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Authors: W. Michael Gear,Kathleen O'Neal Gear

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BOOK: People of the Weeping Eye (North America's Forgotten Past)
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A sea of people surrounded the plaza. The height of the mound gave her a clear view of the great contest being waged on the stickball field. The sight of it brought
her to a stop at the head of the stairway. In all directions, shouting, milling people crowded around the plaza. House roofs seemed to rise from the human mass like islands.
I am a rock.
She struggled to simply let herself be.
A rock.
Keeping that thought was so difficult. It seemed to slip back and forth like a fish.
“Take a moment,” the Kala Hi’ki said. “Remember how strong you are. Solid. A great mass that not even the crowd can move. You are alone within yourself. None of this is real. Only you are. Let it pass by.”
She filled her lungs, then let the breath drain away. “I am alone inside myself,” she repeated.
“Now look out with your eyes of stone. Tell me what you see. You are not part of it. Only an observer from within a heart of solid rock. What your eyes see is outside and meaningless.”
From the distance she had created within herself, she looked out. “People surround the plaza. Inside the square, young men are running, shoving. They are playing a great game of stickball.”
As she stared upon the scene from her high vantage, she had a good view of the frantic game. The players were all young men in breechcloths. Some wore white bustles that stuck out from their belts like flowing tail feathers. Their heads were done up in more feathers that bobbed and weaved as they ran. The effect was as if peculiar wingless birds were running, jumping, and shoving. One team wore white, the other yellow. She had seen stickball played in her own country, but there they used only one racquet. Here the players held two, each about the length of a man’s arm, the end bent in a loop and webbed with rawhide.
In the north teams consisted of perhaps twenty; here, they numbered in the hundreds as they ebbed and flowed, shouting, running, shoving together in great masses. She caught sight of the ball as it emerged from a mass, flying in a long arc. For a time the human mass contined to
shove and mill, most of the players having lost sight of the ball. Then the press dissolved as a hundred men charged off in pursuit.
The goals were at opposite sides of the plaza, the closest just east of the Temple Mound. There two tall posts had been set in the ground; a crosspiece was laid between them twice the height of a man above the ground. From the closest, yellow fabric flagging was draped. At the far end of the field, the goal sported white.
“Who is playing?” the Kala Hi’ki asked.
“A white team plays yellow.”
“Ah,” he said. “Cattail Town is white and plays Canebrake Town in yellow. They have a score to settle. A dispute over an arranged marriage. A woman from Canebrake Town was promised to a man in Cattail Town. Then her family married her to another. If Cattail Town wins, they will receive compensation. Adding to the fury of the contest, Canebrake Town has won for the last five matches. It is said they have managed to ‘doctor’ the grounds each time. Cattail has a new conjurer. He is supposed to have influenced the Power so that they will win this time.”
The ball was neatly caught by a young man in yellow. With his racquet, he slung the ball toward the goal. There three men in white mobbed the yellow player, knocking him to the ground. The ball was neatly intercepted and pitched south toward the white goal.
Two Petals stared in amazement as the milling players ran together, people grunting under the impact. She watched two players wiggle between the legs of a third, then try to rise between the man’s legs, the three of them falling in a pile. The clatter of banging sticks rose over the roar of the crowd and whooping cries of the players.
Another press formed around the ball, people grunting and bellowing, squirming like a mass of earthworms. A single man wiggled from the mess, tossing the ball northward toward the yellow goal. A racquet neatly
snatched it from the air, and the man turned, winging the ball north again, where another player leapt, caught the ball, and turned like a bobcat. As he hit the ground, his wiry body curved around and he whipped the ball between the goals.
A fierce shout exploded from the crowd. The force of it staggered Two Petals, and she tightened her grip on the Kala Hi’ki’s hand.
“You are a rock,” he told her. “You are only my eyes. Eyes can’t think. They only observe. To see is passive. Let what your eyes see pass through you.”
She steadied herself, forcing calm around her souls.
“What just happened?” the Kala Hi’ki asked.
“Yellow scored a goal.”
“Then the score keepers will place a stick in the ground for Canebrake Town. They will play to twenty, placing ten sticks and then taking them down again with each score.”
“What does the winner get?” she asked.
“On top of compensation for the woman, the towns have bet most everything they own: pottery, clothing, jewelry, food. Sometimes they even bet the clothes on their backs. Cattail Town has been nearly destitute for over a year now. Perhaps this new conjurer isn’t as good as they have hoped.”
Two Petals watched the teams re-form. The ball—having been retrieved—was run by a boy to an old man who walked out from the sidelines. He looked frail and small flanked by massed parallel ranks of the opposing teams. In the alley left down the middle of the field, he stopped, glanced back and forth, and then pitched the ball straight up in the air. He wheeled on his feet, sprinting for the sideline. The teams crashed together, and the melee began again, buoyed by a roaring of the crowd.
“Yellow has the ball again,” Two Petals noted as it was flung northward. As the mass of players dissolved to sprint after the ball, two men hobbled toward the sidelines. One held his arm; the other’s face streamed
blood from a broken nose. Only after that portion of the field was left empty could she see the limp body of a third. Two of the Cattail Town players hesitated, then went back and carried their limp comrade to the sidelines, where the crowd took the burden and bore him to the rear.
“They take their play seriously,” Old White noted from where he stood beside the Kala Hi’ki. “They hope Power will favor them for their dedication.”
“And it is better that the disagreement over the woman is settled here, under the watchful eyes of Power,” the Kala Hi’ki added. “They hope Mother Sun and the Spirits will grant favor to the side with the greatest merit. Here everyone can see justice done. The towns can take out their grievances without resorting to bloodshed.”
Two Petals smiled slightly as a dazed man was left behind the scrimmage, blood dripping from his mouth. She watched as he rolled onto his knees and wrenched his dislocated jaw back in place. When he stood, he almost toppled, weaving his way on wobbling legs to the side, where his relatives crowded around him, patting him on the back, thumping his shoulders, and propelling his wobbly body back onto the field.
Cattail Town’s white-clad players broke the ball free, passing it neatly from player to player, each catching the ball in their hoops and finally casting it through the far goal.
She waited for the roar of the crowd to vanish, then said, “That was Cattail Town’s goal.”
The Kala Hi’ki asked, “How are my eyes faring? Are you still a rock?”
“I am still a rock.” She watched the teams take their places as the old man walked out between the ranks, another boy bringing the ball to the elder.
“Do you begin to understand the lesson?” the Kala Hi’ki asked. “Can you see the way of it? How you can just let the world pass? For you, Contrary, none of this is
real. The struggle you face is to convince yourself of it. All of your life you have been taught that you must be part of the world around you. You have been directed since you were little to be one of the players. People have encouraged you to interact with them, talk, and participate. Deep inside you is the need to have people respond, to see approval in their eyes. As Power grew inside you, you tried harder and harder to fit in, to be one of them. In the end, you were only fighting against yourself and the gift Power filled you with.”
“But I—”
“There is no but!” the Kala Hi’ki insisted sternly. “Surrender yourself. Give up Two Petals. She is no more. The woman you once were, the one you fought so desperately to keep, is faded like a shadow under the clouds. Only the Contrary remains. You are separate. Special. Power has placed you apart. As it has me. Only when you give up trying to be as you once were—forget trying to be like everyone else—will you accept Power, and allow the world to wash around you.”
She nodded, swallowing hard. In that moment, she began to lose her focus. She could feel the tremble begin in her jaw.
“You are a rock,” the Kala Hi’ki told her firmly. “Close your eyes. Concentrate on being impervious. There, that’s it. Feel the world flow past like the river. Allow the noise of the crowd to pass around you. It is illusion. Not of your world, but a distraction to keep you from yourself. Ignore it. Sound is not real. You only imagine it.” He paused, letting her concentrate. “Search for yourself inside. Find your souls. They are real. You are real. You are the rock. The world flows around you.”
She felt herself still; the trembling fear receded.
“Let Two Petals go,” he said softly. “You are the Contrary. You are only the Contrary. Not of this world, but separate.”
She nodded, her breathing settling.
I am calm. I am stone.
She opened her eyes and just stood, letting the sights and sounds flow past.
It is all illusion.
“Who has the ball?” the Kala Hi’ki asked.
“Yellow again.” She watched, forcing herself to be detached. In that state she let herself speak. She simply let the words flow through her. For the first time since her mother’s death, she experienced peace.
“Yes,”
one of the voices in her head said.
“This is the way it is supposed to be.”
I am Contrary. I exist outside the world. The rest is illusion.
In the end it didn’t matter that Cattail Town won. It simply was.
M
orning cast a gray luminescence into the eastern sky. Rainbow City was already coming awake—not that it had slept with Dances, feasting, and celebration through most of the night. Frost had settled on thatch roofs and coated the brown leaves of grass where they had been beaten flat. It left a hoar on the posts and ramadas, and turned treacherous the wooden stairways that climbed the mounds.
In the predawn light, Trader studied the cool stone disk he cupped in his right hand. He had Traded for the stone blank many years ago while living among the Caddo. The blank had come from high in the mountains at the headwaters of the White River. Then, over the next year he had laboriously ground concaves into each side, and rounded it to fit a circle he had scribed onto a piece of leather. When he had the shape perfect for his hand, he had used fine sand sifted through fabric to polish it. The process had entailed using ever finer sand on wet leather until the surface was so glossy it reflected his image. The rounded circumference was dull now, having been rolled down countless clay tracks.
He hefted his lance in his left hand and looked around at the awakening city. A smoky pall hung over the pointed roofs. When a dog barked in the distance, Swimmer perked his ears. Stakeholders had already set up shop on the plaza before the Council House. There they would take the wagers on the day’s chunkey match as well as for the final stickball game. This was the
grand one, played between the Yuchi Chief and Warrior Moieties. It would follow immediately after his chunkey game with Born-of-Sun.
Trader took a deep breath, watching it rise in the frozen air as he exhaled the tension inside him. Then he walked to the starting mark. Swimmer sat to one side, his head cocked. It had been something of a battle to keep the dog from running beside him, barking, and then chasing the chunkey stone as it raced down the clay track.
Trader stilled his thoughts, balanced his lance, and played the cast in his mind. Uncle Flying Hawk’s words came back from his youth:
“The trick is to concentrate. You must release the stone true. Knowing how it will roll and where it will stop is to know where to cast your lance. If you understand this thing, you will win. Mastery only comes of long practice, of familiarity with your equipment.”
That Trader knew. After all, what did a Trader do for an entire winter among a foreign people? He didn’t have family, friends, and kin obligations. He needn’t prepare for festivals, or see to the raising of his nieces and nephews. Instead, he played chunkey. If he was good, he could gamble on his skill; and by winning, fill his canoe with more precious Trade to take upriver.
But I’ve never wagered my life before.
It was sobering knowledge that had plagued his sleep.
Uncle’s words came back.
“The trick is to concentrate.”
Trader scuffed his moccasined feet on the hard clay, flexing his thighs, rolling his shoulders. Swimmer perked up, aware of what was about to happen.
Trader crouched slightly, his gaze fixed on the long clay strip. He launched himself, taking four fast steps, bent, and smoothly released the stone. It kissed the ground, spinning off his fingers. Trader let momentum carry him forward, smoothly shifted his lance, and cast at the second mark, sure of where the stone would stop.
He pulled up, watching the lance spin slowly through the air. The stone rolled straight and true. He could feel the rightness of it. As the lance arced, the stone slowed. It curved to the right as he had known it would, and toppled to its side. The lance impacted point first—an arm’s length from the stone.
“Well done!” a voice called from behind.
He turned back to see Born-of-Sun kneeling beside Swimmer, mussing the dog’s long hair.
Trader shrugged. “I’ve done better.”
“So have we all.” Born-of-Sun rose and gestured for Swimmer to stay. He carried his own lance and one of the beautiful stones Trader had seen in the box.
Trader trotted down the clay, retrieved his stone and lance, and jogged back. Born-of-Sun was staring at his stone.
“Nice piece,” the chief noted. “Trade for it?”
“Made it.”
“Excellent workmanship. And the lance?”
“Cut from a white ash sapling. It took a while, but with judicious sanding I managed to get the balance just right.”
The chief nodded, his attention turning to the chunkey court. “I didn’t get much chance to practice. The chiefs had a meeting that lasted most of the day yesterday. I didn’t even get to watch the game between Canebrake and Cattail Towns. I heard that Cattail pulled it out in the end.”
“It was close,” Trader agreed. “Canebrake would have had it, but one of their players struck another from behind with his racquet. The judges took a point as penalty.”
“Passion can lead men to foolish things.” Born-of-Sun hefted his lance, testing its balance. “May I?”
Trader stepped back, nodding. He walked over to Swimmer, stopping to lay his lance to the side and scratch the dog’s ears. “Let’s see what we’re up against.”
Born-of-Sun squatted to loosen his muscles, flexed
his shoulders, and took his position. He drew a deep breath, eyes closed. When he opened them, he started forward, neatly bowling his stone down the track. In another four paces, he released, just shy of the mark. Trader nodded, impressed by the man’s perfect cast. He stood, watching the lance arc over the speeding stone. It would be close.
“Come on. Let’s go see,” he said to Swimmer, and together they trotted down the court behind Born-of-Sun. The lance had stuck no more than an arm’s length from the stone. “The distance between your cast and mine could only be determined with a measuring string.”
“I got lucky,” Born-of-Sun said modestly. “It’s the first cast of the morning. Generally I’m happy to keep stone and lance inside the bounds of the court.”
“I’m sure,” Trader noted as the chief retrieved his pieces.
Together they walked back, Swimmer’s tail cutting lazy arcs in the morning air.
“That was a good visit we had the other day,” Born-of-Sun remarked. “I have given our talk a great deal of consideration.”
“And?”
“I would set your mind at rest. When I win this thing, I will not be putting you to death.”
“That’s a fine thing. When I win this thing, I will not leave with a dark view of the Tsoyaha.”
Born-of-Sun chuckled. “I would like to know something: When I win, and your fate becomes mine, will you stay here without resentment, understanding that the outcome was the will of Mother Sun?”
Trader shrugged. “I accepted this gamble in good faith. I am a man of many things: One of them is my word. I am here under the Power of Trade. But, yes, if by some sorcery you manage to win, I will keep my end of the bargain.”
“Good. As I will keep mine.” He gestured as they reached the starting mark. “Your cast.”
Trader put Swimmer in his place, telling him to stay. He walked to the mark, seating the stone carefully in his hand, feeling the cold disk against his palm. From long practice, he stilled himself, running the cast through the eye of his souls. When he launched, it was in fluid motion; he barely broke stride as he bowled the stone, shifted the lance, and released it to arc, spinning through the sky.
The lance nosed over, almost meeting the stone as it toppled onto its side.
“Well done!” Born-of-Sun cried.
In his excitement, Swimmer let out a staccato of happy barks.
As they trotted down the course, Born-of-Sun added, “We talked about something the other day—about how over the last tens of summers, people know less and less about each other. Face it, the Trade is slowly fading away. You, however, know the hearts and minds of a great many peoples, nations that I will never visit.”
“I do.”
“You and Old White could become valued counselors to a chief who would listen and consider your words.”
“Meaning you.”
Born-of-Sun nodded. “I think we are entering a difficult time. This thing with the Chikosi, for example—I have no idea how it will turn out.”
“If we are to believe Power, then Old White, the Contrary, and I will bring it to some sort of conclusion. Something happened when Old White was a boy. His heart beats at the center of this. I think that’s why he ran.”
“Who is he?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. Nor will he say. And, believe me, I have been searching my souls for the answer.” Trader stopped to stare down at the lance. It rested no more than a hand’s breadth from the edge of the stone.
“That will be hard to beat.” Born-of-Sun raised an eyebrow.
Trader recovered his pieces, and as they started back,
said, “I can’t figure it out. Unlike me, he has no tattoos that would indicate he was Chief Clan, but he thinks he is a relative of mine.”
“And you heard of no one of his age leaving your people?”
“No one. And if they had, I would have heard. No, he’s as much a mystery to me as he is to you. I could almost believe that Power made him up from clay and breathed Spirit into him for reasons of its own.”
“He has never given you a name?”
“Only Old White, and of course, the Seeker is known far and wide. When he and the Contrary found my camp that night, I thought it was a trick. The Seeker is almost mythical.”
They reached the mark, and Trader stepped to one side. He watched Born-of-Sun curiously. His entire future hung in the balance, and here he was, talking as if to a best friend. Fact was, he really liked Born-of-Sun. This was the sort of chief that people longed for, his authority tempered by a kind and thoughtful humanity. That Born-of-Sun could shift from an indulgent uncle playing with children and dogs to a respected leader was a trait Trader had rarely seen—and never with such deft competence.
Born-of-Sun took a breath, his eyes closed. When the man launched, it was with grace and power. He had bowled his stone perfectly, his cast arcing through the sky. Trader stood, craning his neck to see. It would be close.
Together they trotted down the course, Swimmer bounding along, his long hair rolling with each joyous leap.
“When you lose,” Born-of-Sun said seriously as he measured a hand’s breadth between his lance and stone, “you would be most welcome to Trade out of Rainbow City. Sometimes that gets in a man’s blood. I think it is in yours. You will always have a base here. I would be happy to have you come and go as you pleased.
Consider yourself to be my agent, if you will. It would be good to have someone I trusted bring me information on other chiefs in other lands.”
“When I win, I will be happy to send runners to you every now and then. There will be problems between the Chikosi and the Tsoyaha. Not because we wish them, but because that is just the nature of people. When those problems occur, I would see us meet, discuss them, and find a solution that didn’t involve war parties, bloodshed, and retaliation.”
Born-of-Sun pulled his lance from the ground and picked up his stone. “I have several female cousins who are coming of age, and another, older, who was recently widowed. Perhaps I should introduce you. When Rainbow City becomes your home, it would be good to have a wife to make your life comfortable.”
“You’ve planned this right down to the last detail, haven’t you?”
Born-of-Sun looked back at Swimmer. “My brother has a black bitch. When she cycles again, we should put them together. By then I will be ready to raise another dog. I miss mine.”
Trader tried to judge their casts. “So far, I’m not sure either one of us is showing any advantage. Our casts seem to be particularly well matched.”
“And, I think, so are we.” Born-of-Sun looked up at the lightening sky. “I have to go now. On this very sacred day I must make my greetings to Mother Sun as she appears over the horizon. But I want you to think of this, Trader: Power brought you here to me under auspicious signs. Perhaps Rainbow City is truly where your destiny lies. Whatever will happen among the Sky Hand, you have no guarantees that you will survive it. As to the Contrary, I have heard that the Kala Hi’ki has been making good progress teaching her how to handle her Powers. She would be welcome among us, and we could care for her special needs. The Kala Hi’ki is old, and I think his wounds weaken him more with every passing season.
The Seeker, too, would find a place among us, treasured for his knowledge of foreign peoples and events.” He glanced at Trader. “Perhaps, when we play for real at high sun, your hand might tremble just the slightest. Should you lose by no more than a finger’s width, you know what people will say.”
BOOK: People of the Weeping Eye (North America's Forgotten Past)
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