Piers Anthony

Tatham Mound

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CONTENTS

Introduction

Chapter 1 — Spirit

Chapter 2 — Trader

Chapter 3 — Maya

Chapter 4 — Little Blood

Chapter 5 — Calusa

Chapter 6 — Sweet Medicine

Chapter 7 — Wide Water

Chapter 8 — Signs

Chapter 9 — Mound

Chapter 10 — Sacrifice

Chapter 11 — Tale Teller

Chapter 12 — Mad Queen

Chapter 13 — Twice Cursed

Chapter 14 — Renunciation

Chapter 15 — Wren

Chapter 16 — Castile

Chapter 17 — De Soto

Chapter 18 — Search

Chapter 19 — Battle

Chapter 20 — Return

Chapter 21 — Mound

Author's Note

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INTRODUCTION

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

War. One was believed to be in CitrusCounty, near the sweeping bend of the WithlacoocheeRiver called the Cove of the

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

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

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

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

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

Cove.

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

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

sherds. This was enough to confirm the mound as a SafetyHarbor site. Historically the SafetyHarbor peoples of the TampaBay

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the ground.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER 1

SPIRIT

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

buried here may be properly introduced.

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

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

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

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

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

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

company for you, though they died too soon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

much trouble, even as he had started.

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

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

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

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

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

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

pictographs in the sand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

any truce.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he had doubted, but now he knew.

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

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

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

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

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

victims.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

pursuit could be close on their return.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

cleanly—that was the ideal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

set route—in changed circumstances.

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

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

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

pursue."

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

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

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

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

concealed.

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

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

The warrior grunted and staggered. The woman screamed.

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

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

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

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

away, before their own blood was spilled.

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

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

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

recognized the arrows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

all over.

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

escape unnoticed!

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

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

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

surprised.

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

had seen a warrior die in battle before.

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

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

seriousness of it.

"Take his scalp!" Alligator said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yet still he was appalled.

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

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

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

kill again. That was why he was no warrior.

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

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

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

skill at all in silent travel.

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

were safe.

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

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

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

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

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

bloodsuckers had no trouble locating them.

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

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

familiar paths.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

one always alert while two slept.

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

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

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

not sleepy, just phenomenally weary.

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

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

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

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

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

coward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

easy target for the spirit's wrath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

upstream.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

by Toco warriors.

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

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

behind the other two.

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

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

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

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

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

felt!

"Hold him!" Woodpecker whispered.

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

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

and could attract the Cale.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

shoulder was throbbing and his feet were tiring.

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

from you."

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

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

hand extended, the blood dripping from it.

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

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

not...

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

drops Woodpecker had planted.

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

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

Hotfoot, and he could not outrun them.

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

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

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

Here.

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

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

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

priest could come here.

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

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

have only contempt for him.

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

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

and who was not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who are you?" Hotfoot asked without speaking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

for you must not yet die."

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

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

"My mission?"

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

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

"O Spirit, what danger is this?"

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

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

the forehead of the Uktena."

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

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

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

may die and join us here."

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

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

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

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

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

his hand passed through Hotfoot's injured shoulder.

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

again.

CHAPTER 2

TRADER

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

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

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

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

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

the pot were comforting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

single arrow through the throat!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

baffles me. I need your counsel."

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

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

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

"What mark?"

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

you not know?"

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

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

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

night at that holy site and live, otherwise."

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

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

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

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

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

should proceed."

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

accepted, and now I must do it."

The priest considered. "What was the mission?"

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

accurately with the Ulunsuti—"

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

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

"Dead Eagle took your fear?"

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

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

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

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

likely die without success."

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

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

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

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

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

"But where should I search for it?"

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

This does not frighten you?"

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

"You fear to?"

"I have no fear, only proper respect."

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

if you tell them who sent you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

qualification.

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

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

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

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

wounded his body.

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

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

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

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

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

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

was right to do this with her.

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

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

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

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

"Or for a man, perhaps?"

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

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

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

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

mouth?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

here for trade.

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

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

flint already.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

appetite like that along!

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

bargaining, and also help portage."

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

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

The Trader nodded. "One cloak."

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

"Two."

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

"Show me the man."

The Chief beckoned Throat Shot. He stepped forward.

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

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

point of an arrow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What tongues do you speak?"

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

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

language, so that only the speech counted.

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

much of Ais just by listening now."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

spirit of the river. What did the man want?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Throat Shot, caught by surprise, did not answer.

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

not be angry; I just want to know."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

every person I meet is honorable."

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

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

is lying."

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

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

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

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

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

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

arm?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

perhaps I will succeed."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I shall remember," Throat Shot agreed.

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

rapidly along.

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

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

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

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

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

fine item?" Throat Shot inquired of the Chief.

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

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

"He needs slaves?"

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

"But does he trade for slaves?"

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

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

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

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

her."

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

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

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

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

proceed faster and better this way.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She looked at him, but did not reply.

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

The girl shook her head as if confused.

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

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

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

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

haltingly.

"What is your native language?" he asked.

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

speak a language whose like he had never before heard?

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

Trader said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

show him where it was.

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

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

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

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

mischief."

"I have no fear."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oak," she said in the same language.

"No, in your tongue."

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

Throat Shot repeated it. That surprised her again.

He pointed to a palmetto clump. "Name?"

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

He pointed to himself. "Man. Name?"

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

language was foreign.

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

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

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

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

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

you. I must talk to them."

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

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

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

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

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

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

for "bones" to convey the concept.

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

She gave the name for the dead in her tongue.

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

they did not try to harm either of us."

"Yes!" she agreed, relieved.

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

village, as was the custom.

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

"She will not run," Throat Shot agreed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

there too, similarly astonished.

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

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

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

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

and started paddling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

are."

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

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

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

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

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

had I known."

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

doubted, yet he was surprised.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

things.

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

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

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

CHAPTER 3

MAYA

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

conch shells.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

where life was more primitive.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

would kill her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thus it remained for some time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

were rebuilt and special sacrifices made.

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

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

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

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

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

numbers, unknown among the local natives.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

southwest. The life she knew here was satisfactory.

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

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

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

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

speaking unintelligibly, menacing them with another knife.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

mother was gone.

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

cried nor resisted; she kept quiet and ate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

had told Tzec she must survive alone.

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

It did not take long for the warrior to conclude that it was too much trouble to maintain a child who could not speak the Toco

tongue. It was not something he had thought about before; otherwise he might simply have slain her instead of taking her captive.

So he did the next best thing: he traded her to a warrior of another village to the north, for a good bag of corn. Corn was

precious among the Toco, for they grew little of it themselves, yet it was useful for bread when mixed with acorn meal.

The new master was willing to have his wife teach the slave child the tongue, but Tzec was not willing to learn. The Toco had

destroyed her pleasant life, killed her father and probably her mother too. She wanted nothing to do with them. Before long she was

traded off again.

In this manner, over the course of a summer and a winter, Tzec traveled north to the village of Ibi Hica. There she stopped,

because the Little Big River barred the way beyond. She could not be casually traded with the Cale, for they were in a state of

chronic war with the Toco. They would have to wait until some ignorant trader passed; then perhaps they could get rid of her.

Meanwhile they treated her well enough, and she behaved well enough. They thought her mute, because by this time she could have

learned at least a few words otherwise. But they recognized her incipient beauty, and knew that in due course her value would grow,

if a warrior who did not care about speech came looking for a woman.

These Toco were truly primitive. They wore little clothing, and the children none. The adult men had only loincloths, and they

painted their bodies according to their status. That in itself was not primitive, for her mother, Zox, had been well tattooed and

painted, but the patterns of the Toco were mere decorations, rather than symbolic of the great deeds of antiquity. The women wore

moss from the trees, which they had to hang in the smoke of a fire to abolish the tiny mites which otherwise would raise

uncomfortable welts in their private places. They ate mostly shellfish from the river. But they were all right as people.

Now she had been traded, for a better price than anticipated. She did not know what her future would be. Was Throat Shot interested

in acquiring her? She saw that he had a bad arm, and that diminished him, but she knew now that he had an ability to learn and

speak other tongues quickly, and that enhanced him. He was not cruel, and he was smart; these were compelling arguments. Most

positive of all, he was marked: the discolored scar on the back of his left shoulder vaguely resembled an eagle. Primitives put

great store by such marks, believing them to indicate the favor of spirits, but to Tzec it had a different appeal. Such a mark was

beautiful. Her mother was marked, so she knew. It was as if this man had some affinity to her mother, being similarly set apart

from ordinary folk.

She smiled at him, and her beauty manifested; she was indeed a lovely child, as the surface of calm water assured her. She was now

nine winters old, and soon enough would verge on womanhood; it would be best if she caused a good man to choose her, rather than

taking a chance on who else might purchase her from the Trader. She had seen and understood how her mother managed men; she knew

what to do. Throat Shot was a good man; he had a ready mind, and he knew tongues she did not, including the way of talking swiftly

with his hands. She was too young as yet, but whatever appeal she could generate would be worthwhile, to make him understand what

she would offer as she matured. Actually, she now realized that the sexual treatment she feared from a strange man would not

necessarily be onerous from this man, if it served to make him value her. A girl had to use whatever she had.

"Why do you smile?" he finally inquired, practicing her Maya tongue, which made their dialogue private. He had finally realized

that she was signaling him. Men could be slow about such things, but persistence could get their attention. He was facing away from

her at the moment, paddling the canoe, but anytime he turned she caught him with a smile.

"I wish you would buy me. I will do anything you want, as well as I am able, and I will get better as I grow older."

Now indeed he understood, and she saw an unmanly flush at his neck. He paddled for a while, facing forward, evidently uncertain

what to say. But in time he figured it out.

"I cannot buy you, Tzec. I have no shells, no beads, no fine feather cloaks to pay for you! I am just a young man, serving the

Trader so that I may travel with him and seek to fulfill my mission. Even if I had wealth, I—you—"

Tzec sighed inwardly. He was pleading poverty, and this seemed to be the case. Still, he might have something he was not admitting

to, and demurred because she had not sufficiently impressed him. Probably he was not sexually attracted to an undeveloped girl, and

while she was glad of that on general principles, she regretted it in this case. She might be sold to a brute of a man who would

use her and throw her away damaged.

In such a circumstance, her mother would be gracious. "I understand. Of course you do not want a child. I should not have asked

you."

"Oh, that was all right," he said, as he had to. "I—" Then he ran afoul of the implications again, and lost his words. At least now

he would be aware of her in this respect, and judging her as a prospective future sexual partner. That was a significant gain.

Increasingly she assumed the chores of women, for she was female: preparing meals, cleaning utensils and putting the canoe in

order, gathering edible mushrooms and anything else she spied. One night there was not a woman for the Trader, so Tzec went to him

and massaged his shoulders, which were tired from the day's paddling. A good woman was a useful one, and she had learned what she

had to, to survive in this society, even though she did not speak its language. The Trader acquiesced approvingly, seeing that she

was young but competent. That meant that he would not be in a rush to trade her away. That meant, in turn, that she would have more

time to impress Throat Shot.

She talked to him whenever she could, and that was often, because she was learning his tongue. She tried her best to interest him,

and since he was interested in the dead, she searched for whatever she knew that related to that. She found something.

"How many souls do your people have?" she asked.

"One for each person," he replied. "How could it be otherwise?"

"The Calusa have three souls for each person."

"Three?" he asked, suitably astonished. "How can that be?"

"One is in the shadow he makes when he walks in the sunlight," she said. "I think it hovers just inside his skin near where the

shadow should be, when he has no shadow, looking for its lost home, so he has to be careful then. Another is in the clear water

when he looks down into it and sees it; it looks just like him, but backwards. So he must not go too far from water, or that soul

suffers. The third is in the pupil of his eye, and that one is always with his body, even when he dies."

"The third soul!" he said, considering it. "The one that remains in the burial mound!"

"For the Calusa, anyway," she agreed. "So if you go to talk to a Calusa spirit, that would be the one you find."

"But Toco have shadows and reflections too!" he said. "Is it possible that we too have three souls?"

She shrugged, pleased to have amazed him with this. "I don't know, but I think they may, because I have seen Toco get sick."

"What does that have to do with it?"

"Among the Calusa, when a person loses one of his souls, he gets sick, and the priest has to go look for it and herd it back to him

so he can be well again. Sometimes the soul is unwilling to return, and many people must surround it and drive it, like a fleeing

deer, so that it has nowhere else to go. He is sick until they drive it back. When they finally do, they put a fire at the door of

his lodge, and at the windows, so that the soul is frightened and will not dare go out again, until it is content to stay in him

where it belongs, and he is well."

"How do they put the soul back into him?"

"The medicine man makes a ceremony to squeeze it in through the top of the man's head. But it doesn't like to go in, once it is

out. If two souls leave his body, then he is like one of the dead, and will surely die if they don't return. They enter some animal

or fish, and if the people kill that animal, that soul enters a smaller creature, and so on, until if they keep killing, the things

it comes to vanish. But if the soul realizes that it will die, because every animal it takes will be killed, then it may decide to

return to the man."

Throat Shot shook his head. "I thought all souls were like ours. Now I am not sure. I think I will watch my shadow and my

reflection, just to be safe."

"I do," she admitted. She was quite pleased with herself for being able to help him in this way. Indeed, she was rewarded, for now

he smiled at her as if he really cared about her. She had been inadequate to impress him with her body, but was having better

success with her mind.

They reached the mouth of the river, and saw the great sea. Throat Shot gazed at it with open amazement; it was evident that he had

never seen it before. He was an inland dweller. That was all right.

They followed the coast south, staying close to the land. This was no seagoing craft, certainly, and she knew that a storm could

rise at any time.

Throat Shot became nervous, but not about the sea. There was something else on his mind. He spoke to the Trader, and in due course

the Trader nodded. They followed another river inland, and in due course came to a series of huge mounds by the shore.

Ah! Throat Shot visited every burial mound they passed. He must have known of these, and insisted on seeing them. That was all

right. The spirits of the mounds refused to talk with him, so his visits did not take long.

They landed the canoe, and Throat Shot went ashore. Tzec followed, preferring his company to that of the Trader. This was not

because the Trader had been in any way unkind to her, but because he was her owner, and regarded her as merchandise. Throat Shot

saw her as a person. Perhaps it was because his physical handicap gave him tolerance for her linguistic one. Or because she had

tried so hard to flatter him and impress him. Or maybe he was just a more feeling person. She needed a feeling person.

The mound rose steeply to about six times her height. Tzec fancied that it suggested the pyramids her mother had described, though

they were of stepped stone and larger, with lime plaster on the walls and hieroglyphic patterns on the plaster. The whole of a

city's history could be read from its illustrated walls, in that magic land. Still, this was impressive enough, and it was right

here where she could see it. Her mother surely would have been interested in this, primitive as it was in comparison with those she

had known among the civilized Maya.

Throat Shot paused at the base. Then he resumed walking, north.

Tzec hurried after him. "Aren't you going to talk with its spirits?" she asked in Calusan, their common language.

"It's a temple mound," he said gruffly. "No spirits remain."

Oh. She wondered how he knew. But of course he had known that this mound was here, so he must know which mound was which.

Soon they came to another mound, which was lower and longer than the first. He remained at this one, his eyes closed, his face

blank. He was finding spirits here.

Tzec did not know whether she believed in his ability to commune with the dead. The dead existed, certainly, but they seldom had

interest in the affairs of the living. She wanted to learn more about him, and why he sought the dead, but she was hesitant to ask.

So she stood silent, some distance behind him, so as not to disturb him in any way. She did not have to believe or understand; she

could support him regardless, and be here when he finished.

Throat Shot stood for some time. He must be doing it! He had not remained this long at any of the other mounds. But was he truly

talking with a spirit, or was he merely imagining it?

At last he turned. He walked toward her. "Your people have been here," he said.

Tzec's mouth fell open. "Mine?"

"A long time ago. Their boats—they traded here."

"The boats still come here," she said. "My mother—"

"Regularly. Before my tribe was separate. Some went to your land. But then it stopped."

"There were wars," she said.

"The spirit recognized you. He did not want to talk to me, until he saw you. I am a barbarian, but you are of the lineage of

civilization."

She had told him that. It needed no spirit to account for his knowledge. But she did not care to argue. "Yes."

"Tell me of Little Blood."

Tzec jumped. She had not told him that! "I will. But why?"

"The spirit says it will change my life and help me search for the Ulunsuti."

Tzec began to believe. "It—it is a long story. My mother took many days to tell me. It will take me many days to tell you."

He nodded. "While we travel, then. I must know all you remember of it."

"But you must not laugh," she said. "It is sacred to my people, and not like the tales your folk tell."

"I would not laugh at anything the spirits of the mounds told me to do. Only through them can I achieve my quest. I do not have to

understand what they ask of me. Perhaps they knew I would meet you, and that you would have something to help me."

She liked that notion very well. She hoped that her story would be what he needed. She hoped he would like it so well that he

decided that he must acquire her and keep her. Perhaps he would change his mind about seeking his magic crystal, and work for the

Trader for a longer time in order to purchase her.

So it was that she shared with him the lore of the Book of the Community, the sacred text of the Quiché Maya. She remembered the

effect it had had on her when her mother told it, and she hoped it would work the same magic on him. If she had anything that was

capable of fascinating him, at this young age of hers, this was what would do it.

The joy of it was that he had asked to hear it. The spirit had told him of it. The spirit must have decided to help her as well as

him. She was coming to appreciate the spirits of the dead.

CHAPTER 4

LITTLE BLOOD

O Spirit of the Mound, I have told you of the girl, Wren, whose real name was Tzec, and how she came to live among the Toco folk.

Now I will tell you of the tale she told of her people, of whom the spirit of the great mound near the sea knew. This was the tale

that changed the young man's life, as surely you knew would be the case. But at the point Throat Shot did not realize this, and

even when he did realize it, he knew only the half of it. But you knew, O Spirit; you always knew. You could have saved us all, if

only I had not failed you, if only I had been as worthy as you hoped.

This is the story of the traditions of Quiché, the land of many trees, as recorded in the sacred Book of the Community. But there

is too much to tell at once, so this is only part of it: the adventures of two men who were cruelly betrayed, and of a woman who

enabled them to achieve vengeance on those who had betrayed them. This was the time before there were true men; indeed, at the dawn

of the world there were many wooden men, who walked and spoke like men but were not. But after this adventure, the real men lived.

In the long night before there was truly sun, moon, or man, two ancestors lived. These were Xpiyacoc and Xmucane, or Shpiyacock and

Shmucanee in this tongue, and they had two sons, whom they named after the days of their birth, as is the custom of our people. One

was One-Hunter, and the other Seven-Hunter, or in our language Hun-Hunahpu and Vucub-Hunahpu. Hunahpu is the twentieth day in both

our calendars, and it means chief as well as hunter, and is an auspicious day.

One-Hunter grew up and married a woman called Xbaqui-yalo, or Shbakeeyalo, her name meaning "of the uneven bones." They had two

sons, named after their birth-days Hun-Batz, meaning One-Monkey, and Hun-Chouen, meaning also One-Monkey. This is because they were

twins, born on the same day, and so one was named for the Quiché name of the day and the other for the Maya name of the day. There

is no conflict in this, because the Quiché are both Maya and Toltec, with roots in the south and the north, and both traditions are

honored among them.

One-Hunter did not stay home with his family, for that was the duty of a woman. But when the twin boys grew, he and his brother,

Seven-Hunter, taught them all things manly and artistic. All four of them were great flautists, singers, painters, sculptors,

jewelers and silversmiths, and also excellent shooters with blowguns. The four would get together to play the ball game of tlaxtli,

one pair against the other pair, and there were none to match them. It seemed they hardly noticed when the mother of the twins,

Xbaquiyalo of the uneven bones, died; the twins' grandmother, Xmucane, assumed the household responsibilities. Xmucane's husband

also died, but she was competent to carry on.

The news of their proficiency spread far. One day Voc the hawk came there to watch them, and Voc told of their ability, until even

the chiefs of Xibalba, or Shibalba, the underworld, heard about them. The lords of Xibalba were Hun-Camey and Vucub-Camey,

One-Death and Seven-Death, and they were fearsome enemies of the living.

"What are they doing up there on earth?" these dread chiefs demanded, for they were resentful that any living folk should achieve

such notoriety. Also, they coveted the ball-playing equipment of these people: their leather leggings, which protected their legs

against the blows of the heavy ball: their rings, which were collars to protect their necks; their gloves for the hands and wrists;

their crowns, which adorned their heads during the game; and their masks, which protected their faces. All this gear was necessary

because the ball game was extremely violent. The equipment was excellent, and of considerable value, for anyone who used it would

be a better ball player than otherwise, and might achieve great honor in victory. So these nether lords planned to kill the players

and take their equipment.

The lords of death sent their messengers, which were four great owls. One was swift as an arrow, another had only one leg but was

very large, another had a red back, and the last was distinguished by its head, for it had no legs. These owls flew out and went to

the men, and told them that the lords of death wished to play ball with them.

One-Hunter and Seven-Hunter were amazed. "Did the lords One-Death and Seven-Death really say that we must go with you to their

domain?"

"Yes," the four owls replied. "They said to bring all your playing gear, and your rubber balls too, and come quickly to play ball

with them and impress them with your skill, for they have heard wonderful things of you."

The two men looked at each other. This was certainly a rare honor! "We must say good-bye to our mother," they said. They meant

their grandmother, who was now assuming the role of their mother.

Then they went home, and told Xmucane about the invitation. "But those are the dread lords of death!" Xmucane protested. "You must

not stay there!"

"We shall not stay there," they reassured her. "We are going only for a while, only to play ball with them. Here, we will leave our

ball here, so that you know we will come back to play." They hung the ball in the space under the rooftree.

Xmucane was not very much reassured, but there was nothing she could do. She burst into tears as they departed. This was of course

a woman's privilege, and her way of reminding them that she had misgivings about this adventure.

"Don't worry," they called back. "We have not died yet." Then they accompanied the four owls to the dread underworld.

The road there was strange and wonderful. First they went down some very steep steps, like those of the great temple, only these

went down deep into the valley. At the bottom they came to the bank of a river which flowed rapidly between narrow ravines. They

had to leap across it, and if they had fallen in they would have been swept away to their doom. Beyond this was a second river,

which flowed among many thorny calabash trees, and they had to walk carefully lest they get hurt by the thorns. Then they came to a

third river whose waters were poisonous, but they did not drink from it, being cautious, so came to no harm.

The owls led them to an intersection of four roads. One was red, another black, another white, and the fourth green. Which one were

they to take? They did not know, for the owls flew away.

The black road spoke to them. "I am the one you must take," it said. "I am the way of the lord of death." But that was not the

whole truth, for all the roads led to the region of death, but the black one allowed no return to the region of life. They did not

know this, and walked on the black road, and therefore they were doomed.

They arrived at Xibalba, where their doom awaited them. They entered the council room of the chiefs of the underworld, not

realizing what cruel tricks they would suffer. There they saw the two lords of death, seated on their thrones.

"How are you, One-Death?" they said to one. "How are you, Seven-Death?" they said to the other, politely.

But the figures did not answer. Perplexed, the men approached, and finally touched the unmoving figures—and discovered that they

were made of wood. They were only carved figures.

Instantly the assembled lords of Xibalba burst into laughter. They considered the ruse great sport, and there was nothing the men

from the surface could do. Of course a good host would not have ridiculed his guests, but the lords of death were not nice folk.

At last One-Death spoke. "Very well, you have come. Tomorrow you shall prepare the masks, rings, and gloves, to play the ball

game." But this was further mockery, for the lords of death had no intention of letting them play. All was deceit, in this terrible

realm.

"Come and sit down on our bench," Seven-Death said.

The two men went and sat on the bench. But it was of heated stone, and when their weight came down on it they were burned. They

squirmed in discomfort, and then had to stand, for otherwise their rumps would have been scorched. As it was, they were most

uncomfortable. It had been all they could do to avoid leaping up with a yell.

The lords of death burst out laughing again, harder than before. They had never had such a good joke. They laughed until they

doubled over, they laughed until they writhed with pain in their stomachs, they laughed until their bones twisted, until it seemed

that they were the ones who had sat on the hot seat. One-Hunter and Seven-Hunter could only stand and wait for the laughter to die

away; they were helpless, for they had been fooled, and they did not wish to seem impolite.

In due course One-Death recovered enough to speak. "Go now to that lodge," he told them. "There you will get your fat pine torches

and your cigars to smoke, and there you will sleep."

This seemed more positive. Perhaps the jokes were over. The two men went to the indicated lodge, which was closed up and without

windows or vents for light; there was only darkness within it. Indeed, it was called the Lodge of Gloom, and was no nice place to

sleep. They crouched in the darkness, ill at ease until the porter arrived with their torches and cigars.

The fat pine sticks were round and resinous, so that they would burn a long time and make light. The lords of death sent each of

them a lighted cigar, from which they could light the pine torches. The pine blazed up, and the gloom was dispersed.

Then the porter said: "The lords of death have told me to tell you that you must return your pine sticks and cigars whole at dawn,

or you will forfeit your match."

"What?" One-Hunter demanded. But the porter was gone, and the door was closed and barred behind him.

They were confined within the Lodge of Gloom, with an impossible requirement, because their torches and cigars were already partly

burned and could not be rendered whole again. This was the land of death, and death's laws governed; they could not change that. So

they burned up the fat pine sticks, keeping the gloom at bay, and smoked their cigars, which were really very good. It seemed that

the lords of death knew how to enjoy tobacco. They hoped that this was merely another cruel joke, and that they would be allowed to

play ball in the morning.

But when dawn came, and they were let out to stand before the lords of the underworld, One-Death demanded, "Where are my cigars?

Where are my sticks of fat pine?"

"They are all gone, sir," One-Hunter replied.

"Well. Then you have forfeited the match, and today shall be the end of your days. Now you both shall die. You will be destroyed;

we will break you into pieces and your faces will remain hidden. We shall sacrifice you." And the lords of death were pleased.

The two men tried to protest, but it was no use. The lords of death lifted the sacrificial knives and cut out the beating hearts of

One-Hunter and Seven-Hunter, and they were dead. They were buried together by the ball court. But first the minions of death cut

off One-Hunter's head, for they wished to heap further indignity on him despite his being dead.

"Take that head and put it in that tree which grows on the road," One-Death said. So they put the severed head in the tree, as if

it were fruit. They had another good laugh over its comical appearance. Imagine a tree growing a head!

Now this was a calabash tree, which had never borne fruit. But in a moment their laughter faltered and faded out, for now the tree

was covered with fruit, and ever after it bore fruit, in honor of that head.

One-Death and Seven-Death gazed in amazement at the fruit on the tree. It was round like the head, and covered with a hard rind.

They thought to remove the head from the tree, realizing that special magic was operating here, but they could not distinguish it

from all the fruit. Every item on that tree looked the same. It was almost as if the tree were laughing at them, and they hated

that.

Then they feared it, for they could not fathom its magic. So they tried to protect themselves from this magic. "Let no one come to

pick this fruit," Seven-Death said. "Let no one come to sit under this tree." And they resolved to keep everybody away from it,

lest its magic come to harm them in some way. For though they were the lords of death, their power was not complete; they could be

vulnerable to magic they did not understand.

But the thing that had happened to the tree was so remarkable that news of it spread widely. The animals spoke of it, and the

birds, laughing behind their wings, for none of them liked the lords of death. In due course the folk of the living realm heard

about it.

In time a living girl heard the wonderful story. Her name was Xquic, or Shkeek, and she was the daughter of a Chief named

Cuchumaquic. She was a maiden, unmarried, and interested in strange things. She was also somewhat willful, but she got away with

this because she was beautiful. So when she heard the story of the fruit of the calabash tree from her father, she was amazed and

intrigued.

"Why can't I go see this tree they tell about?" she exclaimed, but not in the hearing of her father, who would have told her why

not. "The calabash has never borne fruit before; surely this must be the most wonderful harvest! I would love to go and eat some of

it!"

The notion preyed on her mind, for she was without a man and had time to think about things. Finally she left the lodge, and

traveled alone to the place of the ball game. It was a daring thing she did, because of the long steps, and the treacherous rivers,

and the colored roads. But she went carefully, keeping out of sight, lest someone see her and report her to her father, who would

then stop her. So it was that no one saw her. At last she came to the crossroads, and went along the green road because she

distrusted the other colors. The lords of death were not around, because they were staying away from the tree, and she arrived at

it unobserved.

"Ah!" she exclaimed, thrilled. "What is this fruit which this tree bears? How wonderful it is to see it! Oh, I must pick one of

these special fruits! Surely it will not kill me!"

Then the skull hidden in the branches of the tree spoke up: "What is it you want, woman? These round objects are nothing but

skulls. Surely you don't want one of them!"

Xquic was startled. "Who is it, up there hidden in the branches?" she asked, afraid she had been discovered.

"I am the skull of One-Hunter, put here by the lords of death who betrayed and slew my brother and me. The tree protects me from

discovery, so that I may in time obtain our vengeance."

Xquic believed the skull, though it frightened her. "Tell me what happened," she said bravely.

So the skull told her the whole story, and more it had learned by listening to the words of the lords of death when they passed

this way checking to be sure the tree remained undisturbed. "We were fools," it concluded. "If I had known then what I know now, I

would defeat the lords of death and bring ruin upon them. But alas, I am dead and decapitated; it is too late."

"But I am not dead," Xquic said. Listening to the skull's story, she had come to love the bold man it had been. "How can I help

you?"

"I can give you something that will make vengeance possible," the skull said. "But it will not be easy, even with the help of my

magic. It will bring a hard time for you, and danger, and it will take twenty winters to accomplish. I think you would be happier

if you turned around and went home and married a man your father will choose for you and bore his sons, and nurtured them, in the

manner allotted to women."

"I do not want that man's sons," Xquic said. "I want to help you achieve your vengeance." She really had a somewhat strange notion

of the proper place of a woman. She preferred adventure to subservience.

"Do you really want what I offer?" the skull asked again, not quite certain of her constancy.

"Yes, I want it," the maiden answered.

"Then stretch up your hand to me, and touch me." And now she saw which one was the skull. It was hideous, with little of the flesh

remaining, and moisture caught within it.

But she resolved to see this thing through. "Very well," she said, and reached up and touched it.

In that moment a few drops of liquid, the saliva of the skull, fell into her palm. It tingled, and she drew her hand quickly away

and looked at it, but there was nothing there.

"In my spittle I have given you my descendants," the skull said. "Now my head has nothing on it anymore; it is nothing but bone.

This is true for all the great princes; it is only the flesh on their skulls that gives them a handsome aspect. When they die, men

are frightened by their bones, which are no prettier than mine. So, too, is the nature of their sons, who are conceived of the

spittle of their loins. Men do not lose their substance when they go; they bequeath it to the sons and daughters they beget. This I

have done with you. Go, then, lovely woman, to the surface of the earth, that you may not die. Believe in my words, that it may be

so." Then the skull was silent, for it had done all it could do.

Xquic believed. And so it was that the spittle entered her body through her hand, and coursed through it to the region of her

womanhood, and the maiden was impregnated by One-Hunter, by the will of the eldest gods.

She returned home, having immediately conceived the sons in her belly just as if she had lain with the living man and had his seed

directly. This was the first of the magic that was to enhance those sons. In this manner were Hunter and Little Jaguar begotten,

Hunahpu and Xbalanque. But she did not tell her father, fearing his reaction. She tried to pretend that she had only taken a walk,

which was a small part of the truth. Women in those days, as now, were excellent at deception.

But after six months had passed, her father, Cuchumaquic, noticed her condition. He remembered how her mother had been before

birthing Xquic, and understood that she was pregnant.

He was extremely upset, and sought to discuss the matter with the lords of death, with whom he was on reasonable terms. The old

tend to be closer to death than the young. He went to the underworld and held council with One-Death and Seven-Death.

"My daughter is with child, sirs," he exclaimed when he appeared before the lords. "She has been disgraced! She is nothing more

than a prostitute." This was of course the very reaction Xquic had anticipated in him.

Now, the lords of death had a notion of what had happened, having pieced together certain hints. They had seen the maiden's

footprints near the calabash tree, and understood how such an event might occur, for there had been precedents elsewhere. They knew

they had to be rid of Xquic and her offspring, or there would surely be mischief to come. But they did not care to tell this to

Cuchumaquic, who might have been no better pleased with them than he was with his daughter.

"Very well," One-Death said after due pause for thought. "Command her to tell the truth, and if she refuses, punish her."

"How should I do that?" he asked.

"In an honorable manner, for she is, after all, your daughter and of noble blood, though she be a whore. Let her be taken from your

lodge and sacrificed."

"Very well, honorable lords," he said, grateful for this good advice. Had he known the full story, he might have been less

grateful. He departed the underworld and made his way home.

Promptly he braced Xquic: "Whose is the child you carry, my daughter?" he asked firmly.

The woman knew that the truth would damn her more surely than a lie, for she had seen where Cuchumaquic had gone. Yet it was not in

her to lie to her father. "I have no child, my father, for I have not known the face of a man." Indeed she had not, for the

expression meant the face and portions below, and she had touched only a skull. And she had no child, but rather two sons.

"You really are a whore!" he cried, enraged. Then, to the four great owls who were the messengers of death: "Take her and sacrifice

her; bring me her heart in a gourd and return this very day before the lords of death."

The owls assumed human form, took the gourd, and set out carrying the girl in their arms. They brought with them the flint knife

with which to open her breast and cut out her heart. They were not evil folk, these messengers, but they served the lords of death.

But when they came to the altar for sacrifice, and bared Xquic's breast for the terrible stone blade, she pleaded with them most

winsomely. "It cannot be that you will slay me, oh loyal messengers, because you must know that what I bear in my belly is no

disgrace. It was begotten when I went to marvel at the wonderful calabash tree with its sudden fruit, and communed with the severed

head of One-Hunter. You know how he and his brother were tormented and betrayed when they came to play a ball game. You know that

the lords of death did not deal honorably with them. By the will of the gods I have One-Hunter's sons within me, and they must not

die before their time. So you must not sacrifice me, oh messengers!"

They were moved by her plea, for they had indeed seen the fate of the two Hunters. The four owls had led the men to the underworld,

but they had not known that the lords of death would trick them and cheat them of the ball game. They had lost respect for the

lords of death, but had not known what to do, for they were only messengers, of little consequence.

"Then what shall we put in place of your heart?" they asked, gazing at her bared bosom where her heart lay ready for the sacrifice

beneath her full breasts. "Your father told us to do this thing and to return quickly to the lords of death with your heart in this

gourd. We do not wish you to die, but we dare not return without that heart."

"Very well," she said, considering. "You must have something in the gourd, but my heart does not belong to the lords of death.

Neither is your proper home in the underworld, and you must not let them force you to kill folk like this. Later, I swear, the real

criminals will be at your mercy, and I will overcome One-Death and Seven-Death. So then, only the blood shall be given to them, and

my heart shall not be burned." For she knew that the lords intended to burn her heart in the fire, as they had burned the hearts of

the two Hunters. "Gather the product of this tree," she told them, indicating a nearby tree.

They were doubtful, but they went to the tree. It was as tall as an almond tree, and the leaves and stems were white. They cut into

the trunk, and the sap came out, as red as the blood of a dragon. Now part of the magic of the woman showed, bequeathed to her by

the saliva of One-Hunter: her name contained blood, and the tree she designated, which had been ordinary, now also contained blood.

From that day on it was known as the Tree of Blood, because of this quality, and in its way became as remarkable as the tree with

the fruit like skulls.

They gathered this sap in the gourd, and it looked so much like real blood that they were astonished. When they had enough they

brought it to the altar, and it dotted, and they made a ball of it in the shape of a heart. It was as if they had cut out Xquic's

heart and put it with its blood into the gourd.

"Now we have the heart," they said. "But in time the lords of death will surely learn how they were deceived, and then it will be

our hearts in the fire!"

"There is no need for that," she said. "Come to me when you are done. Here on earth, among the living, you shall be beloved, and

you shall have all that belongs to you." They took one more look at her bared breasts, and were convinced. It would be a shame to

cut into that perfect flesh!

"So shall it be, girl. We shall go there to complete our mission; then we shall return to serve you. Meanwhile you go on your way,

while we present the sap instead of your heart to the lords of death."

"I shall," she agreed, and she got down off the altar, donned her shawl, and walked away, seeking a lodge she knew of where she

would be safe.

The four messengers resumed their owl forms and flew rapidly down to the underworld, carrying the gourd. When they arrived, all the

lords were waiting.

"You have done the job?" One-Death asked.

"All is done, my lords," said the first owl. "Here in the bottom of the gourd is the heart."

"Excellent! Let us see it!" exclaimed One-Death. He grasped the gourd and raised it, squeezing it with his fingers. The shell

broke, and the blood flowed bright red from the interior of the heart.

One-Death smiled, believing that the enemy of death had been destroyed. "Stir up the fire and put it on the coals," he said.

They did this, and the heart heated and burned and was rendered into ashes. The lords of Xibalba drew near and sniffed it, and

found the fragrance of the heart very sweet. They believed that once the heart was gone, no life or magic could remain in the body.

They had been mistaken in the case of One-Hunter, who had retained his essence in his skull, but they knew that the maiden's skull

would not impregnate anyone.

And as they sat deep in thought, savoring their seeming victory with the fumes of the burned heart, the four owls quietly departed.

They flew like a flock of birds up from the abyss to the realm of the living, to become the servants of the maiden. But they did

not do this in an obvious manner, for they knew that the course of these events had not yet been completed, and there was as yet

much danger.

In this manner the lords of death were tricked and ultimately defeated by the woman Little Blood, whose association with blood was

more special than they knew.

Meanwhile One-Hunter's mother, Xmucane, lived with One-Hunter's two sons by Xbaquiyalo of the uneven bones. The two boys were named

Hun-Batz and Hun-Chouen, both meaning One-Monkey, but we shall simply call them Batz and Chouen.

It was to this lodge that Xquic came for shelter and sustenance, for this was the line of her twin sons, who were to be born not

long after. She approached the old woman and introduced herself. "I am your daughter-in-law and therefore your daughter, mother,"

she said, entering the lodge.

Now one might expect a somewhat negative response from the old woman, who had been taken by surprise. Indeed, this was the case.

"Where did you come from?" she cried, outraged by such impertinence. "Where are my sons? Did they not perchance die in the

underworld? Where is my daughter-in-law? Did she not die and leave her children to me to raise? I know her face, and it is not your

face! Do you not see these boys who remain, of the blood of my son and his wife, these two called Batz and Chouen? Do you think you

are their mother? Get out of here, you impostor! Go away! Go away!" She was screaming at this point.

But Xquic had anticipated a certain amount of trouble, and was prepared for it. The skull of One-Hunter had told her of his mother,

and how she was. But the skull had assured her that his mother was a good woman, who would relent once she was satisfied, and would

do what was right by Xquic and the sons she bore. So Xquic remained calm and polite, and made her case in a persuasive manner.

"Nevertheless it is true that I am your daughter-in-law, good woman," she said. "I have been for some time. I met with One-Hunter,

and pledged to him, and I regard myself as his wife, and I carry his children. One-Hunter and Seven-Hunter are not truly dead; they

live in my womb, and when my children are born you will see your sons clearly in them, my mother-in-law. You will recognize your

sons' image, and be satisfied."

Batz and Chouen overheard this dialogue, and became angry. They did not want children the image of their father and their father's

brother in the lodge, claiming the attention of their grandmother. The two of them did nothing but play the flute and sing, paint

and sculpt all day long; they contributed little to the upkeep of the lodge, and only grudgingly had planted corn for bread.

Despite this, they were the consolation of the old woman, and she treated them well. They saw no reason to change things. But they

did not speak, or make their presence known, for they believed that Xmucane would dispatch the impostor quickly enough.

Indeed, it seemed she would. "I do not wish you to be my daughter-in-law, because though I see you are with child, what you bear in

your womb is the fruit of your disgrace. Furthermore you are an impostor, because my sons are already dead, and have been for some

time."

But then Xquic told the woman how she had received the saliva from One-Hunter's skull, and conceived thereby, though she had never

known him in life. She repeated some of what the skull had told her, including details of the family that were not known to others,

and this sowed belief in the old woman, against her will.

"I still think it is a disgrace, and I do not consider you married to my son, and that's the truth," Xmucane said. "But, well, it

may be so, and you are my daughter-in-law despite the disgrace. You may become part of this lodgehold if you assume the duties of

it."

"I shall be glad to, mother," Xquic agreed, relieved. But she knew from what the skull had told her that her trial was not yet

over. The woman would test her, to prove what she was, and would reject her if she failed to pass the test.

"Go, then; bring the food for those who must be fed. Go and gather a large net full of corn from the field, and return at once, as

a proper daughter would."

"Very well," Xquic replied. She took the net and went immediately to the cornfield that the two young men had planted. There was a

path there through the jungle, and the girl followed it until she came to the cornfield.

But when she got there, she found only a single stalk of corn growing. Now she understood just how lazy the boys had been, for

there should have been hundreds of stalks, and there weren't even two or three. The one stalk had one ear on it, and that was

hardly enough to feed the family.

Yet she had been sent here to fetch back a net full of corn, and if she failed, she would be found wanting, and perhaps thrown out

of the lodge. Probably the old woman did not know how little there was here; Xquic had come just before the corn ran out, and now

the blame would seem to be hers. Certainly the boys would not confess their dereliction; Xquic had seen them lurking near, and had

noted their scowls. This was an ideal way to get rid of her. Maybe they had even run on ahead and stolen away all the other corn,

to make her fail.

"Ah, woe is me!" she exclaimed, weeping. "Innocent that I am! Where must I go to get a net full of food, as she told me to do?"

But Xquic remembered that she had been magically impregnated, and had acquired some of the magic of the gods, so that she could do

what was right by the sons she carried. Maybe the gods would help her through this pass.

"Oh Chahal, guardian of the cornfields, I beg you to give me the corn I must have!" she prayed. "Oh Xtoh, goddess of rain, and

Xcanil, goddess of grain, and Xcacau, goddess of cacao, you who cook the corn and guard the field Batz and Chouen planted—I beg you

to grant me what I need, for it is the will of the gods I serve!"

Then there was a light sprinkling of rain, though there was no cloud in the sky, and drops of water appeared on the red silk

tassels of the single ear of corn. Xquic knew this was a magical effect, and hoped that the gods had answered her. The four owls

who served her were there, and they understood what was happening. "Go pull on the strands of silk, one by one," they told her.

She approached the ear of corn, and saw that every strand of the silken beard glowed and was separated from the others. She put her

fingers to one strand, and drew on it, and it came out of the ear—and lo, at its base was a full ear of corn, though the original

ear remained untouched. Then she knew that the gods had answered, and she gave thanks.

She touched another strand, and drew on it, and brought out a second ear. Then a third, and a fourth, and more, until she had tens

of ears, and the large net was completely filled.

She tried to lift it, to carry it back to the lodge, but the net was now so heavy it was beyond her strength. So the four owls went

out into the field and forest, and spoke to the wild creatures there, saying, "It is the will of the gods that Little Blood be

helped to carry her burden." Then the animals of the field came, the little squirrels and rabbits and rats and others of that type,

and they grasped the edges of the net with their teeth and lifted and pulled, many of them surrounding it, and carried it along

toward the lodge. Xquic, astonished, walked along with them, marveling at the manner in which the gods were helping her.

When they reached the lodge, the little animals set the net in a corner of it, as though the girl might have carried it there. Then

they dispersed, each running quietly to its accustomed place in the distant field, not waiting for her thanks. This might have been

generous of them, but it could also have been because quite a mound of kernels of corn had fallen on the ground during the harvest,

and more had spilled from the basket as it bounced along, and they were hungry for these. They had helped Xquic; now they helped

themselves.

The old woman had been out on an errand, and had seen none of this. She came in and saw the corn in the large net, and her eyes

slitted with surprise and distrust. "Where have you brought all this corn from?" she demanded. "Did you, by chance, take all the

corn remaining in our field, so that there will be none for the future? I shall go at once and see."

Without further word, Xmucane stalked off down the road to the cornfield. But she discovered that the one stalk was still standing

there, with its lone ear. She had, after all, known of the condition of the field. She saw where the weeds had been pressed down by

the net at the foot of the stalk. She saw the spilled kernels, which the animals had not yet eaten. She saw the path made by the

dragging of the heavy basket. She saw the footprints of the little animals.

The old woman had intended no good for the girl she believed was an impostor. But now she recognized the intercession of the gods,

and knew that she had been mistaken. A miracle had happened here, and she had to accept the situation.

She quickly returned to the lodge. "This is proof enough that you are really my daughter-in-law. I shall now acknowledge your

little ones, the offspring of my son you carry. They shall be magicians."

Xquic was gratified. She took up residence in the lodge, and the old woman treated her well enough, yet she remained infected by

irritation that these new boys should be chosen by the gods, instead of her grandsons who already lived with her. Why couldn't they

have been the ones? She knew in her heart that they were unworthy, being lazy and mean-spirited, but still it rankled and clouded

her vision.

When the time came, Xquic went out into the forest alone, in the fashion of women, and gave birth to Hunter and Little Jaguar. The

four owls went out to the north and south and east and west, warning the animals away, that none disturb Little Blood. Both of the

babies were sorcerers; indeed, the name Xbalanque meant not only jaguar, but also sorcerer. The magic of their father had indeed

come to them, as it had not to the two older boys.

When the birthing was done, Xquic got up and carried the two babies to the lodge. Then she lay down and slept, for she was very

tired, and had lost more than just a "little blood," as her name suggested.

The two baby boys were lusty and hungry. They screamed for milk, but their mother was in a sleep near death, and could not hear

them.

"Go throw them out," old Xmucane told the older boys. "They make too much noise." Actually, she spoke with annoyance rather than

intent, meaning only that the babies should be put where the sound of their constant crying would not disturb her. There was

nothing to be done for the babies until their mother recovered from her deep sleep and was able to nurse them.

But the boys chose to interpret the old woman's words literally, because they wanted to be rid of this competition for attention in

the lodge. So they took the two babies out and put them on an anthill, where they thought the ants would tear away their flesh and

kill them. But the four owls spoke to the ants, and the ants ignored the babies, and the sand of the hill was soft, and now the

babies slept peacefully.

When Batz and Chouen saw this, their hatred and envy increased, for they realized that the babies were magically protected. So they

lifted the babies from the anthill and laid them on thistles, hoping the thorns would stab them and cause them to bleed to death.

But again the four owls interceded, speaking to the plants, and the plants heeded them. Still the babies slept unharmed, as if the

thistles were soft pine boughs. The boys did not dare do more, because they wanted the babies to seem to die by accident, so there

would be no blame.

Xquic recovered her strength and woke, and went out and found the twins. She brought them in and nursed them, and her milk was

magically good, so that they prospered immediately. But the older boys refused to let the babies stay in the lodge, or to recognize

them as brothers. Rather than have dissension, Xquic made a place for the babies in the forest, and tended to them there. The

animals of the wild would not harm them, knowing they had the favor of the gods, and that the four great owls were watching. So it

was that Hunter and Little Jaguar were brought up in the fields. This was not a bad thing, for the animals and birds and fish

communed with them, encouraged by the owls, and worked with them, helping them to achieve their potential. For though they were

sorcerers, they were young, and had to learn step by step how to use their powers. These powers were great, and many years were

required for their perfection.

Now, Batz and Chouen were talented young men, being great musicians and singers. They had grown up in the midst of trials and want,

because of the death of their mother and later of their father, and their grandmother's lodge was poor. But their father,

One-Hunter, and their uncle, Seven-Hunter, had taught them to play the flute and to paint and carve and play ball. They had learned

much, and become wise. The two knew about the heritage of their two younger half brothers, for they were diviners who could see

through to the truth when they tried.

Nevertheless, because they were envious, their wisdom was suppressed and their hearts were filled with ill will, though Hunter and

Little Jaguar had not offended them in any way, other than existing. There was nothing but hostility in that lodge, for their

mother, Xquic, was not the head of it, and she did not try to oppose the will of the old woman. Xquic knew that her sons belonged

in their father's lodge, where they could learn all that they needed to. So she kept silent, in order to see that the destiny of

her sons was fulfilled.

Hunter and Little Jaguar were not loved by their grandmother, or by their older brothers. They were given nothing new to eat; only

when Batz and Chouen had eaten their fill, and nothing but scraps were left, were the younger brothers allowed to come and take

what they could find. This was true despite the fact that the younger boys now did all the hunting for the family. All day they

were out shooting their blowguns, bringing down game birds, which they brought in for their mother, Xquic, to dress and cook.

Neither the young boys nor the mother received any thanks for their services; it was as if all three were mere servants of the

other three.

Yet the young boys did not become vexed or angry. They suffered silently, because they knew their rank and heritage, and understood

everything clearly. So while Batz and Chouen played their flutes and sang, Hunter and Little Jaguar honed their hunting and

foraging skills, and learned the magic of the wild places, taught by the owls. Though they were younger and smaller than their

brothers, they became far more effective hunters and campers, and they could do things their brothers never suspected. Though still

boys, they knew more of manhood than most men ever learned. Had Batz and Chouen not been overcome by envy and arrogance, they would

have understood what was happening, and been on guard. But they were, in the end, fools, and that was to be their undoing.

The time came when Hunter and Little Jaguar had had enough. "It is time to be done with this nonsense," Hunter said. "We must be

rid of these parasites."

"Yes, but how shall we do it without alienating our grandmother?" Little Jaguar asked. "For we are not yet ready to fulfill our

main mission and achieve the vengeance of our father. We must remain a few more years with Grandmother Xmucane, and she is bitter

enough with us already."

"That is an excellent point, my brother," Hunter said. "But perhaps our mentors the owls have an answer."

So they consulted with the owls, and the owls told them how to do it. They were impressed with the wisdom of the great messenger

birds, and resolved to put the plan into effect immediately.

That day they returned to the lodge without bringing any bird, and no other game. When they entered, Xmucane saw them bare-handed

and was furious. "Why did you bring no birds?" she demanded.

And Hunter answered: "What happened, grandmother, is that our birds were caught in the tree, and we could not climb up to get them.

Dear grandmother, if our elder brothers, who are so talented, wish, let them come with us to bring down the birds."

Xmucane was out of sorts, having no fair retort. She didn't want the birds to go to waste. She glanced at the older brothers.

"Very well," Batz said, taking the hint. "We shall go with you at dawn to fetch down the birds. But they had better be good ones!"

Chouen nodded. It was in his mind, and in his brother's mind, that they would find some way to repay the younger boys' impertinence

by arranging their deaths in the forest. They knew this was some kind of plot to embarrass them, and they were angry, though they

hid their feelings.

But the younger boys had anticipated this. "We shall only change their appearance, not their nature," they said to themselves.

"They want us to die, and our heritage to be unfulfilled. In their hearts they really believe that we have come to be their

servants. For these reasons we shall overcome them and teach them a lesson."

The older brothers would have laughed if they had heard this dialogue. But they would not have laughed had they understood how

carefully the younger brothers were planning.

In the morning the four went out to the foot of the tree called Cante, the tree of yellow wood and yellow dye. It was not possible

to count the birds that sang in the tree, and the elder brothers marveled to see so many. This was certainly a good hunting spot!

The younger brothers shot their blowguns, but no birds fell.

"Our birds do not fall to the ground," Hunter said.

"That's because your aim is bad!" Batz said, laughing.

"I don't think so," Little Jaguar said. "Go and fetch those birds down."

"There aren't any dead birds up there," Chouen said. "But we'll go up and prove it. We'll shake every branch, and you'll see what

bad shots you are." And, laughing to think how they would show up the younger boys, the two climbed the trunk of the tree.

But this was no ordinary tree. The higher they climbed, the larger the trunk swelled. Realizing that they were in trouble, the two

wanted to come down from the top, but they were unable to without falling.

"What has happened to us, our brothers?" they called down. "How unfortunate we are! This tree frightens us! How can we climb down

when it frightens us just to look at the awful trunk?"

Hunter and Little Jaguar well knew how bad the tree was to climb, and had known better than to try it themselves. This was the

first part of their plan. "Loosen your breechcloths," Hunter called up. "Tie them below your stomach. Let the long ends hang down,

and pull them from behind. In this way you can walk easily." For a breechcloth was actually a length of cloth or fiber almost as

long as a man when unwound, and could be tied in more than one way.

This did not make a lot of sense to the older brothers, but they were willing to try anything that might help them get down safely.

They remade their loincloths, pulling the ends back so that they dangled.

Instantly these were changed into tails. Indeed, the older brothers assumed the appearance of monkeys. Horrified, they hopped over

the branches of the trees, having no trouble climbing down now, and buried themselves in the forest among the great woods and

little woods. They swung from branch to branch, making faces as they went.

Hunter and Little Jaguar had not lied. They had enabled their older brothers to climb down, as they had promised. But they had done

it in a way the others had not expected. They had used sorcery to change them into a form that could climb better. In this manner

they overcame their enemies. They could not have done it without the magic they had learned.

But that was only the first part of their plan. Now they implemented the rest of it. They went home and spoke to their grandmother

and their mother. "What could it be that has happened to our elder brothers?" Hunter said innocently. "Suddenly their faces are

those of animals!"

"If you have done any harm to your elder brothers," old Xmucane said severely, "you have hurt me and filled me with sadness."

"Do not do such a thing to your brothers, oh my children," Xquic said, not wishing anyone to suffer. She was still young, so

retained the softheartedness of a maiden.

They were ready for this. "Do not grieve, grandmother," Little Jaguar said. "You shall see their faces again, if you want to. But

we must warn you that it may be a difficult trial for you. Be careful that you do not laugh at them."

Then the two brought out their musical instruments and made the song of the monkey. They played the flute and drum, and continued

until their older brothers were compelled to come to the lodge, drawn by the music.

Batz and Chouen came, and began to dance to the music. But when the old woman saw their ugly faces, she laughed, unable to help

herself. Embarrassed, the two ran away.

"Now you see, grandmother," Hunter said. "You have made them flee! You must not laugh at them, for they do not find this situation

at all funny." He was speaking the truth.

"We can play this theme only four times," Little Jaguar said, and this, too, was true.

They played again, and again Batz and Chouen came, right to the court of the lodge. They grimaced, and were really very amusing

with their monkey faces, their broad bottoms, their narrow tails, and their bare stomachs, until Xmucane could not refrain from

laughing again. At that point they fled, as they had before.

Again the boys reproved her. They played a third time, and the grandmother managed to contain her laughter. The monkeys went to the

kitchen and scrubbed their noses and frightened each other with the faces they made. Their eyes seemed to give off a red light.

This was too much for Xmucane, and she burst into laughter once more.

"We can call them only once more," Hunter warned.

Yet again they played their music, and the sound was sweet, but this time the monkey brothers, three times humiliated, did not

return. Instead they fled into the forest and were gone.

"We have done everything we could, grandmother," Little Jaguar said. "Your laughter drove them away. But do not grieve; we remain

here, and we are your grandchildren too."

The old woman realized that it was done, and that she herself was in part to blame. She resigned herself to the situation, for she

did not wish to live alone.

In this manner Batz and Chouen were disgraced and overcome, becoming animals, because of their arrogance and the way they had

abused their brothers. They had been excellent musicians and artists, and could have done great things had they not allowed

unworthy emotions to rule them.

Now Hunter and Little Jaguar moved into the lodge, and began to work there, for they wanted their mother and grandmother to think

well of them. The first thing they did was prepare the cornfield, which had been sadly neglected by the older brothers. They took

axes, picks, and their wooden hoes and went there, each carrying his blowgun on his shoulder.

"Bring us food at midday, grandmother," they said as they departed.

"Very well, my grandsons," Xmucane said, accepting the new order stoically.

When they came to the field, they used their magic to animate the tools. Hunter plunged the pick into the earth, and it continued

to work by itself. Little Jaguar struck a tree with his axe, and after that it chopped the trees and branches and vines by itself.

It was magically sharp, so that no fire was needed to char the hard wood and make it manageable, as was ordinarily the case. So it

was that their work progressed, with little effort on their part, for they were sorcerers coming into their full power.

But next day they discovered that all the ground was whole again, and all the trees were standing as if they had never been felled.

"Who has played this trick on us?" they asked, annoyed. But there was no way to tell. They would have been suspicious of their

older brothers, but monkeys could not have done this.

So they worked the field that day, and departed as they had before. But they came quietly back at dusk, and hid themselves, and

watched.

At midnight the animals of the field and forest came: the puma and the jaguar, the deer, the coyote, the wild boar, the rabbit, and

the various birds. "Rise up, trees," the animals said in their own tongues. "Rise up, vines!"

So they spoke, and the trees and vines responded, being magically restored.

Furious, the two youths jumped out and grabbed for the animals. But the animals fled, and could not be caught. Hunter got hold of

the tail of the deer, and Little Jaguar caught the tail of the rabbit, but the tails came off in their hands and the animals

escaped. Ever after, the tails of these animals were short. The others escaped entirely.

Then the rat passed, and they both pounced on it. They squeezed its head and tried to choke it, and they burned its tail in the

fire. Ever since, the rat's tail has had no hair.

"I must not die at your hands," the rat protested. "I helped your mother to harvest the corn, the first time, and thereby helped

secure her place here, and yours. Neither is it your business to plant the cornfield. You have something better to do."

"How can you say that?" Hunter demanded, not letting it go.

"Loosen me a little, and I will explain," the rat said. "But first give me something to eat, for I am very hungry."

"First tell us; then we will give you food," Little Jaguar said.

The rat agreed. "Did you know that the property of your father, One-Hunter, and his brother, Seven-Hunter, has remained in your

grandmother's lodge? I refer to the gear for playing ball, which they left behind, for they suspected treachery and were not

disappointed. That gear is hanging from the roof of the lodge: the ring, the gloves, and the ball. But your grandmother does not

want you to know of this, because of what her sons did."

Now, the boys knew of the ball game, but had never been able to play it because they had been working all the time, and had no

gear. This interested them very much, for tlaxtli was the greatest game known on earth. Of course they wanted to get that gear and

start practicing the game, so as to become great players and win fame.

"This shall be your food," Hunter told the rat. "Corn, chili seeds, beans, and cacao drink. All this belongs to you, and if there

should be anything stored away and forgotten, that, too, will be yours. All these things are at our grandmother's lodge."

"That's wonderful," the rat said. "But I don't think your grandmother likes me. What should I tell her if she sees me coming into

the lodge?"

"Don't worry," Little Jaguar said. "We shall distract her long enough for you to get in unobserved."

They did this, sneaking the rat into the lodge when they returned in the morning, so it could forage in the dark corners. Then they

asked Xmucane for a meal of tortillas, chili sauce, and broth, and she made it for them.

"But we need water too," Hunter said.

"It is in that jar," Xmucane said. But it wasn't, for he had magically dried it up. She shook her head, perplexed, and took the

jar, and went with Xquic to the river to fetch more.

Then the boys saw by looking in the red chili sauce the reflection of the game ball, which was suspended from the roof. They wanted

to get it, but knew they needed more time. So they used their magic again, and sent an insect like a mosquito to puncture the side

of their grandmother's water jar so that it could not be filled.

Then they told the rat to bite through the cord that held the ball, and it fell down to them, together with the gloves and the

leather pads. The boys seized them and quickly hid them by the road which led to the ball court.

Then they went to the river, where their mother and grandmother were trying vainly to plug the hole in the jar. So the boys plugged

it, and all was well, and Xmucane never realized that they had found and taken the ball gear. Or that the rat had been admitted to

her lodge, and would be in the lodges of all human folk thereafter, taking whatever was spilled or accessible. Rats were not

popular with human folk, but they had earned their place and could not be driven out.

After that Hunter and Little Jaguar played ball all the time, and quickly became proficient. In this game, no one was allowed to

touch the ball with his hands, head, or feet; it had to be bounced from the knees, hips, back, or shoulders from teammate to

teammate until a score was made. The protective gear was essential to protect their bodies from harm, for the ball was solid, about

the size and heft of a human head. The greatest honor could be achieved by bouncing the ball through one of the vertical stone

rings set high on the walls of the court. This required enormous skill, and few players could do it even when there weren't

opposing players to interfere, but Hunter and Little Jaguar learned to do it.

They were not just amusing themselves. They knew that the only way they could reach the underworld and achieve vengeance for their

father was to be invited to play ball there. They knew that the lords of death would try to deceive them and kill them, as they had

One-Hunter and Seven-Hunter. But the four owls had told them of these tricks, and about all the rest of the underworld of Xibalba,

and they were ready to deal with it.

As they matured and assumed their full growth, Hunter and Little Jaguar's notoriety spread all across the land, and even to the

underworld. That was the way they wanted it.

Then the lords of death sent messengers. "The boys must come to play ball in Xibalba," the messengers told Xmucane. "They must be

there within seven days. We will show them the way."

Actually, the young men already knew the way, for the four owls had told them this too. Those owls had served the sons of Xquic

well!

But their grandmother did not know this. Indeed, she was horrified to learn that they had been playing the ball game, for she

feared that they would be brought to the underworld and betrayed and killed, just as her sons had. But it was too late to stop

that; all she could do now was send the message to the young men, though she grieved to do it.

"But whom shall I send?" she asked, for the court was too far for her to go to, and too far for Xquic.

A louse fell into her lap. She seized it and held it in the palm of her hand. "I will send you," she said. So she gave the message

to the louse.

At once the louse walked off, but it was small and did not move quickly. A toad spied it.

"Where are you going?" the toad asked.

"I go to the ball court to give a message to the boys."

"I will help you move faster," the toad said, and snapped up the louse. Then the toad hopped down the road toward the ball court.

A snake saw him. The snake concluded that the toad was too slow, so the snake swallowed the toad and slithered on down the road.

Always after that, toads were the food of snakes.

A hawk spied the snake, and instantly swallowed it. After that, hawks always ate snakes. Then the hawk flew rapidly to the ball

court, and perched on the cornice, where Hunter and Little Jaguar were playing ball. "Here is the hawk! Here is the hawk!" it

cried.

"Bring our blowguns!" Hunter exclaimed. In a moment he fired a pellet that hit the hawk in the eye and brought it down. "What are

you doing here?" Hunter asked the bird.

"I bring a message in my stomach," the hawk replied. "First cure my eye, and then I will tell you."

So they took a bit of rubber from the ball, and squeezed juice from it onto the hawk's eye. Immediately the eye healed.

Then the hawk vomited out the snake. "Speak!" they said to the snake.

The snake vomited out the toad. "What is the message that you bring?" they asked the toad.

The toad tried to vomit out the louse, but could not; it did not come out.

"Liar!" Little Jaguar cried, kicking the toad in the rump, and the bone of the toad's haunches gave way. It tried again, but its

mouth only filled with spittle.

Then the boys opened the toad's mouth and looked inside. The louse was stuck to the toad's teeth; it had not been swallowed. Thus

the toad had been tricked, and the kind of food it ate was not known. It could not run, because of its crushed haunch bone, and was

the food of snakes.

"Speak," Hunter said to the louse.

The louse, noting what had happened to the toad, did not delay. "The messengers of the lords of death have come to your

grandmother. You have seven days to go to Xibalba with your playing gear. Your grandmother grieves already for your loss, for she

remembers what happened to your father."

The boys exchanged a significant glance. This was the invitation they had been waiting for!

But they pretended to be sad, so that no one would know how well prepared they were for this occasion. They wanted the lords of

death to be surprised.

They hurried back to the lodge. "We are going, mother and grandmother," they said. "But do not fear, for we shall return."

"That's what your father said," the old woman grumped.

"But you shall know how we fare," they assured her. They planted two reeds in the lodge, which grew magically there. "If these dry,

it is a sign of our death. But if they sprout again, we are alive." Then they took their gear and departed.

Hunter and Little Jaguar followed the messengers down the long steps and across to the river that ran between the ravines. They

passed the river of corruption, and did not drink from it. They passed the river of blood, but did not touch it even with their

feet; instead they stretched their blowguns across it and crossed on them.

They came to the intersection of the four roads: black, white, red, and green. Here they paused, as if undecided, though they knew

better than to take the black one. There was information they needed, so they took advantage of this pause to get it.

Hunter touched his leg. From it appeared a mosquito, the same one who had magically punctured the water jug. "Go sting the lords,

one by one," he murmured to it.

"I shall," it replied, and flew away.

The magic mosquito flew to the ceremonial chamber of the lords of death. They were all there, awaiting with grim relish the arrival

of the ball players from the realm of the living, and conjecturing on the terrible things they would do to these innocents.

The mosquito stung the first, but it was one of the wooden figures, and it made no response. The insect flew on and stung the

second, but this one also was wood.

Then it stung the third, who was One-Death. "Ah!" he exclaimed, swatting at the mosquito, but the insect had jumped away before it

was caught.

"What is the matter, One-Death?" the next lord asked.

"Something stung me, Seven-Death," he replied.

In this manner the mosquito stung all the lords, making each exclaim, and each was identified by the queries of the others.

When this was done, Hunter pulled out a hair of his leg, where he had touched it before. The hair was the magical mosquito he had

sent. Now it told him all their names, according to where they stood, so he would not be fooled.

They followed the green road on to Xibalba, where the lords awaited them. "Greet the one who is seated," they were told, and the

lords waited, ready to burst out laughing when the visitors fell for the trick.

"Why should we speak to that one?" Hunter asked. "It is only a wooden figure."

The lords stifled their laughter and their annoyance, disgruntled at the manner in which the youths had seen through their ruse.

But they did not yet understand how well prepared Hunter and Little Jaguar were. These two had the magic of their father, and the

cunning of their mother, and the information of the four great owls, and they knew what they were doing.

"Hail, One-Death!" Hunter said to that lord. "Hail, Seven-Death!" He continued, naming every lord as he faced him, making no error,

for his magic mosquito had told him true. The lords nodded graciously, but they were really most annoyed and somewhat mystified.

How had the visitors come to know them so well?

Then One-Death indicated the stone seat. "Sit here, and we shall confer," he said.

Little Jaguar walked to the stone and made as if to sit on it. But he paused, then seemed to change his mind. "This is not a

fitting seat for a guest," he said. "It is only a hot stone. Is it the best you have to offer?"

The lords of death could scarcely conceal their ire at the failure of this ploy. But they thought that Little Jaguar had merely

felt the heat when he paused, so had discovered the trick by chance.

"Very well, go to that lodge," One-Death said, pointing to the Lodge of Gloom. This was the first real test of the underworld; the

wooden figure and the hot stone seat were merely jokes. The lords believed that the youths would suffer the beginning of their

downfall here, as all visitors had before them.

The youths entered the lodge without protest. One-Death immediately gave them sticks of fat pine and cigars, warning them to return

them whole in the morning.

"Very well," the youths agreed. But when they were shut inside, they put out the flames and put red-colored feathers on the

torches; these feathers were so bright they looked like flames. They put fireflies on the ends of the cigars, making them glow. In

this manner they fooled anyone who watched, and the lords rejoiced, thinking that they had prevailed.

In the morning the door was opened, and the youths emerged. Their torches and cigars were intact.

"How's this?" the lords of death demanded. "Who are these clever folk? Who gave birth to them? Their conduct is disturbingly

strange." But still they did not make the connection to One-Hunter's skull and Little Blood, whom they thought long dead.

They summoned the youths. "Let's play ball," they said, though they had not intended it to get this far.

Hunter and Little Jaguar agreed. This was, after all, what they had come for, supposedly.

"We shall use our ball," Seven-Death said.

"By no means; we shall use our ball," Hunter said.

"I insist that we use ours," Seven-Death said, glowering.

Hunter shrugged. It didn't matter; he had argued merely to deceive the lords of death about what the youths knew. If they

anticipated every trick, the lords of death would know that they had information that made them dangerous.

They continued to argue about the terms of the game, yielding when the lords of death became insistent.

Then they went to the ball court, donning their gear.

But the ball of the lords of death was enchanted, and the youths could not make it behave as it should. Soon they lost control of

it, unable to score. The lords of Xibalba seized the ball and threw it directly at the ring on the side of the court; if it went

through that ring, they would win. Meanwhile some of them grasped the handle of the flint knife that was used for sacrifice. They

were eager to cut out two beating hearts and roast them.

The shot was not good, because the ball still misbehaved. The lords of death really did not care, as they lacked the necessary

skill anyway. They just wanted to kill the youths. All their reputed skill as players was mere sham; it required diligent practice

to be good at the ball game, and the lords of death practiced only deceit and betrayal.

"What is this?" Little Jaguar demanded, indicating the knife. "The game is hardly started, yet you wish to kill us as if we are

losers? Can it be that we misunderstood, and that you did not call us here to play ball with you? In that case we shall leave at

once, being unwelcome."

That shamed the lords of death in their own eyes. Indeed, they could not honorably kill the youths without first beating them in

the game or causing them to violate one of the devious rules of the underworld. They certainly wanted to kill Hunter and Little

Jaguar, but they would be a laughingstock if they did it dishonorably. That was to say, in a manner that showed their dishonor, for

in truth they had no honor, only the pretense of it. Their pride was based on the appearance of honor, not on the reality, but that

meant that they could not cheat openly. This the young men knew.

"Do not leave, boys," One-Death said as he put away the knife. "We shall continue the game, and now we shall use your ball." For

the ploy with the ball had become evident when the lords themselves could not score with it.

"Very well," the youths said. They took their own ball, which was firm and true, and bounced it from one to the other on their

bodies and buttocks, and the lords of death were unable to interfere with them or to take the ball away. Soon Hunter bounced it off

his hip straight through the ring on the opponents' wall. The game was over, and the youths had won.

"We shall play again tomorrow," Seven-Death said, offended by the defeat of the lords of the underworld.

Now, the youths did not have to agree to this, for they had won, and would have been sacrificed had they lost. But they had more in

mind than merely humiliating the lords of Xibalba. To accomplish what they wanted, they had to play along with their enemies for a

while longer.

"Go and gather four gourds of flowers for us, early tomorrow morning," One-Death said.

The youths knew that this was another cunning trick, intended to deceive them and make them forfeit their victory, but they

pretended not to know. "What kind of flowers?" Little Jaguar asked.

"A red one, and a white one, and a yellow one, and a blue one," One-Death said.

"Certainly," Little Jaguar said. "We shall go immediately to cut them. Where is the path there?"

"Through that lodge," One-Death said, indicating the Lodge of Knives. This was the second place of torture in Xibalba, where the

terrible knives cut any intruders to pieces. He believed that the youths would never get to the field of flowers beyond.

"We shall fetch the flowers, and play ball again with you in the morning," Hunter said.

Then they entered the lodge, and the lords of death rejoiced, expecting mayhem.

But the youths had been warned of all the tortures of the underworld, and had prepared for each of them. As they entered, Little

Jaguar spoke to the knives, and his words were a spell that caused them to settle down. "Yours shall be the flesh of all the

animals," he said.

The knives were quiescent, and made no move against the youths. Since that time, knives have cut the flesh of all animals they

encounter, and the flesh of men too, but not that of those who master them.

Meanwhile Hunter addressed the red ants of the region. "Go, all of you, and bring the four kinds of flowers we must have," he said.

"Thereafter, the flowers of the night shall be yours."

"We agree," the ants said, and they marched off in a mass.

Now, the lords of the underworld had put guards at the field of flowers, warning them to let no one approach the plants. These

guards were owls with long tails. So even if the youths survived the Lodge of Knives, they would still fail the mission, being

unable to get the flowers.

But the ants crept in and cut the flowers in the darkness, needing no light to distinguish the colors, and carried them away. The

guards never noticed, for they were alert for men, not for insects. The ants filled the four gourds with flowers of each color, and

returned before dawn to the Lodge of Knives. But before they returned, they crept up behind the owls and cut away their tails, so

quietly and cleverly that the guards never were aware of this either.

When the youths emerged unscathed; with the four colors of flowers, the lords of death were livid. They sent for the guards. "Why

did you allow them to steal our flowers?" they demanded.

"We noticed nothing," the guards protested. Then they discovered the loss of their tails, and were further dismayed.

"Idiots!" the lords exclaimed, and tore at the mouths of the owls. Since then the owls have had short tails and cleft mouths,

though they really had tried to do their job.

Hunter and Little Jaguar played ball with One-Death and Seven-Death. But the lords had improved their technique using special magic

that gave them more speed and power than any living man could muster, and neither side was able to score. They played several tie

matches, and agreed to play again the next day. But in truth the youths could have won, had they been minded to. They preferred to

remain longer in Xibalba, so as to complete their mission of vengeance.

This time they were sent to the Lodge of Cold, the third great torture of the underworld. It was full of hail, with a terrible

wind, and so cold that it seemed that no one could survive within it. But they dug out old logs and made a fire and were warm. The

lords of death smoldered.

So it went, from day to day and night to night. The youths entered the Lodge of Jaguars, and Little Jaguar threw them bones, and

the animals were satisfied, thinking they were eating flesh, because of the enchantment. The boys entered the Lodge of Fire, but

their magic made them impervious. They entered the Lodge of Bats, where huge vampires with teeth as sharp as fire-hardened stakes

lurked, but the youths made themselves small and slept inside their blowguns, where the bats could not reach them.

But here was disaster, because they could not see the light of dawn. Hunter went out to see, and it was too early, and the terrible

Death Bat who was a god pounced on him and cut off his head.

"We are completely undone!" Little Jaguar cried, discovering the fate of his brother. One moment of carelessness had cost Hunter

his head!

The lords of death rejoiced. They hung the severed head up in the ball court, where all could see it. Half of their intention had

been fulfilled.

But though Hunter had been the better ball player, Little Jaguar was the better sorcerer. Now he was suffering the death of his

brother, and he was angry. He was like a wounded jaguar, and that is the most dangerous kind. He resolved that he would restore his

brother, but he could not do so unless he had the head back, to place on the body.

He called all the animals, large and small, during the night. "What does each of you eat?" he inquired. "I have called you so that

you may choose your food." Actually, he needed to find the one that was right for his purpose.

All the animals went out to find their types of food. But slow behind them was the turtle. Little Jaguar worked a spell on it as it

passed his brother's body, and it became compressed in its shell and assumed the form of Hunter's head. Little Jaguar worked to

make the likeness perfect, and indeed, it seemed that Hunter was alive again. But really it was just his body, made to move by

Little Jaguar's magic, with the turtle for its head.

"Now we shall play ball," Little Jaguar said grimly. "You, turtle, must only pretend to play, for you cannot do it truly; I will do

everything alone. And you, rabbit, go wait in the grove beside the ball court. When the ball comes to you, run out and away, and I

will do something to make them follow you."

Soon day broke, and the two youths emerged, seemingly both healthy. The lords of death were amazed, but did not know what to make

of it. They suspected that it was pretense, so they tried to make Little Jaguar give himself away. After all, the true head of

Hunter was hanging over the ball court.

"Hit that head with the ball!" they cried, trying to get Little Jaguar flustered about the indignity. But Little Jaguar ignored

them, and went straight out to play, so that they had to concentrate on the game.

The lords of death threw out the ball. Little Jaguar went for it, sending it straight toward the ring. But his aim was deliberately

bad. The ball stopped, bounced, and passed out of the ball court and rolled toward the oak grove, where the rabbit was.

Instantly the rabbit ran out, hopping madly. Little Jaguar's sorcery made the rabbit look like the ball. The lords of death chased

after it, shouting, but it veered and dodged so crazily that they could not catch it. More of them joined in, determined to trap

the ball, and soon no one remained at the court except Little Jaguar.

That was what he wanted. He ran up and took possession of his brother's head. He took the turtle and hung it where the head had

been, so that it looked the same. Then he set the real head firmly on the body, and that enabled Hunter to recover, because of the

magic the two of them had. They were very happy to be restored to each other. In their arrogance and certainty of victory the lords

of death had failed to cut out Hunter's heart and burn it, or to destroy his body, so that his death had not been irrevocable. Now

the evil lords faced both youths again, and did not know it.

The lords of Xibalba finally found the ball, when the rabbit led them to it and dodged aside. They brought it back, and play

resumed.

The game was tied. Then Little Jaguar hurled a stone at the turtle, which seemed to be his brother's head, and it fell to the

ground and to the stone ball court, breaking into a thousand pieces that resembled seeds. The lords were amazed to see the head

shatter like that, and understood that it wasn't the head, but something else. They realized that they had been deceived, and they

thought that Hunter had never died. They resolved not to be fooled like that again.

Meanwhile, Little Jaguar knew that the time of his own death was approaching. But this was part of his plan, and he was ready to

die—in the right way. He had prepared for this by approaching two notable soothsayers who were also known as diviners, called Xulu

and Pacam. "You shall be questioned by the lords of Xibalba about our deaths," he had told them. "For they are planning to kill us,

as they killed our father and uncle. When they find how much trouble it is to overcome us, they will seek advice about how best to

do it. We believe they will burn us. When they come to you about how to dispose of our bodies, tell them that the only way to be

sure we will not be restored is to grind up our bones into powder and throw them into the river."

The soothsayers agreed to do this, though they found it an odd request.

Now, as the youths had anticipated, the lords of death tired of trying to torture them and of trying to beat them in the ball game,

and resolved to cast aside the pretense of honor and kill them directly. So they made a great bonfire in a kind of oven, filling it

with thick branches so that it would burn long and well.

Then the lords sent messengers to fetch the youths. "Tell them to come here so that we may burn them," they said. For they wanted

the boys to suffer the torment of expectation.

The youths came readily, and the lords thought to play a mocking game with them. "Let's drink, while you fly over the fire!"

One-Death said, preparing a rope with which to swing them through the flames.

"Whom do you think you're fooling?" Little Jaguar asked. "You cannot burn us! We shall burn ourselves!" Then he clasped his

brother, and both of them jumped into the fire. Soon their bodies were roasted in the terrible heat.

At this the lords of Xibalba were joyful. They shouted and whistled. "Now at last we have overcome them!" Seven-Death said. "They

knew they could not escape, so they gave up rather than be tortured anymore!"

But the lords had learned caution, after seeing how Hunter had returned to life, and how much trouble the two had been to kill. So

they summoned the two soothsayers, Xulu and Pa-cam, exactly as Little Jaguar had anticipated. "What should we do with the bones?"

they inquired. When the soothsayers answered, it seemed good to the lords. They ground up the bones between stones, as if they were

grinding corn, and cast them into the river. "Now we are truly rid of them," they said, satisfied.

But this was the death for which Little Jaguar had prepared. If the lords had done something else, his magic would not have been

effective, and he and his brother would have been truly dead. The powder of the bones settled down to the bottom of the river,

where they coalesced, and the spell shaped them and absorbed water, and they were restored to handsome youths, as they had been

before.

But they took care to conceal their identities, and gave themselves the appearance of old men, so that the lords of Xibalba would

not recognize them. Then they went about as miracle-workers, doing many strange tricks. They did the dance of the owl, and the

dance of the weasel, and of the armadillo, and the centipede, and the dance on tall stilts. They burned lodges, then restored them,

showing that the fire had been but illusion. They cut each other into bits, and brought each other back to life. This was of course

more illusion, but no one could discover the trick of it, or fathom how they did it. Soon they became quite famous.

Then the lords of death heard about them, and were curious. They sent messengers to summon the dancers so that the lords might be

entertained. It was really pretty dull in the land of death, and the lords were always alert for something that might amuse them.

"But we don't want to go there!" the youths protested with mock reluctance. "We are ashamed of our ugly faces and our poor

clothing. We are not worthy to perform before such high lords."

Of course the lords of death insisted, and in due course, with much seeming reluctance, the two came before One-Death and

Seven-Death and the other lords of Xibalba, where they waited in the court of their lodge.

"Now do your dances," One-Death said. "We will pay you for your effort. Do the trick where you kill yourselves and burn your lodge,

yet all is undone." For this really intrigued the lords, who had an interest in all things relating to death.

So Hunter and Little Jaguar began to sing and dance, and they were so entertaining that all the folk of the underworld came to

watch.

"Cut my dog into pieces," One-Death said. "And bring him back to life."

"Very well," Little Jaguar said, and cut the dog into bits, then restored him. The dog wagged his tail, for his death had been

illusion and he had never been hurt.

"Now burn my lodge," One-Death said.

So they set fire to the lodge in which all them were, and the flames roared high, yet no one was hurt. The lodge burned into ashes

around them, but it was all illusion, and after it was done it was restored, and it was clear that it had never been touched.

All the lords were amazed, for they had never before seen such effective illusion. They pondered as they watched the dances, and

then asked for more.

"Now kill a man," One-Death said. "Not an animal, but a man, so we can see how you do it."

"Very well," Little Jaguar answered. They seized one of the spectators, who was somewhat reluctant but unable to protest. Hunter

bent him back on the altar and Little Jaguar used his knife to cut out the man's heart. He raised the beating heart high, showing

it to everyone. Then he put the heart back into the man's chest, and closed up the wound, and suddenly the blood was gone and the

man was alive again. This, too, had been illusion, and even the man had not seen how it was done. He was much relieved to find

himself alive and unharmed.

The lords of death were amazed, for they still could not penetrate the illusion. "Now kill yourselves," One-Death said, thinking

that they would not be able to perform the illusion successfully then. They were excruciatingly curious about this technique.

So Little Jaguar sacrificed Hunter. He laid him on the altar and cut off his arms' one by one, and then his legs, and then his

head. Finally Little Jaguar cut out Hunter's heart and threw it onto the grass of the court. Then Little Jaguar stabbed himself

through the chest, and cut out his own heart, and fell back on the floor, holding the beating heart aloft.

Everyone stared, believing that the dancers could never recover from such dismemberment. But it was really the dance of only one

man, Little Jaguar, and the illusion of his brother, and the illusion of his own beating heart.

Then Little Jaguar seemed to set his heart back into his chest, so that he was whole again. "Get up!" he said to the dismembered

remains of his brother, and the illusion faded, and the real Hunter stepped out from the shadow to take its place. He was as

healthy as if he had never died, which was of course the truth.

One-Death and Seven-Death were caught up in the excitement of this realistic show, and determined to find out how the illusion was

made. "Do the same with us!" One-Death cried. "Sacrifice us the same way! Cut us both into pieces, and hold up our beating hearts!"

For they were sure that they could not be deceived once they participated directly.

"If you insist," Little Jaguar said, as if reluctant to let them in on it.

Then he took One-Death, and cut off his head, and cut off his limbs, and cut out his heart most realistically, and all the

spectators were impressed with the seeming realism.

"Now bring him back to life," Seven-Death said.

"But you didn't say that," Little Jaguar protested.

"But—"

That was all Seven-Death was able to say before Hunter plunged his knife into his chest and cut out his heart. He fell, and Hunter

held up the heart. "No, we did not agree to bring either of you back to life!" he cried. "We shall have no mercy on you. No more

than you had on us."

Then the two youths cast aside their disguises and revealed their true identities. The other lords of death recognized them and

were appalled. They knew that the vengeance of their victims was at hand.

The other lords fled, and Hunter and Little Jaguar chased them. The lords tried to hide in a great ravine, but the ants came in

hordes and stung them and drove them out. Then they prostrated themselves before the two youths, knowing that they had no chance to

prevail against those who had slain One-Death and Seven-Death.

Now the youths told them also the names of their father and uncle, who had been betrayed and killed here, so that they would

understand the full measure of this vengeance. The boys did not kill the folk of Xibalba, but they reduced them to common level. No

more were there any lords among them, only lowly laborers. Thus was the vengeance complete.

Then Hunter and Little Jaguar returned to their own realm, where their mother and grandmother had been watching the two reeds in

the lodge. The reeds had dried up when the youths were consumed in the bonfire, but later had turned green and sprouted again. Then

the two women's hearts had filled with joy.

In this manner Xquic, Little Blood, had helped wreak the downfall of those who had killed One-Hunter and Seven-Hunter, by providing

sons whose great magic and courage destroyed the power of the lords of death.

Of course, living folk still do die, but only in their turn, in battle or from malignant spirits or because of the weakness of old

age. They are never taken when their time has not come, because the lords of death are dead. Little Blood did this great favor for

all who followed her in life.

CHAPTER 5

CALUSA

O Spirit of the Mound, I have told you the tale of Tzec's people, the mighty Maya, and her ancestor Little Blood, who deceived and

defeated the lords of death. Truly, her heritage was phenomenal! Now I will tell you how we traveled through the waters of the

Calusa, the Powerful Men, and the reception we had there, for this, too, is never to be forgotten. But one thing I must clarify

lest it seem wrong: Tzec's memory of her approach to Throat Shot about her purchase differed from his memory of it. When I told you

her tale, I told it her way; now I tell it his way. One of them must be right.

Throat Shot was stunned by the story of Little Blood. It made the Maya heritage come to life. The girl had been Wren, the half-mute

slave child; now she was Tzec, the descendant of godlike creatures. Such magic! Such great deeds! Such treachery, and such

vengeance! Such a wonderful realm, seen through the mouth of a little girl.

He had heard the tales of the evening fire as a child and thrilled to them. But as he grew, he had grown away from them; they had

become too familiar, and he had not wanted to appear childish by listening with the children. Now that old fascination had

returned, for this was a new tale, and strange. He had not realized that other tribes had tales, or that they could be as awesome

as this.

He was hardly aware of the huge expanses of water they passed, or of the channels between long islands. He paddled mechanically,

listening to the Tale, and translating it for the Trader as they went along.

As the Tale and its translation ended, Throat Shot realized that several days had passed, and they had traveled far down the coast,

beyond any region he had visited overland. They had stopped several times at places on the shore that the Trader knew of, to eat

and camp for the night, for it was not safe to remain on the water when not alert. The hungry alligators normally left the canoe

alone, but they watched it, and they were larger here than they were inland. The poisonous snakes hunted here, and some of them

would swim if they saw something worth biting. So time had been spent in necessary chores, and he had done his share—but somehow it

had all faded out beyond the compelling other reality of the Tale.

Now they were coming into the territory of the Calusa. He asked Tzec if she was afraid of the Calusa, for she was looking

increasingly nervous. She demurred, pretending not to understand his question. That did not relieve him.

That evening, as they made camp, Throat Shot spoke briefly to the Trader while the girl was handling a natural function a bit

apart. "She was captive of the Calusa. Maybe she fears they will harm her."

"It was the Toco who harmed her, by killing her mother," the Trader reminded him. "She speaks Calusan. See that she does not run

away."

Throat Shot was appalled at his own naïveté. Of course this would be the tribe to which she would flee: the one she knew best. But

how could he stop her from fleeing, if that was her intent?

Soon he was with her, gathering wood for the evening fire, while the Trader used a bamboo pole and bone hook to fish for their

supper. "You did not answer me before," he said. "I have told the Trader you will not flee. It will be my blame if you do."

Tzec paused, staring at him. "I will not flee!" she protested indignantly. "You have been good to me."

"Then are you afraid of the Calusa? You seem to hate this region."

"No, I am not afraid. I understand the Calusa well enough. I can get along, and I may even meet some I know."

"Then what is the matter? I cannot trust you if I do not know."

She hesitated a moment, then shrugged. "I will tell you. I am afraid he will sell me to them."

"But if you get along with them, it would be better to be sold here than to some other tribe where you don't know what will

happen." He did not want to be more specific, but probably she understood: she was a child, but soon would not be, and the man who

bought her might not have the scruples of the Toco or Calusa. Most men preferred nubile women, but youth was attractive, and

opinions differed about how young a woman was best. It was said that a girl matured faster when taken early by a man. Some girls

even sought that type of enhancement, being eager to leave childhood behind.

"I wish you would buy me."

That stopped him in his tracks. "I can't buy you! I am only one step from being a slave myself! I serve the Trader, until he

reaches his home. This is how I pay for traveling with him."

"I know," she said. "So I hope he doesn't sell me."

She wanted to stay with him! This possibility had not occurred to him before. Now, flattered, he realized that it was mutual. The

Tale of Little Blood still colored his thoughts, and in a way he saw Tzec as that young woman, trying to save herself and her

culture from the onslaught of evil.

"I would be glad if he did not sell you," he said. "But it is his business to buy and sell, and if someone offers more than three

feather cloaks, or something of equivalent value, he will do it. It is not my place to tell him no. In fact, if I learn of anyone

who will pay more, I must tell him, because I serve him."

"I know," she said forlornly.

They continued to gather wood, not speaking again.

The Calusa did not wait for them to enter their domain; three swift canoes approached, with four men each, one of whom carried a

drawn bow. "Who are you?" the man demanded.

Throat Shot knew that this was his job, for he spoke their language. "We are a Trader and his goods and translator," he called in

Calusan, tapping his chest as he mentioned the last. "We come in peace, to trade with you."

One canoe drew close so that the man could peer into the Trader's vessel. He saw the goods there. "Then come; the Cacique will be

glad to see you."

The warlike party became an honor guard, as the Calusa showed the way to their town. As they approached it, Throat Shot saw many

boats, of many kinds. Some were so strange that he stared.

"You have never seen a sail before?" the leader of the Calusa party inquired, smiling. "How can this be, when you speak our

tongue?"

"I traveled inland, carrying messages to your people, but I never saw the big sea. I knew you went on it, but it meant little,

until now."

The man laughed. "I would not like to be trapped always in the jungle! That is a sail, which catches the wind and pulls the boat

along without paddles—when there is wind, instead of calm."

"But suppose you don't want to go the way the wind blows?"

The man glanced at him as if finding something funny. "Oh, we manage," he said.

Throat Shot wasn't satisfied with that answer, but let the matter drop. Tzec had been with the Calusa; she would know, and she

would tell him, when there was a chance. Indeed, later he did learn that they had a way to slide across the wind, and travel in a

different direction from it. They could even travel into it, by going back and forth across it. There was surely some potent magic

in operation there!

Then he saw two canoes lashed together, and that was another surprise. Not only did they seem to work, they seemed more stable than

the single ones. What a curious craft!

Then they came to the island town, and his amazement grew. Here were mounds like that near the river, where the spirit had told him

to seek the Tale of Little Blood. But they were not rounded and weathered; these were sharp and new. They seemed to be formed of

shell, and towered above the island; it would be dizzying to stand at the summit of one of them. Some were round and some were

square, with sharp edges at each corner, rising to a flat terrace at the top. Those were ceremonial, but there were also burial

mounds; he could feel their spirits sleeping within them. He wanted to go and talk with those spirits, but that would have to wait

on the Trader's business. He had not imagined that there would be so many in one place! It reminded him of the great pyramids of

the Maya, which Tzec had not quite seen, and Dzibilchaltun with its Temple of the Seven Dolls. Oh, to go and commune with the

spirits of that fantastic city!

They entered a canal that led to the interior of the island. The banks were graded, rising to the level of the houses, which seemed

to be square hard mud roofed with palm thatch. He had not seen that kind before, either. Near the water they were on stilts, and he

could see right under them. It was one oddity after another. In fact, this whole region seemed almost as strange as the homeland of

the Maya that Tzec had described. He wondered whether the Calusa were related to the Maya.

They landed near the Chief's house, which was huge. They walked up a ramp that spiralled to the top of one of the highest mounds.

Here the houses were larger than any he had seen, and their walls were plastered smooth, like the surface of a mud flat after a

rain.

The Cacique came out to meet them, with his retinue of wives and warriors. He wore an ornate deerskin cape tied over his shoulder,

artfully showing his elaborate tattooing. His hair was tied up in a knot on the top of his head so neatly that it must have taken

the labor of a skilled woman to do it. He was impressive not so much for his body, though he stood half a head taller than the

other men, as for his clothing and jewelry and manner, and the way others deferred to him. On his forehead was an ornament of

brightly painted shell, and there were beaded bands on his legs. Two of the women with him were beautiful, their breasts full and

well formed, and their faces smooth and large-eyed. He had his pick, of course, and was not limited to one. "Wait for him to speak

to you," Tzec murmured. "Answer only when he asks you a question. And do what I do."

Throat Shot appreciated the warning, for he had no idea of the proper protocol here. The Trader evidently knew, but was keeping

silent.

As the Cacique drew near, Tzec dropped to her knees and lifted her hands, palms up. Throat Shot did the same with his right hand,

unable to lift the left that high. After a moment, so did the Trader.

"Ah, the Trader!" the Cacique exclaimed, smiling. "You were here last year!" He placed his hands on the Trader's upturned palms,

acknowledging his humbling.

The Trader nodded, not using his hands for sign language. He got up, not speaking.

"We bargained by each bringing out our goods for trade," the Cacique said. "We thought you were stupid, but you got the best of

us." He scowled, and Throat Shot's heart sank.

"But this year we'll get the best of you!" the Cacique continued, smiling. "After we feed you and your son and daughter."

Throat Shot's pulse jumped, but he kept his mouth shut. Tzec remained as she was, so he did too. However, the Trader indicated him,

shaking his head in negation.

The Cacique turned to Throat Shot. "You are not of his family?"

"I am traveling with him and translating," Throat Shot said. He indicated his left arm. "I cannot be a warrior, so I must use my

mouth."

"Ah, this will facilitate our business," the Cacique said, seeming well satisfied. He put his hand on Throat Shot's palm, releasing

him. "And the girl—your sister?"

"No, she is a slave taken in trade. She speaks your language also." Throat Shot would have preferred to let Tzec remain mute, but

that would not have been in the Trader's interest.

The Cacique faced the girl. "True?"

"I lived among your people, with my mother," Tzec said.

"Who was she?"

"The Lady Zox, from across the sea. She married the priest of the town to the north, but he was killed in a Toco raid, and I was

taken by the Toco."

"The one who tamed the tigress!" the Cacique exclaimed. "He tamed her for my father, but my father gave her back. My father was

cautious. Do you know what she did?"

"A man abused her, and she cut out his heart," Tzec replied evenly.

"And she cut out the heart of the Toco who took her!" the Cacique cried. "We laughed until we fell on the ground when we learned of

that! But we thought her child dead."

"No, I lived," Tzec said. She peeked up at him. "But my mother—oh illustrious one, may I ask?"

The Cacique finally touched her hands, allowing her to rise. "They killed her, of course," he said. "But later we raided, and

killed many of them. She was avenged."

"Thank you," Tzec said, bowing her head. Her eyes were squeezed tightly closed. Throat Shot knew she had expected this answer, but

still the confirmation hurt. She would never see her mother again, never hear more of the tales of the marvelous Maya tribe.

"You will eat with the women." The Cacique turned back to the Trader as Tzec was led away by the wives. "The Toco tricked you; that

child will be dangerous." His gaze flicked to Throat Shot. "Tell him."

"He says the Toco tricked you about the value of the girl, because her mother cut out the heart of the man who used her."

"Then I will sell her to someone who doesn't know," the Trader said, smiling. "Yes, tell him."

Throat Shot translated, and the Cacique smiled without further comment. It was evident that he enjoyed the prospect of bargaining

with someone who was good at it, and understood the ethics of trading well enough.

They entered the most impressive building. There was a larger room than Throat Shot had ever seen before, and he did not bother to

conceal his awe, knowing that this pleased the Cacique. There were brightly painted shields hung on the walls, and ornate masks,

and wooden carvings of animals. There were great spears, and bows, and fine arrows. Throat Shot had enough of an eye for weapons to

see that these were of the finest quality. This was a most impressive collection.

The meal was of strange meat, served by children who were slaves or whose families owed service to the Cacique. The meat was good,

but from what animal had it come? Certainly no deer or bear! The Cacique noticed Throat Shot's perplexity. "From the deep sea," he

said. "The finned killer. He came into our net, eating our fish, and we speared him." He was obviously pleased. He seemed quite

comfortable on his low stool; Throat Shot and the Trader and the other warriors present sat cross-legged on the floor.

Water was in fancy cups made of conch shells. But when Throat Shot sipped from his, he discovered that it wasn't water, but some

other drink that burned against the tongue. Since he was thirsty, he drank it anyway, but he noticed that the Trader barely touched

his. Soon his head was feeling light, and he realized that it was the drink: it was an intoxicant! It was possible to ferment

berries and make a drink that made the head float, quite different from the ceremonial White Drink. As a child he had not been

given any such at home, and he had been too briefly a man to have encountered it in the interim.

After the meal the Cacique snapped his fingers, and his wives entered the chamber. "My sister and first wife will lead the dance

for us," the Cacique said. He gestured, and a single woman stood and came forward.

Throat Shot almost choked on his last mouthful. The Cacique had married his own sister? He had heard of this sort of thing when he

learned the tongue, that the caciques did what no lesser personages did, but it had not occurred to him when he first saw the

women.

The Cacique's sister was an older but still comely woman. She stood in the center of the chamber, spread her arms, and began to

move. Her breasts bounced, and the beads of the necklace that lay across her bosom rattled. She spun around, and her moss skirt

flared out, showing her thighs in a way that made them far more interesting than otherwise.

The two younger women joined in, with similar motions. Throat Shot was fascinated. He had seen dancing before, of course, but

always for a purpose: to make the corn grow, or to bring rain when it was dry, or to appease an evil spirit. Men and women and

often children participated in these dances, every person doing his part to help the tribe. But the dance of the Cacique's wives

was evidently not for any of these purposes. It was to make men wish to indulge sexually. Throat Shot thought of Deer Eyes, who had

approached him at the time of his manhood. What a fool he had been to turn her down!

The dance ended, and the women departed. "It is time to trade," the Cacique said briskly, rising from his stool.

The Trader unkinked his legs and stood. Throat Shot started to do the same, but his crotch was uncomfortably tight under his

breechcloth because of the effect the dance had on his penis, and his head seemed to be floating some distance from his body

because of the drink. He lurched up and almost fell down again, his cloth extended before him.

The Trader caught him on one side, and the Cacique on the other. It was evident that his condition surprised neither of them. "You

are young," the Cacique said, chuckling.

Mortified, Throat Shot managed to steady himself and follow them outside. He would be far more careful of that drink next time!

They proceeded down to the canoe, which was undisturbed. The honor of the Calusa, as elsewhere, permitted hard and even deceptive

bargaining, but not theft. No more traders would come if news spread that such protocol had been violated.

The wives came out, bringing Tzec, who looked improved. Her hair had been combed and her body washed, and she had been fed. The

Calusa were good hosts.

"Oh, you drank that stuff!" she muttered as she came close. "Didn't you know better?"

"Not this time," he said, pleasantly dizzy.

"Did the Trader drink it?"

"Hardly any."

She nodded. "He's smart. They wanted to make him bargain badly."

Now it came clear! The Cacique certainly intended to gain an advantage this time.

"And the women danced for you," Tzec added, glancing at his breechcloth. "You must have liked them."

"Yes," he said shortly.

"Someday I will dance for you."

His irritation faded. She really did want to be with him, despite his arm and her youth. It was a compliment of a kind he had had

only once before. But as before, the situation was wrong.

The Trader brought out his bright feather cloaks. The Cacique's men brought out cleverly wrought palm and shell masks. The Trader

made Tzec stand beside the cloaks. The Calusa brought out good bows and arrows. It was clear that each side knew what the other was

interested in.

They bargained, and Throat Shot did not need to translate. Each representative simply pointed to what he wanted, and indicated what

he proposed to trade for it. Each then made elaborate signals of protestation about the inadequacy of the other's offering. But in

due course the deals were struck, and the rest of the Trader's feather cloaks were traded for a number of excellent masks.

By this time a fair crowd had gathered. The Calusa, named for their own word for "powerful men," were deceptively friendly. Throat

Shot, however, had no doubt of their ferocity in war; there were stories among the Toco, and he had seen their weapons and skill on

the water. The Trader had been in every way polite and respectful, and this seemed to be an excellent policy.

The Trader made a signal to Throat Shot: time to finish. Throat Shot faced the Cacique. "If I may speak, illustrious one?"

"I saw his signal," the Cacique said jovially. "It is time for you to stop so you can trade our fine masks at enormous profit to

the ignorant inland tribes. But I warn you: folk all the way to the Mayaimi, the wide lake, are subservient to me. Where do you

think we got those masks? You won't sell them their own goods!"

Throat Shot translated for the Trader. "But those beyond the wide lake covet the masks," the Trader replied. "We shall make a swift

trip up the river to reach them."

Throat Shot translated, and the Cacique nodded. "They are his own people, the Ais, there. He can deal with them as he chooses." He

lifted his hand, about to signal the end of the dealing. "My sister will show you to your house for the night. Women will come to

you."

But before he made the signal, a man approached. He dropped to his knees before the Cacique, lifting his hands.

"You come to bargain with the Trader?" the Cacique inquired, touching that man's palms. "You are too late; we have bought all his

wares."

"The girl," the man said, rising. "She is not sold?"

The Trader took an interest. "He wants to bargain for the girl," Throat Shot said, translating so that the Calusa would not realize

how much of their language the Trader understood. But he felt dread; he had thought this hazard was safely past.

Tzec seemed to shrink into herself. She, too, had hoped not to be sold.

"What does he offer?" the Trader inquired.

Throat Shot turned to the new man, who smelled of fish. "The girl is for sale. What do you have to trade?"

The fisherman opened his fish-hide bag and brought out a large, lovely conch. Its spiral was perfect, and there was an iridescent

sheen on the surface. The Toco valued such shells enormously.

The Trader made a sign of negation. "Not enough for this fine young woman."

Throat Shot translated. The fisherman brought out a second conch, as lovely as the first.

The Trader considered, while both Throat Shot and Tzec grew tight with apprehension. "What does he want with her?"

"I need a small, clever-handed person to help handle my net," the fisherman explained after Throat Shot relayed the question. "One

who does not take up space better used for a good catch of fish."

"He wants her for more than that," the Trader said when he heard the translation. "Tell him this is no fish wench; she is fit to

serve in a chief's house."

In response, the fisherman brought out a third conch. Throat Shot's dread grew; among his people, such an offering would readily

purchase a slave.

"How do you feel about this?" the Trader inquired in his own tongue.

"I think it's a good offer," Throat Shot said reluctantly. "Those conchs—"

"I know it's a good offer. I know my business. I asked about your feeling."

"I would not like to see her go there."

"You like her."

"Yes."

"And she likes you. I saw her smiles. She will work hard to please you."

"But I cannot buy her. I have nothing."

"Ask him if he has pearls," the Trader said.

Alas, the fisherman had no pearls. The exchange fell through, and Tzec was not sold. She seemed about to faint with relief. Throat

Shot was similarly relieved—but also privately amazed. The Trader had thwarted a good sale because his assistant liked the girl?

That was suspiciously generous.

The day was getting late. They went with the Cacique's sister-wife to a small house near the canal. "The women will bring

blankets," she said. "Also food in the morning." She departed.

The house was square and dark inside, and smelled of fish and shell. There were no furnishings, just bare daub walls and a floor of

packed shell fragments. Throat Shot didn't like it, but had slept in worse situations. There were two chambers, separated by a

curtain of palm fronds.

"You spoke to save me," Tzec murmured in her tongue.

"He asked me. I told him it was a good price, but he wanted to know how I felt, so I told him. He was the one who saved you."

"How do you feel?"

"I like you. You're useful, and your story of your people—"

"I will make it up to you," she said, obviously gratified.

By this time Throat Shot was in need of a place to relieve himself, for the meal had gotten his system working. But this was an

essentially private matter, and there were houses and people all around.

"Find a pot," the Trader said, noting his discomfort. But Tzec was already bringing one from a corner. It was a large clay vase

whose odor plainly indicated its function.

He didn't argue: this was not a thing he had done before. To him, pots were for cooking and storage. He took it into the other

chamber and did his business in a hurry. Then he covered it with the large shell provided.

Just in time, for the women were arriving. There were two, both young and pretty, and one was the Cacique's wife!

To Throat Shot's chagrin, this was the one who came to him. "I saw you watching me," she told him. She was the loveliest creature

he could imagine, with the shell beads across her breasts. "I saw how you wanted me. I am Heron Feather."

"But—" he protested, appalled.

"Take her in the other room," the Trader said. "I will keep this one here." He put his arm around the other woman, who was younger.

Throat Shot stood frozen. "I thought—only to bring a blanket—" But he had known better; his own tribe had similar hospitality.

There was the smell of honey about her, which meant she had dosed herself with the honey-flavored grease that served to stop her

from getting with child. Every priest knew the key herb that made this work; the grease and honey were only to make it easy to use,

for the herb itself was bitter. No, there had never been doubt about her purpose here. It was her identity as the Cacique's wife

that bothered him. That, and his complete inexperience.

"My husband said you needed good instruction," she told him, guiding him to the other chamber. "I am extremely good. I will make

you float like a cloud. After me, all other women will seem inadequate."

"She surely will," Tzec said, settling down in a corner with a separate blanket. "It's a lot better than spittle from a skull."

She was going to witness this? Throat Shot was bothered again. Such things were usually done privately in Atafi. Children knew, but

normally did not watch, unless they were part of the family. He knew this was a different culture, but that did not help much. "All

I want is to see the largest burial mound!" he blurted.

The woman paused. "You have something to bury?" she inquired, glancing at his breechcloth. "This is what I shall help you do."

"No, I mean—out there," he said, gesturing wildly. "Where your elders repose."

"Oh, you mean the place of honor for our dead," she said, her lovely eyes widening a bit in surprise.

"Yes! I must go there." He realized that he sounded crazy, but he had not yet thrown off the effect of the intoxicating drink, and

he could not organize his thoughts well.

"You must have a high opinion of your prowess," she remarked. "I think it would be better to do it in here, at least the first

time."

She still misunderstood! "No! I mean, I must go and talk to your spirits, to ask whether they will help me in my quest. This is why

I am traveling."

"It is true," Tzec said. "He can talk to the dead."

"This I must see," the woman said. "Come, then, Toco priest; I will take you to the mound."

"I am not a—" he started to protest, but the touch of her sweet fingers oh his lips cut him off. She knew what he was and was not.

She guided him out and along the paths between the houses. Others going about their business glanced at them curiously, but did not

intrude; they evidently knew that she was the Cacique's wife, and he a visitor.

They came to the mound, outlined by the setting sun. It was a magnificent structure, with a charnel platform at the top, where the

bodies of the ordinary dead were prepared for later burial. The smell was not sweet, which was why no one lived nearby. "Is this

close enough?" she asked, wrinkling her pert nose.

"Yes." He stepped off the path, to the base of the mound, and abased himself before it. He felt the spirits within, many of them,

and powerful. There were caciques here going back to the dawn of the world! Surely they would be able to help him.

O spirits of this mound, I beg you to help me find the Ulunsuti, he thought, knowing they could hear. I must have it, to save my

people from disaster.

But these spirits did not answer. He had sensed their presence, but now there was only silence. They had turned their backs on him.

They were angry with him.

Then he knew that he had erred badly. He must not have shown proper honor to the dead, coming here like this. They surely had

reason to reject him.

I am dust, he thought to them.

You are garbage! Had he imagined that? He could not be sure. The stuff he had drunk still interfered with his thoughts.

I am garbage, he agreed. I apologize for intruding on you like this. He got up and backed away, chagrined. He had brought their

rebuke on himself. He was not sure just how he had erred, but he had forfeited any help this mound might have given him.

"What did they say?" the woman asked as they walked away from the mound.

"They would not speak to me."

She laughed. "And what did they say of me?"

"They said nothing of you," he said, surprised.

She nodded. "The dead have no use for the likes of me. But the living are another matter."

Throat Shot felt guilty, but he was among the living. She was a beautiful woman, and her body and her manner tempted him strongly.

The honey smell made him desire her, and his penis rose again. He had to resist that temptation, but he felt guilty for even

feeling it.

"Do you have a problem with me?" she asked, perceptively enough.

"You are the Cacique's wife!" he said.

"His secondary wife," she said. "His concubine, really. His true wife is his sister. You are an honored guest, so he extends to you

the privilege of family. Is it not true in your tribe, as in ours, that a man's brothers may share his wife, just as a woman's

sisters may share her husband?"

"No," he said. "I mean, they are allowed, but it seldom happens. In our tribe, if a man and woman are unmarried, they may do what

they want, but when they marry, they are only with each other."

"How quaint! But you are not with your tribe now."

To that he had no answer. They returned to the lodge as darkness closed, and inside it was completely black. But that was no

relief: she went to the other side and fetched a lighted fish-oil torch. It was smoky and dim, but illuminated the chamber well

enough.

The woman spread out the blanket, which was padded so as to make the floor comfortable. "Shall I undress you?" she inquired

solicitously. "Or will you leave that to your slave girl?"

"No, I—" What was he to do?

"I will be happy to help," Tzec remarked mischievously, well understanding his problem. She had evidently recovered from the shock

of learning of her mother's death, or perhaps was satisfied to be distracted from it. "Do you need more honey?"

"Go to sleep!" he snapped at her in her own language.

She decided she had teased him enough. She closed her eyes.

"Perhaps I should dance for you," Heron Feather said. "While you undress."

"Yes," he agreed quickly. With luck, by the time she completed her dance, it would be too dark for any of them to see anything. It

wasn't that it was in any way complicated to remove a breechcloth, or that there was anything wrong with a man showing his erection

before a willing woman. It was just that he had a deep uncertainty that this was real. Perhaps she was teasing him, setting him up

for laughter when she succeeded in making him strip for action with a woman who never intended to complete a sexual engagement.

After all, a man with one arm crippled—what could she see in him? So he only played at undressing, believing this to be the safer

course, though he desired her ferociously.

She went into her dance. If it had seemed suggestive before, it was compelling now. Her hips swayed as if detached from her upper

torso, the flesh of her thighs quivered invitingly, and her breasts bounced with abandon under the tinkling beads. Her hair swung

out and around, echoing the motions of her fine moss skirt. She was Heron Feather, and surely no heron moved more evocatively than

she!

Then she dropped the skirt, and stepped out of it. "You have not undressed," she told him reprovingly. "I shall have to do it for

you after all."

Before he could make another ineffective protest, she came up to him, and her hands went to his breechcloth. In a moment she had

him naked. "Yes, I think you are ready," she said, her hands caressing his standing penis. "Lie down."

"I can not," he muttered.

"I mean your body," she said. "I don't mean this." She stroked his rigid member.

"I am propped against the wall," he explained, embarrassed again. She was nudging his right side, and he could not use his left arm

effectively, so he was caught.

She nodded. Then she put her hands firmly on his two upper thighs and pulled, so that his legs and body slid down, and he was able

to get his shoulders and head away from the wall.

It was easier to go with her than to oppose her. He lay on his back on the blanket. She came down on him, her hands still busy, and

suddenly she was embracing him with arms and legs and touching his lips with hers, her breasts pressing against him. The herb honey

caused his hard penis to slide right into her, as if it had always sought this lodging, and the sensation was like nothing he had

experienced before.

"So fast!" she murmured appreciatively. He was perplexed, then realized that she had known his state before he did. She was truly

experienced and wonderful.

He gouted within her, again and again, caught by the exquisite storm. Then as he relaxed, it did indeed seem that he was floating

on a cloud, held in place by her contact. The torch burned out, but it didn't matter; touch was better than sight. Her body

remained in contact with his, warm and exciting and inviting even after he cooled, and her hands played about him, smoothing here,

rubbing there, and her breasts slid across his body and into his hand as her lips kissed him and her tongue licked him in

wonderfully odd ways. Very soon he was clasping her again, his member tasting the honey and adding to it, though with less force

than before.

She stayed with him the night, and every time he woke and realized where and with whom he was, she moved against him and put him

inside her and carried him into the sweet storm that faded into a cloud. He lost track of the times after three, and hardly cared.

Nothing in his prior life had been anything like this, and he suspected that nothing in his future life would match it, just as she

had said.

As dawn came, she got up. "Has the storm passed?" she inquired with a lurking smile.

"Yes," he breathed blissfully. His head felt bad from the drink of the night before, but this was more than compensated for by the

delight his body had experienced.

"Let me see." She began to dance again, provocatively, and he could not help but watch. As he watched, his penis reacted, slowly

but definitely.

"No, some rain remains; I see the wind rising," she said. She came to him, and once more took him in to the honey and caressed him

into performance. It took some time, for it was the last that was in him, but it was almost excruciatingly intense when it finally

came. Then she disengaged, and danced again, and this time he could not react. Only at this point was she satisfied. She had wrung

out all the water of the storm. It would be many days before it could rain again.

She brought a damp sponge and cleaned him up, wherever he was soiled, for there was honey spread on him and on the blanket. He no

longer protested her familiarity; he had had a lifetime of experience with her in a single night, and seemed to have no secrets

from her. It was gentle pleasure feeling her touch, and he wished it could be forever like this. But he knew better; she had played

with him one night, and her interest was not in him but in the quality of her performance. Certainly he could attest to that! He

would be happy to tell the world of her competence, which was surely what she wanted him to do.

Heron Feather helped him don his breechcloth, her hands caressing his thighs and buttocks even during this routine act. Nothing was

routine with her! Then she kissed him once more, smiled, and went to fetch fruit for him to eat.

"Your arm may be weak," Tzec remarked. "But something else isn't."

She had been in the room throughout. In the darkness, close to Heron Feather, he had forgotten. It no longer seemed to matter. Tzec

had slept through most of it anyway.

The Trader appeared. "I thought you would do better with the experienced one," he said. "Next time you can have an inexperienced

one, if you wish. How many times?"

"Times?" Throat Shot asked, confused.

"Five," Tzec said, making the five-finger signal. "No, once more just now. She wanted to be sure he was done."

She had been listening! "I should have let you be sold to that fisherman," he said, chagrined.

"No, you are right," the Trader said. "That girl will be worth far more than conchs. Keep teaching her, and keep learning from

her."

Teaching and learning what? But Tzec was smiling mischievously, and he had to smile too.

The young women returned with baskets of fresh fruits. There were berries and pieces of Palm heart. "Now we shall leave you," Heron

Feather said. "May we tell my husband that you are satisfied?"

The Trader frowned as if in doubt, teasingly. "Yes!" Throat Shot said, so quickly that both Tzec and the Trader laughed. Heron

Feather smiled knowingly, and then the less experienced woman did too, reassured. Throat Shot understood her feeling.

"Perhaps I shall see you again, if you pass this way, mighty hunter," Heron Feather said to Throat Shot with an almost motherly

smile. Then the two women turned away and were gone, carrying their soiled blankets.

"The Cacique is a good host," the Trader remarked. "It is good that you did not dishonor his hospitality. You will be a legend by

the time she is done exaggerating your prowess in the honey field."

Throat Shot ate his fruit, not able to think of any appropriate response. Both the Trader and Tzec were smirking.

"How was your trip to the mound?" the Trader inquired.

"Her mound is like none other." Then Throat Shot saw Tzec's smirk and realized that he had mistaken the question. "The spirits

would not talk to me."

"I'm not surprised."

Throat Shot glanced at the man, surprised. "You knew I would fail?"

"I thought it likely. Consider this: if you were a spirit, and a man approached you by day without proper reverence, what would you

say?"

Throat Shot shook his head. "I don't understand."

"Pretend I am a spirit," the Trader said, standing with his head bowed and his arms close to his body, as if covered by sand. "You

came and said what?"

"O spirits of this mound, I beg you to help me find the Ulunsuti, "Throat Shot said. "Because—"

The Trader lifted his head, glaring. "You come to us, intoxicated, with the Cacique's whore, to ask our help?" he demanded. "Get

away from here, Toco cripple! You foul us by your presence!"

Throat Shot's mouth dropped open. Of course that was the way it was! How could he have been such a fool?

This time Tzec did not laugh. "I am sorry," she said.

But behind his chagrin, a new appreciation of the Trader's insight was dawning. The man understood things better than he normally

let on.

From there they proceeded up the great Calusa river, returning inland. Here the glades were so extensive that it could be hard to

tell where the river left off. Grass grew in broad plains, interspersed by islands of pine. But near the river there was often

cypress, with its immensely swollen trunks, and mangrove. Black vultures sailed above, watching for anything ailing or dead.

Grasshoppers clustered on the leaves of those bushes they favored. Green lizards watched for the careless approach of any of the

buzzing flies. In some regions storks waded, and there was a heron. Ah, the feather of the heron!

But there was nervousness too. Alligators drifted in numbers greater than Throat Shot had seen before, and some of them were huge.

They remained clear of the canoe, but he was concerned. If the canoe went down, he would not even be able to swim effectively, and

would be unable to help Tzec. He had no fear for himself, but the thought of her being taken by the reptiles was uncomfortable.

She seemed to be aware of his thoughts. "Teach me the sign tongue," she said.

"Child, it's all he can do to paddle upstream," the Trader objected. "He can't use his hands for anything else." He spoke in his

own language, and Throat Shot had to translate, but the girl already knew the essence. She was picking up the Trader's tongue

herself.

"You can tell me now, and show me later," she said. She turned back to face the Trader. "You didn't sell me because you think I can

be useful to you. I can be more useful if I learn this." Her words were halting, in his tongue, but close enough.

"Teach her," the Trader agreed gruffly.

So Throat Shot told her the signs as they moved slowly up the river. When a water bird flew up from the slough, she asked for its

sign.

"Hold your hands at shoulder height in front of your body, flat, your fingers pointing out," he said. "Flap them: slow for big

birds, fast for little ones."

"Oh, that's nice!" She practiced, and when he glanced back he saw that she was doing whole flocks of birds, ranging from the tiny

hummingbird to the giant eagle. She was expressive with her hands.

"Tree," she said, looking at an oak that had ventured close to the river. A gray and white mockingbird perched in its foliage,

staring curiously at them.

"Put your left hand up near your shoulder, in front, palm toward you," he said. "Spread your fingers wide. Move it up a little, to

show how the tree grows."

"Yes!" she said, excited. "That's just like a tree!" She practiced growing.

There were assorted fish visible in the water under the canoe. "Fish," she said.

"First you must know Water: cup your right hand, as if holding water in it, and tilt it to your mouth as if drinking." He paused.

"Have you drunk yet?"

"Yes; I am no longer thirsty," she said brightly.

"Then hold that hand, thumb up, flat, near your waist, fingers pointing away from you. Move it forward sinuously, in the manner of

a fish swimming."

"Oh, yes!" she exclaimed, making the gesture with glee.

Then they went through the basics: Man, the right index finger pointing up before the face, emulating a penis. "That is the same to

indicate any male," he explained. "Do it with an animal, to show it is male." That took them, of course, to Woman or Female: the

curved spread fingers combing downward through the hair, and then the hand indicating her height with the fingers together and

pointing up. Girl was the same, but with a lower height, and Child lower yet, after the sign for Male or Female. The sign for Yes,

starting with the right index finger pointing up, as with Male, but at shoulder height, then moving down and closing the finger, as

if tapping on something. The sign for No, with the right hand held flat, palm down, then moving briskly to the right while turning

over and back, as if shoving something out of the way.

Then they got into counting: the right hand in an outward-facing loose fist at shoulder height, the little finger lifted, then the

two smallest, three, four, and five. Then the thumb of the closed left hand touching the right thumb for Six, and on through the

fingers starting from the thumb, up to ten. Tens could be counted by showing the doubled open hands twice or more, or by showing

ten, then counting off the fingers of the left hand: the thumb was one ten, two fingers were two, and so on through five tens, and

again to go higher. The Ten sign swung in a downward left circle showed ten tens, and if that sign was followed by counting off on

the fingers of the left hand, each finger was ten tens.

"The Maya can count higher," Tzec said smugly.

"This is not Maya territory," the Trader put in.

"Laugh," she said.

"Hold both five-hands up by your chest, palms up," Throat Shot said. "Move them up and down."

Tzec made a violent laughing signal back at the Trader. He made a sign back at her. "What is that?" she asked.

Throat Shot hadn't seen it. "Describe it," he said.

"Left hand in front of the body," she said. "Right hand wiped across it. No, wait—that's like brushing off dirt!"

"Wiped out," Throat Shot agreed. "He exterminated you."

"Just so long as he doesn't sell me!" But then she wanted to know Sell, so she could see it coming.

"That's the Trade sign," Throat Shot said. "Both hands up in the One posture, index finger up. Then swing them down past each

other, in part of a circle."

She practiced that, but evidently her mind was still working. "Apologize," she said.

"That would be Ashamed or Embarrassed," Throat Shot said. "Draw a blanket over your face: both hands up flat before your cheeks,

then crossing."

Tzec practiced the gesture, then turned to face the Trader and made what must have been a most apologetic sign. He responded with

his flat right hand held at the level of his chest on the left side, then swung it out to the front and right side.

"That means Good," Throat Shot translated in due course. "He forgives you for your impertinence. But don't make him talk anymore; I

can't paddle this canoe by myself."

They continued up the river. But in the afternoon the heat increased, and the clouds piled up, and a great storm loomed from the

horizon. The soaring birds disappeared, and so did many of the insects.

"We must get out of that!" the Trader exclaimed, alarmed. "Find a safe landing place."

But there was no landing place. The flat swamp stretched out all around them, the river winding through it like a great lazy snake.

"See if your Spirit of the Mound will help," the Trader said, cynically. "Because if we sink here, the alligators will feed on us

all. We cannot remain afloat in a bad storm."

Throat Shot closed his eyes. O Spirit of the Mound, he thought. We need your guidance, if I am to complete my quest. Where can we

go to survive the storm? He was not intoxicated now, and not with Heron Feather. Most important, he was addressing a familiar

spirit, though the mound was far away.

There. The Spirit guided his eyes as he opened them, and he focused on a distant stalk. It was south of the river, in the heart of

the worst of the swamp.

"There," he said, pointing.

"There's nothing there!" the Trader protested.

"The Spirit answered," Throat Shot said.

"Then that is where we go," the Trader said grimly. "It is as good a place to die as any." He turned the canoe and paddled

vigorously. Throat Shot paddled too, extending his weak arm to its utmost, despite the pain.

The canoe fairly leaped along, disturbing snoozing alligators. The distant stalk came rapidly closer, but so did the looming storm

from the west.

"Look at that!" Tzec exclaimed, her sharp eyes peering ahead. "That's a splinter of a tree!"

So it was. The stalk was the sole remaining part of a giant cypress whose widely spreading roots had snagged brush and moss to form

a tiny island. The tree had been struck by lightning, or perhaps had been blown over, so that only a single sliver of wood

projected up like a long finger. From a distance it looked like no more than a weed shorn of its foliage, but it signaled a small

but truly solid anchorage.

They drew the canoe up to it just before the storm struck. Grackles flew up, spooked from their hiding place, upset about having to

find other shelter. An alligator was lying astride the most solid part. "Move out, brother of the river," Throat Shot said, poking

it with his paddle. The creature, startled, scrambled into the water and swam away. Then Throat Shot climbed out of the canoe,

helped Tzec out, and drew its end up.

The Trader joined them. As the winds buffeted them, they quickly unloaded the canoe, turned it over, propped it on high roots and

projections, shoved the Trader's goods under it, scrambled under it themselves, and caught hold of the seats and edges to hold it

firmly in place. Now they had shelter, and the trading goods were protected, but their freedom was limited.

There was a nearby crack of lightning, followed immediately by a terrible boom of thunder. Tzec screamed in terror. Throat Shot,

lying beside her, let go of the canoe for a moment and put his good arm around her shuddering body. "I have no fear," he said. "I

will share that lack with you."

Her shuddering eased. "It is true," she murmured. "With you I feel no fear."

The rain came down, pelting the canoe. The wind tried to lift it away, but they clung, keeping it in place. They were dry, because

the water could neither strike them nor flow into them. They were on the high part of the cypress isle, and the old roots were

quite solid. The Spirit of the Mound had directed him truly!

"Can you get a stick?" the Trader asked. He was at the other end, his head pointing away from them, his hands locked on the sides.

Throat Shot let go of his end of the canoe again and reached outside as the rain beat down. He dropped a stick beside him and

grabbed the canoe as another gust of wind tried to take advantage of his neglect. "I have one. Why do you want it?"

"Cottonmouth."

Throat Shot craned his neck around. There was the snake, crawling under the canoe to avoid the storm. He knew how dangerous such

snakes were; they were aggressive, and could strike with very little provocation, but they had bad aim and often missed. This was

not welcome company.

"I have the stick, but can't reach the snake," Throat Shot said. "Maybe it will come up here."

"I am going to play dead," the Trader said, as another blast of wind tried to lift the canoe. It was evident that he could not let

go without risking calamity.

"I can get it," Tzec said. "If you hold my hand so I don't get terrified."

Throat Shot felt no fear himself, but was concerned for her and the Trader. He was not sure how well his lack of fear could be

transmitted. But if she believed, then maybe it would work. He propped one foot up inside the canoe to hold it along with his bad

hand, and gave her the stick. "I will touch you. You will use the stick to block the snake's mouth so it can't bite, and to push it

away. I will tell you how."

She took the stick and wriggled her way around. She was small and agile, and could do what he, with his greater size and bad arm,

could not. In a moment her slender legs and feet were by his head. He transferred his grip to her ankle so that she could go

farther.

She approached the snake, who was now watching her, as the one person who was moving. It started to coil.

"Poke the stick into its mouth," Throat Shot said quickly. "Before it strikes."

She poked the end of the stick forward, and at the same time the snake struck. Its aim was bad, and it snapped on air. The stick

caught it on the side of the head and shoved it out. The snake, surprised and confused, splashed into the water and swam for

another projecting root.

"You may have saved my life, girl," the Trader said. "I could not have done that."

"Throat Shot took away my fear," she said. "I'm terrified of bad snakes, otherwise."

"Still, I am glad I did not sell you."

There was a silence among them, but not around them. The rain beat down incessantly, and the winds buffeted the canoe and tried to

catch at them beneath it; both Throat Shot and the Trader had to hold on firmly.

"We must keep watch until the storm passes," the Trader said. "Let the girl be alert for snakes, and we can tell stories while we

wait."

"Do you know stories?" Tzec asked the Trader.

"I hear them in the course of my travels, from other traders and sometimes from the women I am with. There is nothing quite as good

as a full belly, an affectionate woman, and a lively tale."

"I told a tale," she said. "Will you tell one? Throat Shot can tell me any of your words I don't know."

"If you keep the snakes off me, I will tell you a fine tale from far away," he said.

So it was that while they waited for the storm to pass, the Trader told a marvelous tale of a far distant tribe. Again Throat

Shot's awareness of his situation faded as he listened. There was magic indeed in a good tale.

CHAPTER 6

SWEET MEDICINE

O Spirit of the Mound, I have told you how Throat Shot, the Trader, and young Tzec came to huddle under a canoe in the middle of

the great swamp during a storm. Now I will tell you the strange tale the Trader told, from the far tribe of Tis-Tsis-Tas, in their

tongue the People, who dwell near huge lakes like seas and have many strange things in their land. In this story are huge hoofed

creatures like buffalo and elk, never seen among the Toco or the Calusa, and a kind of lodge called a tipi which is pointed at the

top. I mention these, O Spirit, to let you know that later I was to encounter them, so I know they are real despite what I thought

then.

A long time ago a baby was born to a family of the People. From the start he was a strange one, not in his appearance, which was

normal, but in his activities. They would wrap him in his blanket and leave him to sleep, but when his mother checked during the

night, only the blanket would be there. The first time this happened, she was terrified, and roused her husband, and they searched

all around the house but could not find him. They feared that some wild creature had taken him, though there was no sign of

violence. They could not search outside for him at night, so with heavy hearts they slept until dawn. But when they woke, there he

was in his blanket, as if he had never been gone.

They did not tell anyone else, thinking they had been confused or had a bad dream. But when it happened again, they knew that he

was no ordinary baby. They named him Sweet Medicine, and hoped that no evil would come of his unusual nature.

The baby grew rapidly, and soon was so large and strong that he could run and walk, at an age when other babies were still

crawling. They pretended he was older than he was so that others would not be suspicious.

But when Sweet Medicine was still little, his parents had the misfortune to eat bad food and died. This was no fault of his, but it

put him in trouble, since there were no other relatives. A poor old woman took him in because she could not suffer a child to die,

and cared for him as well as she could. When he learned to speak he called her grandmother, though he knew she was not, because he

knew he owed her his life.

Sweet Medicine was very poor in childhood: because the old woman had been poor before she took him in and was poorer when she had

to share what little she had with him. He had only a small piece of buffalo-robe to wear. A buffalo was a huge strange animal that

roamed the plains of that far region, and had horns, so that even a bear would fear to attack it.

He had no good place to sleep, so did so most of the time out in the brush. But his sleeping was so odd that often this didn't

matter. He would lie down and sleep anywhere when he was tired, and no one could wake him. It seemed as if he were dead. But later

he would wake, surprising the others. So they said, "Let him alone. Do not try to wake him. Let him wake by himself." And that was

the way it was. They did not know how much stranger his sleeping could be, for he had learned not to disappear when others could

see.

As Sweet Medicine grew older, he was often mischievous, and this aggravated some people. Once a woman was using her dog to drag a

travois, which was a frame on two poles that carried her belongings, and he kept putting his foot on one of the poles to hold it

back. The poor dog strained to no avail, and the woman was angry. "What are you doing?" she demanded. "Who are you, anyway? You

have no father, you little piece of filth!"

Sweet Medicine was surprised to be called such a bad name, and not pleased. He realized that others did not like him when he did

bad things to them. After that he behaved better, but he did not forget that he was different from the others, and not just because

his father was dead.

Another time there was to be a dance. "Grandmother, may I dance too?" he asked.

"No, you had better wait. You are too young."

But Sweet Medicine was determined to go, and he begged and cried until she relented. So she helped him get ready for it by donning

a little animal-skin robe painted white, and painting his body in yellow stripes. He wore a yellow feather in his hair, and a

yellow bowstring around his neck.

"But why do you want to wear a bowstring around your neck?" she asked.

"I will use it to take my head off my body."

She thought he was joking, and she agreed to put his head back with his body, facing the rising sun, after it was done. She also

agreed to pick up his robe and shake it four times, and then to put it on his body. She was a good woman, and she preferred to

humor the boy rather than criticize him.

Then they went to the dance. It was in a lodge, and there was a great crowd around the lodge. The medicine man in charge of it

welcomed Sweet Medicine. "Come and sit by me!" he said, so Sweet Medicine sat by his right side and watched the dance, his robe

lying close beside him.

From time to time the people stopped dancing and rested and talked, but they did not talk to Sweet Medicine, because they regarded

him as a troublemaker who had no father. Near the end of the dance he got up and danced, holding the bowstring around his neck with

both hands. At the end, just before they were going to stop and eat, he pulled the bowstring tight. It passed through his neck and

cut off his head. The head fell to the ground, but his body kept on dancing.

Now the others took notice of him. "Sweet Medicine has cut off his head!" they exclaimed, amazed. They had not seen anything like

this before. For one thing, there was no blood.

The body continued to dance, and the head rolled about on the ground. Every so often it looked up at the people, which they found

disconcerting. They stopped dancing. Then the body stopped dancing too, and fell down, and seemed to be dead.

Then the old woman did what she had agreed to do, realizing that his instructions had been no joke. She put the head together with

the body, and placed the bowstring by the boy's side, and picked up the animal-skin robe and shook it four times. Then she put it

over Sweet Medicine's body, and took the bowstring and wiped it off four times, and returned it to the ground beside him.

Then Sweet Medicine got up, and his head was connected to his body again as if it had never been severed. He smiled, and adjusted

the eagle's feather he wore in his hair. He had done this so that the people would know what kind of power he had, and would not

treat him like an outcast. He might not have a father, but he had power. He was only partly successful: he made the others wary of

him.

Sweet Medicine grew to be a young man, but still was not held in high regard by others. He was a good hunter, but had never killed

a buffalo by himself. A boy's first kill was important; it signaled his onset of manhood, and his father would hold a feast for him

and give him a man's name. There was no feast for Sweet Medicine when he made his first kill, because he had no father, but it

showed how good a hunter he was. He skinned the buffalo himself, and laid out the hide to dry.

Then the Chief came. "That is exactly the kind of hide I have been looking for," the Chief said. "I will take it and make a robe

for myself."

"But this is my first kill, and I am entitled to the hide," Sweet Medicine said. "It is not right to take a boy's first hide. But

you are welcome to half the meat, because of your age and status."

"No, I want the hide," the Chief said. He picked it up and started to carry it away.

Now this was not right, but the Chief knew that Sweet Medicine was only a boy, and had no father to stand up for him. He had

forgotten the special power this boy had.

Sweet Medicine grabbed the other end of the hide, and would not let go. "How dare a poor nothing boy defy a chief?" the Chief

demanded, outraged. He brought out a whip and whipped the boy across the face, trying to make him let go. But the boy would not let

go, and the Chief saw that he could not get the hide.

Then the Chief, furious, drew his knife and slashed the hide to pieces. "Now you can have it," he said.

Sweet Medicine had only been trying to hold on to what belonged to him. He had not struck back at the Chief. But now he was

enraged. He picked up the bone of the buffalo's hind leg and struck the man on the head. The blow was so strong it killed him.

Now the boy was in real trouble, for no one killed a chief with impunity. He ran home, but by the time he got there, everyone knew

what he had done. They were organizing to kill him, for they would not tolerate such an outlaw among them. They did not know how

the Chief had treated him, only that he had killed the man.

"Run, run!" the old woman cried. "The warriors are coming! They say you are an evil person who must be killed."

"But all I did was stand up for myself," he protested. "The Chief was trying to take what was mine, and then he destroyed it when I

would not let him have it."

"I believe you," she said. "But no one else will. They don't like you anyway. This is their excuse to be rid of you. You must flee

for your life!"

"But what will happen to you, grandmother, if I leave?" he asked, for she was very old and frail, and he had been doing the work

for her. Even the woman's work, which of course was degrading for a man to do. That was one of the odd things about him.

"I do not matter," she said. "My life is near its end anyway. But you have a great future! You must save yourself."

As they talked, the warriors came up and surrounded the house. But they were wary of Sweet Medicine, knowing his prowess, and did

not challenge him directly. Instead they drew their bows and aimed them at the house, ready to shoot him down as he came out. This

was a problem for him, because he believed he could escape them, but he did not want to leave his dear grandmother unprotected.

"My life is worthless," she told him again. "Save yourself!" Sweet Medicine realized that she spoke the truth, for she would soon

die no matter what happened to him. He was sorry for her, but he could not help her. All he could do was give her an honorable

death.

Unless he could use his magic to rescue her, as he rescued himself. He wasn't sure it would work, but he decided to try it, for

there was no alternative. "Grandmother, do not be afraid," he said. Then he put a torch to the house, so that it blazed up.

"Oh!" the woman cried as the fire destroyed all that she had. She fell down, and was dead even before the fire touched her. That

was not what he had intended; he had hoped she would trust him better.

Sweet Medicine was struck by grief and anger for her needless death. She had been good to him, and was a good old woman, and he had

intended to take care of her in her dotage. Now she was dead, because of him. But there were too many warriors for him to fight;

the moment he went out, they would riddle him with arrows, and he would die. Yet he couldn't remain in the fire, either.

Now he used his magic. He upset a pot of water on the fire. It did not put it out, but it made a great cloud of steam and smoke and

floated up out of the smokehole. He stepped into it, and floated out with the smoke, invisible to the others.

The house burned down to ashes, but there was no sign of Sweet Medicine. The warriors poked through the remains, and when they did

not find his bones, they knew that he had escaped. They remembered his magic, and were alarmed; they knew they had to catch him and

kill him, or he would kill them. So they spread out, searching for him.

Soon one of them spied him sitting on a little hill not far distant, dressed like a Fox warrior. "There he is!"

They chased after him, but when they got to the hill, he was some distance beyond it. They ran after him again, but he was standing

in the forest. They pursued him, but somehow he was always just out of their reach, though they never saw him actually running. By

the end of the day they were exhausted from chasing him, but he remained untouched.

The next morning he appeared outside the village, garbed like an Elk warrior. Again they gave chase, but somehow he was never quite

where they thought he was, when they got there. They sought him all day, but only wore themselves out.

On the third day he wore the red face paint and feathers of a Red Shield warrior, and was as evasive as ever. Long before the day

was done, they gave up, seeing the futility of the chase.

On the fourth day he appeared dressed like a Dog warrior, shaking a small red rattle tied with buffalo hair at his pursuers. They

had to chase him, but soon gave it up.

On the fifth day he was in the full regalia of a Tis-Tsis-Tas chief. That made the village warriors angrier than ever, and they

swore they would not rest until they killed him, but they could not do it.

So it continued. On another day a man saw a little smoke near a great cut bluff. Looking down, he saw Sweet Medicine among the

thick bushes at the foot of the bluff, roasting meat over a little fire. He reported this, and the warriors gathered to surround

and catch Sweet Medicine. But as they closed in, a coyote ran out of the bushes, past them. They could not find Sweet Medicine,

only his meat on a stick, still roasting. Then they knew that the coyote must have been their quarry.

Another time they thought they had him, but a magpie flew out and lighted on a hill, chattering at them, and Sweet Medicine was

gone. Yet another time they thought they had him trapped in a canyon with high bluffs all around. A crow flew out as they advanced,

and they had lost him. Another day it was a blackbird watching them search fruitlessly. And finally an owl.

Day after day it went, and at last the warriors realized that they were unable to catch Sweet Medicine. They resolved not to chase

him anymore, as it only wasted time and left them tired, while their hunting did not get done and they went hungry.

One day they heard a great rumbling beyond a hill. They saw an animal coming toward them. They thought it was a buffalo, but when

it got closer it seemed more like a bear, and closer yet it seemed like a wildcat, and then like a wolf. Finally it turned out to

be Sweet Medicine, dancing close to their camp, as if tempting them to chase him. But they had suffered much fatigue and misery

trying to catch him before, and were hungry, and knew it was useless, though they still bore him malice. So they did not chase him.

He moved on past them, and disappeared over a hill. The rumbling grew fainter as he departed. His steps were so heavy they made the

ground rumble, because of his magic. This was a warning to them not to interfere with him anymore.

When they thought about it, they realized that Sweet Medicine was now strong, while they were weak. If they had tried to chase him,

he might have turned on them and killed them. They were afraid of him, because they had been responsible for the death of the old

woman he called his grandmother. They were afraid he meant to see them all dead, without touching them himself, just as they had

seen his grandmother dead without touching her. The pattern of his harassment was coming clear, and they wished they had never

started this war with him. But they did not know how to end it, for they could not get close enough to Sweet Medicine even to talk

to him.

Finally they went to his brother, who was really the son of the old woman, who had helped take care of Sweet Medicine when he was

young. This man had gone out on his own when Sweet Medicine grew old enough to get along by himself, and had not been there when

the old woman died.

"Tell Sweet Medicine he may come back now," they told the brother. "We will not hurt him. We are tired of fighting him; he has

beaten us and we only want peace."

"Why should I help you?" the brother demanded. "You killed my mother!"

"And we will kill you, too, if you do not do this!" they told him. "You must cooperate with us so that there will be an end to this

trouble, and we all benefit."

The brother was not wholly at ease with this, but he agreed that there should be an end to the strife, for the good of the tribe.

"He may not want to talk with you."

"You must take him out hunting," they told him. "You must kill a buffalo, and pile up the meat, and leave Sweet Medicine there to

keep the flies off it while you return to camp to get dogs and a travois to haul it back. Then we can all come, and make our peace

with him, and fill our bellies."

That seemed reasonable. So the brother went out alone to a place only he and Sweet Medicine knew, and made a whistle that was a

signal between them. Then he went home and waited.

That night Sweet Medicine came to his brother's lodge. He checked around, but found none of the warriors near. He trusted his

brother, but thought the others might be watching without his brother's knowledge. Then he made a signal, and his brother heard

him.

"Is that you, little brother? Come in and sit down." So Sweet Medicine entered, and his brother's wife gave him food to eat. Then

he lay down and slept, glad to be with what remained of his family.

The next morning his brother asked him to go hunting. Sweet Medicine agreed, and they went out. They killed a buffalo, cut up the

meat nicely, and heaped it together in a pile. But the flies clustered, eager to feast on it and foul it. "You stay here and keep

the flies off while I go back home for the dogs and travois so we can haul it all."

"I will wait here until you return," Sweet Medicine agreed. He started walking around the meat in a circle, keeping the flies away

from it.

The brother went back home. The warriors were there, but they told him they had to move their camp and needed his help. He helped

them, but when he wanted to return to Sweet Medicine they made other excuses, and he could not get away.

The truth was, this was their plot. They couldn't fight Sweet Medicine, but they intended to get rid of him by leaving him

distracted. He had told his brother he would guard the meat, and he would do it, and while he was doing it, he would not be

bothering them, and so they would be rid of him. His brother did not know this; they fooled him.

So it was that the brother did not return, though he expected to. They took him to a new camp, far away, always finding other

pretexts to keep him from returning to Sweet Medicine. So the hours became days, and the days became moons, and he remained too

busy to go back.

But what the tribe had done harmed it more than it harmed Sweet Medicine, because the region to which it moved had poor hunting.

They found no game of any size, and could forage for no good fruits or grains or berries. They were obliged to eat whatever they

could: bitter roots, the bark of trees, and even mushrooms. They did not like to do that, because they knew that some mushrooms had

evil spirits that could kill, and sometimes the evil ones looked very much like the good ones. It was a hard time. Everyone was

hungry.

After they had struggled through the winter, they realized what a mistake they had made. Surely nothing Sweet Medicine had done to

them was as bad as this starvation! Maybe it would be better to return to their old hunting grounds and take their chances.

So they trekked back. Now at last the brother was able to return to Sweet Medicine. He hurried out to the place he had left him,

and Sweet Medicine was there. He was still walking around the pile of bones where the meat had been, and he had worn a trail so

deep that only the top of his head could be seen above the ground.

His brother felt very sorry about this, blaming himself for leaving Sweet Medicine for so long. "My brother, I have returned! I was

delayed and could not come, but now I am here. Speak to me!"

But Sweet Medicine did not respond directly. He was still marching around, and talking to himself. "Surely by this time my brother

has become a great chief!"

The brother realized that Sweet Medicine's mind was clouded. It was possible that one or more of his souls had been lost. He would

have to fetch help, to make the man well again. "I shall return soon," he promised as he left.

This time he did return soon, with help—but Sweet Medicine was no longer there. Only the bones of the buffalo meat and the deep

track remained. They searched all around the area, but could not find him. "It must be my fault," his brother lamented. "I told him

I would return soon, before, but I was gone all winter. So when I told him that again, he didn't believe me, and didn't wait."

Sweet Medicine was gone for four years, and in that time there was famine in the land. The buffalo and other animals disappeared,

and the people were starving. They had hoped to eat something better than roots and berries and grass, but all they could find was

worse. They scavenged for the dread mushrooms, despite the risk, and even then found only little clumps of them, which were soon

gone. They ate rosebuds and the inner bark of trees and insects and they chewed on old bones, and these too were running out. They

became too weak to travel; they were mere skin and bones, and their children were dying.

Now, too late, they understood that it had been Sweet Medicine's presence that made the hunting good. When they had left him

behind, they had encountered poor hunting, and then when he left them behind, there was worse hunting. They were sorry they had

ever wronged him. All the time they had treated him with contempt, he had been the source of their good fortune. He had not sought

any quarrel with them, and had never hurt any of them directly. But now, with his absence, he was wreaking a terrible punishment on

them all. They could only struggle through, hoping for his return.

Meanwhile, what had happened to Sweet Medicine? He had heard his brother's words, and thought they were false, so when his brother

left, he had climbed out of his pitlike path and wandered away, sad at heart. It had been only for the sake of his brother that he

had returned, and now he had no reason to stay.

He walked disconsolately across the prairie, not caring where he went, for life was no longer of great value to him. Then he heard

a voice calling to him. He could not see who it was, but the voice sounded friendly, and he needed a friend, so he went in that

direction.

He found himself walking through a land of many hills, beautifully forested. Standing apart from the others was a single mountain

shaped like a huge tipi, the pointed house of the people of that region. This was the sacred medicine mountain called Bear Butte.

The voice led him to a secret opening that no other person or creature could see, and he entered the mountain. It was hollow

inside, like a tipi, forming a sacred lodge. Therein were people who looked like ordinary men and women, but they were really

powerful spirits.

"Come in, grandson," these people said. "We have been expecting you."

He came in and took the seat they provided for him. Then they began teaching him the Tis-Tsis-Tas way to live, so that he could

return to his people and give them this knowledge.

First the spirits gave him four sacred arrows. "With these arrows, your tribe will prosper. Two are for war and two are for

hunting. But that is only a small part of their mystery. They have great powers. They contain the rules by which men ought to

live."

Sweet Medicine was interested. He had seen how men ought not to live, but had not known how they should change.

The spirit folk taught him how to pray to these arrows, how to keep them, and how to renew them. They taught him the wise laws of

the forty-four great chiefs whose spirits they were. They taught him how to set up rules for warriors. They taught him how to honor

women. They taught him many useful things to enable people to live, survive, and prosper, which had not been generally known before

that time. Finally they taught him how to make the special tipi in which the sacred arrows were to be kept.

Sweet Medicine listened most respectfully, and learned well. Finally the oldest spirit man burned incense of sweet grass, to purify

Sweet Medicine and the bundle of sacred arrows. Then he put the bundle on his back and began the long journey home. He did not

realize that four years had passed, for time was different inside the mountain, and he had not eaten or slept there. It had seemed

like one afternoon.

One day seven little boys were out searching for food. They were lucky; they found a dump of large white mushrooms. While they were

sitting there eating them, a strange man approached. He was tall and handsome, with long hair hanging loose well down his back.

"You look very hungry," he said. Indeed, they were listless, with their ribs sticking out, their bodies gaunt.

"Throw away what you have," he told them. "We shall find you better food."

The boys were reluctant to throw away the only food they had, but the man spoke with such authority that they did it.

"Now each of you go find one buffalo chip, and bring it to me," the man said.

The boys scattered, searching the ground for the old bits of dung left by the buffalo long before. While they were gone, the man

took a stick in his hand and broke it in two. He set it on the ground, and it burst into flame, forming a good fire.

The boys returned with seven chips. The man took off his robe and spread it on the ground, and placed the chips there in a special

pattern. The five chips brought by the larger boys he formed into a square, with one in the center. The two brought by the smallest

boys he set on the east and west corners of the square. The four corner chips represented the four directions, and the middle one

stood for the sun at noon. The two at the east and west represented the rising and setting sun.

Then he took the four corners of his robe, and folded them over so that the chips were in the middle, and covered them up. He broke

them up with his hand, crumbling them into powder. He opened the robe, and there within it was good solid meat. They boys were

amazed by this magic.

"Now eat as much as you want," he told them. They did so immediately, until they were full.

"Now grease yourselves all over with the fat," he told them. "Grease your faces, your hands, and your whole bodies. You look all

dried up, as if you have been baked in the sun."

They did so, and their bodies began to fill out, so that they were normal children again. They became lively and happy, as boys

should be.

"Now take the rest of this food back to your camp, to share with the others. Tell them to put their lodges in a circle with an

opening toward the rising sun. In the middle of this circle they must pitch a big lodge. Tell them to have all the headmen come

together in that lodge, with their pipes filled for smoking. Tell them that I am he who has returned to them."

The boys went to the camp, happy and full. But they were young, and were tired, so they went to sleep without telling the people

what Sweet Medicine had said. But in the morning the smallest of the boys woke and remembered. "O father!" he cried. "Sweet

Medicine has come back, and he gave us plenty to eat yesterday, and we brought more home with us."

His father did not believe him. But the boy showed him the food, and woke the other boys, who confirmed it, and delivered the

message.

The people sent for the chiefs and told them what the boys had said. The chiefs went to the lodge of Sweet Medicine's brother to

ask if he had known about this. "No, I have not seen him," he said. "I fear that he blamed me for not returning with the travois,

though I had really intended to, so he thought that my word was no good. Indeed, I am sorry I was unable to return for so long, and

I cannot blame him for being angry."

At the head of the brother's bed a man was lying. He was covered over with robes, so that they could not see who he was. "Who is

that person?" a chief asked.

"I don't know. He came in during the night. But he is welcome, for I know how hard it can be to find good shelter, and I will share

with him what I have."

"If Sweet Medicine has truly returned, and with him the wealth of our forest and field, we will all have much to share," the chief

said. "We treated him with great disrespect, and have repented that long since."

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.

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

But at a price.

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

You must warn the tribes of the danger that threatens them.

But this is what I mean to do!

No. This is a different danger, threatening other tribes than yours.

This was a surprise. What different danger?

The one that destroyed this city.

But this city is here! Throat Shot protested. Only the people are gone.

There was a ghostly laugh. The people are the city! Without them it is merely a husk.

Obviously true. What happened to them?

See. The vision resumed. The lodge faded out, and he seemed to be flying up like an eagle, looking down on the complex of all the

mounds, until he saw not only them but the creek leading to the region of the mound, and then the great river it flowed to. It was

an amazing scene.

Then he realized that this was what a true eagle would see. Sun Eagle was carrying his spirit up to the level of the clouds so he

could see everything at once.

He saw the tiny individual lodges, which were of the type he was familiar with, rather than the strange tipis of the folk who were

here now. He saw the palisade, forming an outline like a great spearpoint pointing south, and the square plazas, and the many

squared-off mounds within and without the protected compound, like so many neatly carved blocks of wood. Some were circular, either

with flat tops or points. He saw the lakes where the earth had been taken to make the mounds. There seemed to be a pattern to it,

orienting on the great central mound of the chief. The whole thing was fascinating, for he had never imagined such an assembly of

mounds, as if they were a conclave of greater and lesser chiefs.

The region nearest the largest mound was clear of vegetation. Farther out were fields of corn, and still farther out was the edge

of the forest. But that edge was moving away. The forest was retreating, like a blanket being drawn back, leaving the ground bare.

Why was this?

Then he realized that it was because the trees were being cut. The people here had good stone axes, and good tree-felling skill,

and there were many of them, and they were taking down the trees and using their wood to renew the palisade and the calendar

circles and for timbers in their temples, and the fragments were being used for their fires. They had lines of men carrying wood on

their shoulders from the forest to the compound. Other lines of men used ropes to haul larger logs. Still others used levers to

roll the greatest trunks. The forest was being eaten by the city.

The lines grew longer as the forest drew back, hurting. Now it required a day for a man to carry his load of wood to the city. Now

two days. Now three. There was wood, but it was too far away; it was reaching the point where all the men of the city would have to

haul wood, doing nothing else. Most of the haulers were slaves, who had no choice in the matter, but still it was getting

difficult, for they had to be fed while they carried, and their food had to be carried by other men. And the food was running out.

Now he oriented on the cornfields. They too were retreating. The ones closest to the city, which had been producing the longest,

were not as green and strong as they had been; somehow they were turning yellow, and their ears were smaller and infested by bugs.

The fields farther out were verdant. Then those too faded as if tired. So the corn was retreating in much the way the forest had,

and the people had to go farther to tend it and harvest it and fetch it into the city. The same thing was happening to the berry

bushes and edible roots; they were disappearing near the city. That was why it was getting harder to feed their wood-carriers, or

themselves.

He oriented on the buffalo and deer and other animals who ranged near the city. But these also retreated as they were hunted, until

finally there were none close enough to be worthwhile.

Yet this was a powerful city, with trade routes extending everywhere. The people traded for corn and meat and the other things they

needed, and had enough for a time. Still, it was getting harder.

Finally it became too difficult to manage. The people were hungry and unhealthy, and unable to work as well as before. But other

cities were developing, and the people moved to them and did better. In the end all of them were gone, including the last Son of

the Sun. His lodge was not burned because he was not in the city when he died; he had deserted it. The City of the Sun no longer

existed, except as a grouping of mounds which were slowly losing their form and being overgrown by weeds and bushes and finally

trees. It was a horrendous affront to the Chiefs buried here, but there was no one to maintain the premises.

Now there was wood, and animals, even buffalo, though not in the abundance they had been before. Only the people were gone. New

people came, but they knew nothing of the heritage of this great city, and didn't care; they were primitives intent only on

scratching their living from the returning wild things. They stole the great stones for their own use, destroying what remained of

the building. They thought the largest mound was just a hill. The spirits suffered this indignity in silence; it wasn't even worth

afflicting the intruders with illness, because they would not understand its source, or realize that they were being punished. The

grandeur of the past was forgotten.

And lo—it was the present.

Throat Shot floated back to the collapsing lodge. He had seen the vision, but still he did not understand. O Sun Eagle, I saw what

happened to the trees and buffalo. But why did the corn wither?

I did not understand this while I lived, but I think I do now that I have watched it these tens of tens of winters. The land lives,

like a man; it grows tired with labor, like a man. Finally it dies, like a man, and its spirit departs. It must rest before it can

be strong again.

The land has a spirit? Throat Shot asked, surprised. He knew that all animals and trees had spirits, but the land itself seemed

dead.

I have not seen it, but I believe it does. It may be that the spirit of the land can be seen only by other land. But it is there,

and we must let it rest, or it fails.

Throat Shot was dazzled by the revelation. Then it is wrong to make too big a city, and to tire the land. And it is wrong to take

all the trees, and all the buffalo. For then the people cannot live, and all they have made must be deserted and lost.

That is the danger you must warn the people of, Sun Eagle agreed. It is too late for my people; they are scattered among other

cities, which have also been cruel to the land and made it die. They have lost their great mounds and now live like the primitives

who never knew better.

But the primitives do not do this, Throat Shot thought.

That is true. You must warn the people of the danger of being cruel to the land.

But they will laugh at me!

You must find a way.

Throat Shot nodded. I will search for a way to tell them, O Sun Eagle. Will you now tell me where to find the Ulunsuti?

I cannot, for it went with my successor, and to his successor, and finally to the one who did not remain. But I will look for it,

and will signal you when I find it.

How will I know your signal?

You will know it. Go with your friend until I send that signal.

But how long—?

I do not know. You must be patient.

Throat Shot tried to question the Spirit further, but Sun Eagle had had enough, and refused to answer. Realizing this, Throat Shot

made his way out of the lodge and faced the blinding light of day. He staggered across the terrace, then down the steps, across the

next, and down the other steps. Then he reeled and fell.

But Gray Cloud was there, waiting for him, and caught him, and let him down gently. Throat Shot let his consciousness fade. His

quest was over—for now.

CHAPTER 10

SACRIFICE

O Spirit of the Mound, I have told you how I came to the Pyramid of the Sun and talked with Sun Eagle. Now I will tell you the Tale

of Gray Cloud, as he told it to me while we traveled, and if I have some details wrong I regret it, but it is only because I have

had no experience with his culture and his adventure. But he was my friend, and I retain the gift he gave me, and he is part of

what I am, and I feel his story is worthy of your attention.

Gray Cloud was strong with the spear and bow, and had more buffalo kills to his credit than any other warrior his age. He was

handsome and quick-witted. The women liked him, and he seldom slept alone. But he was cursed by bad luck. This caused some women to

marry others, though they liked Gray Cloud. One thought that his luck would turn, so she let him know that she was interested in a

more lasting relationship. He was interested too. Then she caught her foot in a bramble, and an evil spirit got into her leg, and

she turned dark and died. After that no women wanted to marry him.

Then he encountered Glow Fungus. She was pretty, and competent, and she was not afraid of bad luck. She had already had enough of

that, she said, to last her, and doubted that he could bring her any more. But a vestige of her own luck prevented her from

marrying him: her mother was dead and her father was ill and near death. She was the only one who could take care of him properly

and ease his passing, while her brother provided food for them both. The end was inevitable, and when her father had gone to the

realm of the spirits, she would be free to marry. Her brother, Bear Penis, agreed. In fact everyone agreed. The other maidens

preferred to see Gray Cloud married, so that they did not have to feel guilty for passing him by.

Then bad luck struck again. A party was ranging down across the river, looking for buffalo, which had been mysteriously absent from

their usual grazing range this season. They discovered Osage with bright cloths, and skin drums, making displays and noises to herd

the buffalo away from the river and into their own territory. Now it was clear what had happened: the Osage were taking the

buffalo!

The Osage were formidable fighters, but this could not be tolerated. The Peoria allied with the Moingwena and the Tamaroa across

the river, and made war on the Osage. But if there was one thing the tribes of the Illini had in common, it was that they were not

very good at winning battles. They tried hard enough, but somehow they generally had the worst of it. This occasion was no

exception; though they had more warriors on the field, they became isolated, and some fell back while others lunged forward, and

Gray Cloud found his band cut off by the enemy.

The Osage closed in, and now their numbers were superior. The Illini fought, but it was soon apparent that they could not prevail.

They tried to cut through the ring that was forming around them, and almost made it, but an arrow caught Bear Penis in the chest.

He grasped the shaft with his hand and wrenched the arrow out, making no sound. He staggered forward, determined not to fall, and

Gray Cloud put an arm around him and helped him. But together they were too slow, and the Osage swarmed in to close with them,

their spears ready.

Gray Cloud paused. He could not fight while supporting his friend, and even if he had been able to, it would have been hopeless at

this point. He was out of arrows.

The Osage Chief approached. He was a large man, taller than Gray Cloud, with no hair on his face: even his eyebrows had been

removed. His head was partially shaved, with only two long braids beginning on the top of his head and two strips of hair running

from the same region to the nape of his neck, in the Osage fashion. Blue tattoos covered his neck and much of his torso. He wore an

armband of buffalo hair. He was quite handsome. He made a throwaway sign.

Gray Cloud considered. Should he throw down his weapons, or die fighting? If he tried to fight, both of them would be killed, and

Glow Fungus would lose both lover and brother, and things would go hard with her without a protector or provider. If he

surrendered, they might be spared, and traded back for Osage captives the Illini had taken. It galled him to surrender, and alone

he might not have done it, but it did seem to be the best course. There was no chance to bluff his way out; the Osage were the

fiercest warriors of the region, often at war with all their neighbors; they would kill him and Bear Penis immediately if there was

not a prompt capitulation.

He eased Bear Penis to the ground. The man was losing consciousness; too much blood was flowing. Then Gray Cloud unslung his bow

and dropped it to the ground. He drew his good stone knife and dropped it beside the bow.

The Osage Chief put his foot on the weapons, claiming them. He had accepted Gray Cloud's surrender.

Now Gray Cloud squatted to tend to his friend. He removed his own breechcloth, having nothing else suitable, and tied it around

Bear Penis's chest to stop the flow of blood. The wound was small, and this was effective; the material slowly stained red, but the

blood no longer dripped. The fact that Gray Cloud was now naked did not matter; he was a prisoner, and this merely emphasized that

status. He had found a use for his clothing before they took it away from him.

At the Chief's order, an Osage warrior came to take Bear Penis's left arm. Gray Cloud took his right arm. They hauled him up and

half carried him forward, following the Chief.

Gray Cloud knew why the Osage had chosen to take them captive instead of killing them. All warriors respected valor, and they had

seen Bear Penis yank out the arrow and keep his feet. They had seen Gray Cloud sacrifice his own escape to help the other.

They walked to the Osage camp, where Bear Penis was allowed to rest. They put him in a tipi. He recovered somewhat, and took some

water. But his breathing was rasping, and when he coughed, painfully, red froth showed at his mouth. The arrow had penetrated his

lung.

A priest came and saw to Bear Penis, applying a poultice of herbs, giving him a bitter brew to sip, and performing a brief ritual

of healing. Bear Penis's color improved, and he sank into sleep.

Gray Cloud made the sign for Thanks, extending his two hands, palms down, in a sweeping curve outward and downward toward the

priest. The Osage were being generous; they could have let the man die without touching him, and been held blameless by the

conventions of war.

Now Gray Cloud slept. The fact that this camp consisted of tipis meant that it was temporary; the Osage used this type of residence

only when traveling. There would be a long way to go the next day.

In the morning the march resumed, Bear Penis supported by two warriors. The travel was hard for him; without the priest's treatment

he probably would not have been able to survive it. As it was, he was a gaunt shadow of himself by the time they reached the Osage

village several days later.

The site for this village had evidently been chosen with great care. It was on a ridge which overlooked low ground, and a river was

near. The lodges were made of wooden posts sunk into the ground, with saplings bent to form a curved roof. The walls were sealed

with reed mats and bark.

Now there were women. Osage men were handsome, but the ugliness of Osage women was well known. Their ear decorations did not help;

they were made of clay or shell or bone, and were so heavy that they stretched the earlobes down. Not even their pretty decorations

of porcupine quills or snake skin were enough to compensate.

Another priest treated Bear Penis, and a maiden was assigned to keep him warm, for now he was alternately feverish and shivering.

Gray Cloud was given an Osage breechcloth and a collar of black beads: the mark of his captivity. He was bound by honor not to

remove that collar, and not to try to escape while he wore it. By accepting it, he had given his oath again. He was a prisoner

until the Osage freed him.

But it seemed there were no Osage held captive by the Illini, so there was nothing to trade. Days passed, then a moon, and the two

remained at the camp. Gray Cloud was given woman's work to do, as another signal of his status. He did it without protest.

Actually, this was one occasion when the women almost became attractive, for they sang as they hoed out the weeds of the corn

patches, making a festive occasion of the chore.

Bear Penis improved, but the ravage of his injury remained on him, and he was woman-weak. They set him to woman's work, and

promoted Gray Cloud to man's work. They trusted him not only because he wore the collar and would not try to escape, but because

they knew that he knew that his friend would be tortured to death if Gray Cloud fled. A smart chief never depended unduly on honor.

He learned the Osage tongue, well enough to give up his reliance on signs for communication. He came to know the people. He had

seen them as despicable enemies; now he knew that they were merely other people, with conventions differing from those of the

Illini only in detail. There was no doubt about their valor in battle. He gained respect for them even as he gained their respect.

Gray Cloud was a good hunter. He could bring down a hawk in flight with a single arrow. He could put a spear through a deer's heart

from farther than any other man. He was an asset to the Osage hunting parties, and they gave him increasing freedom to go out

armed. But never alone. He understood that limit, and did not contest it.

A young woman came to his lodge one night. This was another signal of favor; no woman would have done it had the Osage Chief not

allowed it. It was legitimate for Gray Cloud to accept such favors, as it was for the maidens to offer them: as an unmarried male,

he was expected to be virile, and Glow Fungus would understand. The fact that he found the woman attractive showed how far he had

acclimatized; the features that had seemed homely before seemed intriguing now.

But there was another aspect. "I am glad for your company," he told the woman. "I hope that if you come again, you will bring a

friend for my friend."

Two nights later another maiden came. She had a friend. The Chief had allowed it. This gave Bear Penis status, and he was no longer

given woman's work, but allowed to carry a bow and join the hunt. He lacked endurance, as his breathing had never properly

recovered, but he could handle bow and knife well enough.

Then the Osage had trouble with the Wichita to their southwest. It was late in the season, but there was still time to mount a war

mission. The Osage had two groups: the people of the sky, who governed during peace, and the people of the land, who governed

during war. Suddenly the power shifted.

The war Chief summoned Gray Cloud for a conference. "You are an honorable man and a good hunter," the Chief told him. "You have

found favor in our tribe. You have Wakonda." That was the Osage concept of the central essence which permeated all things. It could

assume any aspect, but normally enhanced what was already worthwhile. This was a significant compliment.

"I am warmed by your favor," Gray Cloud replied.

"Will you join us and marry our women and fight against our enemies?"

He was being offered adoption into the Osage. This was a singular mark of favor. If he agreed, he could marry any amenable Osage

maiden, and wear the Osage paints, be tattooed in the Osage manner, and be accepted without reservation. There would be no bars to

his freedom, and his sons would be honored as Osage.

But he remembered Glow Fungus, and he was concerned for Bear Penis. "Is my friend offered similar favor?"

The chief frowned. "Bear Penis has an injury." They had given the man ample time to recover, and he had not. Not sufficiently. That

indicated a lack of Wakonda.

Which meant he would be a liability to the tribe. Perhaps they had other reasons not to want the two of them, but that was the one

that could be stated openly without implying dishonor.

"Bear Penis is brother to the Illini woman I would marry," Gray Cloud said carefully. "I would not take such a step if he did not

join me." For Gray Cloud still wanted to marry Glow Fungus, and could not do so if he deserted his tribe or her brother, or married

a woman of a foreign tribe. In this manner he informed the Chief of his continuing commitment to the Illini, without impugning the

Osage or implying that he would break his oath of captivity.

The Chief accepted it. Perhaps he had not really wanted to make the offer of tribal status, but the elders of the council had urged

it. Gray Cloud would remain a captive.

The war party departed without him, for a captive could not partake in such activity. Gray Cloud and Bear Penis hunted for the

tribe during the war party's absence, and now they were allowed to do it alone. Had dishonor been intended, Gray Cloud could have

agreed to join the Osage, then fled when alone. So both of them now had much of the freedom that tribal status brought, though

still technically captives.

The war party returned victorious, but it had taken losses. Three warriors had been killed, and two taken captive. They had taken

one Wichita captive, whom they would ordinarily have tortured, for there was bad blood between the two peoples. But one of the

captives lost to the Osage was the son of the Chief. They had to negotiate.

While the bargaining session was being arranged, the honors were done for the dead warriors. They were buried under the ground, as

they were not important enough to rate a sitting interment with stones and logs to protect them. They had food, clothing, weapons,

and personal belongings to assist them in their journey to the setting sun. After three days of mourning, parties of the kinsmen of

the dead set out from the villages. They would march in straight lines until they encountered some stranger. They would kill that

man and hang his scalp on a pole by the grave, letting each of the dead men know that vengeance had been accomplished, as well as

giving them company on their journey.

The Wichita bargained fiercely, knowing their advantage. In the end they won three for two: the return of their man, and two

others. Why they wanted such captives was not clear, but in this manner Gray Cloud and Bear Penis were exchanged. "We are sorry to

do this," the Chief told Gray Cloud. "We had hoped to trade you back to your own people. But we have no choice. My son thanks you."

Gray Cloud understood. The Chief had to recover his son, who would be chief after him. Gray Cloud could have avoided this by

joining the Osage; he had known when he declined that this was the risk he faced. "I am glad to do it for your son," he replied

courteously. "What is to be our status with the Wichita?"

"Tied captive," the Chief said with regret. "No honor."

"Then we will not be on oath," Gray Cloud said.

"Once you are at their camp," the Chief agreed. "We will know nothing of you."

In this manner it became understood that Gray Cloud and Bear Penis could flee the Wichita if they had the chance; their oath not to

flee the Osage would no longer apply. But they would suffer the risks of doing so. If they did escape, and made it to Osage

territory, the people would pretend not to see them, so as not to be required to help recapture them. But they would be on their

own. If they made it back to Illini territory, they would be safe; if not, the Osage would not help them.

The two of them were ritually bound by the hands, as was the Wichita captive, and turned over to the Wichita contingent. The

Wichita warrior was immediately released, but Gray Cloud and Bear Penis were not. Yet neither were they reviled; they were simply

guarded, so that there was no chance to escape. What was it the Wichita wanted of them?

They were marched rapidly back to Wichita territory. Bear Penis tired, and Gray Cloud helped him as well as he could. Observing

this, the Wichita warriors were angry. They stopped and looked at Bear Penis's chest, discovering the scar. They seemed to feel

they had been cheated, but were resigned to it.

What did they intend to do with their acquired captives? Gray Cloud had not been easy about this to begin with, and he trusted it

less now. But he knew better than to try to ask.

In time they reached the Wichita main camp, where they joined several other captives from other tribes. They were untied, as they

would have no chance to escape from here. With signs Gray Cloud learned from the others what they were here for—and was appalled.

There was a levy on the Wichita by the major tribe to their southwest, the Coahuiltec. Every month they had to deliver ten men. It

did not matter whether these were Wichita or captives, as long as they were in good health. Now there were five here, half the

levy; there were probably more in another camp. All of them would be delivered when the time came.

And why did the Coahuiltec want them? Because they had to fill a levy by the Mexica to the south. The Mexica had a great need for

blood sacrifice to their spirits, and constantly gathered more men for this. The Mexica gods were extremely thirsty for blood.

Gray Cloud had not known of this, and neither had the Osage. The Wichita had kept it secret, knowing that they would have much more

trouble gaining suitable captives if the tribes to the north knew.

Gray Cloud shook his head. It would have been better to be adopted into the Osage tribe!

All of them were desperate to escape, but there was no opportunity. They were kept under constant guard. When the time came, they

were turned over to a trader who specialized in slaves and marched south, a walk of many days. It was fall now, and the land was

cooling, but not as much as it would have cooled in Gray Cloud's homeland. Did it matter, considering where they were headed?

The Coahuiltec did not keep them either. They were delivered to the Mexica along with a throng of other captives, as tribute, along

with many other staples of food and clothing and things of value. There were large bundles of cotton, the white or yellow stuff of

cloth. The feathers of birds, of many colors. Caged wildcats. Turtle shells. Pearls. Bows. Maidens.

It was a long and arduous walk, for captives had to carry some of the parcels of tribute items. Gray Cloud quietly arranged to take

some of Bear Penis's burden, and the captors, noting this, allowed it. It was evident that they wanted to deliver healthy men, and

not lose any on the journey, so they were lenient. But it was also evident that any attempt to resist or escape them would be

effectively dealt with.

By the time Gray Cloud and Bear Penis completed the long trek, it was spring. They had marched so far they had lost all notion of

their location, knowing only that it was far south of the world as they had known it. They had passed high mountains and great

valleys. They had not encountered many people; as captives, they were regarded as the lowest sort, and shunned. Even their own

company changed: groups of captives were detached and taken elsewhere, and other groups of captives brought in. Thus they had no

real chance to get to know others well. Only the need for Gray Cloud to help Bear Penis carry and walk enabled them to remain

together.

"The Mexica are experienced," Bear Penis remarked. "They let no one associate for too long, lest we form friendships and consider

rebellion and escape."

So it seemed. That made their prospect for survival dim. But Gray Cloud was no longer bound by oath, and he intended to escape—when

he could take Bear Penis with him.

They came at last to the great city of Tenochtitlán, or the Place of the Fruit of the Prickly Pear Cactus. It was an amazing sight.

It was on an island in a lake, reached by causeways. In its center were phenomenal squares and temples of stone and stucco,

brightly painted. Beyond the enormous buildings were smaller residences, square and solid, quite unlike the tipis and lodges of his

homeland. The city extended on and on, so that he could see no end to it. Several canals crossed it, so that canoes could come

almost to the center.

There were more people thronging the broad streets than Gray Cloud had known existed in all the world. They were of small stature,

the men half a head shorter than he, and the women even less, but beautiful. Their clothing indicated their social status. All of

them wore lengths of cotton cloth, yet the manner and quality of it varied widely. Men wore the loincloth, but the capes differed

according to the importance of each man. No two designs seemed the same. The warriors wore feather-covered tunics with bright

designs. Only the highest ranks wore sandals; the rest were barefoot. The women wore ankle-length underskirts and sometimes an

overdress. Gray Cloud knew that every detail of every person's clothing signaled his profession and status, but he could make sense

of almost none of it.

Not that it mattered. He would have no chance to wear any such clothing anyway. His tattered, soiled breechcloth and cape were good

enough, until he was killed.

At last the group of them was taken to a cell in a building some distance behind the ceremonial center of the city. Here they

joined other captives, some of whom seemed to have been there for a long time. The cell was dank and unpleasant, but at least it

was a place where they could rest.

Gray Cloud was tired, but he wanted to learn more of his situation. "Is there anyone here who speaks a tongue of the Illini?" he

asked.

He was met with dull stares. Obviously a number of the captives were from far away, but none from the Illini.

"They mix up the captives," Bear Penis said. "So the tongues don't match, and we can't conspire to escape."

A guard came to the cell entrance. "Silence!" he shouted. That was one of the few Mexica words they had learned to understand,

because blows followed swiftly when the command was ignored. So their captors didn't depend on the confusion of tongues; even if

others spoke Illini, they would not be allowed to talk to each other.

Gray Cloud went to signs. I All Sleep, he signed to Bear Penis. The I and All signs indicated "we," so he was suggesting that they

rest.

Now another man perked up. His hands moved. Question You Sit? they signed, the final word shown by the closed fist moving down. It

meant "Where do you live?" and, by extension, What was his tribe?

Gray Cloud glanced at the door. The guards couldn't hear the signs, and probably wouldn't know their meaning anyway! They could

talk this way!

We Illini, he signed. That identified both culture and location.

We Ani-Yunwiya, the other signed back, indicating the man beside him. Gray Cloud was not sure of the particular tribal designation,

but that was all right; any man from his region of the world was a friend, here.

An extended dialogue followed. It seemed that these were two Principal People, who came from far up a great river. One was called

White Bark, because he was good at working with the papery bark of that tree, and the other was Black Bone. The three of them

traced the river by assorted signed comparisons, and concluded that the Principal People lived in mountains some distance southeast

of the Illini, but that their rivers connected. The Principal People wanted to escape too, but it seemed hopeless. The Mexica city

was so big, and there were so many people, and none of them would help a captive. All were loyal to the great Chief, Moctezuma. The

city was surrounded by a great wall that was constantly guarded. If they reached a canal, and stole a canoe, it still was no good,

because there was a tremendous amount of traffic on the lake, and lodges all around its shore, so that no one could get away from

it without being spotted. In any event, there was no escape by water, for all local rivers flowed into the lake.

But suppose it was possible to get away from the city and the lake? Gray Cloud inquired. Could an escape be made overland? Maybe,

White Bark agreed. But that was not for him. Then, at Gray Cloud's query, he indicated his right knee: it was a mass of scar

tissue. He could stand and walk, but he could not run. He had tried to run away once, seeking to escape to the nearby hostile tribe

of Tlaxcala, and the guards had clubbed his knee to prevent it from happening again. That had been effective. Tlaxcala remained,

unconquered by the Mexica, but White Bark would never get there.

So escape remained unlikely. But now there was someone to talk with, and to hope with. The Mexica were often at war, Gray Cloud

learned; in fact, they liked to fight, so as to gain honor through capturing men, and the captives were then sacrificed to the

Mexica gods. If an enemy should prevail, maybe the captives would be freed. But this seemed doubtful, because the Mexica were the

strongest of tribes, and almost always won their battles, and when they lost, they sent warriors in greater number so as to win the

next time. Still, it was worth pondering.

The next day the captives were put to work. There was construction going on in the city, and a tremendous amount of earth had to be

moved. It was carried in from beyond the lake, across a causeway, and dumped in a pile. The group of captives Gray Cloud was with

had to take that earth and spread it evenly across the site where something was to be built, and tramp it down. The day was hot,

and the sun beat down, but the guards did not care; the captives worked all day, with reprieves only for drinks of water. The

guards were indifferent to their suffering, but had to let them have water lest they die and be lost as sacrifices.

That was the way of it, for many days. The captives were fed well, and the guards watched their health. In fact, in some ways they

seemed better off than the poor peasants who worked their poor fields, growing corn and gourds to sell to the nobles. Gray Cloud

learned that, indeed, slaves had a better standard of living than the peasants, and that the poorest folk often sold themselves

into slavery. All a man had to do was appear before four or more witnesses and state his desire to become a slave. He would be

given twenty capes and food to survive, and did not have to actually begin serving until a winter had passed. Even as a slave he

could own land and marry, and his children would be free. If later he was able to ransom himself, he would be free again. Meanwhile

he worked for his owner, and if he was competent he might attain considerable authority in that capacity. But most slaves worked as

porters, carrying the loads of tribute that were constantly being brought in. Such people were able to walk tremendous distances

with their burdens. Gray Cloud had seen them on his own march in, and been amazed that these small, quiet men could work so

tirelessly.

Then the entire roomful—ten men—was organized for a march. There was to be a ceremony at Tula, the ancient Toltec capital two days'

march to the north. The Mexica claimed to have inherited the mantle of the Toltec, and still honored the memory, though Tula was no

longer a major city. There were to be a number of sacrifices for the honor of the gods, who were sustained by human blood. It was

time for this group to receive the honor of sustaining the gods.

Gray Cloud realized that if he was going to escape at all, it had to be soon. Once they reached Tula, it would probably be too

late.

He consulted with White Bark and Black Bone, who agreed. Any attempt to escape would probably mean death, but they preferred to

risk getting cut down in battle to having their hearts cut out of their bodies on an altar.

But there was no chance to flee from Tenochtitlán; they would have to wait until they were fairly well between cities. So they

walked dutifully down the street and across the causeway, flanked by five guards. The guards were slaves, but ranking ones; they

could hardly be distinguished from citizens in their attitude, though their insignias clearly indicated their status. They were

well armed and alert; they intended to see that nothing happened to their charges on the march.

The group moved up into the mountains that surrounded the great city, and the population thinned out. The lodges became smaller and

poorer, until they resembled the kind that Gray Cloud knew at home. The farmers tilled small plots of corn on the contour, their

narrow leveled fields forming a series of terraces up the slope. No one paid any attention to the traveling party; evidently such

marches were commonplace.

They stopped at a way station in a high valley. The ten were put in a tight cell evidently made for this purpose; its only window

was too small for a man to get through. There was a ditch for natural functions behind; a guard took each prisoner out separately

for that, always alert. They certainly knew how to ensure that no captive escaped!

In the morning the march resumed. They crossed a high pass, then began the long descent into the valley of the city of Tula. There

had been no good opportunity to escape.

Bear Penis had borne up well on the first day, but the march had debilitated him. He started out weaker this morning; his breathing

was harsh. Gray Cloud helped him on the uphill path, but when the downhill part came, the guards forbade it. So he walked alone,

and continued to fade.

At midday, in the heat, Bear Penis fell, gasping. The fatigue and heat were too much for him.

One of the guards had lost patience. He screamed at Bear Penis in the Mexica tongue and beat him about the shoulders with his light

club.

Gray Cloud reacted without thinking. His right hand lashed out and struck the guard on the side of the head. The guard, furious,

lunged at him with his spear. Gray Cloud dodged the spear, caught the man, and hurled him to the side. The guard fell, and his head

cracked into a stone.

It had happened so swiftly that no one else had reacted. Gray Cloud turned away from the guard and helped Bear Penis to stand. By

the time he had done that, the four other guards were close. Two were tending to the fallen guard, and two were covering Gray Cloud

with their spears. If he made any further resistance, he would be dead.

He put his arm around Bear Penis and helped him walk. The guards let him be. He knew why: if they killed him, their group would be

short one captive for the sacrifice. They would wait until they reached the city, and report what he had done, and let an official

decide what to do.

They resumed the march, but without the fifth guard. Gray Cloud didn't know whether the man was dead, but it was possible; his head

had hit hard. It was an interesting situation, he thought: he had done something surely punishable by death, but he could not be

killed for it, because he was already slated for death. They couldn't even torture him, because their bloodthirsty god accepted

only healthy offerings. In fact, it seemed that many Mexica went willingly to the sacrifice, proud to support their gods with their

blood and hearts.

Belatedly he realized that he had lost his best chance to escape. If he had grabbed the fallen guard's spear and attacked the other

guards, instead of helping his friend up, then the two Principal People could have joined in, and they could have made their break.

He hadn't even thought of it—and if the others had, they had not been able to act in time. He should have seized the moment!

Yet what would have happened to Bear Penis, then? The man could have died just trying to make the effort to escape, for they would

have had to flee across the mountain without protection against the chill night. The Mexica would soon have been after them, and no

peasants would have helped them. Perhaps he had, after all, done what was best.

By night they reached Tula. The cell here was larger, but no less secure. There was no chance to break out, even if it had been

unguarded. There was nothing to do but take their rations of corn bread, and sleep.

In the morning the guards took Gray Cloud out, held him in place, and expertly clubbed his right knee.

Pain exploded. He did not cry out, because his discipline as a man and a warrior gave him strength, but this abrupt injury, coming

when he was not in the throes of battle, was a horrendous experience. When he became aware of his surroundings, he was back in the

cell, and White Bark was tending to his knee. White Bark had suffered this injury himself; he knew how to ease it.

They now had the Mexica answer to Gray Cloud's attack on the guard. He had been crippled so that he would have no hope of escape,

even if there should be some opportunity. The six "civilized" captives nodded; they had known it would be this way. They at least

were at peace with their situation, considering it an honor. The primitives were fools to try to fight it, and were only bringing

more discomfort on themselves. Now perhaps they would learn some grace.

But White Bark signed a message of hope: he thought escape remained possible. If Gray Cloud could handle the pain, he could still

walk, and carry weight. Indeed, he had to, for the guards made the captives work while they were waiting for the ceremony. They had

to go out and sweep the streets of Tula with special brooms. Gray Cloud learned to walk with his right knee stiff, so that it did

not send excruciating jolts with every step. White Bark showed him how to point his foot out so that he did not automatically roll

off his foot and bend his knee. Now the pain was continuous, but bearable. But there was no doubt at all: he could not run. So what

was White Bark thinking of? Surely only a fleet and durable runner could ever hope to win free.

The next evening White Bark signed his plan. The Tototepec were a hostile tribe that the Mexica had not conquered. One part of the

Tototepec territory was near this city. They needed to make their break by night, and flee to that territory, and then Mexica would

not be able to pursue them. Of course, then they would be at the mercy of the Tototepec, but surely those folk would be glad to

help enemies of the Mexica.

But Gray Cloud could only hobble along! he protested, touching his knee. He could never get away from any pursuit.

Yet there might not be any pursuit, White Bark replied. The concept was hard to convey by signs, but gradually Gray Cloud came to

understand how. He doubted it could work, but it was certainly worth a try, considering the alternative.

Bear Penis and Black Bone could read the signs. They made no comment. They were aware that one of the other prisoners could be a

spy for the Mexica, so it had to seem that this was merely a foolish dialogue between two.

Then, sooner than they expected, it was time for the sacrifices. They had delayed too long!

The ten of them were marched out to the ceremonial site. Their hands were bound behind them, and wooden collars linked them

together. No, there was no chance to escape.

Gray Cloud made what peace he could with his aspirations and memories, and knew that Bear Penis was doing the same. There was

nothing to do now but die bravely.

They came to the sacrificial plaza where the great temple pyramid stood. It was impressive, as was all the Mexica construction—only

this predated them, being a Toltec structure, and honored by the Mexica, who claimed descent from the Toltecs. This sacrifice was

in honor of the ancient builders.

Here a group of priests met them, garbed in their black cotton Xicolli open jackets and breechcloths, their hair bound back under

tight hoods. Their hair was quite long, as it was never cut; the braid of one reached down to his knees. Their bodies were

blackened with soot, and streaks of caked blood were on their temples from self-inflicted cuts: they offered their own blood to

their gods, as well as that of others.

The guards retreated, having delivered the captives to the priests. But the end was not yet. The ceremony was in progress, and at

the moment a group of dancers was in the square, moving eloquently as several others sang sacred hymns. Gray Cloud was impressed

despite the peril of his situation; this was a formidable and even beautiful ritual, every aspect accomplished with precision.

But soon enough it was time for the sacrifices. The priests approached the group of captives. They took the first captive, who was

one of the Mexica, and stripped him to his breech-cloth. They painted him with red and white stripes, reddened his mouth, and

painted a black circle around it. Then they glued white down on his head, making him look vaguely like a giant bird. He offered no

resistance; indeed, he cooperated, standing proudly for the decoration.

They took the second captive and decorated him similarly. They continued until they had done six. All of them stood with their

heads held high, pleased to have been recognized as the best of this sacrificial group.

Gray Cloud was the next. Denied his chance to escape, he was uncertain whether to stand as proudly as the others, trying to shame

them, or to spit in a priest's face. It was not that he lacked the courage to face his end unflinchingly, but that he did not

regard this as an honorable death.

He decided to spit, then to offer no further resistance. That would show both his courage and his contempt for the proceedings.

The head priest gazed at him, then made a negative motion with his hand.

He was being rejected? That was too much to hope for!

Gray Cloud and the three other primitives were taken to a spot not far from the steps and made to stand facing the altar. When any

one of them tried to look away, the guards quickly became threatening. They were being required to watch the sacrifice of their

companions!

Was it coincidence that only these four were being treated this way? Gray Cloud doubted it. But what was the point? Had the priests

anticipated the gesture of contempt and acted to prevent it? If so, they were smarter than he had thought.

The sacrificial altar was on a high terrace. The priests escorted the first captive up to the higher level. He walked up the steps

unassisted, still demonstrating how proud he was to do this. He went to the altar, where six hefty priests stood in their white

robes. They took him by the arms and legs, one to each limb, and laid him backwards across the altar. A fifth caught hold of his

head, pulling it back so that his body arched.

Then the high priest lifted his fine obsidian knife, the tecpatl, and plunged it into the victim's bared chest. He lifted it and

brought it down again, and again. He was carving a hole in the chest!

In a moment he put his hand into the cavity he had opened, and brought out the man's dripping heart. Even from here, Gray Cloud

could see that it was still beating! The priest held it high, as an offering to the sun, then put it reverently in a special bowl.

Meanwhile the other priests lifted the body, which was still quivering, and sent it tumbling down the steps. Two men grabbed it at

the base and dragged it away. They looked excited and eager, as if they had gained a great prize.

Gray Cloud had seen death before, but never anything like this. The Mexica were traders of death; they joyed in killing those who

did not resist, in the name of their great spirit. It wasn't any spirit Gray Cloud cared to honor!

He knew the symbolism here, for White Bark had explained it. The sacrificial captive was the rising sun; the rolling body was the

setting sun. They were reenacting the natural order of the day, and giving the heart and blood to the sun. Perhaps it was sincere,

but he wondered how willingly the priests themselves would go to a similar sacrifice.

The second painted victim was escorted up the steps. He was bent back across the altar, and his heart was cut out, exactly as the

first had been served. The priests were obviously well practiced in this technique.

All six of the prepared captives were sacrificed similarly. Then the four remaining ones were marched back to their cell. "Next

sun—you!" a guard told them, smiling.

Whether this was torture or guidance Gray Cloud couldn't tell. The six done this day had all seemed more than willing and proud;

none had resisted in any way. In contrast, the four remaining had made clear their aversion to the business. Had they been done

first, the others would not have been bothered; as it was, the prospect was that much worse. But perhaps it was just a matter of

privilege: the civilized captives had the right to go first.

Gray Cloud glanced at White Bark, who nodded very slightly. They had to make their break tonight.

The four ate their evening meal, performed their natural functions, and returned to their cell. They wrapped themselves in their

blankets and lay still. For a time. Then Black Bone rolled over so that his head and arms were near the barred door. Quietly he

scraped under the bedding straw with his hands. The dirt was loose there. He had been working at it for several nights while

feigning sleep, scraping with a small stone he had found and hidden in his mouth. He had loosened the soil of the packed floor some

way down. Now he scraped it more vigorously, drawing out the dirt into a pile to the side.

Bear Penis lay with his head facing the door. He was watching and listening, ready to warn Black Bone of the approach of any guard.

But the guards were evidently celebrating this night, not paying close attention. Tomorrow they would be able to go home, their

duty done. They were by the sound of it playing a gambling game with hard grains of corn as counters and dice; their explanations

could be heard irregularly. "Three!" "Five!" "One!" "Ha! I eat you!" "Two!" "One more and you would have killed me!" In another

circumstance Gray Cloud would have been more curious about the details of the game; now he was glad for the distraction it

provided.

Black Bone put his head down. The hole was deep enough: his head fitted under the door! But not quite wide enough to let his

shoulders pass. He was a thin man, but he needed more room.

Gray Cloud joined him and scraped at the dirt with his fingernails. Progress was painstakingly slow, but only a little more

clearance was needed.

Black Bone tried again, and this time managed to get his shoulders under. He scraped through on his back, like a sacrificial

victim, wedging himself under the door. Soon he was out.

He stood before the door. It was barred by a heavy plank that could not be reached from inside, or jogged loose, but was no problem

for a man outside. He did not touch it. He only put his face to the tiny window in the door, so that they could see that he had

made it. Stupid captives might have unbarred the door and charged out—and quickly found themselves surrounded by enemies alerted to

the commotion.

Then the others quickly filled in the dirt where it had been, tamped it down, and covered it again with straw. It looked

undisturbed. Black Bone smoothed it similarly from outside. Then he went to a niche and flattened himself within it, out of sight

of the main entry hall. He held his breechcloth between his hands, stretched out to make it as long as possible. In that form it

was most of the length of a man.

Now Gray Cloud, lying farthest from the door, began to groan. "Oh, my knee, my knee!" he exclaimed in his own tongue. "Oh, how it

hurts!" Indeed it did hurt; the pain had never stopped, but it was relatively slight now. Had he banged the knee in his sleep, it

would hurt worse, however. Of course, he would never have expressed his pain had it not been for the need of this ruse, for he was

a warrior.

After a while there was a yell from one of the guards, who were in a chamber down the hall. "Be quiet!" Even if Gray Cloud had not

picked up the words from recent association, the tone would have been intelligible enough.

He moaned louder. "Oh, my knee! My knee!"

The guard uttered an expletive and came down the hall. He had evidently had to leave his gambling game, and was annoyed. "Be quiet,

you primitive whiner!" Or words to that effect. The ruse was working: the Mexica in their arrogance chose to believe that

primitives had no courage, despite abundant evidence to the contrary. Thus they sent only one guard to deal with this nuisance.

Gray Cloud was moaning and writhing with increasing vigor. The guard came to stand before the door, his torch casting a flickering

light into the cell. "Quiet, or I'll give you reason—"

He did not finish, for Black Bone's breechcloth dropped over his head and tightened around his neck, cutting off his breath. Black

Bone might be thin, but this task required only brief exertion, and he was quite competent to handle it. There was only silence,

and the wild wavering of the torch.

After a pause of about the length required for a man to stop breathing permanently, they heard the bar being lifted. The door

opened, slowly so as not to squeak.

Outside was Black Bone, holding the torch, and the body. Bear Penis stepped out to pick up the forepart, and Black Bone took the

legs. They carried the body inside and laid it in Black Bone's place. Quickly they stripped off the guard's clothing, and Bear

Penis, who was the one of the four of them who most resembled the guard in body type, exchanged clothing with him. Gray Cloud

helped, adjusting his friend's hairstyle to match as closely as possible, and advising him on posture. White Bark arranged the

guard under Black Bone's blanket so that he seemed to be sleeping, his face away from the door. With the torchlight, this should be

enough.

Bear Penis took the guard's club and joined Black Bone in the hall. Black Bone hid, while Bear Penis pretended to be the guard. He

closed the door and set the plank in place. The whole thing had been done rapidly, for they had rehearsed it carefully, knowing

that any faltering could cost them everything. If the other guards grew impatient with the man's failure to return promptly—

Gray Cloud resumed his moaning, louder than before. "What are you going to do, kill me?" he demanded of the supposed guard outside.

"Then you will have no sacrifice!" For they had learned that the four of them, as lesser sacrifices, were to be awarded after death

to lesser folk, and the four guards would get to share one of the bodies for their ceremonial meal. But if any prisoner were lost,

the guards would be in trouble. Trouble, among the Mexica, was likely to wind up on the sacrificial altar. There were different

types of death, and a person slated for a shameful one could make it honorable by volunteering for the sacrifice, and carrying

through in a courageous manner. The bloodthirsty spirits of the Mexica did not like the taste of the blood of cowards.

Then there was a call in the Mexica tongue. Bear Penis had picked up enough of it to speak the basic commands they heard so often,

and he was good at imitating voices. Now he sounded a lot like the guard. "Come! He needs discipline!"

The three remaining guards came out, one of them with another torch, two brandishing the light disciplinary clubs. They too were

annoyed about the interruption of their game. They barged down toward the cell; Gray Cloud heard their heavy footsteps and muttered

curses.

Even as they came, Bear Penis was heaving up the plank, evidently determined to go in there and beat the obnoxious captive into

silence. As they arrived, he dropped the plank and pulled the door open so that he was concealed behind it, only his torch showing

at the edge of the door.

Two guards charged directly in. The third, more cautious, or perhaps simply not wanting to crowd the small cell too much, stayed

back.

Bear Penis swung the door back, almost banging it into the third guard. The guard made an angry exclamation—which was cut off by

Black Bone's garrote. The guard's torch wavered as he struggled silently.

But already Gray Cloud and White Bark were moving. Neither could get up readily because of his stiff right leg, but they grabbed

the legs of the guards and shoved them off-balance.

Bear Penis charged into the cell, swinging the club. He caught one guard on the head, hard, and the man went down. The other turned

to face him, but was entangled in White Bark's legs and could not get his own club into action. Bear Penis clubbed him in the face

once, twice, and he went down.

Now they got busy, for though they had taken out all the guards, they could not be sure when some higher official would pass. Black

Bone used his garrote to strangle the two Bear Penis had clubbed, to be sure they were dead, while the others stripped the guard

who most resembled Black Bone of his clothing, taking turns holding the torches. Black Bone donned it and arranged his hair

appropriately.

It seemed like a long time, but no one came. Evidently the captives were not of much interest until they were bent across the

altar.

They left the four guards seemingly sleeping in the cell, emulating the prisoners, and barred the door. They went to the guards'

chamber and found food there, beside the scattered kernels of corn the guards had used in their game. They ate as much as they

could on the spot, and wrapped the rest in skins for Gray Cloud and White Bark to carry. Black Bark and Bear Penis slung the

guards' bows across their backs, and donned quivers of arrows.

Then they set out, marching openly down the street in a formation. Gray Cloud and White Bark walked awkwardly, carrying their

burdens, in their own clothing, while the two others carried the torches and held their clubs menacingly. It looked as if two

prisoners were being moved to other quarters for the night.

As it happened, there were few Mexica out this evening, and these were peasants. They paid no attention to the party. The four

marched down the long streets to the east—and did not stop at the edge of the ceremonial section. There was no cry of alarm behind,

and no pursuit. They seemed to have made a dean escape.

Then they came to the wall that surrounded the city. They stopped at the last corner before the road led to the gate, and took

turns peering ahead at the gate. They had hoped that the gate guards would be asleep, but this was not the case. There would be no

chance to march out unchallenged; they were going the wrong way at the wrong time.

"We gambled and won before," Bear Penis said. "This time we have gambled and lost. I lack the stamina to make the long walk home,

or even to paddle a canoe there. I knew I would never see my sister again. I will distract the guard. You three go quietly through,

and never look back."

The others consulted quietly, using signs as needed. What Bear Penis had said was true, and Gray Cloud had known it but chosen not

to think of it. Even with the bad legs, he and White Bark had a better chance to win free, because they could paddle a canoe for an

extended period. Bear Penis was choosing to sacrifice himself, to enable them to escape.

"We will speak well of you," Gray Cloud said, and the two Principal People nodded. Each of them touched Bear Penis on the shoulder,

briefly, in the mark of respect accorded to a warrior about to set off on a dangerous mission.

Then Bear Penis lifted his torch, held his chin high, and marched out alone to the gate. This was merely a narrow gap in the wall,

angled so that it was necessary for those who passed it to walk single file under the eye of the guard, who stood in an alcove

beside it. There was only one guard, as there was no immediate threat to the city.

Bear Penis waved his torch, calling out something indistinguishable. The guard looked, perplexed.

Then Bear Penis stumbled. He almost fell, staggered a few more steps, and called out something to the guard.

"Get away from here!" the man exclaimed, evidently afraid that a bad spirit would afflict him. But Bear Penis struggled on,

reaching for the guard as he made choking sounds. He seemed either badly injured or inhabited by an evil spirit. The guard shoved

him away, cursing.

Meanwhile the other three, their torch doused, walked quietly behind the guard and through the unwatched gate. In a moment it was

done. They emerged outside the city and hurried on, never looking back.

But when they got a suitable distance from the wall, they paused and waited, hoping to see one more figure come out. It did not

happen. Bear Penis probably had not even tried to leave, but had recovered and returned to the city streets after he knew they had

passed. Maybe he could hide in the city, disguised as a peasant.

Unable to speak the Mexica tongue, other than a few words? Gray Cloud knew better. His friend was lost, and they could not wait.

Grimly, they resumed their walk in the darkness.

But this was only the first stage. Once they were well clear of the city, they took the guards' knives from the two bags, so that

each of them was armed. The two "guards" had bows slung across their backs, and arrows, but it had not seemed wise to have the

captives carry bows. One bow had been lost with Bear Penis. If they were discovered at this point, they would have to fight with

what they had.

They continued walking east, toward the Tototemec territory. It was wearing for Gray Cloud, swinging his stiff leg out and around,

but he kept a good pace. They had to get far from Tula by dawn!

"How is it there is no pursuit?" White Bark asked in his tongue.

Gray Cloud had been pondering the same thing. They had now been walking for what seemed like half the night, and there should have

been a change of guards by now, or a routine check by a more important person. The authorities had to know of the escape. "They may

be afraid that there will be terrible punishment if it is known that the captives escaped," he said. "Rather than that, they are

hiding it, and rounding up other people for sacrifice. Peasants, perhaps."

"But if that is so, then there will be no pursuit!" Black Bone exclaimed, amazed.

"That may be the case," Gray Cloud agreed. "But I think we had better keep moving anyway."

But Gray Cloud and White Bark were tiring, because of their bad legs. They slowed the pace, but didn't like it. If day caught them

marching like this, the farmers would know something was wrong, for they should be marching toward the city, not away from it. In

any event, two of them could not walk much farther.

Then they spied a stream. They had reached water! They scooped it up to drink. "A canoe!" Gray Cloud exclaimed. "If we can find a

canoe—!" For that was the rest of their plan: to paddle out to the great sea, and along the shore to the great river, and home.

They walked along the bank of the stream, and soon they did find a canoe. Gray Cloud did not like stealing it, even from an enemy,

but they had to have it.

In this manner, without any commotion, they escaped the empire of the Mexica. The stream took them through the territory of the

Tototemec, but the peasants there took them for traders and let them pass unchallenged. Two paddled and one rested, taking turns.

They followed the river all the way down to the great sea, and then they followed the coast for many days, staying clear of others

as much as possible. In the shallows they were able to kill fish by shooting them with arrows, and they ate them raw. They came to

the great river on whose tails all three of them lived, and forged up it.

Because the season was late, they did not take the branch of the river that led to Gray Cloud's tribe, for that would strand the

two Principal People for the winter. They went directly to the Ani-Yunwiya territory, with the understanding that Gray Cloud would

be treated well there and would be given a good canoe to return when a companion could be found for him.

Thus it was that Gray Cloud came to stay with the Principal People—waiting, as it turned out, for Throat Shot to appear. But now

Throat Shot would have a similar problem getting back to his own tribe.

If that was what he was supposed to do.

CHAPTER 11

TALE TELLER

O Spirit of the Mound, I have told you Gray Cloud's tale of the dread civilized Mexica. I am glad I am primitive! Now I will tell

you how Throat Shot became the Tale Teller among the Principal People.

They decided to paddle up the river to Gray Cloud's tribe of the Illini, the Peoria. There Throat Shot could decide where to go

next, since he had no instructions other than to go with his friend and wait for Sun Eagle's signal. He hoped it would come soon,

but he had no certainty of that. The spirits took little heed of time.

They reached the tipis of the Peoria ten days later. Gray Cloud was greeted like a dead man returned to life: with limited

enthusiasm. Soon it was apparent why: things had changed in the tribe during the past two winters, and there really was no place

for a returned, ranking, disabled warrior. Glow Fungus, deprived of both brother and lover, had married another and now was great

with child. Gray Cloud's presence was awkward.

"Now I think that I should not have left Red Leaf," Gray Cloud said, speaking of his Principal People maiden. He seemed neither

completely surprised nor completely disappointed. "Will you go with me back to the Principal People?"

That seemed to be as good a prospect as any. Throat Shot had been told to go with his friend, and Gray Cloud was his friend. So

Gray Cloud informed Glow Fungus of the heroic fate of her brother, Bear Penis, and wished her well. Then they set off on the return

trip, paddling down the river, and to the junction of rivers, and the next junction, and up the final river to the land of the

Principal People. Winter was pressing close as they completed it, and they paddled hard and long, making good distance each day.

They worked well as a team, and it was good.

The Principal People welcomed them back, for Gray Cloud was good with the bow and was an asset to their hunts. Throat Shot knew how

that was; if any animal or bird passed the man, that creature was dead. All that was required was to drive the creatures toward

Gray Cloud. Gray Cloud had been learning the art of birch-bark canoe making from White Bark, and showed excellent promise in that,

and such craftsmen were valued. It also seemed that Red Leaf had been quite downhearted at Gray Cloud's absence, and not subject to

cheer by any other man. Now she was happy again.

In fact, Red Leaf turned out to be an attractive woman, older than Gray Cloud but quite deferential to him. Perhaps it had been her

knowledge of his loyalty to the brother of his former woman that charmed her. Gray Cloud had made it clear that first commitments

came first, and that he had a commitment to Glow Fungus in his own tribe and had to return to her. Were that not the case, he would

have been willing to marry Red Leaf—if she were willing to join him among the Illini. She had not been, so for two reasons their

liaison had been temporary. Now both reasons had changed, and Gray Cloud's first loyalty was to Red Leaf and her village. Red Leaf

had gambled and won, as she saw it—and she welcomed Throat Shot as one who had benefited her by bringing her man back, though he

tried to demur.

But what of Throat Shot himself? He could be no asset to the hunt, and he had no woman waiting here. Yet Gray Cloud spoke well of

him, and so he was treated as a welcome guest. He felt out of place.

He tried to help Gray Cloud with his chosen work, making birch-bark canoes. The man was now doing it alone, with the understanding

that White Bark would assist if needed; but Gray Cloud hoped to demonstrate his ability to get through without that. It was

somewhat like a boy's initiation into manhood: he had to prove himself without the help of the instructor. All stages of the work

required great care and patience, and Throat Shot was able to be useful. First they had to locate a good birch tree, and it was

pleasant exploring the high slopes for them. When they found one, they had to fell it carefully, so as not to damage the precious

bark. They built a fire around its base and charred a ring, keeping the bark above it wet so that it would not burn. They pounded

out the charred region and renewed the fire several times, until the trunk narrowed and the tree was ready to fall. They burned it

unevenly, so that it would fall uphill and in a spot where there was nothing to bruise the trunk. When it finally came down, Gray

Cloud inspected it carefully, then marked off a section three times a man's length. He cut a circle around the trunk at each end,

and then cut the bark lengthwise and used wood wedges to help peel it off in one great piece.

After that they flattened the great curved section of birch bark by toasting it with a carefully applied torch. They used split

sticks to hold burning pieces of waste bark to the moist inner side of the canoe strip. Throat Shot was amazed to see it slowly

flatten until it lay like a blanket on the ground. Then they rolled it very carefully, again like a blanket, the bark side in, and

carried it to Gray Cloud's place of canoe making.

Here he had stakes set out in a rough canoe pattern on level ground. He used these as a frame to hold the bark in place and in the

proper shape while he fitted lengths of cedarwood to form the ribs of the canoe. This task was so delicate that he allowed no one

else to do it, and it was not proper for anyone to assist, and so Throat Shot's usefulness here was at an end. He thanked Gray

Cloud for allowing him to participate this far, and departed; it was all he could do.

A thin man with scars all over his body approached him with a signed question: You Walk Fast (Run) Good? When Throat Shot agreed

that he could run well, the man made an offer: run with him to the various villages of the Principal People, and learn their tongue

and dialects, and perhaps he would find some way to make himself useful among them.

Throat Shot realized that Gray Cloud must have set this up. He agreed to do it. Question You Called? he signed.

The man rubbed the back of his hand in the sign for Color, then pointed to a black section of bark on a nearby tree. Then he signed

Die, Long Time, touched one leg, and pointed to a white flower. That meant Bone.

Black Bone! This was Gray Cloud's Principal People friend who had escaped captivity with him! Suddenly Throat Shot felt he knew the

man well.

They set out on what turned out to be a long series of runs, visiting every village of the immediate region. There appeared to be

quite a number; the villages here were set closer than those of the Toco, and many had more people. They ranged in size from hardly

more than ten lodges to two tens of tens of lodges, each with its family, which could be extensive. In the center of each village

was an open square for dancing and ceremonies. Many were surrounded by walls of stakes set in the ground, and these walls were

guarded, so that no one could enter unchallenged. The fortifications were not nearly as formidable as the palisade around the city

of the ancient Pyramid of the Sun, but were sufficient.

They spent the nights with families who had room for them. Each house was four-sided, longer than wide, made from impressively

solid logs, with a roof that sloped up to a high ridge. In the center was a scooped-out fireplace with a large flat hearthstone

used for baking bread or cakes made of corn. Possessions were stored on one side, and the people slept on the other side. The

houses were amazingly large, up to six man-lengths long, and some even had a second level for storage or for special meetings.

The beds were strange, too, for they were on platforms raised well above the floor, instead of close to the ground. It took Throat

Shot a while to get used to it, but he discovered that there were fewer biting fleas at that level, because they could not jump

that high, and he got to like it.

On occasion they stayed at a winter house, which was smaller and circular and made partly under the level of the ground, like those

of the tribe across the river, the Faraway People, who called themselves the Children of the Sun.

They usually fed themselves between villages by killing birds or small animals. Black Bone preferred to employ a weapon with which

the Principal People were more skilled than any others of this region, the blowgun. He showed Throat Shot how to use it. It was a

tube longer than the height or reach of a man, fashioned of a type of cane that the Principal People knew how to find and cure and

polish inside. It used a tiny wood dart, feathered with thistledown and dipped in a special poison only the priest knew how to

make. At first Throat Shot found it hard to appreciate how such a delicate thing could be of use in hunting, but he learned that it

was more effective in many cases than the bow and arrow. When Black Bone put in the dart, put his mouth to the end, aimed the

blowgun, and blew hard, the dart flew out the other end so fast that it was difficult even to see it, and scored on its prey

instantly. The dart did not really hurt the animal, but the poison soon brought it down, and then they could pick it up and kill

it. Throat Shot resolved to obtain one of these hunting weapons for himself when he was able to, for it was something he could use

one-handed, when he propped it appropriately.

Black Bone usually met the village Chief in the local council hall, which was a seven-sided building which could be of enormous

size, depending on the village. Seven was the Principal People's sacred number, and it showed often in their ways of doing things

or describing things. Sometimes a man would say "seven sevens," and it took Throat Shot a moment to realize that he meant a number

close to five tens.

It seemed that the Principal People had a big ball game coming, the seventh of the season before winter shut things down, and Black

Bone was alerting seven villages to the time and place. Five villages were not participating; only two were doing that. They were

Gray Cloud's home village of Five Birches and the neighboring village of Shallow Stream. But their interest was high because this

was also a betting event, and huge value might change hands as a result of individual wagers. At each village he introduced Throat

Shot as a visitor, which meant that each village Chief would recognize him if he came again, and treat him well. This was a very

nice gesture, for otherwise his bad arm could have caused a cold reception. Villages were not partial to extra mouths to feed in

winter, if the visitor could not do a man's work.

Black Bone was a good runner. He was thin, as runners tended to be, and had endurance. He set an easy pace, which was just as well,

because even though Throat Shot could run indefinitely on the level ground, he was not used to the constant slopes of these

mountains, and had to acclimatize. Still, he did not slow the other man's pace very much, and of course he never objected to it. He

knew he was making a good impression.

At each village he listened carefully, picking up the words. He had already learned many from Gray Cloud, but since Gray Cloud

spoke this tongue imperfectly, there was much relearning to do; now it was mostly a matter of attuning to the dialect of the

region. He did this quickly and well, and knew he was making a good impression in this, too. By the time they had completed the

circuit of villages, he was able to speak well enough to be understood by any tribesman.

That was to his advantage, for now the other villagers were coming to the game site, and Black Bone had to help organize the teams

and the attendant festivities. This was evidently to be a considerable occasion. Throat Shot was on his own.

But as it happened, many people now knew him from the tour of the villages, and some asked him for information about the

arrangements. He answered as accurately as he could, and became more competent, because more people were constantly arriving and

were in need of similar information.

Anetsa, he learned, was a ball game, called "the little brother of war." It was played only by young men of the greatest physical

prowess, and a good player had much prestige. Black Bone had been a good player, and so he remained respected though he no longer

played. Each village had its team, and the players on that team suffered rigorous training. They did not eat rabbit, because the

rabbit was readily confused and frightened; its reaction to danger was to bound away and hide, its body quivering nervously. They

did not eat frog meat, because the bones of the frog were easily broken. They did not eat the sluggish sucker fish, or the young of

any animal, for the young were weak and prone to error. Neither did they eat hot food, for the fierce wolves and wildcats did not,

nor flavor their food with salt, for truly strong creatures did not require anything to make their food more tasty. They did not

touch a woman for a number of days before the game, because women were soft and weak. If a woman even touched a ball stick, it

became unfit for use in the game; that softness was contagious. In fact, if a man's wife was with child, he could not play, because

it was obvious that some of his strength had gone into the making of that child. It was said that there had been a time when men

who broke these rules were put to death, but this seemed unlikely, since they would be punished enough by losing because of their

weakness.

The rivalry between villages might be friendly, or it might become bitter. Sometimes players would consult priests, in an effort to

weaken or even kill rival players. Thus it became rivalry between priests too, and this could be as important a factor as the skill

and preparation of the players. It was Black Bone's suspicion that he had been taken captive, and almost sacrificed by the Mexica,

because of a hostile spell put on him by the priest of a rival village. Gray Cloud had helped him overcome this, which was one

reason his village welcomed Gray Cloud.

Throat Shot saw that he owed much to Gray Cloud, though he had not understood this until spending time with the Principal People.

Gray Cloud had a bad knee, but he had had a friend who had given his freedom and probably his life to help two Principal People

tribesmen escape horrible death, and he had seen them all the way home. He was also a good man and a good hunter in his own right,

and therefore an asset to the tribe. The Principal People had not barred him from leaving them, but had hoped he would remain. When

Throat Shot had come, they had brought him to Gray Cloud, seeing that the spirits wished this. But when Throat Shot had brought

Gray Cloud back, in much the way Gray Cloud had brought White Bark and Black Bone back, Throat Shot had been met with similar

favor. Of course, he was on trial until they could judge just what kind of man he was, but they were giving him the winter to

establish his credits as a man.

Yet like Gray Cloud, Throat Shot was not in a position to commit. He was on a mission of his own, and could be called away by the

Spirit of the Mound, Sun Eagle, at any time. He appreciated the Principal People's generosity to him, but he wanted to earn his own

keep, and was searching for some way to do that. If he did not find it by spring, he would seek some other region, so as not to be

a burden to this tribe. But he hoped that a way would manifest, because already he liked these people, and he liked Gray Cloud and

Red Leaf and Black Bone.

He did not want to go among strangers again, where he would face similar problems.

Men continued to arrive. Some came by canoe—and one had a bad knee. Throat Shot knew him instantly: White Bark. Gray Cloud's

instructor. The one who made the excellent light canoes, so was valued despite his bad knee.

But Throat Shot's bad arm made it doubtful that he could learn such a trade, for there was much armwork in the harvesting and

preparation of the bark, and much skill in the crafting of a canoe. By the time he could become competent, even were his arm no

problem, he would probably have to go, because of the signal of the Spirit. He needed to find something to do that required no long

apprenticeship, and that would not leave another person without help if he abruptly left.

On the night before the big game, Five Birches staged a dance. Its location had been secret, to prevent magical sabotage by a rival

village, and was announced only just before the start. If a rival knew the spot, its priest could spread a potion on the ground,

made from rabbits, so that any players who danced there would become timid and readily confused. The players fasted from supper of

the night before the game through the game itself, but that would go for nothing if they were polluted by the region of the dance.

Throat Shot hurried to notify the folk of the location. The other village had its own dance elsewhere, taking similar precautions.

Actually, this was more show than substance, for the two villages were friendly. Still, the games with other villages were not

necessarily friendly, so it behooved the players to honor the conventions. Indeed, the local priest had been trying hard to locate

the site of the other village's dance, so as to do something to it, but without success.

The dance began after dark, so that those who weren't near one of the small fires could be recognized only by their voices. It was

by the bank of a stream, where the ground was almost level under stately beech and maple trees and the underbrush had been cleared

away. The folk of the village came: men, women, and children. The little ones were wrapped in blankets and laid under bushes to

sleep. Others leaned against trees or sat on the ground, watching.

The dance itself was done by groups of men and women. The men were the players of the game, who were with their ball sticks and

moved around a larger fire, wearing only their breechcloths. The women were seven, specially selected, one for each clan, near two

upright posts that were connected by a crosspiece.

The drumming started, and the figures began to move. The men danced in a circle around their fire, while a performer shook a rattle

as he circled outside them.

The women formed into a straight line not far from the men. They were in full dresses, with their hair garlanded with the pretty

colored leaves of fall, and individually and as a group they were so lovely that it was a delight to watch them.

Now the women began to move and sing, advancing toward the men provocatively. But before they got there, they wheeled and danced

away again. They re-formed their line and advanced again, keeping time to the drum, but again did not go all the way. They were

taunting the men, pretending to approach them but declining their favors, in accordance with the pattern of the dance.

The men, in response, continued their dance, and called upon the spirits to make them strong against such temptations, and to

enhance their prowess in the coming game. They asked the spirits for swiftness and endurance as runners, and to be made elusive and

quick-witted. They waved their ball sticks threateningly. Each stick was about as long as a man's arm, fashioned from hickory or

pecan wood, bent into a loop at the end. The loop was laced with animal skin or strong vegetable fiber, and might also incorporate

bat whiskers or colorful bird feathers, to make the sticks' motions as swift and accurate as these flying creatures. The sticks

were not clubs, but looked as if they could be used as such.

The women sang of loss of strength and the onset of weakness and confusion. Their songs were directed at the opposing players,

because their weakness was as important as the home team's strength. There was a large flat rock to one side of the dance arena, on

which were black beads representing the players of the other team. Every so often the women would get up on this stone, close to

those beads. In this manner they hoped to weaken the other players by exposing them to the heaviness and sluggishness of women.

Throat Shot had to smile at this gesture, for though he understood the symbolism, the women were not at all as represented. They

were light on their feet and lively, and any man who got close to any of them would have been inspired to rise to new heights of

performance. Perhaps not in the game, however, which might be the point.

Actually, the women addressed two groups. When they sang of the players of the home village, they called for victory. To this they

added another kind of inducement, promising that tomorrow the players would get to sleep with their wives and be well rewarded for

their efforts. When they sang of the opposing players, they suggested that they had slept with their wives too recently and

weakened themselves, or that they had touched pregnant women in public, or done other debilitating things. They also sang of the

opposing priest's probable incompetence, using the wrong magic and weakening his own team. Some of the details were funny, and

there was a rumble of laughter from the watching people.

The male and female dancers were separate, never directly interacting. But both danced to the same drumbeat, and they did not

interfere with each other's songs. Thus their dances made a harmonious whole, showing both the opposition of the two sexes and the

nature of their larger interaction.

After a while the women were relieved by other women, for endurance was not supposed to be their nature. But the same men danced

throughout the night, periodically shouting war whoops in the direction of the rival village. At the end of each interval of

dancing the men ran toward the women, frightening them, and the spectators would shout "Hu-u!" This was the ritual greeting to the

Great Sun.

The only other break for the men was when they paused to go to the river, to purify themselves by splashing the cold water on their

bodies. They were indefatigable, as was proper for a winning team.

In due course a man called the Woodpecker and garbed as a bird left the dance and walked toward the rival village. He stood facing

it, raised his hand to his mouth, and made four great yells. The players answered with choruses of yips. The fourth yell was

prolonged and quavering, like the cry of the largest woodpecker who ever existed, resounding through the night forest and echoing

weirdly from the surrounding hills.

Throat Shot remembered his friend called Woodpecker, with whom he had gone on his first hunt. Now that man was called Striker of

Warriors. Was it only a winter and a summer ago? How long it seemed!

The Woodpecker ran back to the dance ground. "They are already beaten!" he cried. It was a hope rather than a fact, but it carried

such conviction that it was easy to believe.

The dance continued through the night. When dawn approached, the players took boughs from the sacred tree, the pine, and threw them

on the fire. The flames blazed up hungrily, and thick clouds of smoke roiled out, enveloping the dancers. No men coughed or showed

discomfort, though their eyes and lungs must have been stinging. This was the smoke that would protect them from the other

village's head priest and make it difficult for the opposing players to see them during the game.

Sunrise came, and the dance was over. The players got no rest. They set out immediately for the assigned site of the game. The

priests and priests' assistants went with them. Black Bone and Throat Shot went too, for it was their job to report on the progress

of the game to the villagers who were unable to see it directly.

The route was circuitous, because the other village's priests might have planted magical traps to weaken them. The players were

pure and strong, but could never be quite safe until they were there. As it was, they stopped four times for additional

purification by water, in case they had inadvertently been fouled by hostile magic. Each time, the priest performed a rite for each

individual player. Nothing was taken for granted.

Because of this necessary care, progress was slow. It was noon before they actually reached the game site. The players were

forbidden to sit on a stone or log or anything other than the ground itself, if they sat at all, and were not allowed to lean

against anything except the back of another player. They all knew what could happen to a player who violated these rules: he could

be defeated in the game, or if he was lucky, only bitten by a rattlesnake. This was very much like war, and the rules of war were

honored.

While the priest was administering rites to one player, the others had to wait, but they did not rest. They twisted extra strings

for their ball sticks, adjusted their clothing or their decorations, and talked about the coming contest. After the fourth water

purification, the head priest gave an inspirational speech to the players. All the omens were favorable, he told them; they should

play to their utmost ability, and their victory would be applauded by all who knew them and bring great honor to their village. It

was a dramatic speech, and the players interrupted it several times with their exultant yells.

They came in sight of the playing ground. The Woodpecker advanced again and gave four whoops similar to those of the dance. The

players answered with a shout and charged off the path to make their final preparations.

The priest marked off a small area of the forest floor: a symbolic representation of the playing ground. He took a small bundle of

sharpened stakes, each about as long as a man's foot. As he stuck each stake in the ground, he told the players what positions they

would assume when the game began. Each stake stood for a player, and the pattern was clear enough.

Then the players stood for the ordeal of scratching. This was done by one of the priest's assistants with a kanuga, a special comb

made of seven sharp splinters of turkey-leg bone tied to a frame made from a turkey feather. The turkey was a fierce, warlike bird,

so this sharp comb would impart these qualities to those whom it scratched. The splinters were tied so that only their tips

projected from the body of the comb; the instrument was useless as a weapon, but capable of giving great pain.

Every player was scratched four times on each upper arm, the scratches covering about half the length between the shoulder and the

elbow. Another four scratches were done on both forearms, and four more for each upper and lower leg. Each scratch was shallow but

painful, and every set of seven was excruciating, but no player even winced. Then the kanuga comb was used to scratch the chest in

the form of an X, which was then crossed from shoulder to shoulder, with a similar pattern across the back.

When it was done, the players had blood welling from an overlapping network of scratches all across their bodies. But they knew

that this ordeal was necessary for the game, and they were glad to endure it. Now Throat Shot understood how Black Bone had come by

the scars on his body. This was like the Toco preparation for the rite of manhood, but much more extensive.

The priest gave each player a piece of medicinal root to chew. They spit the juice on the scratches and rubbed it in. It evidently

helped, for the skin became less inflamed. Then they went to the river and washed off the blood. The ritual preparation was almost

done.

Now they smeared their bodies with bear grease to make them slippery, so that opposing players could not get hold of them. They put

eagle feathers in their hair for keenness of sight, and a deer's tail for swiftness in running, and a snake's rattle to make them

terrible to their opponents. In this manner they invoked spiritual help from the air, the forest, and the ground. They marked their

bodies with red and black paint, and the black was charcoal from the dance fire that had been made of the wood of a honey locust

tree that had been struck by lightning but not killed. Everything had to be exactly right, to invoke the most powerful spirits.

Dressed and purified and ready, they went to the water one last time. The priest chose a bend in the river that enabled them to

face east while looking upstream. The men stood side by side, gazing down into the water, with their ball sticks clasped across

their breasts. The priest stood behind, while an assistant spread red and black pieces of cloth on the ground, with red and black

beads set on them. There was one red bead for each player on the team, and one black bead for each opposing player.

The first player approached the priest. He was a tall young man no older than Throat Shot, with an intense expression. This was

obviously no game for him; it was a spiritual mission.

"Tell me your name," the priest said formally. He obviously knew the names of all of them, but the ritual had to be followed

exactly.

"I am Split Spear, of the Deer Clan," the man said.

The priest took a red bead in his right hand and a black bead in his left hand. He held them high and spoke to the river. "O Long

Man, we exult in your power, which can toss great trunks about in white foam. We beg you to lend your strength to this fine young

man, Split Spear, so that he will be able to toss his opponents about." The priest invoked the powers of birds and animals to

enhance the player's abilities. He spoke of the seventh level of the world, which the player sought for ultimate success.

Then the priest addressed the player. "Split Spear, who is your most hated opponent?"

Split Spear whispered the name to him. The priest now spoke that name. "Fox Foot, of the Wolf Clan, I lay this curse on you! I

invoke the Black Fog to smother you, and the Black Rattlesnake to poison you, and the Black Spider to drop down his black thread

from above you to wrap up your soul and drag it to the darkening land in the west, and there to bury it in a black coffin under

black day so that you will be unable to prevail against the mighty Split Spear of the Deer Clan, and you will fall ignobly and be

humiliated before everyone."

That was a curse such as only a favored priest could give! Split Spear looked well satisfied.

The priest performed similarly for each of the players, raising each to the seventh level of the world and damning the worst

opponent of each in splendidly potent terms. At the end the players shouted once more, with the vigor of those who expected to

forge to victory with all the power of the relentless current of a flooded river.

Now the players walked in single file to the ball ground. Their opponents came from the other side. The ground was completely

surrounded by spectators from the two villages and from other villages, including those who were betting on the result, relatives,

and many who were fascinated by the game, regardless of who was playing it.

The challenging team from the local village furnished the ball, but before it was used, the other team examined it carefully. They

wanted to be sure that nothing was wrong with it. For example, it might be made so small that it would slip through the netting of

their ball sticks, while the challenging team would be prepared with tighter netting. Or it might be the wrong color, so that it

matched the sticks of the challengers and could not be seen, while it would show up clearly on the sticks of the other team. There

were any number of tricks that might be associated with the ball. But this one passed inspection; if there was anything wrong with

it, it was magical, and that was hard to detect by a physical inspection.

Already the betting was starting. Bettors could get so involved that they even removed their clothing to offer it as stakes. The

players waited until the bets had been established, for each team wanted those who bet on it to be sure of their winnings.

Now the teams shouted as they lined up opposite each other, each player with his two ball sticks lying on the ground before him,

pointing toward the sticks of his opposite number. In this way they made sure that the teams were evenly matched. The number of

players might vary, but the teams always had to be even.

Throat Shot asked Black Bone about the names of the other team's players, so that he could get them straight. He learned that Split

Spear's nemesis, Fox Foot, was the chief player, a short but broad and powerful young man who moved swiftly and silently, like a

fox. Throat Shot did not like him, affected by the priest's curse on him.

An old man walked out, holding the ball. He made the final speech to the players. "Remember, the Sun is looking down on you. You

must observe the rules and show good sportsmanship. After the game each of you must go along a white trail to your white lodge."

What he meant was that the game should end in peace. Then he shouted, "Now for the twelve!" and threw the ball high into the air,

and hurried out of the way. The game had begun.

The players dived for their sticks and then for the ball. Split Spear got it, perhaps because the priest's blessing on him and

curse on his opposite number had been first and most potent. He scooped it up in his right ball stick and ran for his goal.

But two players from the other team converged on him. Fox Foot tripped him while the other knocked his stick, jarring the ball out.

It bounced on the ground. Three more players dived for it, tripping one another. In a moment there was a pile of players of both

teams—while the ball scooted out to the side.

The pile had formed near Split Spear, but he was not in it, because the ball had been knocked away from him. He now scrambled down

and got it again, and this time was able to dodge around the pile and run for the goal. An opposing player pursued him, but one of

his teammates stuck out a foot and tripped the pursuer, and Split Spear got away. He charged the goal and hurled the ball between

the standing poles before another player could stop him.

There was a cheer from the local villagers. The home team had scored the first point! The first team to make twelve goals would be

the winner.

The ball was brought back to the center, and play resumed. The game got rougher as players collided and sometimes wrestled with

each other even after the ball was gone. Players were not supposed to try to injure those on the other team deliberately, but some

of the accidents were suspicious. The ball traveled up and down the field, changing sticks often, before the next goal was scored.

When one player found himself trapped, he would try to throw the ball to a teammate, who would then resume the advance on the goal.

The sticks were well suited for throwing, being like extensions of the players' arms. The young men had evidently spent much time

practicing; Throat Shot knew that he could not have handled such sticks well.

Meanwhile, in a secluded place, the team priests were taking ritual measures to bring their teams to victory. It was possible to

tell when one priest was doing well, because the ball seemed unable to get out of the section of the field nearest that goal,

giving that team the advantage. Each priest was kept informed of the progress of the game by an assistant—in this case, Black

Bone—who was in turn advised by seven counselors who had been appointed to watch the game. Throat Shot went along with Black Bone,

intrigued by the whole thing. This was a better celebration than the Toco had!

The game continued fiercely. The score changed sides almost as often as the ball did, seemingly. The players could not drink water

during it, only a beverage concocted from wild crab-apples, green grapes, and similarly sour ingredients. The injuries mounted.

This had started as a friendly, or at least not a grudge, match, but it was becoming uglier. It was indeed like a small war.

As dusk approached, not a man was unscarred, and several were limping badly. The teams were almost evenly matched, and neither

could get far ahead. But finally Split Spear emerged from a pileup to knock Fox Foot back, stagger to the goal, and put the twelfth

ball through. The home village of Five Birches had won.

There was a great cheer from the winning villagers, and silence from the losers. The spectators and players settled their bets, and

the players went once more to the river, where the priest protected them from the curses of their defeated rivals. They washed off

the dirt and blood, tended to their injuries as well as they could without showing unmanly discomfort, and dressed. Now at last

they were allowed to eat and drink, though exhaustion diminished their hunger.

On the following days Black Bone and Throat Shot went to the neighboring villages and told about the details of the game. The women

and children who had not been able to attend were hungry for news of it, and when Throat Shot realized this, his descriptions,

augmented by signs when he needed words he had not yet learned, became fancier. He had always had a good memory for detail, which

had served him when he had been a messenger among the Toco, and the game was fresh in his mind. Soon he found himself the center of

an avid circle of youngsters wherever he went, for news of his narrative powers was spreading.

"...and when the score was six goals to six, the men of Shallow Stream forged ahead with the ball, knocking all others out of the

way as they charged the goal. Their priest had invoked one of his three most powerful spells, and it seemed that nothing could

stand against it.

"But as Fox Foot was about to hurl the ball through the goal, his archenemy, Split Spear, leaped for him, and caught him about the

waist, and threw him around so hard that he rolled to the edge of the field, his two sticks clattering. But the ball remained in

the web of his right stick, held there by the spell.

"Then Split Spear called upon the foaming power of the great river to lend him strength, and the river answered, and he struggled

with Fox Foot's arm and wrested the ball from him. He put it in the webbing of his own right stick, and scrambled to his feet, and

charged toward his goal. But three players of Shallow Stream converged on him, crying that the true power of the water was theirs.

One tackled him, another grabbed his arm, and the third took away the ball.

"But by this time the other players of Five Birches were there, and they caught the third man and bore him to the ground. The ball

popped loose and rolled off the field and into the water. Now there was a pileup in the water, as they fought for the ball, and it

was fortunate that no one drowned.

"It was Split Spear who came up with it again. This time he dodged behind one of his own players, so that the men of Shallow Stream

could not get at him, and looped around until within range of the goal, and he hurled it through for the score just before being

tackled again. The folk of Five Birches gave a mighty cheer!"

So it went. The more he embellished, the more closely the audience listened, and the larger it grew. He was careful never to

deviate from the facts, and to remain impartial in the telling, for there were partisans of both villages in many of his audiences.

But his memory was good, and there was much to tell.

"Do you know," Black Bone remarked, "you have a talent for tale-telling. This is something we value. Do you know stories of other

tribes?"

"Many," Throat Shot agreed. "But—"

"Tell them."

Throat Shot tried it—and found his audience growing. The villagers liked to listen to him, despite his imperfect command of their

tongue, because of the clarity of his vision and the novelty of the far episodes he related. To them, the Toco childhood stories

were new and intriguing, and his adventures and misadventures with women were hilarious. He had to explain what palm trees were,

but even that was interesting and even magical to these people who had seen none. He told only the truth, but it seemed that he had

art in telling.

He tried telling a more general tale about the origin of tobacco, with similar success, especially among the children. They had

already heard it, of course, but they liked the way he told it. So did some of the older people.

There was once a young warrior who was required to guide a maiden to another village for a special ceremony by her clan. She was

pretty, but many men of her village had been killed in warfare, and she had found no husband. On the other hand, there were too

many men in his village, and he had found no wife. The farther they walked together, the more intrigued they became with each

other, for they had many interests in common and knew some of the same people. She was a member of the Bird Clan, which perhaps

accounted for her birdlike prettiness, and he belonged to the Twister Clan, also called the Longhair Clan, which might have

accounted for his ability to find his way accurately to any place he sought no matter how long, twisted, and devious the paths that

went there. It occurred to them that there had been no recent marriage between these two great clans.

"But it is said that the members of these clans are not sexually compatible," she remarked. "That the penises of the men of one

clan point in a different direction from the clefts of the women of the other, so they cannot merge."

"I have heard this," he agreed. "But not everything that is said is true."

"It is better to test a thing before challenging it as untrue."

"I agree. Let us find a suitable place to test it."

So they left the path and found a glade where nothing grew. They laid down their cloaks and he removed his breechcloth and she

removed her skirt. "I do not think your penis is pointing the wrong way," she remarked. "It is aimed straight up at the sky."

"Perhaps it is your cleft that points the wrong way."

"I am sure that is not the case."

So they lay on the cloaks and tested the alignments, and there did not seem to be any problem. They then proceeded to an episode of

sexual expression so sweet that the honey seemed sour.

"It is certainly false," she breathed as they embraced.

"It is an awful forked tongue," he agreed.

But to be quite certain, they decided to try it again after a little while. He stroked her full round breasts, and she kissed his

muscular neck, and they merged again, and it was sweeter than before.

"Whoever said that must never have tried it," he said. "The alignment is as perfect as your great beauty."

There was something about his mode of expression that pleased her. "Maybe he did not want anyone else to know," she suggested. "For

I agree that the alignment is as wonderful as your strength and virility."

He was almost as impressed with her insight as he was with her body. "That must be it! All this time everyone has been fooled into

believing what was not true!"

But it occurred to them that it would be best to test it once more, to be absolutely sure there was no mistake, for it was a

serious matter to challenge the wisdom of the ages. So in a little while they indulged a third time, and she wrapped her firm legs

around his hips, and he thrust so deeply into her that there was scarcely any room remaining for the honey. The alignment remained

perfect.

"Oh!" she cried. "I wish we could do this forever!"

"We must marry," he decided. "Just in case we are the only two members of our clans who are compatible."

"Yes, we would not want to look foolish if it did not work for others," she said.

So they married, and the two clans were pleased to discover that the old saying was not true. The warrior and the maiden were held

in high regard for this discovery, and became important in the tribe, and had many children, all of whom were in perfect alignment.

Later, on a hunting trip, the man passed the place where he had come to know his wife. There in the glade he found a pretty plant

growing, with broad hairy leaves and three funnel-shaped flowers on the end of its tallest stalk. When he came close, he discovered

that the leaves were scented. Because he had three fond memories of this place, and thought the flower might be imbued with the

magic of the experience, he dug it up carefully and took it back to his people. "Surely this is the plant of harmony between

clans," he said.

"We shall dry the sweet leaves and smoke them," the clans-men said.

"And we shall name it 'Where We Came Together'," his wife said.

They did this, and when the dried leaves of the tobacco plant were smoked, the people felt at peace and contented. They knew it was

because the plant had originated where the warrior and the woman had such harmony, and that everyone who smoked this plant would

experience similar harmony.

For this reason, tobacco is always smoked at council meetings, and it has helped promote peace and friendship between the tribes.

Wherever people come together from different backgrounds, there is tobacco to help them. This is why it is an honored tradition not

only with the Principal People, but with all the other tribes.

"I think you have found your occupation," Black Bone said. "You will be the Tale Teller."

Surprised, Throat Shot agreed. So it was that the village of Five Birches had a minor ceremony and bestowed that new name on him.

Henceforth he would go from village to village, and entertain and educate them with his stories, and the people would give him

hospitality and gifts for the pleasure he brought them, and in this manner he would earn his keep.

As it turned out, he did more than that. As the Principal People learned that they could trust him with messages, they used him to

send greetings or insults to acquaintances in other villages. He established a regular route, going to each village where invited,

remaining for several days, then running to the next. The children turned out for his arrival, and there was always a lodge waiting

for him, sometimes empty, sometimes with a family. They gave him gifts, and in time he received the one he most desired: a good

blowgun. He practiced with it, in private, at first with unpoisoned darts, then with real ones, until he was able to bring down

squirrels and rabbits at will. It was not good for larger game, but he was satisfied. Now he could bring his own game to the fire.

He was to this extent a man again.

But one thing was missing. The Principal People were more open about the sport their maidens indulged in, and a woman could do

exactly as she pleased. But maidens did keep a clear eye on prospects, and a young woman generally bestowed her favors freely only

if she was considering a man for a serious association. Tale Teller had three marks against him in this respect: he was not of the

Principal People, he had only one useful arm, and he could not commit himself to remaining here. At any time the spirits of the

mounds might summon him away.

Occasionally a woman did come to him, as a matter of courtesy, but she made it plain that this constituted appreciation for the

service he rendered the village, rather than any direct interest in him as a man. He accepted what was offered, but it distinctly

lessened his pleasure in the experience. This was a far cry from what Beautiful Moon had given him, though she too had made no

pretense of permanence.

Yet he could not fault the women. Their attitude made sense, and was consistent with their culture. Were he ready to join the

Principal People tribe, and agree to remain here, he would be a better prospect. But that he could not do.

So he told his tales, and was at the same time the most popular and least popular visitor among them. He continued to learn the

tongue and ways of the Principal People, never speaking of his private dissatisfaction.

In the beginning, water covered everything. Living creatures existed, but their home was up in the sky, above the rainbow, and it

was crowded. "We need more room," the animals said. "We are tired of being all jammed together." So they sent Water Beetle to look

around to see if he could find something better.

Water Beetle skimmed over the surface, but he could not find any solid footing, so he dived down to the bottom and brought up a

little dab of soft mud. When it came to the surface it spread out in four directions and became a huge island. To prevent it from

sinking, Someone Powerful took rawhide ropes and tied them to the four corners: north, east, south, and west. The ropes were

anchored to the ceiling of the sky, which is made of hard rock crystal. If those ropes ever break, this world will come tumbling

down, and sink under the water, and all living things on it will drown. Then it will be as it was before, as if the land never

existed.

But the new land was soft, moist, and flat, which was not much good for living on. The animals were eager to live on it, so they

kept sending down birds to see if the mud had dried and hardened enough to hold their weight. The birds reported that there was no

spot they could perch on. But they did not fly across the whole of it, for the mud flat was quite large; indeed, it was hard to see

from one side of it to the other.

"I will look into this," Grandfather Buzzard said. He was the biggest bird and the strongest flier of them all. He flew down quite

close, and saw that the ground was still soft. But he continued to look, and when he passed what was to be the country of the

Principal People, he glided low and found that the mud was getting harder.

But by this time even this great bird was getting tired, and he was too low. When he flapped his wings down, they touched the earth

and dented it, making valleys. When he swept them up, they dragged earth with them and made mountains. He tried to gain elevation,

flapping harder, but it only made the valleys and mountains deeper and higher.

The animals watching from above the rainbow saw this, and were worried. "If he keeps on, there will be only mountainous country!"

So they called to Grandfather Buzzard to come back. He turned around, and managed to get far enough above the earth so that his

wings no longer touched, and he returned to the rainbow. This is why there are so many mountains in the land of the Principal

People, and not so many elsewhere.

At last the earth was dry enough and hard enough, and the animals came down to inhabit it. But it was dark, and they could not see

well, because the Sun and Moon remained up beyond the rainbow. "Let's grab the Sun and bring her down too!" they exclaimed. Many

tribes are too ignorant to know that the Sun is female and the Moon male; they get it backwards, and only the Principal People

remember it correctly.

So they pulled down the Sun, and told her, "Here is a road for you!" Indeed, they had prepared a path, so that the Sun could travel

all the way across the land, from east to west. The Sun was happy to do this, for she too preferred not to be crowded.

Now they had light, but it was too hot, because the Sun was too close to the earth. The crawfish had his back sticking out of a

stream, and the Sun burned it red. His meat was spoiled, and the people would not eat it.

The people went to the priests. "The Sun is too close and hot!" they said. "You must put her higher!" So the priests pushed the Sun

up as high as a man, but it remained too hot and parts of the earth were getting burned. They pushed her higher yet, but it was

still too close. They kept trying, and stood upon each other's shoulders so as to push the Sun as high as they could. After the

fourth time, they finally had her high enough, and the heat was just right. Everyone was satisfied, and the Sun remained at that

level, and she is there today.

Someone Powerful first created plants and animals, and told them to stay awake for seven days and seven nights. But most of them

couldn't manage it. Some fell asleep after one day, some after two, and others after three. Only the owl and the mountain lion

remained awake after seven days and nights. So they were given the gift of seeing in the dark, and now they hunt in the night.

Among the plants, only the cedar, pine, holly, and laurel were still awake at the end of the allotted time. To them was given the

gift of not losing their foliage in the winter, and now they remain green all the time.

Then Someone Powerful made a man and his sister. The man thought there should be more than just the two of them, so he poked her

with a fish and told her to give birth. After seven days she had a baby. Seven days later she had another. She kept having more

every seven days. The human people were increasing so rapidly that Someone Powerful was concerned that they would soon squeeze all

the other animals and the plants off the earth and ruin it for everyone. So he changed the woman, so that it would require more

than a fish to make her have a baby, and she could have only one child a year. After that it was possible for the human people to

live together in harmony with the animals and plants, and it was good.

The Principal People came to the mountains, and remain here, and this, too, is good.

CHAPTER 12

MAD QUEEN

O Spirit of the Mound, I have told you about the great ball game of the Principal People and how Throat Shot became Tale Teller and

told the tales of the game and the tobacco and the origin of the land. Now I will tell you how the child Tzec fared, for later I

was to meet her again and learn her story of the Castile Woman and the Mad Queen of the strange, distant Tribe of Castile.

Tzec was sad when Throat Shot left, for he was the man she intended to marry. By the time he returned, she would be old enough. The

spirit of the little mound at the Wide Water had told her that. But he had to marry elsewhere first: the Spirit had told her that

too. She was fiercely jealous of his first wife, but she intended to make him forget her when he returned.

Meanwhile, she had what turned out to be a good life here with the Trader. His sister, Three Scales, was a forbidding but good

woman who asked only that men and children stay out of her way. Tzec found herself in league with the Trader to do that, avoiding

the woman's cutting tongue. It was evident that the unmarried state made women sour. But the lodge was well kept, the food was

good, and the tongue was the only weapon the woman used.

The Trader was held in respect among the Ais, and so was his family. Tzec was allowed to associate with others her age, and she

soon enough picked up their tongue. She learned the things of the Ais, and they were like the things of the Calusa and Toco, but

different in detail. It didn't matter to her, as she regarded herself as a civilized Maya on an extended visit to the primitive

world. If she ever had the chance to return, and if she could be sure her father the Trader would not suffer by her absence— But

her thought always ended there, because she did not want to leave the Trader. Also, she had to be here when Throat Shot returned,

so she could marry him.

In the spring it was time to make the trading circuit. The Trader gathered his wares, some of which he had gotten from other

traders who came from the north or the south, and she helped him haul them to his canoe on the inland river. This was the hardest

part of it, because the loads were heavy, but she was resolved to show that a daughter could be as strong as a son, and she carried

her share. What a relief it was to get into the canoe!

She took the front seat and plied her paddle vigorously. She had practiced this over the winter, knowing that what the Trader

needed most was a strong supplementary paddle. He had paddled himself before, but as his age advanced, his muscles tired, and a

canoe was much easier to handle with two. That was why he had been willing to pick up Throat Shot, in part, and Throat Shot, though

one-armed, had done a good job. Tzec was an apt learner, and she intended to do as good a job.

They moved up through the lakes, and into a stream, northwest. At times the water seemed about to expire in a mudhole, but they

pushed on through. In one place it became no more than a muddy channel the Trader must have made by hauling his canoe along it in

past years. Had there not been a good rain recently, they would have had to portage here. But that was not an accident; the Trader

had been alert for the weather, and had been glad when it rained. Now she understood why.

But soon enough they had to portage anyway, in a fashion. They did not unload and carry the canoe; they got out and hauled it with

ropes, loaded, so at least they did not have to carry the stuff on their backs. The ground was mucky, and there were snakes; she

wished fearless Throat Shot were here to banish her fear, as he had before. There really was something magical about him; he

associated with the spirits, and it showed, especially when there were bad snakes around.

Both Tzec and the Trader were covered with sweat and grime by the time they reached a north-flowing river that he said would hold.

But they would have to wash before they reached the first village along it, he said. She didn't know why, but knew he knew best. So

they took turns watching for snakes and alligators as the other washed both body and clothes. In due course they were wet but

clean.

"You are young and small," the Trader remarked. "But you are nearly a woman. One more winter, I think."

She thought so too. Her smallness came from her mother; it did not mean she was not maturing. She wanted to achieve her maturity so

as to be ready in case Throat Shot returned early.

They dried in the sun, then resumed paddling. It was still slow, as the water was shallow, but they did not have to get out of the

canoe.

They reached the village. The people shook their heads as they signed greetings, recognizing the Trader. Where was his river

through the swamp? they wanted to know. They could not pass it without getting all muddy, yet he and his child had evidently never

left their canoe.

It was a trade secret, the Trader signed good-naturedly. Now Tzec understood why they had had to wash: it was to mystify the

villagers and give themselves an advantage. It was easier to strike an advantageous bargain with people who did not understand your

ways well enough.

They were provided a small lodge, so that Tzec was jammed right next to the Trader and the woman who came to him, honey-laden. It

was dark, but Tzec took advantage of the proximity to study in detail exactly what went on. She wanted no mistakes when it was her

turn to entertain some young man. She had never been able to see quite enough when Throat Shot did it, and in any event he was new

at it, and was limited by his bad arm. The Trader was thoroughly experienced, as was this woman, and they made a fair game of it,

teasing each other before concluding it with abandon.

So it went, from village to village, trading goods and news at each. Tzec helped by modeling the fine feather cloaks so that every

feather showed off to full advantage. Because she was small, they looked larger on her, and even more valuable. The Trader was

pleased; he was doing well. "It was a good day when the spirits brought me a daughter," he murmured in Ais, and it was all she

could do to mask her pleasure, lest the villagers think she was laughing at them.

In due course they came to the village where Throat Shot had lived, Toco Atafi. She inspected it carefully, for one day she hoped

to live here with him. The villagers were surprised to see the Trader with a daughter, when they had not known he had one; they

assumed she had been too young to travel before.

Then they reached the village where she had lived among the Toco for a winter, pretending to be mute rather than speak their

barbaric tongue. Her attitude on that had changed when Throat Shot came! He had been the first to respect her as a person, and to

make a genuine effort to communicate with her. She had been wary, distrusting any friendly overture, but soon knew that despite his

bad arm he was a good man, with a fine and ready mind. His arm would distract most women, who saw things only superficially, but

Tzec had already had enough experience to know how to look deeper. She had wanted this man to buy her, but he lacked the wealth.

Then, as they traveled together, she had come to understand her real desire, and that was to many him. When she was ready. It had

all started here in the village of Ibi Hica, one year ago.

Here they recognized her. "You have not sold your slave?" the Chief inquired of the Trader. He used signs, not realizing that Tzec

had learned enough of the Toco tongue to translate. She elected not to clarify that, and the Trader kept a similar silence. They

both knew why: there was advantage to be gained when the other party did not know you could understand his private consultations.

"She is my daughter," the Trader signed in return.

The Chief and the others were amazed. Why should a man waste a good prospect for trade by adopting a slave? For they knew that if

the Trader had a secret hankering for the sexual use of children, he would have indulged it without adoption. Such use of his

daughter would be shameful. The adoption had to be genuine.

The Trader let them ponder for a moment, then added in signs: "She saved my life."

Their amazement faded. So it was gratitude! Traders were not known for that sentiment, but it was possible.

They proceeded to the trading, and Tzec modeled the feather cloaks of the type that had constituted her purchase price before. The

women gazed at her, and saw how lovely she became in the feathers, and believed that the cloaks were responsible, and their desire

for these items increased. The men saw the same, and it occurred to them how much better any man or woman would look in one of

these, and how much status such a possession would confer.

The bargaining became brisk.

After it was done, Tzec knew she had earned back her purchase price by her enhancement of the cloaks, because the villagers had

paid more for them than they would have. She had also murmured to the Trader when anything was said that he should be aware of,

helping him keep track. The Trader had made a good bargain when he adopted her, and that pleased her, for she preferred to be truly

beholden to no one.

She was invited to share the night with the children she had known. She glanced at the Trader. "Do it," he murmured in Ais. "It

will give me more room with my woman."

She smiled. It was the first indication he had given that her presence bothered him, and she knew it was false. He liked to have

her near him, even when he clasped a woman. He knew her, and he trusted her, and it was a bond between them that had strengthened

over the year. But he wanted to give her some freedom. She was truly his daughter.

So she joined her erstwhile companions, who were eager to know where she had been and what she had done. She surprised them by

speaking Toco; now that the trading was done, it didn't matter. Her vocabulary was not large in this tongue, because she had not

been long enough with Throat Shot to learn it all, but she had the basic terms. Also, she had picked up some on her own while here,

making it easier.

She told them of her canoe journey down the river and out to the sea, and of the Calusa people with their island village and odd

double canoes, and of the great Wide Water that was not the sea but the biggest lake anyone could imagine. She told them of the

mounds she had visited with Throat Shot, and how he talked with the dead. She did not mention her own experience in that regard,

not being quite sure of it. Finally, she told how Throat Shot had helped her have the courage to handle a bad snake so it did not

bite the Trader, and how the Trader had then adopted her as his daughter.

They were awed, but they believed. They all remembered how the one-armed man had picked up the rattlesnake without being bitten.

"He has no fear!" they said in wonder.

"He has no fear," she agreed. That was perhaps the thing that had truly quickened her interest in Throat Shot. She had liked him

from the start, but the sight of him with that dire snake had affected her profoundly. Many claimed to have had experience with the

spirits, but he had proved it, because the Spirit had truly taken his fear. Surely there was no other man like that in all the

world of the living.

She enjoyed her visit much more than she had liked her stay here before. She was now not a possession waiting to be traded, but the

Trader's daughter, and that made all the difference. She had the respect accorded a person with a family.

They continued on the trading route, exchanging wares for others more valuable where they were going. Tzec loved it. She was caught

up in the spirit of striking bargains, of outwitting opposite numbers so as to come out ahead despite seeming not to. It was as if

the Trader's spirit had entered her and made her similar, as if she had always been his daughter.

The Cacique of the Calusa was as hospitable as before. He, too, recognized Tzec. "So you adopted him as your father?" he inquired,

smiling. His eyes narrowed appraisingly. "Next year you will come to me with the honey, eh?"

Tzec, astonished, was unable to respond. It had never occurred to her that so prominent a chief could desire so insignificant a

child.

The Trader laughed, covering her confusion. "My daughter is innocent in the ways of men. She has no notion that she is beautiful."

"She will learn," the Cacique said, joining the laugh.

Actually, Tzec did expect to be beautiful, because her mother had been. But the Cacique had access to the loveliest grown women of

his tribe, which was a different matter.

They proceeded to the trading, and Tzec assisted, and it was good. But her mind remained on the Cacique's remark. She well

understood it; what had surprised her was that he should bother to make it, for he knew her origin. She was too small, and she had

no true culture other than that of her mother, and her mother was dead. Probably it was just his way of complimenting her, in order

to please the Trader and perhaps gain an advantage in bargaining.

That night Heron Feather, the Cacique's beautiful young wife, came to the Trader. Tzec remembered her well; she had initiated

Throat Shot into the mysteries of sex. Tzec had learned a tantalizing amount, being unable to see the detail. This time she watched

even more carefully, studying what it was that made a man react most directly. She saw that it was not just the woman's good body,

but the way she moved it, accentuating the parts of it that drew a man's eye. There was art to this, and it had to be done just

right, or the effect was weakened or lost.

And when the Trader was done with her, Heron Feather was not done with him. She continued to stroke him and speak to him,

whispering what a fine man he was and how happy he had made her, though she had been the one working to make him happy. She made it

seem as if she had never before encountered as skillful a lover as he. The Trader was not for a moment deceived, yet he evidently

enjoyed hearing it. That was another lesson: the man was willingly deceived.

They slept, and Tzec slept too. In the morning Heron Feather teased him awake and into action again, twining around him like a

serpent, forcing him to respond while making it seem that it was his initiative. It was as if she were doing a dance, with every

aspect just right. "You wear me out with your power!" she breathed without the slightest indication of humor.

When they were back in the canoe and alone on the river that traveled inland, the Trader spoke. "You noted what we did, as you did

last year?"

"Only twice, for you," Tzec replied.

"Twice is enough, for an old man. Heron Feather is the best I have encountered. If you learn from her, you will learn well."

"The Cacique," she asked hesitantly. "Did he really mean...?"

"He has an eye for beauty, and you will be beautiful," the Trader said seriously. "He was complimenting you, but it was not empty.

He thought to make you react as you did, most fetchingly."

"But the honey—"

"You will still be young, next year, but I think not too young. It would be a great compliment to him if you asked him to teach you

the way of honey, that you might learn first from the best."

"Is he the best?"

"Of course not! But you must never let a man know that. Did not you see how Heron Feather flattered me?"

"You liked it, though you knew she pretended."

"That is the folly of men. Do that with the Cacique, and he will be generous, though you will fool him no more than Heron Feather

fooled me."

And future trading would be good. She saw the rationale. Yet she doubted. "What if I am not good with him?"

"A girl need not be good her first time. A man values it anyway, for there can never be another first time. The Cacique especially,

for he counts the number of firsts to his credit."

"But suppose he wanted to keep me? I do not want to leave you, my father."

"He has no need to keep any who do not wish to stay, for there are many who do wish to stay. I will, if you wish, make clear that I

cannot do without your help on my rounds."

She considered that, and it seemed good. Here would be an excellent way to learn, without commitment. The fact that it might also

improve the Trader's reception by the powerful Calusa made it that much better.

The Trader mistook her silence. "I do not urge this course on you, my daughter. Only if you are ready, and wish it. This matter

must always be the woman's choice, until she marries. I merely advise you what is good."

"It seems good to me, my father," she said. And it did.

They completed the circuit, having made an excellent season of it. Tzec had helped the trading, and even the Trader's sour sister,

Three Scales, was hard put to it to conceal her pleasure at this success.

During the winter Tzec's body began its development, and so at ten and one winters she was nubile, though her breasts were as yet

small. She asked Three Scales about honey, and the woman, acting in the capacity of mother, got a pouch of it from the priest. "Use

it sparingly," Three Scales warned. "This much at a time, no more, lest it be wasted." She demonstrated by dipping a fingerful.

"Every spring, get new; it does not keep longer than a summer and winter. Do not use it when you see no need; the men smell it." So

it was that Tzec's sexual education was completed; she was now ready to be a woman, when she chose.

On the Trader's next circuit, Tzec did as he had suggested. When she saw the Cacique, she knelt and lifted her hands in the

prescribed manner. When he touched her hands, she murmured with unfeigned hesitancy, "Illustrious one, you spoke of honey last

year. I have saved my first honey for you because I wish to learn from the best. Will you teach me?"

The Cacique had evidently forgotten his remark of the prior year, but now he looked closely at her, becoming interested. He glanced

at the Trader. "Your daughter—"

"I must have her help on my rounds," the Trader signed, approximately. "I am getting older, and she makes it easier. But I can

spare her for one night."

The Cacique turned to Heron Feather. Without a word, the woman took Tzec by the arm and guided her to the women's chambers. There

they ate, and after that Heron Feather took her to a special room to get ready. "You must be in a better outfit," she said, and

brought out a fine, almost translucent cloak. "We will keep your moss skirt for you." She made Tzec stand naked, and washed her

body with a sponge. "He will like you; you are young but pretty."

"But what do I say? What do I do?" Tzec asked, worried. "I have seen it many times, but never done it, and I fear—"

"Say yes, always, unless he asks whether you are uncomfortable. Do whatever he says. Do not sleep until he sleeps, and wake when he

wakes. If you bleed, apologize. He will treat you well, for he likes you."

"I am frightened," Tzec confessed.

"So was I, the first time," Heron Feather said. "He expects it. He will try to be gentle. He is very pleased that you came to him,

and his pleasure is a good thing."

"So my father said."

"And ever after, until you marry, you must say that the Cacique was best."

Tzec nodded tensely. She understood the protocol.

As evening came, Heron Feather saw to her application of honey and brought her to the Cacique's chamber. "May the spirits be kind

to you," she murmured.

Tzec stepped inside. The Cacique was waiting for her. He had an elevated bed that looked very soft. "Come to me, lovely little

woman," he said.

After that her memory fuzzed. She remembered the feel of his hands on her small breasts, and of his mouth on her mouth, and of his

great hard penis deep inside her body, but the rest was vague, except that she had been tense at the start and was less so at the

end. She hoped he had had good pleasure with her body, but she had had none with his.

"Have you enjoyed it, little woman?" he inquired.

"Yes, illustrious one," she replied.

"It is not true, but I thank you. I think you are just a little too young, but you will not be too young for the next man. I will

make you glad you came to me."

She was afraid he was going to do it again, but instead he slept. Relieved, she let herself join him.

He stirred several times during the night, and each time she woke, tense again, ready to do what he asked, but he did not ask. When

morning came he smiled at her. "You did not cut out my heart, little woman."

Tzec's mouth dropped open. "Oh illustrious one, I never—"

He laughed, and kissed her on the forehead. "Go to the women's room, and then to your father. You have done well."

Somewhat tired and somewhat sore, she donned her cloak and went. Heron Feather wasn't there, but another woman was and she knew

what to do. "You have pleased the Cacique, and he will please you," the woman said as she cleaned Tzec up and put her regular skirt

on her. "Now eat, and I will take you to your father."

Tzec was hardly hungry, but she did take some fruit. Then Heron Feather returned, looking as if she had had a far better night's

sleep than Tzec. "He is pleased," she said.

Everyone seemed to know that, but Tzec wasn't sure. She knew she had not performed at all the way she should have; she had been

tense no matter how hard she had tried to prevent it, and the Cacique had known. She had seen Heron Feather in action, and knew

that the Cacique would have been much, much better off with her.

Then at last she was taken out to rejoin the Trader. Only now could she truly relax. He saw her and smiled. "You pleased him," he

said in Ais.

As they went to their canoe, they paused, for it was different. There was a pile of beautiful shells in it, any one of which was an

excellent trading item. Their trading venture had abruptly become much better than before.

Now at last Tzec understood just what the Cacique's pleasure was worth.

When they were well away from the Calusa island and paddling up the river, they talked about it. "My daughter, I know the first

time is hard," the Trader said. "I see you are tired. We will find a place to camp, and you can rest for a day."

"No, I can paddle!" she protested. But his offer had opened the subject, and she continued. "I know I did not do well. Why was he

so pleased?"

"He did not hurt you?"

"He did only what a man does, but I was so tense I am ashamed. He treated me well, but I was afraid."

"My daughter, that is the difference between the first time and the other times. No matter how often she has seen it done, and how

well she is prepared, a girl cannot do it well at first. At best she is tense, and at worst she hurts and bleeds. He expected that.

I have done it with first-time girls, and I know."

"Then why did he want me? Heron Feather would have been so much better!"

"Three reasons. First, because you are beautiful."

She paused in her paddling, turning around to face him. "It is true, my father?" Somehow she always needed to be reassured on this,

though she knew she was being foolish.

"It is true. You are small, and your breasts are slight and your hips narrow, but that is because you are young. Next year you will

attract the eye of every man who encounters you. But already your face is one to make men dream. I know that when the Cacique's

wives cleaned you and garbed you in fine clothing, you were lovelier than any of them."

"Not Heron Feather!" she protested.

"Heron Feather has a body like none other, and her face is pretty," he agreed. "But she is two tens and two or three winters old,

and so has lost the perfection of youth. You are prettier than she now."

She suspected he was flattering her to make her forget her ignominy of the night. He was succeeding. "What are the other reasons he

wanted me?"

"Because it was the first time for you. It is special mettle for a man to be the first to do it with a woman. There is only one

first time, so it is important. When you came to him and asked him to be your first, it magnified him in the eyes of all his

people."

"But he must have had many firsts!"

"Certainly—and he values each one. It shows that he retains his appeal and his prowess. You are not his subject; you did not have

to seek him. You flattered him in the best way he could be flattered. Others will speak of this for a long time: how the girl from

afar sought him because he is the best."

"But how could he be sure that it was my first? I mean—"

"He is experienced. He knows. There are things a woman cannot pretend. What you thought made you poor actually confirmed your

inexperience. That pleased him."

It made sense now. The Cacique had not wanted mere sex, he had wanted to be the first—and she had given him that. "What is the

third reason?"

"It is who you are."

"Your daughter!" she said immediately, pleased.

He smiled. "That, in part. But more, it is that you are your mother's daughter. Your mother had a certain notoriety."

"She was a Maya!"

"She cut out the heart of any man who took her by force."

Suddenly the Cacique's remark of the morning fell into place. "He said I did not cut out his heart! But I never intended—"

"He knew that. But the notion added spice. Others will say he is a special man, because the daughter of the Maya did not cut out

his heart, after he possessed her and slept in her presence. No other Chief can make that claim."

Tzec shook her head. "And you have a fine collection of shells! I am glad I chose him to be my first."

"He knew you would be. He is a fair man, and you gave him much. Those shells are yours."

"Oh, no, my father, they are yours!" she protested. "You are the Trader."

"They are yours," he repeated firmly. "When you marry, your husband will be wealthy."

"I thank you, my father," she said, near tears in gratitude.

"You have given me more than shells," he said.

"You have given me more than anything," she responded.

They continued paddling, and her body remained tired and sore, but her heart was high.

When they returned to the Ais village, and Tzec's time was free, she considered the matter, and then went to the lodge of a young

man she knew had not much experience. His face was scarred from a childhood accident, and because the scar had not been acquired in

battle, it shamed him rather than being handsome. Thus he was called Scar Nose. The girls were fickle, and avoided him. Tzec went

to him because she knew he would be grateful.

He was unbelieving. "You—the most beautiful girl of the village?" he asked. "Do you come to tease me?"

"I come to you only this night," she said. "But it is not to tease you. I know you are a better man than others think." She kissed

him, knowing that he smelled her honey and was aroused by it.

He found that easy to accept, in the fashion of men. He was relatively clumsy in the sexual act, and she had to help him, and it

was not any genuine pleasure for her. But she complimented him on his performance, and indeed she was pleased that she had done

this. She had proved that she could handle it, and that she was competent even when the man was not. She also knew that she had

enhanced Scar Nose's status in the village, especially among the men. That gave her a feeling of power.

She did not go often to young men's lodges, but did it enough to gain the experience she needed. Now she felt competent to make a

man happy, when she chose.

The third trading circuit went well. Tzec was conscious of the eyes of young men on her at each village, and sometimes she chose to

go with one of them for the night, especially when this enhanced the prospects of trade. When they reached the Calusa island, she

sought the Cacique, and this time she gave him much more pleasure of the body and less of reputation, for she was obviously

experienced. "I have had men," she told him, "but none to match you, my first."

"I have had women," he replied. "But none to match you, my loveliest."

"Really?" she asked, thrilled, forgetting herself.

He laughed. "My tongue can be as forked as yours! Never question a compliment."

She knew then that she was n