chamber of the lodge. It had no pot, but there was a path to the nearby

waste trench. Throat Shot was glad of that; he was not comfortable urinating into crockery. There were blankets for each. The girl

evidently expected to share the night with the Trader, but he demurred. "I remember you as you were," he told her, as Throat Shot

translated. "You are a fine woman now, but my memory stays me. Go with Throat Shot instead."

 

Throat Shot jumped, finding himself abruptly referring to himself. The girl looked at him, seeming not pleased, but determined not

to shame her family. His feelings were mixed, on more than one level. Speckled Turtle was not as attractive and surely not as

experienced as Heron Feather, but of course that was not to be expected; no one could match that standard.

 

What was a problem was her evident diffidence. She averted her gaze from his hooked left arm, and seemed to wish she were

elsewhere. There was the odor of herb honey about her, so she knew what to do, but he knew it had been intended for the Trader.

 

Throat Shot had been interested in having the experience with another woman, and that honey smell excited him, but this put him

off. Heron Feather had led the way throughout, carrying the action to him, knowing exactly what to do and how to do it, and that

had made it easy. It was evident that he would have to do the carrying with Speckled Turtle, who would neither resist nor

encourage, and would probably depart as soon as it was done. The notion of doing such a thing with an unwilling woman was foreign

to him. But he knew he could not simply tell her to forget it; she would be in trouble with her family if she did not perform as

expected. It would also be necessary for him to give a good report of her, regardless of the truth, lest he shame her.

 

He was tempted to offer a deal with her: they would not do it, and each would give a good report of the other. But he had to know

her better before he dared broach such a delicate matter. It might be easier to struggle through the sex.

 

"Let's talk a bit," he said. "I would like to know something about you."

 

"I am of no consequence," she said immediately. "I have never been to another village, or done anything unusual. Not like you."

 

Throat Shot laughed. "The most unusual thing I have done is get myself shot in the shoulder!" He touched where the scar was,

uncertain whether this would alleviate her distaste for his injury or make it worse. "So I couldn't be a warrior, and am traveling

instead." That was an oversimplification, but seemed sufficient.

 

But she seemed interested. Now she glanced at his arm, as if given leave, and perhaps saw that it was neither withered nor scarred;

it simply was not properly mobile. "You are marked. Is it true you talk with the dead?" she asked.

 

News had not only spread, it had been most specific! This family seemed isolated, but evidently did have contacts. "It is true," he

said. "Do you have mounds here I can visit?"

 

"Certainly they do!" the Trader said from across the dark chamber. "Why do you think I brought you here?"

 

"Our own burials are of no significance," the girl said. "But up the river a little way are many mounds of our ancient ancestors,

who were greater people than we are."

 

"I must visit them!" Throat Shot exclaimed, excited.

 

"What, now?" she asked.

 

He hadn't thought of that, but suddenly realized that the night might be a better time to commune with the spirits than the day.

His failures had been when he visited mounds by day, and his successes, such as they were, had been by night or in special

circumstances. "Can we go now?" he asked, afraid she would laugh.

 

"I will show you the path," she said. "But I would not go there at night. Don't you know that the spirits wake at night, and they

do not like intrusions?"

 

Were Calusa spirits different from Toco spirits? Each Calusa person had three souls, instead of one, but did that make a difference

after death? It was possible. Now he knew he had to go at night! "Show me the path," he said.

 

"I'll go with you," Tzec said. "With a light."

 

That was a good idea. They lit a torch and started out as a party of three.

 

The path wound west away from the village, and curved around the stands of cypress and pine and occasional large oaks. Speckled

Turtle's torch shook as she showed the way, though the evening was not cold. She was obviously nervous about this business.

 

They came to a split in the path. "That way," Speckled Turtle said, indicating the left path. "There are many mounds, not just

ours. It is a place of fright by day, and terror by night. Don't you feel the fear of it?"

 

"I feel no fear," Throat Shot said.

 

She glanced back at him in the darkness. "No fear?"

 

"The Spirit of the Mound—my local mound—took my fear," he explained. "Other emotions I have, but not fear. Not till my quest is

done."

 

She gazed at him a moment more. "I don't know how to believe that."

 

"Come the rest of the way to the mounds," Tzec told her. "You will see that it is true. When I am afraid, I touch him, and then my

fear is gone."

 

The girl shook her head in disbelief. Throat Shot, uncertain whether it would work, extended his right hand. Speckled Turtle took

it with her left. Her right held the torch.

 

"See—the fear is gone," Tzec said. "Now you can lead us all the way to the mounds."

 

The girl looked uncertain, but then tried it. She led Throat Shot down the path beside the long corn-mound, her hand clutching his

tightly, as if she were dragging him along. She did seem to be less frightened, but he wasn't sure it was because of any power of

his. He never doubted the power of the Spirit of the Mound to take away his own fear, but he had no certainty that this was a thing

that could be extended to others. It might be that Tzec, and now Speckled Turtle, imagined it. But he didn't argue, as it was more

convenient to have the girl lead them all the way.

 

The corn-ridge ended, but the path continued west, narrower, indicating that it was not used as much here. There was some

moonlight, helping somewhat.

 

Soon enough they came to the region of the mounds. In the darkness under the starry sky it was not possible to see much, but he

felt the presence of many spirits. "They are all around us," he said. "But they wish us no ill."

 

"If you go on one of the mounds, they will be angry," Speckled Turtle said.

 

"I think not. Not if I approach with proper humility. But I must go alone; they might not like the two of you there."

 

"Yet if I let go of your hand, the fear will come!" Speckled Turtle protested.

 

"Then maybe you should return to your lodge. You have shown me the mounds, and I thank you; I will find my own way back later." He

disengaged his hand.

 

Speckled Turtle neither went nor spoke. She was rigid.

 

"That's like taking someone out into a storm in the swamp and dumping her out of the canoe," Tzec said reprovingly. "She's

terrified!"

 

Throat Shot considered. He knew better than to take the girl onto the mound; the spirits would turn their backs on him immediately.

But it would be a tedious waste of time to conduct her all the way back to the lodge, then come out here again by himself. Tzec

seemed less frightened; she tended to be wary of physical threats, like poisonous snakes, rather than spiritual ones. That might be

the key here.

 

He took Tzec's hand. "I take from you your fear," he said. "Now take Speckled Turtle's hand, and stop her fear." He wasn't sure how

much of this Tzec believed, but she had lost her fear in the canoe, and perhaps could do this, or pretend to do it.

 

Tzec took the girl's hand. "He takes from you your fear," she said. "Through me." She was playing it out, knowing it was best,

whatever her true state of emotion. His respect for her increased a bit more.

 

Speckled Turtle lost her rigidity. "My fear is gone."

 

"Do not move, and no spirit will bother you," Throat Shot said. He let go of Tzec's hand. "I will return." He thought of Sweet

Medicine's brother, who had made a similar promise, before taking most of a year to honor it. But he would not allow that to

happen!

 

The two girls stood, hands linked. Somehow the small one seemed more mature than the big one. If either was terrified now, she did

not show it.

 

He walked to the nearest mound, which was low, less than half his height. It was level, and there were no spirits in it. Beyond it

was a pond, and beyond that another mound that seemed to rise to about three times his height: much larger than his original mound,

but much smaller than those along the coast. The size really did not matter; a great spirit could be in a small mound as readily as

a large one.

 

He skirted the pond and stepped onto the base of the larger mound. He felt something strange, but could not place it. It was not a

threat, just an oddity.

 

O spirits of the mound, he thought. I come to ask a favor of you. Who among you will talk to me?

 

The whispering of the spirits ceased. None of them would talk with him. It was as if they were angry, not specifically with him,

but with any living person. What could account for this?

 

He turned back toward the pool. The oddity was there.

 

What is it, O spirits? he thought. What angers you?

 

Then a vision formed. Above the scummy surface of the dark water he saw a platform, fastened on stout posts projecting from the

pond. Atop a number of posts were lifelike carvings of eagles, their wings extended upward as if at the top of the wingbeat. Surely

no accident had brought him here, for he was of the Eagle Clan! On some posts were carvings of turkeys, ducks, herons, kingfishers,

owls, and other birds, or of panthers, foxes, and bears. On the main part of the platform were carefully wrapped bundles.

 

Throat Shot stared. He had never seen a more impressive display! He knew what it was: a charnel structure, where the bones of the

dead were laid to rest. In his culture, and in the current Calusa tribe, the dead could be exposed for months or years before

someone of sufficient stature for formal burial died. Then they would be buried along with the chief, their spirits to serve him in

the other realm as the living ones had served him in life. But here, Throat Shot saw, the bones were never interred; they were laid

to rest above the water, for spirits could not cross deep water. Thus this mode of honor for the dead protected them from the

intrusion of hostile spirits from elsewhere, and protected the living folk of this region from molestation by the spirits here. The

animal spirits, represented by the elaborate carvings, were honor guardians. It was not the same as a mound, but now he understood

that it was as good. Indeed, here where flooding could occur, it was probably better; the spirits of the dead did not like the

touch of seeping water.

 

Then he saw flames rising at one end of the platform. Fire was eating at it, burning out the wood of both platform and support

posts, and consuming the guardian animal carvings. No living person was there to put it out. The desecration continued, eating out

the platform until it collapsed, and the bones slid into the water. Many tens of tens of spirits were thus delivered into a

hideously profane burial in the charnel pond.

 

The vision ended. Only the awful water remained.

 

Now he understood the rage of the spirits. How could the living have so neglected their duty as to let this atrocity happen? There

was supposed to be always a priest, and helpers, as well as carvers of the figurines. The charnel site was never unguarded! Yet it

had happened, and a greater dishonor had been done to these spirits in death than any in their lives.

 

He looked back at the mound. He felt the spirits stirring restlessly. Many of them had been rescued, he understood now, and given a

belated burial. This was not what they preferred, but in the absence of the charnel platform, it was the best that offered. But the

stain on their bones had never been cleansed—and half of those in the water had never been rescued even to that extent. They had

been left to the eternal horror of the water.

 

He knew what should be done. The pond should be drained and the remaining bones taken out and buried properly. Or a new charnel

platform should be built for them, with new carvings to honor them. Only then would the spirits be able to rest.

 

A question came from the massed bones. You?

 

Throat Shot shook his head. I cannot. I have only one good arm, and I am on a mission elsewhere.

 

The spirits went silent again. He was among the living; they had expected no better of him. He felt guilty.

 

Throat Shot turned away from that mound. He knew that his mission here was hopeless; no spirit of this region would answer him,

because of their rage against all his kind. Their justified rage.

 

He returned to the girls. "They will not talk to me," he said glumly.

 

"I'm sorry," Tzec said. "I wish they would talk to me."

 

He was surprised. "You? Why?"

 

"I have no one but you, and when I am sold I will have nothing. Could they tell me what to do?"

 

Throat Shot was touched. "Maybe they will talk to you. You are a child from afar, and innocent. I will take you to them."

 

"Don't leave me!" Speckled Turtle protested.

 

What was there to lose? "You may come too," he said. "But keep your mind clean; think no thoughts of offense to spirits, for they

will know." He took Tzec's hand, and the three of them walked linked to the mound by the pool.

 

"Think your thought to the spirits," he told Tzec. "They do not hear our voices, or answer in voices, but in thoughts. Be

respectful. One will answer if he chooses."

 

Tzec stood there, concentrating. Throat Shot felt her hand stiffen in his, then loosen. Her face turned to him. "I think—I think it

said I must go alone. To—that way." She moved her hand in his, indicating the direction.

 

They were talking to the child! The spirits knew she had not done this thing. "Then do it. We will wait here."

 

She slipped her hand free, shivered as if she had stepped into cold water, and walked away, north. There was enough light to enable

him to see her form, vaguely.

 

Speckled Turtle grabbed for his hand. She was shivering, though the night was not cold.

 

Tzec walked almost to the shore of the river. There was a small, low mound, hardly noticeable under the overgrowth, but she had

known where to find it. The spirits had told her. She got down on her knees, and put forward her hands, and finally lay on the

ground, facedown. She remained that way for what seemed like a long time, but the stars hardly changed their positions.

 

Something swooped down, silhouetted against the stars, and away again. "An owl," Throat Shot whispered. "An omen!"

 

"With you I feel no fear," Speckled Turtle murmured, awed.

 

Tzec got to her feet, brushed herself off, and walked back. "The spirit of the solitary grave answered me," she said. "I know what

to do."

 

"What did it tell you?" Throat Shot asked, unable to hold back his curiosity.

 

"It said the others had been dishonored, and are angry."

 

He had not told her that. Truly, she had talked with the spirit of the small mound! "It spoke truly. They were supposed to lie over

water, with totems in their honor, but their platform burned. If your spirit was of another time, more recent—"

 

"Yes, more recent," she agreed. "It never knew the other spirits until it was buried. It was never defiled."

 

That was good. "Did it answer your question?"

 

"I must go to the Trader and tell him to do with me as he wishes," she said.

 

"But you're too young," Speckled Turtle protested.

 

"And you will go far away, Throat Shot, for a long time, but you will come back," Tzec continued. "I must wait for your return."

 

Had the spirit given her the answer for him? "Did—?"

 

"Far north," she said. "The biggest mound. There the spirit will tell you."

 

The spirit had told her! Throat Shot nodded. "I thank you, Tzec. The spirit preferred to speak to you, not me, for it knew you were

blameless."

 

"Maybe because I'm related," she said. "It didn't say, but I felt it. My ancestors, the Maya, knew his ancestors."

 

They walked back toward the village, hands linked.

 

"But she's too young," Speckled Turtle repeated, evidently fixed on what a man would want of a girl. "The Trader must not do it

with her."

 

"It is something else he wants," Tzec said.

 

That was a relief. The Trader had shown no sign of desiring her in that manner, but there was something obscure about the relation

between them. First the Trader had declined to sell her; then he had told Throat Shot to teach her the signs; finally he had spoken

of owing his life to her. What was on the man's mind?

 

"He understands more than he speaks," Throat Shot said.

 

"He feels more than he speaks," she responded.

 

True. But what was the nature of his feeling? It seemed that the spirit had indicated that Tzec would be staying with the Trader

until Throat Shot returned. What kind of an association were they to have?

 

They reached the village, and their lodge, as the torch guttered out. The structure was silent; the Trader was evidently asleep.

 

Tzec found her blanket in the corner. Speckled Turtle remained with Throat Shot. When he settled down, she paused, then joined him,

her skirt gone. She touched herself, and the odor of honey became stronger. Her mouth found his in the darkness for a passionate

kiss. It was evident that her attitude toward him had changed; now she was eager to do what before had seemed a chore.

 

He did not argue. After some awkwardness, because she did not quite understand about his arm, and tended to bang into it, they

achieved a comfortable union. She clung to him, seeking more than the sexual culmination; it was as if she wanted a spiritual

merging too.

 

"With you I felt no fear," she whispered again.

 

That seemed to be it: she had gone with him to the mounds at night, and had seen that what he had said was true, and he had enabled

her to feel no fear too. Now she wanted more of him, perhaps to take in some of that quality about him that stopped the fear. He

doubted that the effect would last beyond this night, but he hardly cared to argue. Speckled Turtle in her eagerness was much more

of a delight than she would have been otherwise, and his penis was almost as comfortable in her as it might have been in Heron

Feather.

 

In due course they slept. Speckled Turtle did not seek to make him perform again each time he shifted position, but she cooperated

when he woke and got interested. He penetrated her sleepy body a second time, and spouted his seed again, glad to verify that he

could do this successfully on his own initiative. He was well satisfied.

 

In the morning Speckled Turtle went to report to her family. The Trader stretched and eyed Throat Shot. "You went to the mounds.

Did you get an answer?"

 

Throat Shot looked at Tzec. "I will be going north. She—also got an answer."

 

The Trader gazed at Tzec. "I am interested in that answer."

 

She gulped, evidently uncertain now of her reassurance of the night. "It told me to—to tell you to—to do with me as you wish."

 

The Trader considered. "Do you know what I wish?"

 

"I thought it was to sell me for a good price. Now I think it is something else." She remained tight.

 

The Trader looked at Throat Shot. "You must go north, without her? You cannot buy her? I would accept a promise for payment in

another season."

 

Throat Shot spread his hands. "You know I cannot. I have nothing to trade for her except my continued service, and I cannot offer

that. I must go north alone."

 

The Trader nodded. "It will be several days before we reach my tribe. You must teach her the rest of the signs so she can talk with

those of other tongues."

 

"I will do that."

 

The Trader turned to Tzec. "I am unmarried. My sister keeps my house." He smiled briefly. "The Ais are not like the Cacique of the

Calusa. My house is all she keeps. That is good, for she takes excellent care of my goods while I am away, and a wife would be

impatient with my long absences. I have never had a family, and have been satisfied. Now I am unsatisfied, having seen what a child

might be like. A son to travel with me, who would listen to my stories, and help me trade. It is never lonely, with company."

 

He took a deep breath. "I feared to broach this matter, for it is more personal than business, and is not a thing I would do purely

for business. Tzec, you are a fine girl, and clever and useful. You have made me see that I thought too narrowly. It is not a son I

wish, but a daughter. One who knows and accepts my ways and is not eager to prove herself as a hunter. I want to adopt you, to be

my child until you are of age to marry, and give me grandchildren to carry on my business, and to remember me when I am old and

infirm, and see that I am buried with proper respect."

 

Tzec's mouth had slowly gone slack as she listened. This was different from any expectation she might have had, and better. "You

will not sell me?"

 

The Trader made a mock grimace. "The Ais do not sell their children, however valuable they may be."

 

"Yes!" she exclaimed. "Yes, I will be your daughter! The spirit knew! I will do all that you wish, the best I can. Oh, thank you,

thank you, Trader!" There were tears on her face, happy ones.

 

"Then it is done," the Trader said. Then, covering his evident pleasure at this ready resolution, he became brisk. "We must be on

our way. There is a long river to paddle."

 

They thanked the family for the hospitality, and the Trader gave them trinkets that pleased them, and the three returned to their

canoe. It had been a significant night.

 

They followed the Fish Eater River back to the Wide Water, then turned north. They moved well, because there was no perceptible

current to fight, and because they were rested and strong. Throat Shot had been gaining proficiency with his paddle, so that his

restricted arm inhibited him less; he could stroke only on one side, with limited range, but he was strong within that range.

 

He worked with Tzec on the sign language, as they had before. Now there was joy in it, for she would not be sold, and she wanted to

prove how good she could be in this universal tongue.

 

"Daughter," she said.

 

"It is the same as for Woman, Female, or Girl," he said. "Then bring your hand down to show her height."

 

Tzec quickly brushed her hair with her hooked fingers on the side, showing how well she remembered. "But how can you show whose

girl it is? It could be any girl!"

 

"You will know by the pride of the gesture," the Trader said. "Some other girl is just anyone." He made a negligent gesture of

height. "My girl is special." He gestured again, this time as if touching something precious.

 

Tzec considered that a moment, and was satisfied. She got back to work. "Color."

 

"Rub the tips of your right fingers on the back of your left hand, in a circle. Then look around and find the color you mean, and

point to it."

 

"But if there is no such color in sight—"

 

"Choose another color," Throat Shot said, laughing.

 

"Skirt," she said, beginning on clothing.

 

"Make two four-hands," he said, letting go of his paddle long enough to show the figure when it wasn't actual counting, with the

thumb and forefinger spread, and the three other fingers closed. "Put them on your body to show what clothing you mean."

 

She put her four-hands on her hips. "Move them down a bit," the Trader said. "To show you're not just resting your hands. Form the

skirt with them."

 

So the instruction continued, as they crossed the edge of the Wide Water and came to the mouth of the Winding Water River. Now

there was a perceptible current, and the paddling was harder, but still not difficult. With the distraction of the instruction,

Throat Shot was hardly aware of the passage of time.

 

But he was also interested in the region. He saw raccoons frequently near the water, with their black eye masks. When he peered

down through the water he saw fish and crabs, and knew that every one of them was fighting for its life and food. The region seemed

peaceful, but it was not; the little hidden creatures were constantly struggling and killing each other. He wondered whether they

apologized to the spirits of those they killed, the way men did, to be sure the spirits would not seek vengeance. It seemed likely,

as it was the sensible thing to do.

 

They came to the Winding Water Lake, and on north to the river again, camping where the Trader knew good people. It was evident

that the Trader had many long-standing friends through here, for he had been by often with his goods, and it was not far from his

home. Throat Shot realized that the Trader probably made shorter trading trips by foot to this region when he wasn't making his

long canoe route.

 

Then, before the river ended, the Trader drew up to a lodge by the right bank. "This is where the canoe lives," he said. "I cannot

carry it overland to my tribe, but when I make my next circuit, I'll go north to the end of the river. Two portages take me to the

source of your Big Little River, and from there it is easy going." He glanced at Tzec. "How well can you portage, daughter?"

 

Tzec looked down at the solid log of the dugout canoe. She quailed. The thing was obviously far too heavy for her tiny body to

carry. "I will try, father."

 

The Trader laughed. "It is swampy there, and there are channels. We will not have to carry it. We will tie vines to it and drag it

along from either side, loaded. It will be slow and wearing, but it can be done by two because I have done it with one. It is a

great relief to reach deeper water again, and float!"

 

Indeed, she looked relieved.

 

There was another family here, who evidently lived mostly on fish and mussels, for the bones and shells were piled near. As it

turned out, they kept and guarded the Trader's canoe during his off-season, and had the use of it then. In the spring he would

return for his next trading loop, having gathered more goods.

 

Now they faced an overland trip to reach the Trader's tribe. The Trader made packs for each of them, filling the packs with the

conchs and other items he had acquired. Because he had taken an assistant and a slave (now daughter) in trade, the hands were more

and the burdens less; they would carry in one trip what would otherwise have taken him two.

 

They made the trek, following the winding paths the Trader knew. Here the ground was firmer, and they spooked deer and watched them

bound gracefully away, and once even saw a bear. Another time they almost blundered into a nest of wasps, and had to retreat in a

hurry and circle around it. Their repellent grease stopped the flies, but aroused wasps didn't bite, they stung, which was another

matter. In two more days they reached the Trader's home village in the Ais tribe, by the bank of a river flowing north. By this

time Throat Shot had learned enough of the language to get by with the help of some signs, and Tzec was making progress. The

life-style of this tribe was close enough to those of their own tribes to be no problem.

 

The Trader's sister was Three Scales, with fish scales sewn into her shawl, and she looked stout and grim. But when the Trader

introduced Tzec as his daughter, she smiled. "That is one way to do it," she said. "But you will not mistreat her in this house."

It was a joke, for the Trader was not a violent man. Then they knew it would be all right.

 

Throat Shot would travel with another trader, when one passed through who would take him. Meanwhile he shared the Trader's lodge,

and continued to teach Tzec tongues and signs. It was a good time.

 

 

 

CHAPTER 8

SIGNS

O Spirit of the Mound, I have told you of the rage of the spirits of the mound near the Wide Water, and how Tzec came to be adopted

by the Trader, and Throat Shot's decision to go far north. Now I will tell you of his stay with the Yufera tribe on the way north,

and of his mixed feelings there.

 

 

 

A moon later, another trader came, canoeing up the Fresh Water River. He was Half Eye, so named because of his perpetual squint

after some past injury. He was a powerful, gruff man who preferred to work alone, but when he met Throat Shot and saw his half arm,

he relented. He understood about such a liability. He agreed to take him to the mouth of the river, for one fine conch.

 

"But I have no—" Throat Shot began, abruptly remembering that a trader's company was not free. The Ais Trader had paid two fine

feather cloaks to take him as a translator and assistant, but the man had been looking for someone like that. This man was not.

 

"Done," the Trader said, producing a conch. Then, to Throat Shot: "You delivered more than I expected. You found me a daughter.

That is worth a pretty shell."

 

Throat Shot could only nod with appreciation. It was unusual generosity.

 

He bade parting to Tzec. The tears came freely to her eyes, and fought to reach his own. "You will return," she said bravely. "The

spirit said."

 

"When I find the Ulunsuti," he agreed. But that seemed impossibly far away at the moment. The local mound had been silent to him;

he had only Tzec's word to go on, that he would go far north to the biggest mound. He still could not be quite sure the spirit had

truly spoken to her; she might have imagined it, hoping to help him. But he would not say that to her, or to himself; he had to

believe in her.

 

Constrained by manhood, he showed no emotion. But she, under no such restraint, leaped and hugged him tightly before turning away.

For that he was glad.

 

 

 

Paddling downstream was easy, and progress was good. Half Eye talked to him, ascertaining his situation. "I wouldn't have taken you

if it weren't for that arm," he admitted. "You lost half the use of it, just as I lost half the use of my eye, so I knew what you

suffered. But see that you do not interfere with my business."

 

Throat Shot understood that this man's temperament was different, and he agreed to stay out of the way. "I wish only to visit any

mounds I may along the river, if the people let me."

 

"Do you really talk to the spirits?"

 

"I try to, but often they do not talk to me."

 

"Aren't you frightened by them?"

 

"I have no fear."

 

Half Eye was openly skeptical. "Then you would swim this river, heedless of the alligators?"

 

"That would be foolish. I have no fear, but I am not crazy."

 

The man was evidently unconvinced, but let it drop. They moved on, until they reached the region of the Acuera. There was a

fair-sized village by the bank, set on a solid mass of old shells. Throat Shot could understand them, because their main hunting

grounds were not far from those of the Toco, beyond the Cale, but they were regarded as a hostile tribe and he did not care to

identify himself as a Toco. He looked more like an Ais now, after his moon with them. It was easier to use the signs, where his

origin didn't show; every tribe used the same signs, with only minor variants.

 

Throat Shot was a complete stranger here, and his arm made him ugly. The people were polite, and they provided excellent deer meat

for a feast, but they sought no close contact with him. There was a lodge to spend the night in, but no maidens came; either this

was not part of Acuera hospitality, or the travelers were not regarded as guests. There seemed to be no significant mound in the

region, and in any event the villagers seemed unlikely to want any stranger there.

 

 

 

Next day they moved on north, following the serpentine winds of the growing river. There appeared to be few residents here, and

canoes were scarce, in contrast to the number farther upriver. They passed a lake which would have seemed large but for the memory

of the Wide Water; in an afternoon they traversed it and were back on the river.

 

In due course they reached a settlement of the Fresh Water tribe. These people migrated seasonally between the sea to the east and

the river, and were preparing to return to the sea as the land cooled. Here things were better, from both Half Eye's and Throat

Shot's views. The natives were eager to trade for goods from afar, such as the special Calusa masks, and they had a substantial

mound. They were amazed that Throat Shot wanted to go there at dusk, but showed him the path, which was well kept.

 

As he approached the mound, he reflected on his prior failures. What had he been doing wrong on the other mounds? He had been

intoxicated once, and had encountered antipathy to the living another time. But neither had been the case at the Ais mound, yet it

had been silent. What could he do this time. that would be better, so that the spirits would speak to him? He didn't know.

 

Still troubled, he came to stand at the base of the mound. He felt the spirits stirring within it, and most were ancient. He

decided to be open with them.

 

O spirits, I am from afar, sent by Dead Eagle to seek the Ulunsuti. He told me to ask of the spirits of other mounds where it might

be. Will you answer me?

 

There was a hesitation. Then a spirit answered. I knew Dead Eagle. Let me into your mind.

 

Throat Shot opened his mind to the Spirit. He felt an odd-ness. Then the Spirit spoke again. Yes, he had touched you. He has taken

your fear. You must go north, far north. But there is something for you to do on the way. Go to the Yufera, stay the winter with

the Chief's woman. Guard her.

 

But the Chief will not let me be with his wife! Throat Shot protested. Yet he remembered Heron Feather, the Cacique's wife.

Conventions differed. So he amended his protest. Who may I say is sending me?

 

Frog Effigy.

 

I will tell the Chief, Throat Shot promised. If he lets me stay with his wife, I will guard her as well as I am able.

 

The Spirit was silent. Throat Shot backed away, then turned to find the darkened path.

 

He was elated as he moved slowly back to the village. The spirits had spoken to him! Because Frog Effigy had known Dead Eagle! He

had confirmation of Tzec's message.

 

But to stay with a foreign chief's wife, and guard her? That seemed laughable, considering his inability to use a bow. Yet he would

have to seek that tribe, and that chief, and state his case, and see what happened.

 

 

 

The river became huge, almost lakelike in its breadth. There were extensive marshes and flatlands covered by pine trees. Here they

encountered a number of canoes carrying warriors, but when the tribesmen recognized the trader they relaxed. This was of course one

reason Throat Shot preferred to travel with a trader; not only did it facilitate progress, because the trader had a canoe and knew

the route, it protected him from possible hostilities. No one harmed a trader!

 

These were the Saturiwa, the folk of the river's mouth. They were evidently populous and active.

 

Throat Shot and Half Eye were conducted to the large town where the river poured into the monstrous eastern sea. It was guarded by

a wall of stakes set into the ground, each stake pointed at the top. This was more impressive than the Toco defenses. The lodges

were circular, with thatched roofs and small doors.

 

The hospitality was more impressive too. The head Chief, the Holata Ico, welcomed them. They dined on corn cakes and alligator

meat, with drink made from corn. Throat Shot was extremely careful with this, aware of its potency at the first sip. Then Half Eye

brought out his wares and did his business, bargaining with the Chief and other well-set people, disposing of the masks and other

items he had obtained from the Ais Trader. In return he gained beautiful feather cloaks of the type so valued by the Toco and

Calusa. The pattern of trading was coming clear. Throat Shot listened carefully, picking up the tongue; it was another variant of

the larger tongue of this region, spoken by the neighbors of the Toco, the Cale, and by the Fresh Water tribe. Thus what had at

first seemed entirely foreign was gradually becoming intelligible as his facility with language took hold.

 

Throat Shot was not a trader, but the Chief was interested in him. He had to tell all about himself and his tribe and his quest. He

used the hand signs liberally to clarify his limited spoken vocabulary. There was a fair group listening by the time he finished;

the Saturiwa liked to know about far places.

 

"And you talk to the spirits of the dead?" the Chief asked.

 

"Sometimes. When they will talk to me."

 

"And you have no fear?"

 

Throat Shot was becoming wary of this question. "I have caution, not fear."

 

"The spirits will not hurt you?"

 

"They have no reason to."

 

The Chief smiled. "Then I will put a fair maiden in the lodge atop our eldest ceremonial mound, and bar the direct path. If you

will go alone in darkness by the path that passes the burial mounds, to reach that lodge, that maiden is yours for the night. You

should have no trouble going there. You can talk to the spirits on your way."

 

Throat Shot saw that the Chief expected to have some cruel fun with him. The Chief would be disappointed. "No trouble," he agreed.

 

They showed him the path by the afternoon light. It was clear enough, but it did pass through a swampy region where wild creatures

probably ranged at night. Still, such creatures seldom came near men. He should be safe enough.

 

When darkness was complete, they brought him to the path. "May I have a torch, to see my way?" he asked.

 

"You said nothing about a torch before!"

 

Throat Shot shrugged. He set off down the path, able to find it by its firmness, and by the faint ambient light. He made noise with

his feet as he walked, so that any creatures on the path would hear him and get out of the way. When he was beyond the range of the

torches of the tribesmen, he felt by the side, plucking a tall weed with a brittle stem, which he used to feel ahead for

obstructions. Progress was slow, but he knew he would get there. He could have used his punk pot to light a makeshift torch of his

own, but knew the warriors would be watching for that light. He preferred to prove himself this way.

 

In due course he reached the burial mound. He stopped there and addressed the spirits, but they would not speak to him. He wasn't

surprised; this tribe was not as friendly as it had seemed. "I apologize for intruding on you," he said, and turned away.

 

Beware.

 

Throat Shot jumped. That had been a spirit warning! He turned to face the mound again, but it was silent. It was almost as if the

spirits were of two minds about him: seeing him as a potential enemy, but also as one who did not deserve to be punished without

warning. So they had given him only the hint; he would have to do the rest himself.

 

He went on, and found the ceremonial mound with its circular lodge. He was about to enter, but paused, considering. The mischief of

the Chief might not yet be finished. Could the spirits' warning relate to this? Was there an ambush in the lodge? He would have to

be extremely cautious about entering it; the darkness outside might be his best friend.

 

He stood for a time, listening. Then he called out: "I am Throat Shot, the traveler from the Toco. Is anyone there?" He moved to

the side immediately after speaking, so that an arrow shot there would not catch him.

 

In a moment there was an answer. The voice sounded like that of a child or a young woman, but the words were foreign. He had barely

communicated with the Saturiwa people, and could not have done it without copious use of signs, and that had been one-way: they had

been the listeners. It would have been hard enough to talk with this girl in the darkness if she used the Saturiwa tongue, but this

seemed to be another dialect, which at this stage might as well have been a completely new tongue.

 

At any rate, this indicated that there were no warriors here. He could tell by the trace echo of her voice that she was alone.

Whatever the danger, it was not a direct physical attack.

 

If he did not understand her, did she understand him? He thought not; her words seemed frightened. Why should that be, if she had

been left here for him?

 

"Friend," he said, using one of the Saturiwa terms he had picked up.

 

She replied with an unfamiliar term, still frightened. Now he was sure she spoke a different tongue. Why had they left him a girl

who did not speak their dialect?

 

He could not even communicate with her in signs, because of the darkness. Of course, neither speaking nor signs were necessary, to

be with a woman for the night. Still, there was something wrong here. For one thing, there was no smell of honey about her.

 

Then he had an idea. He could use signs.

 

"Touch me," he told her, stepping forward.

 

She retreated so quickly that she stumbled and fell with a little shriek.

 

He knelt, finding her foot in the dark. "Touch me," he repeated, feeling upward until he found her arm and hand.

 

She lay as if stunned, whimpering.

 

He lifted her hand with his own, and made the sign for Friend: his right hand palm out, first and second fingers straight, the

thumb and small fingers closed, his hand lifted to his face. He actually touched his face so she would know it in the dark.

"Friend." He repeated it, making sure she felt the position of his hand and fingers.

 

She sat up, seeming reassured by the warmth of his hand and his gentle approach. Then she made a signal of her own: her left hand

out before her body, flat, and her right hand coming out to move down and out to the left. Because he could touch her hands only

with his right, it took him several trials before he understood the positions and motions of her two hands. When he did, he was

dismayed.

 

She had made the sign for Die.

 

"No!" he said. He found her right hand, let her clasp his lightly, then extended it flat, palm down. After a pause, he swung it

right, turning it over.

 

She caught his hand again so it would touch hers in the Listening pose, then held it up closed with the index finger extended. Then

she moved it to her left and down, closing the finger somewhat: Yes.

 

"No," he repeated. Then: "No Die." He was catching on: the Chief was playing a game with him, but also with her. He had told her

she was to be killed. What a joke that was, to send a stranger in the dark with a promise of love, and tell the maiden that the man

was coming to kill her!

 

They settled down to further dialogue. It was halting and slow, and he had a problem because of the incapacity of his left arm, but

it improved as they became more familiar with each other. Sometimes he had to arrange her two hands in the appropriate positions to

indicate how his should be. She was Colored Stone—he could not tell what color, but read the sign for Hard, which meant Rock or

Stone—and was twelve winters old. She was the daughter of a chief of a tribe to the north, here against her will, as far as he

could tell.

 

It seemed that her tribe, the Tacatacuru, was allied with the Saturiwa against the Utina, who lived farther inland. The alliance

was not always easy, and the more powerful Saturiwa had chosen to buttress it by making a guest of the Tacatacuru Chief's young

daughter. It was done politely, but the truth was she was a hostage against possible reluctance by her father to engage in any

direct combat with the Utina. She wanted only to return home, because here she was not only treated like an outcast, she was

subject to various subtle unkindnesses, reminders of what her fate would be if her father became too independent. The present case

was an example: she had been left here in the place of fear at night, and told that a priest might come to sacrifice her if her

thoughts were evil. So her fear was that either an evil spirit would come to steal her sanity or a priest would come with the

sacrificial knife.

 

Throat Shot knew of the Utina, but the Toco had not had any direct interaction with them. The fact that the Saturiwa were the

Utina's enemies meant nothing to a Toco, who had no preference either way. But the Toco's tongue, he understood, was more closely

related to that of the Utina than that of the Saturiwa, so it was possible that the Saturiwa Chief had seen him as a potential

enemy. Constrained by hospitality and courtesy to the trader, the Chief had not been able to take any action against Throat Shot

directly, but had arranged to make it easy for Throat Shot to get into trouble on his own. If he had indulged himself sexually with

the barely-of-age hostage daughter of a foreign chief, he could have been identified with the Utina: the enemy had ravaged her. Not

only would that humiliate her, it would guarantee the cooperation of the Tacatacuru.

 

I (right thumb touching chest) No (flat hand turned back) Love (hands closed, wrists crossed over heart) Chief (right index finger

pointed up, moved in an arch forward and at head height, as if looking down on others), he remarked. His memory of little Tzec was

fresh; this girl was older, but not so much so as to defuse his feeling.

 

She laughed agreement, her first expression of humor.

 

After that their conspiracy developed naturally. They left the lodge and followed the path out to the burial mound. She clutched

his hand tightly, able to follow because of his lack of fear. There they took another path she knew of, and proceeded to the bank

of the river where there was a cove at the verge of the sea. Several canoes were beached there, and one, she indicated, was hers,

or supposed to be.

 

They took this canoe. Colored Stone was in the front, guiding it, while he provided power paddling on the left rear. They slid

silently into the dark expanse of water and into the choppy surface of the sea. They did not dare go too close to land, lest a

Saturiwa sentry spy them.

 

But after they had gone north for about the time the sun would have taken to move one finger in a ten-finger sky, they cut back

close to shore, feeling more secure there. They kept paddling, not hard, because Colored Stone had indicated that it was a full

day's distance to her home. As it was, they would both be very tired by the time they got there. Throat Shot had experience

canoeing, but the girl had never paddled for any distance. After a while he had her simply use her paddle to keep the canoe

straight, while he continued to move it forward.

 

Dawn came, and they were not there. But they were getting close, she indicated. All they needed was to encounter one of her

tribesmen, and then it would be all right. He hoped so, because it would be impossible for him to defend against a warrior's

attack.

 

He saw her now by day. She was definitely a child, not yet progressed to womanhood. He was angry again at what he had been told,

knowing that she had been set up to be unable to explain her situation in the darkness. Misunderstanding would have been easy, as

the Chief had intended. Only Throat Shot's caution had enabled them to avoid a highly negative encounter.

 

Colored Stone made an exclamation. He looked, having been intent on his fatigued paddling. There was a canoe ahead. If it was one

of her tribe's—

 

It was. Colored Stone hailed it, and soon two warriors were beside them. She spoke a torrent in her tongue, while the warriors

stared at Throat Shot. But as she spoke, their expressions relaxed. Now they knew he was no enemy.

 

The girl leaned forward over the end of the canoe and grasped the back of the other canoe. Then the warriors paddled briskly,

hauling them along behind. What a relief it was to lay his own paddle down and rest!

 

If Throat Shot thought he had been welcomed before, it was nothing compared with what happened when Blue Stone (now he had her

color) was reunited with her father the Chief, and her mother. The longer the girl talked, the more positive they became. But all

Throat Shot wanted at this point was to eat a little and sleep a lot.

 

Soon enough he found himself on a feather mattress, the softest thing he had encountered. He sank into sleep.

 

 

 

When he woke in the late afternoon, there was a maiden with him. She was beautiful, and she smelled of honey.

 

 

 

Next morning, his every possible need more than adequately sated, Throat Shot had a more formal meeting with the Chief. They

conversed in signs, and soon the Chief understood where the visitor was going.

 

We Friend Saturiwa, the Chief signed. Yufera No Friend Saturiwa. Night Day Sun East (tomorrow) Perhaps Friend Yufera. Take You

There.

 

What more could he ask?

 

He remained several more days with the Tacatacuru, enjoying their hospitality and learning something of their tongue. They were

based on a marshy island with oak hammocks. Their villages were roughly square, with circular lodges; he had not seen that layout

before. They lived on shellfish and the animals of the hammocks. It wasn't fancy, and they were evidently not a powerful tribe, but

he liked them and they liked him. Probably Blue Stone had something to do with that.

 

When the time came for him to go, the girl approached him. She was rested and happy now, and he saw that she would soon enough

become a pretty woman. But she reminded him of Tzec, not from any similarity of appearance, but because she was young and friendly

and had been through bad times. He realized that from the moment he had understood her situation, in the lodge on the mound, he had

been determined to save her. That was the legacy of Tzec.

 

She touched the center of her chest with her thumb: I. She compressed her fingers and brought them down across her heart: Heart.

Then, immediately, she closed her hand, leaving only thumb and forefinger extended, and moved it back and turned it over: Know.

Together the signs meant "I remember."

 

Her father the Chief, standing a little apart, echoed the motions with his hand. They were thanking him for what he had done.

 

Throat Shot, touched, extended his two hands flat with their palms down, then made a sweeping gesture toward Blue Stone with his

right: Thank You. He should have done it with both hands, but could not move his left that far. He knew they understood. He

repeated it toward the Chief, who nodded.

 

There was no more to be said or signed. With surprisingly sweet sadness he turned toward the waiting canoe, where two husky

warriors had their paddles poised. He stepped into the center and sat. Immediately the warriors stroked the water, synchronized,

and the canoe leaped forward.

 

They quickly left the island, moved north, and crossed to the mouth of the Enemy Boundary River. Throat Shot hoped it hadn't been

recently named, but feared that there could still be warfare along it. They drove upstream, and before long reached a settlement.

 

The Yufera canoes quickly came out to intercept them. The lead warrior signed Peace: his two hands clasped before his body, the

right palm down, the left palm up. He also spoke the word.

 

The Yufera accepted this. They might not be friendly with the Tacatacuru, but they were evidently willing to negotiate.

 

The canoe came to the shore, and Throat Shot got out and made his case as well as he could with signs. The subchief cut him off

with smile, making the sign for Woman, Small: the news of his rescue of Blue Stone had spread. It seemed that even an unfriendly

tribe appreciated the gesture. They would accept him.

 

The two Tacatacuru warriors paddled their canoe back out into the river. The Yufera let them go without further challenge; they had

done their job. Now it was up to Throat Shot to make the rest of his case, to the Chief.

 

The Chief resided in another village, inland from the river. A boy guided him there. Throat Shot saw that the vegetation was

different here from what he had seen throughout the southern swamps; the palms were gone, and the oaks and pines dominated. There

were many new trees and shrubs of types he didn't recognize.

 

They reached the interior village. A woman came out to meet him. She was beautiful, perhaps twenty winters old, and garbed in

cloths that covered her breasts as well as her hips. Behind her were several warriors who stood relaxed, but were evidently ready

to move into action at any moment if the need arose. This was evidently the Chief's wife.

 

She lifted her open right hand, palm up, before her mouth. She drew it toward her lips sharply. This was the sign for Tell Me.

 

Throat Shot used his own signs to explain that he was talking with spirits, who would direct him to the Ulunsuti. One spirit had

told him to stay the winter with the Chief's wife and guard her.

 

The watching warriors gradually lost their impassivity as he progressed. When he came to the part about the wife, one laughed.

 

The woman glanced at him, and he became immediately serious again. Then she addressed Throat Shot. Dead. Question? She signed.

 

She wanted to know which spirit had told him this. He made the sign for Frog, which was that for Water followed by jumping motions;

then he made the sign for Stone, which was as close as he could get to Effigy in signs. Frog Effigy was the one who had told him.

 

Now was the critical point. Would she believe him? He was not at all certain that she would, yet he had been obliged to do the

Spirit's bidding.

 

She considered. She glanced again at the warriors behind her, who remained expressionless. Then she decided. I Called Beautiful

Moon, she signed. I Chief Wife No. I Chief.

 

Throat Shot stared. Beautiful she was, certainly; she had been well named. She was the Chief? He had heard of female chiefs, but

had never thought of that here. How could he guard the Chief's wife when there was no Chief's wife, and could be none?

 

His chagrin evidently amused her, for her mouth quirked the tiniest bit. Then she glanced again at the warriors. She lifted her

hand toward Throat Shot, forefinger raised. She brought it toward her: Come.

 

Dazed, he followed her to her lodge, while it was the turn of the warriors to stare. Apparently Beautiful Moon liked a good joke as

well as anyone.

 

She indicated a niche within the round lodge. She closed her fist and moved it down: Remain.

 

It seemed that this was where he was to stay. Throat Shot sat there. His mind was in a turmoil: how could the Spirit have sent him

here? But now that he focused on the contact at the mound, he remembered: the Spirit had said "Chief's woman," not "wife." Perhaps

"chief woman." Throat Shot had misunderstood.

 

Now the woman spoke verbally to him. The Yufera tongue was part of a large complex of tongues, one of which was the Cale, the Toco

neighbor across the Little Big River. Because he knew that tongue, he could follow hers when she spoke slowly and augmented her

words with signs. He could have followed the speech of other tribes similarly, but they had spoken rapidly, losing him. This

dialect was a bit easier than the others he had encountered, fortunately.

 

Before long they had a basic vocabulary, and it was broadening as he inquired about new words. Beautiful Moon seemed pleased with

his facility. She made it plain that she did not take his message from the Spirit too seriously, though there was indeed a

long-lost ancestor named Dried Frog. The chiefs were usually women here, selected by the council, and normally they were young and

beautiful. They seldom married, being regarded as brides of the original male chief. So in that sense, she explained, she could be

regarded as a wife, and perhaps the Spirit was thinking of that.

 

But he could also have made up his story, having picked up Frog Effigy's name somewhere. It would be easy to verify the validity of

that contact: if his message was real, by the time the winter was done, he would save her life. If he had no occasion to do so,

then he would be exposed as a fraud. In that case he would be executed when the Green Corn Ceremony came.

 

With that she departed to see to other business, leaving him to ponder. Now he understood that the Yufera did not appreciate being

fooled, and had their own ways to discourage it. Beautiful Moon had treated him well, and had told him the truth, but she would see

him dead if she judged it warranted.

 

 

 

Throat Shot's life was easy, physically; he was given food and shelter and was not bothered. But there was always a sly glance, not

quite of mockery but of expectation. The members of the tribe regarded him as a clever impostor who would pay the price for it next

year. He was free to go where he chose, but discouraged from crossing the river or ranging too far out from the main village. They

kept an eye on him, nominally to be sure he was near when the lady Chief needed protection, actually to be sure he did not slip

away after enjoying their hospitality on false premises. He was in fact captive, in somewhat the way Blue Stone had been.

 

After the novelty of his presence wore off, and he learned enough of their tongue to have no trouble communicating, they put him to

some simple tasks during the day while Beautiful Moon was engaged in other business. He had to help the women gather roots and

herbs, and to grind corn into flour, and to fetch wood for the fire. It was woman's work. He pretended to be unaware of the insult,

for how could he protest? He was unable to do man's work.

 

Actually, some of it was interesting in its own right. Some of the women were young and pretty, and they appreciated having the

help on communal tasks. He helped them carry the baskets of hickory nuts they gathered; his left arm was bent, but he could brace

his hand against his hip and hold one side of the basket, while his good right arm functioned freely. He was soon drafted to carry

all the baskets back to the village as they filled them; this entailed much walking, and he was good at that. In truth, it became

very like a man's task, and the work went faster for all of them.

 

When the nuts were in, the women had to pound them to pieces, then cast them into boiling water. Again, Throat Shot was good at

this, bracing the club-hammer with his left hand and smashing it down with his right. He was stronger than the women; indeed, his

right arm was stronger than that of most men, because he used it where others would use two. The pounding went faster than usual.

 

They strained the water through fine sieves which held on to the oily part of the liquid. This was the hickory milk, sweet and

rich, used in most of their cooking. For the first time he understood exactly how it was prepared; he had never, as a male child,

deigned to observe the process among the Toco. He would remember.

 

Only once did his situation make him angry. That was when a warrior used the term for a special type of man in his presence. There

were some men in each tribe who chose to dress in skirts, and to wear their hair loose in the fashion of women, and to do woman's

work. Such a man would also play the part of a woman sexually, when asked. They were generally held in contempt by both men and

women, but tolerated. The implication was that Throat Shot was such a man, though it was obvious he was not. It was the kind of

teasing done to an enemy. An ordinary warrior would have challenged the teaser to a contest of honor, and perhaps killed him. But

Throat Shot did not have that luxury. He would only have gotten himself killed.

 

The season changed, becoming colder than he had known before. He had to don heavier clothing, which they provided. Part of it was

new to him: moccasins for his feet. The Toco always went barefoot, but here more was needed. He understood now that it was no

intent to tease or conceal that caused the maidens to cover their bodies; the weather often required it. Perhaps that was just as

well, for the women of this tribe seemed unusually lovely, and none of them cared to share his nights. They were friendly, and he

knew them well now, but they saw him as less than a man, and seemed to have no more interest in him sexually than they did in other

women. Had he been able to see their bodies better, he would only have been more frustrated.

 

Beautiful Moon was a different matter, not in the way she saw him, but in what he saw of her. She had taken him as guard, which

meant he had to be close to her when she slept. By day she was generally with the warriors and needed no other protection, but at

night those warriors were with their wives and she was alone. Throat Shot saw her in full clothing, and in partial dress, and naked

when she washed; she treated him like some pot, present in her lodge but of no account. He pretended not to notice, or to react to

her presence, but she knew he did. She did no woman's work; he did. He desired her intensely, and could neither say so nor avoid

her tantalizing proximity. That was part of his punishment for imposing.

 

He guarded her. He slept when she slept, but roused himself periodically to check around the lodge. He slept lightly, and was alert

when there was any sound he couldn't immediately classify. He did not know what threat might come, but he intended to intercept it,

or he would surely be killed long before the Green Corn Ceremony!

 

Once a snake slithered into the lodge. He heard it and caught it. It was a harmless variety; he carried it out and let it go

unharmed. But another time a rattlesnake entered the village, and the women screamed. Then Throat Shot caught it in his hand and

carried it safely away. After that there was a subtle change in the attitude of the others. They were coming to understand that

what he said was true: he felt no fear.

 

Overtures were made to the Tacatacuru, and one day Blue Stone arrived with her father, who smoked the pipe of peace with Beautiful

Moon. The alliance of the tribe had shifted; Tacatacuru and Yufera were no longer hostile to each other. Blue Stone smiled at

Throat Shot; it seemed that she had had something to do with this.

 

That night Beautiful Moon questioned Throat Shot about Blue Stone, and he explained how he had rescued her from the Saturiwa. He

knew the Chief had heard the story before, but now she was doing him the honor of hearing it openly, and she gave it more credence.

"Perhaps it is your business to save women," she remarked.

 

"It is my business to find the Ulunsuti," he replied.

 

"That, too, perhaps," she agreed, and went to her bed to sleep.

 

The agreement with the Tacatacuru signaled the onset of hostile relations with the Saturiwa. There were no raids across the river,

for this was the winter. But as spring came, and with it the proper combat season, it was obvious that there was likely to be

trouble.

 

The warriors ranged out constantly, alert for any hostile traffic on the water. The two rivers were their bastion; the tribe was

nestled between them, and their territory was plainly defined. They were ready to riddle any approaching hostile parries with

arrows before the canoes landed.

 

But they could not guard the rivers well at night, as Throat Shot knew. He remained especially alert, but feared it wasn't enough;

suppose a party of warriors raided the village, setting fire to the lodges?

 

The Yufera burial mound was not far from the central village. Throat Shot visited it, but its spirits would not talk to him. He was

not sure whether they were offended with him or just not interested.

 

Could Frog Effigy have told him wrong? As time passed, his doubt increased. Yet if the spirits misled him, then his quest was

futile, so this was as good a place to end it as any. He had to believe in what they told him!

 

In the long nights he pondered things, coming to no certain conclusions. For example, the matter of combat: he had given it up, yet

was this final? His curiosity would not let go.

 

He put his hand on the bow that was in the lodge. Beautiful Moon, as Chief, was entitled to a chief's weapons, but as a woman, she

did not use them. He, unable to extend his left hand, could not use the bow, but knife and spear were feasible. He wore his own

knife, always, and kept the spear close.

 

But the bow: now he wondered whether he truly could not use it. Suppose, instead of his left arm, he used his foot?

 

In the darkness he tried it. He had to put the bow sideways, and his right foot mainly got in the way, but his left foot was able

to brace the bow in such a way that his right hand could draw back the string. It was clumsy, and he had to jam one end of the bow

against the ground to steady it, but his leg had more power than even a healthy arm. His aim might not be much, but he could

probably shoot an arrow.

 

He smiled. What point? It wasn't as if he could go out to battle, hopping on one foot, or that the enemy warriors would wait for

him to sit down and aim his bow! Even if he could, why should he do it? He didn't like to kill or even harm a human being. So this

was an idle exercise.

 

Meanwhile Beautiful Moon slept. He would not see her in the darkness, and in any event she was covered by her blanket, but he could

hear her breathing. Even that sound seemed beautiful; he pictured her fine breasts gently heaving. She trusted him, but this was

not from any genuine respect for him as a man, but because she saw him as no possible threat to her. He wished he could prove

himself to her in some way, and had no assurance that he ever could. He was the one-armed joke, a source of muted amusement to the

tribe.

 

He did make some limited use of that amusement. In the afternoons now, he told stories to the children. They enjoyed it, and it

kept them out of mischief, and it helped them learn the lore of their tribe and of neighboring tribes. Their mothers approved.

They, like the Chief, knew he was harmless. Who could fear a prisoner who was going to die or be seriously humiliated at the next

Green Corn Ceremony?

 

In the spring came warmth. Soon it would be summer, and they would have to be on guard against raids. But right now was the time to

enjoy life. Throat Shot wished he could enjoy it with a woman, as the warriors both married and single did, but he could not. He

had to guard the Chief.

 

One night when the forest was quieter than usual, Throat Shot became alert. He had learned to recognize the calls of individual

night birds, and he was accustomed to the chirping of the little frogs and insects. Tonight they were muted, and that gave him

notice. Something was out there. It could be a panther laying for a deer, or it could be something else. A panther would not come

close to the village, so was not to be feared. But something else—

 

He got up and stepped outside, listening. He detected nothing. He went back inside the lodge. Still it was too quiet. The frogs had

started, but not the particular bird he had come to know. That suggested that whatever was out there was not moving, but was not

gone. The bird was smarter than the frogs; it would not speak until it knew it was safe.

 

Probably it was nothing. Just the same, he set the spear near him, and made sure of his sheathed knife, and put the great bow by

his left foot. The thought of fighting and possibly killing a man appalled him, but he was here to guard the Chief, and how could

he guard her except with weapons? If someone were to attack her, yes, Throat Shot would do his best to protect her. That was his

trust, and what the Spirit had told him to do. Most likely it would simply be a matter of waking her if something worthy of her

attention came up; when the harmless snake had come, he had been uncertain of its nature, and had called to her in a low warning

voice, and she had come instantly awake. A false alarm, as it turned out, but she had not reproved him; they both had known that it

could have been a genuine threat.

 

Suddenly there was a battle scream from the far side of the village. There was no mistaking it; it was distinctive, and not of the

Yufera tribe. Immediately there was a flare of light from that direction: someone had torched a lodge!

 

Throat Shot knew now why the night bird had been silent. An enemy attack had been in the making. The warriors had lain in ambush

until full night, silent and hidden, but the bird could not be fooled.

 

Throat Shot did not lurch out to run to the torched lodge, though it needed immediate attention. Others would do that. Instead he

turned quietly, braced the bow on his left foot, and set and drew the arrow. He faced back toward Beautiful Moon, who was sitting

up, startled. He had a notion of what to expect.

 

Sure enough, a figure wedged into the back of the lodge. The torching of the distant lodge was a distraction to enable the enemy to

attack the Chief without being opposed. The enemy had not known she was guarded. Only the Spirit had known that she needed to be.

Frog Effigy had spoken true.

 

That told him what he had to do. His aversion to killing left him, as if taken by the Spirit. Throat Shot lifted the bow with his

foot, braced one end against the ground, and loosed the arrow without hesitation. It passed Beautiful Moon and struck the man, who

fell back with no more than a groan.

 

But now two more were coming in, and his arrow had been expended. In this clumsy position he had no time to loose another. One

charged Throat Shot, knowing where he was by the twang of the bowstring. Throat Shot scrambled up, dodging out of the way, then

crashed his right shoulder into the man.

 

The warrior fell back, surprised and pushed off-balance. His knife-hand flailed wildly. Throat Shot tried to grab for it, but

caught only the arm. The man braced against him, trying to orient the knife. Throat Shot knew he had blundered; he should have let

the man fall, and then attacked him when he was down. Now he was locked into a struggle in which he was at a disadvantage, for the

other had two arms to his one, and knew his location, since they were in contact.

 

But Throat Shot's arm was stronger, because of the way he had been using it alone, and it was more powerful than it would ever have

been otherwise. He forced the man's knife-hand back.

 

Then the enemy warrior caught a leg behind Throat Shot's and threw him backwards to the ground. Throat Shot landed and rolled

immediately, knowing the man's knife would be plunging toward his heart. He couldn't get his hand on his own knife! Why hadn't he

drawn his own, before engaging the attacker?

 

Then his hand slapped against the spear. He snatched it up and shoved it upward at the sound of the man's panting. The position was

bad and the thrust was clumsy, but he put all the power of his arm into it. The spear struck, and the other dropped. Lucky move!

 

Throat Shot scrambled to his feet again and lurched toward Beautiful Moon. But she was not there; the third man had hauled her away

while Throat Shot had been fighting the second. He had not protected her after all!

 

He found the place where they had wedged between the reeds of the back wall. Why hadn't he thought to put some stiffer material

there? He had assumed any attackers would enter by the front, and he now knew that this had been foolish. The front opened into the

central court of the village, where anyone could see; no enemy would use that approach!

 

He paused to listen. There was a commotion at the other end of the village, but he was able to distinguish some noise in the brush.

He set out after it.

 

They were using the path that wound back to the burial mound. They must have come in on that one, knowing that it would not be used

at night. Brave men, to risk such a near approach to the spirits of the dead at night! But the spirits had been ready for them,

assigning Throat Shot as guard, and he intended to fulfill their assignment. He was well familiar with this path and was able to

run along it in the darkness. The enemy warrior, in contrast, was moving clumsily, hauling along the reluctant woman.

 

Throat Shot caught up to them at the mound. The moon shone down brightly in the clearing here, and he confirmed what his ears had

told him: it was just one man.

 

"Die, enemy!" he cried, hoping to startle the man into releasing Beautiful Moon. Throat Shot couldn't risk attacking with her in

the middle!

 

It worked. The man threw her aside and brought his bow around from his shoulder. His motion was practiced and swift; he was an

experienced warrior, wasting no effort. He could see Throat Shot as readily as Throat Shot saw him; his arrow would not miss.

 

The distance between them was too great. Throat Shot could not charge the man and close the gap before that arrow was loosed. He

had blundered again, by pausing as he made his challenge.

 

The knife was in his hand. He had only one chance. Help me, O spirits! he prayed as he hurled the knife at the silhouette of the

warrior.

 

The knife struck. The man did not even grunt; he went down at the edge of the mound, silently. The spirits had guided the knife

true.

 

Then the man moved. He started to get up. There was no knife in his body. Throat Shot realized that it had not struck true; the

handle had hit the man in the head and stunned him, but only momentarily. It was almost impossible to strike with the blade of a

thrown knife, because it was constantly turning in the air. Even as Throat Shot ran toward the man, he knew the issue was in doubt.

If he did not finish the warrior immediately, the warrior would finish him. And Beautiful Moon.

 

He saw the knife on the ground. He swept it up and leaped at the man, thrusting the stone point at the man's face as he stood. He

misjudged, and caught him in the throat instead. The blade sank in, and the man dropped again, carrying the knife with him.

 

Throat Shot walked to Beautiful Moon, who was getting to her feet. She stepped into the circle of his arm, sobbing.

 

He held her there, looking around to be sure there were no other enemy warriors. He had no weapon now. But all was quiet.

 

In a moment she straightened. "Do not tell them I was woman-weak," she said. Then she marched back toward the village.

 

Throat Shot followed. Woman-weak? How else could she have been, so suddenly attacked by three men in the night? It was evident now

that she had been the true object of the attack; they had intended to abduct her, so as to torture her later or keep her hostage,

or both. Her captivity would have hurt the tribe worse than her death, for they would not have been able to select a new chief

while she lived. They would have had either to mount an impossible rescue effort against the enemy stronghold or to bow to the

enemy's terms to get her back. Meanwhile the enemy chief could have a delightful time with her. Ordinarily, no woman was forced,

but an enemy captive could be another matter.

 

The spirits had known. They had saved her—and redeemed him. How could he have doubted?

 

But now, his battle ardor cooling, he realized what he had done. He had fought and perhaps grievously injured three men. He, who

had renounced combat! He had thought that when the crisis came, he might sound the alert for the Yufera warriors, saving her that

way. Instead he had done the job himself. Now there was more blood on his hands.

 

Warriors were coming down the path—but they were Yufera. Throat Shot recognized their voices.

 

So did Beautiful Moon. "Here," she called, knowing they were searching for her. "I am safe."

 

In a moment the warriors were there. "There are two dead men in your lodge!" one exclaimed.

 

Beautiful Moon turned to Throat Shot. But before she could speak, he did. "No! It cannot be!"

 

She put her hand on his bad arm, understanding perhaps too well. "We will settle this in the morning." Then, to the others: "Throat

Shot got me away safe. He guarded me well."

 

They understood her as she intended: that Throat Shot had alerted her in time to escape, and had guided her to the relatively safe

region of the mound. They believed that he could not actually have fought on her behalf.

 

The bodies were hauled out of the lodge. It seemed that there had been only four warriors in the raiding party: one to torch the

far lodge, the other three to abduct the Chief. They were Saturiwa, starting the combat season early. The one who had torched the

lodge had gotten away. That was just as well: he would carry the news that the raid had failed.

 

Men with torches went out to fetch the body at the mound. By the time the lodge fire had been doused and the family in that lodge

had found other places to sleep, that body was back in the village. The tribe gathered to stare at it in the torchlight.

 

Throat Snot's knife was still wedged in the neck. It had sliced through the great front vein and penetrated to the back of the

neck, killing the man instantly. The truest throat shot.

 

The Chief's leading guard, the one who had been most contemptuous of the visiting one-armed "guard," turned his head slowly toward

Throat Shot, It was evident that his doubt about the two bodies in the lodge had been resolved. What he said would guide the

attitude of the others.

 

Throat Shot started to protest that the strikes had been lucky, and the last had been a desperation thrust which had lodged in the

throat almost by accident. But the woman forestalled him.

 

"Say nothing," Beautiful Moon said, speaking to them all. Then she took Throat Shot's arm and guided him toward her lodge.

 

In the darkness of the lodge, she questioned him. "The spear I understand, and the knife. But how did you use the bow?"

 

"I braced it on my foot," he said. "My aim might not be good, but he was so close I could not miss."

 

"He was beyond me. The arrow passed me. It was through his heart," she said. "And the spear was through the other's eye. And the

knife through the throat. All perfect, all with force enough to make no other blow necessary. Three of the cleanest kills we have

seen—by one man, with one arm, in the night. We must honor you for this feat at the Green Corn Ceremony. You spoke true, though we

doubted. We are shamed."

 

"No!" Throat Shot protested in anguish.

 

"How is it that you, having proved yourself a warrior more than worthy of your name, are not eager for this recognition?"

 

"I prefer not to speak of this."

 

She reached out and caught his hand. "You must tell me. I will decide what to do. I am the Chief."

 

She was right. She had taken him on faith before, and he had to trust her now.

 

"Last summer, when I was fifteen winters, I went on my first raid," he said. "To establish my manhood, with two others. We did not

do well, and were pursued. I put an arrow through a warrior's neck and killed him. But it was done from ambush, at point-blank

range. I take no pride in it. I learned then that I hate to kill a man, and am no warrior. Before we returned to our village, I was

struck in the shoulder by an arrow. I was punished by the dead man's spirit for my unmanly attack, or for my cowardice. I hid by a

burial mound, and the Spirit of the Mound told me of a terrible danger to my tribe. He would not let me die, for he told me I had

to find the Uktena and get from it the Ulunsuti, for only with the Ulunsuti could I see the danger, and warn my tribe, and devise

some way to avert it. He marked me, and took from me my fear, but not my shame. Since then I have sought the great diamond crystal,

asking the spirits at every mound I find for guidance. That is all that my life is for. I am no warrior, and must not take credit

for the guidance of the spirits. Without them I would have had neither the courage nor the strength to act as I did."

 

"And it was a spirit who sent you here," she murmured.

 

"Yes. I admit sometimes I doubted, but the Spirit spoke true. It knew what I did not. It helped me stop the warriors. The spirits

of your mound must have guided my weapons, for I could not have done it alone."

 

She sat in silence for a time. Then she got up. "This tribe will not speak Of this, as you desire. You will have no recognition at

the Green Corn Ceremony. We will facilitate your journey north. You will be relieved of woman's work."

 

"I prefer to travel now, for my business here is done."

 

"No. You must remain here until the Green Corn Ceremony, when there will be contacts with others. We can send you with a good

trader then."

 

Throat Shot nodded in the darkness. "I will wait." It was a good four moons until the Ceremony, but he was obliged to do as she

decided. Certainly it would be better to go with another trader. "I thank you."

 

"And in the interim, you will remain here with me," she said from the far side of the lodge. "With one change."

 

"Of course I will do as you wish," he said, relieved to have this business settled.

 

"You will sleep on my bed."

 

This surprised him. "But—"

 

"Come to it now, secret warrior."

 

She couldn't mean—

 

He got up, keeping his emotion reined. She might plan to sleep elsewhere. Perhaps she had some token she wished to give him in

private reward. He came to stand beside her feather mat.

 

"I have had a narrow escape from abduction, defilement, or death," she said. "I do not wish to be alone."

 

Oh, of course. In his concern over his own horror, he had forgotten hers.

 

"Take off your clothes," she told him.

 

Silently he did so.

 

"Lie down here with me."

 

He got down. She reached over to embrace him. Her hair was unbound, indicating that she was now to be viewed as woman rather than

as Chief, and her perfect body was bare. There was the smell of honey.

 

Now he knew what she had in mind for him until the Green Corn Ceremony. No one would speak of this, any more than they would of

what else he had done this night. But all would know.

 

"You spoke truly about the spirits," she murmured as she fitted herself to him in a manner that demonstrated her competence. "But

you did not speak of the Calusa Cacique's wife. Is it true what she said of you?"

 

How could she have learned of that? How much did she know of him?

 

"You do not answer?" Beautiful Moon asked with mock severity. "Well, then I must make the proof of it myself."

 

Six times? He doubted it.

 

She kissed him, and his long-suppressed longing burst free, and by morning she had made that proof.

 

Only later, when he finally had time to reflect, did he begin to understand what she had done. Perhaps she had been in horror of

being alone after her narrow escape, as she had said. But more likely she understood his own horror of bloodshed, and had chosen to

override it with something even more compelling. She had hardly let him rest, until he had no thought of anything but sleep. By the

time he had leisure to feel the horror, it was barricaded beyond the endless rapture she had given him. The horror remained, but

muted.

 

He was never under any delusion that Beautiful Moon loved him or wanted to spend the rest of her life with him. She had chosen a

way to reward him that she deemed appropriate, no more. But once she had made the decision to do what she did, she seemed to enjoy

it. That pleased him in another way, as perhaps she intended.

 

Thus it was that the Green Corn Ceremony seemed to come in two days, rather than in four moons. Beautiful Moon had made her

namesake irrelevant.

 

 

 

CHAPTER 9

MOUND

O Spirit of the Mound, I have told you how Throat Shot helped Blue Stone return to her people, and how Beautiful Moon rewarded him

for doing the bidding of the Spirit of the Fresh Water Mound, who knew you. Now I will tell you how he came to the big mound to the

north, and what he learned there.

 

 

 

After the Green Corn Ceremony, Throat Shot went north with a trader from a tribe well to the north, the Oconee. This was Huge

Oyster, who seemed well named, being very large and taciturn. He spoke the Yufera tongue, which was a relief, but his own tongue

was of a different nature, not a mere dialect. He was part of the great group of related tribes of the north, the People of One

Fire. He had not wanted to take a man, and certainly not a one-armed one, but the Yufera proffered trade goods that changed his

mind. Beautiful Moon's favor counted for a lot, and the fact that she had taken no other lover during Throat Shot's stay encouraged

the other warriors to cooperate in making his departure easy. So they said, at any rate; the respect with which they now treated

Throat Shot showed how much they appreciated the thing that no one claimed he had done. He had no enemies here now. The trader was

bemused by this, but he accepted the goods and promised to see Throat Shot to the end of his tribe's river.

 

That, as it turned out, was a long way. First they paddled to the coast, and north, and then into the Oconee River. The Guale tribe

who lived at its base might have another name for it, he said, but it was the tribe at the source who had the spirit of it.

 

The first night was at a Guale village. Here they had two types of lodge: a long, large communal structure for ceremonial use, and

many small oblong homes made from posts. The large one was impressive: it was circular, fashioned of the limbed and barked trunks

of entire pine trees, their bases sunk into the ground and their tops meeting far above. It was the biggest man-made structure

Throat Shot had seen, and he could hardly keep from staring. But the people did not live in here; they used the little lodges.

These were not well made, because the Guale traveled a lot, going where the hunting and fishing were best from season to season.

They made their shelters for only two or three moons, then deserted them.

 

A small lodge was provided, but little more: some food and no maidens. It was not that the Guale were inhospitable, but that they

had little to offer.

 

In the morning they met with the Guale mico, the village headman who had the authority of a chief. He wanted news about the Yufera

and the Tacatacuru and the Saturiwa: were any on the warpath? Throat Shot had trouble following the dialogue, for this was a

completely new tongue, with few words the same as any he knew; only the mico's gestures gave him the essence. Huge Oyster spoke

rapidly, imparting his news.

 

Then the mico addressed Throat Shot. Now Throat Shot supplemented the news with what he knew of events to the south, using the

signs. The mico nodded; it was as he had heard elsewhere. Like any smart chief, he gathered information from different sources. As

it was said: it was best for the rabbit to watch the eagle when it first crossed the horizon, not when it was close.

 

But he had a question: did they know anything of the white men?

 

Huge Oyster looked blank. Throat Shot had heard of such a thing from the Ais, and he relayed what he knew. Signs were inadequate

for this, so he told Huge Oyster, who told the mico in his own tongue. There was a story about a big canoe with men of pale skin

who made slaves of people. The Ais claimed that they had encountered white men on land three winters before, and driven them back

into the sea, and they had not been seen since. The Trader had been away at the time, so could not verify it. It was so strange

that Throat Shot had taken it for a fable. Was that what the mico was asking?

 

It was. The mico had heard from another trader that such pale-fleshed men had been seen, and that they even had pale-fleshed women,

and were always in huge craft on the sea. They were evil, and had to be avoided or fought. But no one had seen any such man in this

vicinity, so perhaps it was mere bravado by some imaginative young warrior.

 

The journey resumed. They paddled on up the Oconee River, stopping at the villages. At some the hospitality was better than at

others. At one there was a maiden who was glad to teach Throat Shot some words of the Guale tongue in exchange for his stories of

the folk to the far south. They spent half the night conversing in signs, and almost forgot to make use of the honey. It was a good

night.

 

In due course they passed beyond the Guale territory and came to that of the Oconee. Its dialect differed, but was close enough to

that of the Guale that Throat Shot was able to pick it up.

 

Here their reception was better, because these were Huge Oyster's own people. But the river was narrower and the current swifter,

so progress was slow. Throat Shot had to paddle till he was worn out, and Huge Oyster seemed no better off. How did the man manage

when he traveled alone?

 

He learned that from the girl who came to him, at the village they finally reached. As she kneaded his stiff shoulders and arms

with marvelous gentleness, she explained that normally a young warrior would join the trader and help him handle the strong

current. He would pay something of value for this service. This time he had not had to.

 

Throat Shot nodded. The Yufera had paid to send him with the trader, and the trader had cleverly used him for service. Huge Oyster

was making a double profit.

 

Then the girl removed her skirt and demonstrated what else she could do. She seemed unaware of his bad arm, yet she managed to get

quite close without aggravating it. He concluded that he had no complaint.

 

Huge Oyster's village was beside a lake amidst mountains. Throat Shot stared at the steep slopes, amazed. There was nothing like

this in the lands he had seen before.

 

"You think these are mountains?" Huge Oyster inquired derisively. "Wait till you see the ones in the land of the Ani-Yunwiya."

 

"The Ani-Yunwiya?" Throat Shot was not familiar with that tribe.

 

"In their tongue, it means the Principal People. You are going north. They are our neighbors north. They live in the true

mountains."

 

Throat Shot didn't believe that these were not the true mountains, but he was satisfied to find out. He got directions and a good

fish line for his hook, and set off on foot, because the river north from the lake was too swift for a canoe. Once he reached the

source, he would be close to the next lake, and that lake was in Principal People territory. They had a different tongue, he had

been warned, so he would have to use the signs, but they would surely help him on his way. They were friendly folk who freely

adopted strangers.

 

It turned out to be a five-day walk. He had always had strong legs, and he moved well, but Huge Oyster was right: these were

mountains such as he had never imagined. Their slopes seemed almost vertical in places, and they towered into the sky, each one

smaller than the one beyond it. They were clothed in trees of types he hadn't seen before, as well as oaks and pines of new

dialects. It was cooler here, though this was summer; he understood why the people of this region tended to wear more clothing than

he was used to. It was not any shame of their bodies, but because the night could be chill. He had thought it might get warmer

beyond the territory of the Yufera, but this was not the case.

 

The animals and birds remained familiar, however. He saw squirrels and woodpeckers in the trees, and crows and hawks in the sky,

and the prints of bears and wildcats where they came down to drink in the stream. There were white deer, of course, bounding away

as he approached, their white tails flashing. Had he been able to use a bow when standing, he could have taken one. But he was

satisfied to let them go; butchering a deer would have taken time, and there would have been more meat than he could eat or carry

far. No man would kill more than he could use, if he were not starving.

 

The river became a creek, and the creek a brook. He found that he did not need to use his fishhook. Each evening he stood

absolutely still, with his knife poised, until a fat trout relaxed and swam into range; then he struck swiftly. He skewered it,

glad to verify that he had not lost his touch, and lifted it out of the water. He made a small fire to cook the fish, and to

discourage bears and mosquitoes when he slept. He did not like traveling alone, but discovered that he could handle it, both

physically and emotionally. That was a good thing to know.

 

Maybe, he realized, the Spirit of the Mound was watching over him. Possibly his lack of fear applied to being alone too: he just

hadn't realized it until he tried it. He preferred company but would not again be unduly governed by that preference.

 

 

 

A detail Huge Oyster had neglected to mention was that the source of the river was high. Throat Shot had to scramble up over a

lofty ridge, then make his way down the other side. But this brought the next lake into view. What a beautiful sight!

 

He camped one more night alone, preferring to approach the Principal People by morning. Then he walked down to the lake, and found

a path, and followed it until he came to a village.

 

Soon enough he encountered a woman who had been gathering acorns. She stopped still when she saw him, knowing he was no villager.

He signed to her that he was a traveler, a friend. She signed to him to wait, and she ran back to her village.

 

Soon warriors came to escort him to the Chief. They were a war party, for their bodies were painted blood-red and their faces half

black. He had not seen the pattern before, but the significance of red paint was universal. He stood quite still, making no move

that could possibly be interpreted as hostile. Only when they had inspected him thoroughly did he move, and then only to make the

sign for Friend.

 

They held an extended signs dialogue. The Chief nodded: they would help him. There was a man who wanted to travel to that mound,

needing a companion. The spirits had evidently sent Throat Shot. The man was in another village, but they would guide Throat Shot

there.

 

Throat Shot was wary. This seemed too good to be true. He remembered how the Saturiwa Chief had set him up for trouble. This Chief

did seem to be in good humor, as if he was aware of something slightly funny. Yet what motive could there be to do that here? He

agreed to go to the other village and meet the man.

 

A child guided him. The boy stepped fleetly along the path, and Throat Shot followed, going north. They left the lake behind and

followed a new river through the mountains.

 

They reached another village before nightfall. The boy explained about Throat Shot. The village Chief nodded. This one, too, seemed

to take a bit more pleasure in the matter than was warranted. Yet there was no sign of hostility or deceit. He would spend the

night here, and have another guide tomorrow.

 

Were they simply leading him to some distant place so they wouldn't have to bother with him? Again Throat Shot suppressed his

suspicion as unworthy. The Principal People were evidently just being helpful.

 

After several days of such travel, he reached the village where the man who wished to travel lived. They brought out the man. Then

the reason for the Chiefs' humor was apparent.

 

He was different from the Principal People. Throat Shot realized immediately that he was of another tribe, probably one far away. A

traveler far from his home. He was lame; his right knee was a mass of scar tissue, and his leg evidently would not readily bend.

 

Throat Shot understood: the two injured strangers to this region could help each other. The Principal People were doing both a

favor by introducing them. Injuries were not subjects for levity, so nothing was said about them, but the coincidence of both men

being handicapped had evidently caused the chiefs some reflection.

 

The other man was large and muscular, especially in the arms. He seemed to speak the Principal People tongue, but since Throat Shot

could not, this was no help. The Principal People withdrew and let the two converse in signs.

 

Question You Called, the other man signed, his hands moving rapidly through the signs: right hand lifted, fingers spread, palm out,

and twisted slightly several times. Right finger pointed to Throat Shot. The loosely closed hand poking forward, index finger

extending.

 

Throat Shot responded by pointing his right thumb to his chest, then making the Called sign, then touching his throat, then moving

his closed hand down and to the left in the Shoot gesture. Then he queried the other similarly.

 

The man rubbed the tips of his right fingers in a circle on the back of his left hand: Color. Then he looked around, spied a gray

spot on a nearby tree trunk, and pointed directly to it. Gray. After that he pointed upward. There was nothing there but a passing

cloud. Gray Cloud.

 

Then they established that Throat Shot came from the Toco tribe far to the south, while Gray Cloud came from the Peoria tribe of

the Illini folk to the northwest. No wonder they shared no tongue!

 

They indicated where each was traveling: Throat Shot to the biggest mound, and Gray Cloud home. Gray Cloud smiled: Mound Near Home,

he signed.

 

Finally they exchanged information on their injuries: the one had taken an arrow in the left shoulder, in warfare, while the other

had been clubbed in the knee, in captivity.

 

Gray Cloud produced a strip of dried deer meat, offering it. Throat Shot took it and chewed off an end. He handed it back. Gray

Cloud chewed off another section.

 

They had shared food. They were friends, by the oath that constituted. They would travel together.

 

 

 

Gray Cloud had a good canoe. It was so strange that Throat Shot was amazed. Instead of being formed of a burned-out tree trunk, it

was fashioned of thin, white, stiff, clothlike stuff anchored on a sturdy frame. It was much lighter than a dugout, so that it was

even possible for Gray Cloud alone to heave it up and carry it on his shoulders and head. Had his legs both been good, he could

have walked with it from lake to lake.

 

It turned out that the Principal People fashioned such canoes from the thin bark of a certain kind of tree that grew well up in the

mountains: the mountain birch. It was said that such trees were far more common farther north, where the air was cooler; they did

not like the heat of the southern forests. But it was cool up here, in fact often quite chill, as Throat Shot had discovered during

his journey here. It seemed that the heights were cooler than the lower ground, odd as that might be. It should have been

otherwise, since the heights were closer to the hot sun.

 

Gray Cloud knew the route to his home, which was beyond the big mound and on the same river. It seemed that he had been a prisoner

of the savage Mexica, and had escaped with two companions. They were of the Principal People, residing in this region, and so their

canoe had come here. Now he needed a companion paddler to retrace the river route and take the other fork to his own tribe, the

Peoria. The Peoria were to the Illini as the Oconee were to the People of One Fire: one of a number of tribes with similar customs

and tongues. He had been here since before the last winter, and had begun to despair of being able to return before winter made the

journey too dangerous. Throat Shot's arrival was like a gift from a beneficent spirit.

 

Throat Shot explained about how directly that related, for he had indeed been sent by a spirit. Gray Cloud nodded, not surprised.

The spirits worked in strange ways, but usually did know what they were doing.

 

They set out, Gray Cloud in the rear, his bad leg stretched out before him, and Throat Shot in front, paddling only on the left

side. But they both knew how to handle a canoe, and the lightness of this one was an almost unmitigated pleasure for Throat Shot.

It made him feel half again as strong, and when they both bent to it, synchronized, the little craft fairly leaped forward. They

were going downstream, which also helped.

 

As they traveled, they conversed. Gray Cloud taught him some terms of the tongue of the Principal People, as it seemed more likely

that he would be returning this way than that he would continue on beyond the mound. If the spirits of the mound had the

information he needed, and he was able to get the Ulunsuti, then he would want to hurry home by the most familiar route. The

Principal People were on that route, and the other tribes whose tongues he had begun to pick up.

 

The river flowed southwest, but Gray Cloud assured him that it changed direction in due course and would take them to the mound. It

soon opened out into a lakelike expanse, and was pleasant to follow. They passed other birch-bark canoes, and Gray Cloud called

greetings to their occupants. "Yes, I am going home!" he agreed when they inquired. "So I can see pretty women again!" They made

gestures of friendly insult, indicating what they thought his tribe's women might look like, their gestures most resembling swollen

gourds.

 

"It is a tradition," Gray Cloud explained. "When warriors pass on the river, never to meet again, they can insult each other and

never have to settle accounts. But it is done only when they know they are not enemies, in fun. The Principal People have

interesting notions of fun."

 

So it seemed. Throat Shot decided not to risk any such fun himself, as he was not generally known to the Principal People.

 

When they passed near the bank, he asked about the strange varieties of trees he saw. "That one is an ash," Gray Cloud said

obligingly. "Very straight, strong wood for arrows. That one is beech; the nuts are excellent. That one is chestnut, and its nuts

are very good too. That one is maple; they say it has sweet sap, but I have not tasted it." The terms he used were unfamiliar, but

Throat Shot made careful mental note. Trees with edible fruit or nuts were always valuable. There were no palm trees here of any

variety, which reduced his ability to forage unless he learned the new ones.

 

They camped for the night on the south bank, because Gray Cloud knew the Principal People better than he knew the Yuchi on the

north bank. Actually, they called themselves the Tsoy-aha, the Children of the Sun, Gray Cloud explained; Yuchi meant simply, in

their tongue, "from far away." But other tribes did not care to accept such a claim of divine ancestry, so left it at Yuchi.

Indeed, their claim was odd, because they lived low: their lodges were half dug into the ground. This was not a time of warfare,

but still it was best to stay with known folk, with understandable customs. So the south side was best, as well as being most

familiar. Gray Cloud used his bow to put an arrow through a turkey, and they stripped and roasted it and had a wonderful meal.

 

They made a shelter of branches and leaves, trying to overlap the larger leaves so that water would flow across them instead of

through. That was just as well, because it rained during the night, putting out their smoldering fire, but they remained dry except

for some splashing from the front.

 

Next day they navigated a swampy region where cypress stood tall. Throat Shot felt nostalgia as he viewed their swollen bases; he

had been long away from home, and this reminded him of it.

 

The next night they used Throat Shot's fishhook with a fat bug for bait, and caught what Gray Cloud said was a bass: a big solid

fish with a big mouth.

 

As they proceeded, the great river did curve, going first west, then north. Now the canoes they saw on it contained strange

warriors, but they made no hostile challenges. "They recognize the bark canoe we use," Gray Cloud said. "They think we are

Principal People, and that is well."

 

Yet the man seemed pensive. Throat Shot was now acquiring a small collection of words of the Principal People tongue, and was happy

to use it, gaining further proficiency. Signs remained important, however. "You regret that?"

 

"No, it is well. But now that we are fairly on our way, and have left the Principal People behind, I remember Red Leaf."

 

"A woman?"

 

"We have kept some company. But I long for my own people, and she is not of them. I gave her little encouragement. Yet now that I

have left her behind, I remember her good qualities. Before I noticed that she was two winters older than I, but now I know she is

lovelier than those two winters younger than I am, and considerably more competent."

 

Throat Shot remembered Beautiful Moon. He had appreciated her qualities throughout, knowing it was never more than a temporary

liaison for her, yet the parting had been hard. She still came to his dreams, as beautiful and accommodating and temporary as ever.

 

"But did you have a woman in your own tribe?"

 

Gray Cloud smiled. "That, too. The Illini are not great warriors, though we have our foolish pretensions. We generally lose our big

battles. But our women are loyal, and Glow Fungus was loyal to me. Now I am loyal to her, and that perhaps is half my reason to

return home."

 

Throat Shot nodded. He wanted to return to the Toco, but if Beautiful Moon had asked him to remain forever with the Yufera, he

would have remained.

 

"How is it you left her?"

 

That turned out to be a long story. Throat Shot listened to every detail, fascinated. He had known little of the dread distant

Mexica tribe; now he learned much, noting the ways it complemented little Tzec's tale of the Maya.

 

Tzec. He had not thought of her in some time, for her traces had been to an extent obliterated by those of real women, but now her

memory returned. He hoped she was doing well with the Trader. Were they out on a trading circuit now?

 

When Gray Cloud's story was done, Throat Shot told him that of Little Blood. After that Gray Cloud told one of the legends of his

people, and Throat Shot told the tale of Sweet Medicine. Thus they entertained each other, as they made the moon-long journey down

the great river.

 

They shared the work as well as the entertainment. Gray Cloud was good with his bow, but could not move rapidly; Throat Shot was

the opposite. So Throat Shot would run fleetly and circle around behind prospective prey and drive it toward Gray Cloud, whether it

was bird or animal, and Gray Cloud would put an arrow through what seemed best.

 

But usually they simply drew up fish from the river. It was easy prey, and good enough to eat. Sometimes they would just drift with

the current, dangling the hook on the line, and have a good fish before they camped. This was certainly the way to travel!

 

Then they saw a number of great shaggy beasts at the bank, small in the hind part but huge in the forepart, with low-set, heavy

horned heads. Throat Shot stared. "What is that?"

 

"Buffalo. I think that's more meat than we need at the moment."

 

Throat Shot was at a loss for words, until he realized that Gray Cloud was joking. The animals must have massed as much as any ten

men, and looked unconscionably fierce. It seemed unlikely that one could be killed with an arrow, and any other weapon would

require too close an approach for any safety. As for the meat—yes, they would have to camp for a moon to be able to consume any

great portion of it.

 

Then the name sank in. Buffalo. "Sweet Medicine—"

 

"True," Gray Cloud said. "That is the animal there. You told the tale without knowing it?"

 

Throat Shot had to admit it was true. "I knew it was of a far place, but I did not know that this was the place."

 

"It may not be. Buffalo are everywhere, except where your tribe is, it seems. They are the mainstay of our lives—the Illini and the

tribes of our region. The Principal People live too high in the mountains for the buffalo, so they have to trade for the hides. We

use buffalo hides to make clothing and tents, we eat their meat, we make weapons of their bones, we make fires with their dung."

 

"Fires with their dung!"

 

"I will show you, next time we camp, if we can find some good dung."

 

So it happened: the dried chunks made a good and well-behaved fire. Throat Shot was impressed. He put a little dung in his punk pot

to see how well it would sustain his slow fire. This could simplify the care of the pot.

 

They intersected another great river, and followed the doubled water on down. Then they came to another juncture, and this time

they followed the new river up. They were now entering the territory of the Illini, though Gray Cloud's tribe was still some

distance upstream.

 

By the time they reached the vicinity of the great mound, they were firm friends.

 

They followed a small offshoot creek to the east, and before it gave out they were there. The tremendous mound could be seen rising

to the south.

 

The region was desolate; only scrub and small trees grew, though elsewhere there had been dense forests.

 

They landed the canoe and drew it well clear of the water. Then they walked to the mound. The distance was so short that Gray Cloud

could handle it; they did not need to hurry.

 

There was a small village nearby. The two approached and made signs of peace. The people were of the Illini tribes; Gray Cloud

spoke a dialect, and was able to converse with them.

 

No, they had not made the big mound. It had always been there. The spirits must have made it long ago.

 

Indeed, the inhabitants seemed little interested in any of the mounds. They were too busy scratching out their survival from the

meager offerings of the land.

 

Throat Shot was surprised by their lodges. Instead of being round or square structures of wood or mud, they were tall pointed cones

of sewn animal skins. On occasion as they traveled the tremendous river he had seen the points of similar objects in the distance,

but he had not thought that they could be for people. How strange!

 

Gray Cloud saw his glance. "Our tribes live in tipis instead of lodges. We sew cured skins around a framework of poles, with a flap

for entry and a hole at the top to let out the smoke of our fires. They are durable and comfortable and easier to move than lodges,

as we can simply take down and fold the skins. I will show you one when we are done here."

 

Throat Shot nodded. That should be interesting. It had never occurred to him that a lodge could be made movable, but it made sense,

as it was always a nuisance to have to build new lodges. A light lodge—or tipi—serving much the way the light bark-of-birch canoe

did. Such things did make sense. It would be nice to take one of each home, if that turned out to be possible.

 

He glanced again at the working people. There was evidently no hospitality being offered here.

 

But Throat Shot remembered the massive mounds near the mouth of the Little Big River, whose spirits had recognized the child Tzec

and told him to learn the story of Little Blood. The people didn't matter, only the spirits within the mounds. For there were many

mounds here, perhaps ten tens of mounds, most of them relatively small, dominated by the huge one. The amount of work that must

have gone into forming them was beyond his imagination. All the people of the villages of Atafi and Ibi Hica could have dug and

carried sand for a summer and a winter, and not made this! The spirit of the Wide Water mound had surely spoken true: this was

where he would find his answer.

 

They gazed at the mound. It loomed as high as the tallest trees, though there were no trees near it. It had four great terraces,

and the ruins of a massive building at the top. "I think this is more than I care to attempt," Gray Cloud said. "I will wait at the

base."

 

"Yes." Throat Shot was so impressed by the mound that his friend's problem with climbing hardly mattered to him. "I will go up to

that building."

 

Gray Cloud glanced at him. "What building do you mean?"

 

"The one at the top of the mound. It is in ruins, but that is surely where the spirits reside."

 

"There is no building there."

 

This made Throat Shot pause. "You do not see it?"

 

"You do see it?"

 

Throat Shot knew how keen Gray Cloud's eyes were. They had to be, to enable him to shoot an arrow through a flying bird. "Perhaps

it is a spirit building, which appears only to me, for my quest."

 

"It must be," Gray Cloud agreed.

 

This was a positive sign.

 

He walked to the south side of the mound. It was a rough square in outline, with the corners sharp. It rose into a crude pyramid.

Throat Shot thought of the great stone temple structures Tzec had described among the Maya. Was this one of those, fashioned from

dirt instead of stone?

 

There was an old overgrown set of steps at the south side, leading up to the first terrace. I come, O spirits of this mound, he

thought, and started up them.

 

He reached the first platform. He listened, but no spirits spoke to him. He felt a sudden chill: suppose the spirits refused to

give him the answer he sought? Because this was day instead of night, or because he was from too far away, or because he was not a

proper warrior?

 

No, they had to answer! This was the mound where the spirits knew where to find the Ulunsuti, and if they did not tell him, he had

nowhere else to go. He could not leave here until he had that answer.

 

He walked across the platform to the next set of steps. He mounted them to the third level, which was to the east of the second

level and higher. Then he made the short additional climb to the fourth terrace and stood before the ancient building.

 

It was constructed of stones and wood, and even in its ruin it was monstrous. Its half-fallen walls reached up three times the

height of a man, and its length was much greater than that. What a magnificent edifice it must have been in its heyday! Now it was

gone, its stones stolen, its wood rotted away.

 

Just to be sure, he reached out and touched the wall of the building. His hand felt nothing. This was indeed a spirit structure,

remaining after the physical one had been killed. However, if he entered it, he would be in the realm of the spirits, and they

could kill him if they wished.

 

He turned and gazed south, across the numerous smaller mounds, and the paths and bushes stretching out to the horizon. Had there

ever been people living there? It was hard to imagine, for the region seemed desolate.

 

Where should he address the spirits? The collapsing building did not seem safe, for any further collapse could kill his own spirit,

yet this had surely been their temple. That seemed the most likely place to find the most important spirit.

 

He checked the entrance warily. It seemed firm enough, in its image. Probably whatever was going to collapse had already done so,

so he could enter if he did not touch anything. He remembered that Gray Cloud had not been able to see this structure. That

indicated that it was visible only to those who had business here. Why should the spirits give him so clear a signal, only to kill

him in it? They surely wanted him to enter.

 

He stepped in. Light filtered through the interior, and he could see the various chambers. Dirt shrouded everything, but he could

see decorations on the walls. A recurring figure was part bird, part man, evidently one of their deities.

 

He came to a broad central chamber and stopped. This seemed to be the center; it should be the place.

 

O spirits of this mound, who will answer me?

 

There was no answer. Yet he felt spirits stirring below. They were aware of him; they just did not deign to speak with him. He had

encountered this attitude before.

 

O spirits, I was sent to you by Dead Eagle and Frog Effigy. I am Throat Shot, of the Toco tribe, and I must find the Ulunsuti to

save my people. Only you can help me. I beg of you, speak to me!

 

But they would not.

 

This could not be. He had to have their help. Otherwise his mission was lost, and his tribe would suffer grievously. What could he

do to change their minds?

 

Do you want your lodge repaired? he asked. I am not good at such work, but I can try. Yet he feared this was an empty promise,

because he could do very little physically, and perhaps nothing at all in the spirit realm.

 

Still no response. They weren't interested in him or in anything he might do for them.

 

But he had come here to find the Ulunsuti, and this was the mound that contained the spirits who would know where it was. If he

left here without that knowledge, his mission would be lost.

 

O spirits, I wait on your answer, he thought. Then he waited, standing where he was, immobile, as if about to spear a cautious

fish.

 

The day passed. The spirits did not respond. Yet he knew they were there, aware of him, watching him. Perhaps they felt he was

unworthy, because of his arm. That was understandable. But he had to have their answer. So he remained as he was.

 

Night came. Throat Shot was hungry and thirsty, and he needed to urinate, but he could not pause for any of these things without

showing weakness, and the spirits would judge him thereby. So he held firm, unmoving.

 

Mosquitoes came, and he had not smeared grease to make his flesh resistant, and had no smoky fire to discourage them. He had to

tolerate their bites, for he dared not flinch.

 

A snake came, slithering through the ragged wall. Throat Shot could not see it in the darkness, but he heard it, and knew the

sound. He could not tell what kind it was, but was not concerned. He had no fear, and knew that no serpent short of the Uktena

could consume a man, and no snake would bite a man who made no motion.

 

His legs were tired, and now they felt as if they were swelling. He was not used to standing so long, so still. No fish required so

much time! But he remained as he was, waiting for the spirits to answer.

 

Toward dawn he was feeling faint. That was another threatened weakness: if he fainted, and fell, he would be discredited before the

spirits. He clung resolutely to his consciousness.

 

Then at last, as the wan light of false dawn came, Throat Shot felt a stirring. A spirit was touching his mind, ready to talk with

him! Yet it did not. He would have to find a way to address it, or it would lose interest.

 

He looked again at the walls, and around the chamber. He saw a fallen figure. He went to it and lifted it out of the dirt. It was a

smudged day statuette of the bird-man.

 

Their sacred figure?

 

He brushed it off, then held it up. It seemed physical rather than spiritual, though he could not be certain. By this figure I

conjure you: speak to me. I respect your gods, if only you will tell me who they are.

 

I will speak to you, a spirit answered. But first you must know us. Go outside.

 

Throat Shot did not argue. He carried the figurine carefully outside the building, retracing his footprints in the dirt. He blinked

as he emerged into the dazzling sunlight. Then, as his sight cleared, he stared south, amazed.

 

The desolate landscape was there no more. Now it was filled with lodges. Directly before him was a huge plaza with two small

ceremonial mounds. All around that were the lodges, so thickly placed that he could not count them. Beyond them, enclosing the

whole, was a wall of stout pointed posts, a palisade, more formidable than any he had seen before. Throughout were people—tens of

tens of them, tens of tens of tens.

 

It was no village, no town. It was a city, such as the Mayans used. A vast city, teeming with activity, fortified, with warriors at

the palisade. The stockade walls projected at regular intervals, where archers stood guard. The gateways were screened so that no

mass of men could storm them head-on. Beyond the enclosed compound were fields where corn grew, and there were lodges out there

too, as there were too many people for the stockade to include. To the west was a great Calendar Circle that priests used to tell

the exact times of the ceremonial occasions. Captives were enslaved to carry dirt to build more mounds, and buffalo were hunted in

great numbers to supplement the food. Trade routes extended out in every direction, and levies were made on subject peoples, the

barbarians of the outer reaches.

 

And in the center of this empire was the Pyramid of the Sun, with its bird-man totem, supreme over all. This was the height to

which all eyes turned. Travelers came from far away to see this mighty complex and to lay their offerings at the bird-man's feet,

and to participate in the Corn Harvest Ceremony. This was the trading capital of the region.

 

But at the moment a special ceremony was going on. The priests were approaching with torches. They came to the great lodge behind

Throat Shot, walking past him as if he was not there—and indeed he was not, for he was seeing into the past. They set fire to the

steeply pitched thatch roof. It blazed up, the timbers catching, and became an inferno.

 

Within it was the body of the Chief of these people. He had died, and had been buried beneath his house, and the house was being

burned so that no one else could use it. It would go with him into the spirit world. Only its stones would survive for the next

building, and they would remember.

 

After the fire was done, the laborers brought baskets of dirt, carrying it from the distant borrow pit, each load a quarter the

weight of a man, and dumped it over the ashes. The pit was turning into a lake because so much dirt had been taken from it in the

past. A new terrace was formed over the old one, entombing the old Chief with the ashes of his lodge.

 

Then, more rapidly than could ever be done in life, they built the new lodge for the new Chief. Throat Shot realized that he was

seeing many days passing by as if they were moments, in the vision.

 

Then it was done, and the vision faded. He was looking at the fallen building, which had not been burned. That suggested that the

last Chief had not died—yet had not remained, either. What had happened?

 

He reentered the lodge, and came to stand where he had before. O Spirit, I have seen you buried and your lodge burned. I have seen

the great empire you governed. Now will you answer me?

 

Are you truly from Dead Eagle?

 

I truly am. I open my mind to you, O Spirit, that you may see. And he did so.

 

It is true. I knew Dead Eagle. I am Sun Eagle, also of the Eagle Clan, and you hold my totem. I will deal with you.