Anthony,Piers - Tatham Mound

Piers Anthony

Tatham Mound

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CONTENTS

Introduction

Chapter 1 — Spirit

Chapter 2 — Trader

Chapter 3 — Maya

Chapter 4 — Little Blood

Chapter 5 — Calusa

Chapter 6 — Sweet Medicine

Chapter 7 — Wide Water

Chapter 8 — Signs

Chapter 9 — Mound

Chapter 10 — Sacrifice

Chapter 11 — Tale Teller

Chapter 12 — Mad Queen

Chapter 13 — Twice Cursed

Chapter 14 — Renunciation

Chapter 15 — Wren

Chapter 16 — Castile

Chapter 17 — De Soto

Chapter 18 — Search

Chapter 19 — Battle

Chapter 20 — Return

Chapter 21 — Mound

Author's Note

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INTRODUCTION

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

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

called the Cove of the Withlacoochee. He had assistance from a team of volunteers from the Withlacoochee River

Archaeology Council (WRAC). They hoped to locate the secret stronghold of the famed Seminole leader Osceola in

the nineteenth century, when he hid from the white man's troops and conducted the war that the United States was

never quite able to win. Instead, to their surprise, they discovered an unnatural hill in the level swampy area near the

river. It was two meters (six feet) high and twenty meters (sixty feet) across, and overgrown with brush and small trees.

It looked very much like an earlier Indian burial mound, hidden in the wilderness of the Cove.

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

started digging a square hole. Less than a foot down they encountered pay dirt: part of a human skull and some

long-bone fragments and pottery sherds. This was enough to confirm the mound as a Safety Harbor site. Historically

the Safety Harbor peoples of the Tampa Bay region are known as the Tocobaga Indians, who were first contacted by

Spanish explorers early in the sixteenth century. Relatively little is known about them because they disappeared

before Florida was settled by the Europeans.

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

Tatham (TAY-tham) Mound, and preparations were made for its archaeological excavation by the University of

Florida. One might consider such a project to be hardly worthwhile, because available evidence suggested that this

region was a relative backwater even in Indian terms. Certainly little money was available for such things. However,

the parents of one of the girls in WRAC got interested and decided to underwrite the excavation of Tatham Mound.

Thus this project became viable at an early date, and the work proceeded.

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

was a serious business to the Indians, as it is to us of the contemporary world, and for similar reason. We do not bury

our lost beloved for the purpose of having some stranger muck about in the grave and play with the remains. If you

believe, as many in both cultures do, that there is a spiritual association with the physical body, the desecration of

those remains assumes a greater significance. Have we of one culture the right to interfere with what those of another

culture set up? Shouldn't we honor their beliefs and practice, as we wish others to honor ours? In short, shouldn't that

mound have been left alone?

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

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

being entirely lost—unless it could be recovered through research and fieldwork. This mound represented perhaps

the last significant opportunity to learn about these Indians, and if it was not excavated, their culture could indeed be

lost. If the burial of the dead is intended to maintain the memory of the lives and culture of the tribe, this memory can

better be facilitated by study of those burials. In fact, in this age of literacy and of computer technology, the museum

may be a better repository for those bones than the ground.

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

horror of an entire tribe dying out. I lived at that time in Vermont, where the Mohicans (or Mahicans) once were, and

was deeply moved by that notion, though the novel itself may have been unrealistic adventure. Now I live in Citrus

County, Florida, and this mound showed that there were Indians here too. To me it would seem a crime to let their

memory perish.

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

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

unscrupulous scavengers, who will sell the beads and other native artifacts, put the pottery on mantels, and

carelessly scatter the bones. No respect for law stops these lawless; they simply come and take what they can find.

After they have passed, what remains has diminished value as either sacred burial or for research. Also, many mounds

have been bulldozed flat by developers or farmers clearing their fields for planting. That was why Tatham Mound

might be the last chance: of the many other Safety Harbor mounds known in the state, only this one remained intact

and unlooted. Those of us who care for either Indian heritage or the sanctity of the dead may be outraged, but it was a

fact: the mound would not be left alone.

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

record of this tribe, and therefore of the Indians of this section of the country, could be salvaged. Perhaps ideally it

would have been better to leave it alone, untouched—but that was not a viable choice.

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

Spanish artifacts associated with the North American Indians, and convincing evidence that these natives had had

contact with the explorer Hernando de Soto. The face of local archaeology was significantly changed. Much more is

now known about these obscure Florida Indians than was available before. There is a longer discussion of such

matters in the Author's Note at the end of this book.

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

mound was tragic. What was their personal story? We can never know precisely, but this novel represents one

conjecture. This is a vision of the living folk of the region, whose bones were found in Tatham Mound. It could have

happened this way.

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

its immediate north. For convenience, the language employed to tell this story is modern, with place names usually

rendered as their meanings. Thus, for example, the Withlacoochee River is the Little Big River. Where the Indian

concepts do not align perfectly with ours, approximations or vernacular terms are used, though this may seem

anachronistic. The point is that these were living, feeling human beings whose vanished culture is worthy of respect,

as is our own. We honor them to the best of our ability by coming to know and understand them, and by living for the

time of this novel in their world. Let them not be completely unknown or forgotten.

CHAPTER 1

SPIRIT

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

are buried here may be properly introduced.

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

able to honor your stricture. You were right, you spoke truly, and now the grief you prophesied has come to pass. I

always believed you; it was only my failing as a man, my grievous misunderstanding, that prevented me from doing

what you urged. How great is my grief for that failure, for now those I love are dead, when they should have lived. I

beg you to welcome their spirits, for they are blameless. Only I am guilty, and only my bones will not join yours, and

only my spirit will be lost. The wild animals will drag my body away and defile it. In this way I will pay for my failure,

as I deserve. But the others are worthy, O Spirit, and they should be fit company for you, though they died too soon.

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

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

worthy title. How long ago that seems, how far away, though time is as nothing to the spirit realm and this is the very

place it happened. It is as though it was a different person, that innocent youth; I am embarrassed for him, for his

naïveté, his innocence, and his ignorance. I must speak of him as if he were another person, but you will know the

truth, O Spirit of the Mound. You will know it as you have always known it. I must tell it, and make known the tragedy

his error allowed, for my words are all I have remaining to give. Then my onus will be abated, and you will remember

me though my spirit is gone. You will know the good people I have known and loved, not only here but elsewhere. I

do not ask your forgiveness, only that you listen.

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

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

mincingly back to his mother, crying. Hotfoot, they called him, and that became his youth-name. Hotfoot, who had not

heeded his mother's warning, and had strayed too far. It was derisive, yet also apt, for he grew to be swift on his feet,

and to wander far, and to get into much trouble, even as he had started.

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

warriors. When they held contests among the clans, it was the Eagle Clan who won, because of Hotfoot. He could

maintain it too, for he liked to run, and the more he did it the farther he was able to go without tiring. He became a

messenger between villages as far as a day distant, for he could reach them and return in the time it took another to

walk there. Sometimes he was several days away, and had contact with tribes that spoke other tongues. He had

proved as swift with language as with his feet, and had learned the tongues of the Cale to the north and the Calusa to

the south. Not perfectly, but well enough to get by, with the help of sign language and pictographs in the sand.

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

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

man. He could not marry or, indeed, have a woman for sex, because none would touch a boy. With manhood several

would be available; they had ways of letting him know. But mostly it was pride: he needed the status of a man.

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

course indulged in many mock raids; virtually the whole of a male's youth consisted of just such games. First they had

learned to hunt the simplest creatures, bringing down squirrels with their small arrows, and worked their way over the

years up to deer. Then they had approached the most difficult prey: man. They matched clan against clan, and

threatened each other fiercely, but never seriously, for the clans were all parts of the great tribe of the Toco. They

believed they were ready, and they were certainly eager. They had gone to Chief Slay-Bear for permission, and it had

been granted.

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

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

Thus Woodpecker, rather than the child-name that would soon be lost, and Alligator, and Eagle rather than Hotfoot.

This gave them each a sense of importance and responsibility, for it was not merely themselves they represented, but

the honor of their clans. The youths of the other clans, the Rattlesnake, Tortoise, Deer, Bear, and Panther, would be

envious of the honor these three won this day. Hotfoot's father was a Rattlesnake, but he would not begrudge the

Eagle Clan this day, though in any tribal function he would support his own. A person's clan was determined by that

of the mother, and no one could marry into his own clan, for all were brothers and sisters in name. Thus every father

had to watch the success of his son without applause, but with secret pride.

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

raid an affiliated village, but the river was the cultural and political boundary between tribes. The Cale were suitable

enemies; they spoke a different tongue, used different pottery, and made similar raids into Toco territory. Therefore it

was only fitting that prior grievances be redressed. He was not on business now, as a messenger, so had no

protection from assault, and no need to honor any truce.

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

and vomiting the White Drink to purify themselves, fasting, and accepting the painful ritual scratching on their

forearms and calves without flinching. But that was merely the preparation; manhood came only with verified heroism

in war. They would serve as witnesses for each other, and were bound to tell the truth; to do otherwise was to risk

correction by the spirits, and bring shame not only on them, but on their families for rearing them, and on their clans,

and on their village, and on their tribe. To deceive an enemy was a great feat, but to deceive a friend was evil.

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

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

arrow distance, or defend themselves with their knives, then they were not fit to be warriors. They had made their

bows themselves, finding the best saplings, molding them in the hot ashes of a fire, carving them carefully and

stringing them with deer tendons, and had cut their own arrows similarly. They had good knives, their stone blades

chipped from the quarry to the west and bound to secure wood handles. But Hotfoot hoped he would not have to use

his knife, because that would mean he was within reach of an enemy warrior's knife, and he could be stabbed and die

even if he managed to kill the man. He hoped that this thought did not make him a coward. The priest had told them

that fear was natural, but that a warrior did not yield to it. So now his fear was not so much of getting hurt or killed,

but of yielding to fear itself and disqualifying himself as a warrior. Humiliation was worse than death: as a child he had

doubted, but now he knew.

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

center, bow ready, watching for enemies. If they were careless they might be attacked before they had a chance to

strike, or the enemy might wait and steal their dugout canoe, so that when they returned they would be stranded.

Either would be disaster. Their objective was to come upon the enemy unobserved, strike, and escape unscathed,

leaving behind only the Toco arrows they used. Those arrows would make clear what tribe had inflicted this

devastation on the Cale, completing the honor for the raiders and the dishonor for the victims.

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

many things could go wrong! But as he started out on the mission he felt only excitement. Now his mood was level

and grim: he intended to accomplish his heroism no matter what the cost, and be a man at last. He knew his

companions felt the same.

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

gotten away cleanly. Retribution was required, and the three of them had volunteered to achieve it. To their surprise,

this mission had been granted. Perhaps it was because most of the men were currently hunting deer, to get a supply of

flesh for drying and smoking. More likely it was because the elders judged it was time for these boys to become men.

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

peered closely at the riverbank between paddle strokes, verifying it. He had glanced into the dawn sky too, to make

sure no bird of prey passed over them; that would have been a sure signal of mischief, unless it was an eagle. But all

was well.

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

canoe up, hiding it under old palmetto fronds. It was important that it be both invisible to outsiders and ready for

instant launching, for the pursuit could be close on their return.

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

was their own town of Atafi. They were not following the trade path now, for that would have invited discovery.

Instead they cut through the oak hammocks, stepping carefully so as to leave little or no trace.

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

standing water. This was nervous business because of the poisonous water snakes, but they moved slowly, made it

through, and stepped out without leaving footprints. Then higher ground, and a deer trail, so progress was easier.

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

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

whose inhabitants would at first be confused. By the time the Cale oriented, the raiders could be far away, and

perhaps would never be tracked. To get away cleanly—that was the ideal.

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

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

return, while the pursuers floundered. The ideal was a network of trails with divides and dead ends that would cause

the pursuers to get lost following them. Since this was enemy territory, they had to use what existed, but could

change from one trail to another according to a pattern they decided on. That way they could move rapidly on trails,

instead of slowly through brush and brambles, while the pursuers could not do the same for fear of losing trace of

them. The thoroughness with which they prepared for their escape was critical, because they were on man's business

now. All that they had rehearsed in play, all their lives, was about to be put to the proof. Any mistake could forever

deny them the manhood they sought, because those who were caught raiding were enslaved or killed. The same was

true for the Cale raiders caught by the Toco.

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

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

ability to retrace their set route—in changed circumstances.

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

What now? They could not simply charge in and start clubbing enemy warriors; they would be overwhelmed in short

order.

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

kill any who pursue."

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

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

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

toward the village with her hair flying back. She was not fair game, and they let her pass. She never knew they were

there, for they were well concealed.

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

his arrow—and it flew true. It caught the man in the left shoulder.

The warrior grunted and staggered. The woman screamed.

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

the warrior was twisting forward and down in his agony, and the arrow missed. Meanwhile there were answering

shouts; the woman's scream had alerted the people of the village. In a moment the warriors would be here.

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

they had to get away, before their own blood was spilled.

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

games of youth they had learned to remember the details of landscape and vegetation well, so that it was natural to

retrace any trail, and Woodpecker was especially good at this. Behind them, the cry intensified; there were whoops as

the Cale warriors arrived on the scene and recognized the arrows.

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

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

They lacked that favor. Cale warriors were spreading swiftly out, cutting off their escape. Hotfoot could hear them;

they were not bothering to be quiet. They were forming a line that crossed the marked route.

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

forward, hoping to slip past the line of enemies; or make a mad charge for it before the line was tight. All three were

dangerous, because the Cale were now aroused and alert and had a fair notion where the fugitives lurked.

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

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

below palmetto fronds, disappearing into the thicket. The others followed. In a moment they were lying together,

absolutely quiet, while the Cale closed in.

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

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

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

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

nervous he was. He didn't want to do this! But he had to. Slowly he drew back the string, lifting the point. If the

warrior turned aside and passed beyond them, then there would be an excellent excuse not to shoot. It was better to

escape detection than to start the commotion all over.

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

chance now to escape unnoticed!

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

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

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

He simply collapsed, looking surprised.

"I never saw a neater kill!" Woodpecker breathed, awed. "No sound at all!" He was speaking of animal kills, of course;

none of them had seen a warrior die in battle before.

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

the bow. But this was a man! He had known this was no game excursion they were on, but still had not until this

moment appreciated the full seriousness of it.

"Take his scalp!" Alligator said.

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

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

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

arrow through his neck, his eyes widening as he sank down. There was no glory in this kill, only horror. How could he

have done it? Why couldn't he have missed, as Alligator had, or hit the shoulder, as Woodpecker had?

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

messily, and if they had succeeded, by that time the other Cale would have been there, and that would have been all.

He had had to do it; he knew that. Yet still he was appalled.

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

giving him a pretext not to take the scalp, though of course he should have. None of them had experience in cutting

heads; they would have bungled it, and indeed, they had no time. But it was more than that. Hotfoot knew with

absolute certainty that he never wanted to kill again. That was why he was no warrior.

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

outcry meant no discovery, so the rest were still searching their own sections of the closing net. That was good

fortune for the raiders, for every moment that passed now made escape more likely. It was almost impossible to track

fugitives in darkness, if the fugitives had any skill at all in silent travel.

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

kept quiet, they were safe.

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

longer see the signs they had left, or judge the lay of the land they had noted. What had been reasonably familiar was

now unfamiliar. Also, the creatures of the night were emerging, including mosquitoes. The biting blackflies of day

could be squeezed off when they alighted; they tended to come in swarms, and lost interest when motion stopped.

But mosquitoes were inexorable, and invisible in the dark. The three of them had put on no fish oil to repel these,

because its odor would give away their location. Unfortunately, the bloodsuckers had no trouble locating them.

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

and muck, surely leaving a trail that would be obvious by daylight. But they knew that the pursuers would make

similar noise, unless they used familiar paths.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

dense thickets, and the ground was marshy. They feared for snakes and alligators. But they were getting close to their

canoe, and once they recovered that, they would have an easy time getting the rest of the way back to Atafi.

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

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

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

sitting guard, one always alert while two slept.

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

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

day and two nights, and tired, for he had not rested in that time either. The excitement that had sustained him on the

mission was now exhausted. He was not sleepy, just phenomenally weary.

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

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

spirits of the dead. The spirits could only be diverted by the intercession of a priest—but until Hotfoot got home, the

priest could not intercede. He was vulnerable now. The horror of his action rose like a dark mass before him, seeming

to take animate form, and he was afraid. Afraid because of his coming shame. Because he was no true warrior, having

no joy of killing. Too late, he had learned that he was a coward.

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

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

nostrils, his mouth, his anus, and spreading out within, taking time to choose their targets. Often it was the joints,

which slowly coalesced, so that they operated only with decreasing range and increasing pain, making a cripple of a

man without leaving a mark on him. Sometimes it was more subtle yet, so that he sickened and died, and no priest

could cure him. One could never be sure that a malignant spirit had not intruded; one had to be always on guard

against it, and free of pollution. Hotfoot knew that he was not free; he was now an easy target for the spirit's wrath.

Dawn came, and he gazed about, for his watch had been last. Now the locale became increasingly familiar; they were

not far at all from the place they sought. Had the night not changed things so much, they should readily have found

their canoe.

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

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

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

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

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

be traveling upstream.

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

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

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

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

Immediately Hotfoot and Alligator spun the canoe about, heading downstream, stroking with suddenly renewed

strength. But the Cale craft followed, and it had four paddlers. It was overhauling them rapidly.

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

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

have a chance to hide, to lose themselves in the thickets. This was Toco territory; the war party would not dare remain

long, for fear of discovery by Toco warriors.

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

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

halted, and splash to the shore behind the other two.

Alligator and Woodpecker were fighting their way to land as the enemy canoe came close. An arrow whistled past

Hot-foot's head to graze Woodpecker's thigh. Woodpecker seemed not to notice it as he scrambled through the

brush. Then they were all through, and a screening of foliage protected their rear for the moment. The Cale would not

shoot blindly; arrows were too precious to waste.

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

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

the blow he had felt!

"Hold him!" Woodpecker whispered.

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

clenched his teeth and stood still, not resisting, knowing what was coming. He could not afford to make a sound, for

that would show unmanly weakness, and could attract the Cale.

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

coming readily. It tore at the muscle and sinew, the agony of it radiating out through Hotfoot's whole body. He

clenched his teeth, making no sound, though all his world was agony. Then the arrow snapped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

the pace; his shoulder was throbbing and his feet were tiring.

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

will lead them away from you."

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

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

was away, his hand extended, the blood dripping from it.

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

fronds. As he heard the Cale charging, he stretched out under the fronds, facedown, his left arm dragging. If the ruse

worked, he would be safe; if not...

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

on after the drops Woodpecker had planted.

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

only two, and that the blood had stopped. They could come back, rechecking the trail, and then they would find the

offshoot. They would be after Hotfoot, and he could not outrun them.

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

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

bow and arrows in the chase. Where could he go, where he would not be followed?

Here.

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

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

were here, guarding their burial ground. There would be terrible retribution against almost any living person who

defiled this site. Only a priest could come here.

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

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

They should have only contempt for him.

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

even though he had not yet been awarded a man's name. The spirits would know that. They did not make mistakes;

they knew who was worthy and who was not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who are you?" Hotfoot asked without speaking.

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

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

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

of Toco Atafi."

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

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

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

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

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

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

you here, for you must not yet die."

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

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

"My mission?"

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

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

"O Spirit, what danger is this?"

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

for such magic. It can only be accurately seen with the most potent crystal of all, the Ulunsuti, the great blazing

transparent diamond on the forehead of the Uktena."

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

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

exact nature of the threat. Then you will be able to warn your tribe, which is our tribe too, and to devise some

stratagem to counter it. Then you may die and join us here."

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

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

hero can kill it and take the Ulunsuti! I would be terrified and flee, shaming myself and my tribe, accomplishing

nothing."

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

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

He reached down, and his hand passed through Hotfoot's injured shoulder.

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

consciousness faded again.

CHAPTER 2

TRADER

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

to whom you gave the quest for the Ulunsuti. Now I will tell how he started that quest, and how the proof was made

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

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

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

of the smoke and the pot were comforting.

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

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

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

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

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

have seemed dead, for he had no awareness of anything between his communion with Dead Eagle and this moment.

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

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

see that his curative dance had worked. Hotfoot did not have the heart to tell him that his recovery owed more to

Dead Eagle than to the dance, for the decision had been made before his body was recovered.

Anthony, Piers - Tatham Mound

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