Kathleen O' Neal & Michael W. Gear - People 6 - People of the Lakes

people of the Lakes

by

Kathleen O'Neal Gear & W. Michael Gear

Books by Kathleen O'Neal Gear & W. Michael Gear

from Tom Doherty Associates

the first north americans series

People of the Wolf

People of the Fire

People of the Earth

People of the River

People of the Sea

People of the Lakes

People of the Lightning

People of the Silence

People of the Mist

People of the Masks

The Anasazi Mysteries

The Visitant

Books by Kathleen O'Neal Gear

from Tom Doherty Associates

Thin Moon and Cold Mist

Sand in the Wind

This Widowed Land

Books by W. Michael Gear

from Tom Doherty Associates

Coyote Summer

The Morning River

Big Horn Legacy

Long Ride Home

Kathleen O'Neal Gear

and W Michael Gear

people of the Lakes

A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK

NEW YORK

NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware

that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed"

to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any

payment for this "stripped book."

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this

book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely

coincidental.

PEOPLE OF THE LAKES

thereof in any form.

Cover art by Royo

Maps and interior art by Ellisa Mitchell

A Tor Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

175 Fifth Avenue

New York, NY 10010

www.tor.com

Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

ISBN: 0-812-50747-9

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 94-7145

First edition: August 1994

First international mass market edition: April 1995

First mass market edition: September 1995

Printed in the United States of America

09876

In memory of George H. Davis

August 21, 1921 to October 21, 1992.

He loved elk, horses, high country,

and, above all,

family and friends.

George, we hope they have a crackling-warm fire,

a jar of jalapenos, a plate of backstrap,

and a strong cup of coffee

ready when you get there.

We miss you.

... And this one's for you and Shirley.

Acknowledgments

People of the Lakes would not have been possible without the

help of a number of people. In the beginning, Michael Seidman--then

executive editor at Tor Books--believed we should

produce a series of novels about our nation's magnificent pre-

contact heritage. He thought the books should educate as well

as entertain.

Robert C. Mainfort, Jr., regional archaeologist with the Tennessee

Division of Archaeology, provided excavation reports,

interpretation, and answered questions about Middle Woodland

occupations at Pinson Mounds and in western Tennessee. Mark

Norton, Theda Young, and Anita Drury, staff members at the

Pinson Mounds State Park in western Tennessee, were also very

helpful.

Charles Niquette, of Cultural Resource Analysts, Inc., provided

his expertise and archaeological reports relating to Middle

Woodland period settlement patterns. Thanks, Chuck. We'll

send you a dead armadillo one of these days.

Dennis LaBatt, Nancy Clendenen, and David Grilling--the

knowledgeable staff at the Poverty Point Archaeological site

outside of Floyd, Louisiana--demonstrated the wonders of the

huge Poverty Point site. From the Ohio Historical Society,

James Kingery, of the Flint Ridge State Park, proved most helpful,

as did Brad Lepper, of Newark Earthworks State Memorial.

Brad's work on Ohio Hopewell road systems is remarkable.

We are also indebted to our colleagues within the archaeological

profession, specifically to the following: Naomi Greber,

R. Berle Clay Dan Morse, Christopher Hays, Frank Cowan,

Richard Yerkes, James Brown, and others who presented papers

at the 58th Annual Meetings of the Society for American Archaeology.

Special appreciation is extended to Adrian Gardner, Shirley

Whittington, and Gord Laco, of Saint Marie Among the Hurons.

Dawn Barry and Mr. Bancroft, of Serpent Mounds Provincial

Park, provided us with a special day of discussion about the

Middle Woodland in Ontario. Linda O'Conner and Lisa Roach,

of Petroglyphs Provincial Park, opened early and stayed late to

facilitate our research. Mima Kapoches, of the Royal Ontario

Museum, took time from her busy schedule to discuss Hope-

wellian interaction spheres.

We would also like to extend sincere thanks to U.S. Forest

Service archaeologists Ann Wilson and Gene Driggers, and to

U.S. Department of Defense archaeologist Dr. Steven Chomko,

for their part in helping to make this book possible. In addition,

Dr. Cal Cummings, senior archaeologist for the National Park

Service, located elusive field reports, films, and books. Dr. Linda

Scott Cummings, of Paleo Research Laboratories, answered

endless questions about pollen, fibers, and plant remains recovered

from archaeological sites relevant to the story.

Words cannot express what we owe to Lloyd and Julie Schott.

Sierra Adare, our unflagging manager, kept us organized despite

ourselves.

We offer our most heartfelt thanks to Harriet McDougal, our

brilliant editor, who still edits like they did in the golden days

of publishing; and to Linda Quinton, Ralph Arnote, Tom Doherty, Roy Gainsburg,

and the superb field force, which has

always believed in this project. Our Canadian distributors, Harold

and Sylvia Fenn, Rob Howard, and the fine people at H.B.

Fenn, have supported us from the beginning. Three cheers to all

of you.

Foreword.

Around the time of Christ, Middle Woodland peoples lived

throughout eastern North America. Remnants of their magnificent

cultures are scattered from Ontario to Florida, and spread

as far west as Texas and Wisconsin. We know the sites of these

cultures by many names: Adena-Hopewell, Havana, Copena,

Marksville, Point Peninsula, Crab Orchard, and others. Archaeologists

summarize them with a delightfully obtuse technical

term: the "Hopewellian Interaction Sphere."

These people remain a marvel--and an enigma. Sophisticated

traders, artisans, and monument builders, they nevertheless appear

to have had no chiefs, built no cities, and conquered no

vast territories. Rather, they traded everywhere, traversing the

rivers; and through their trade, they spread the traits of zone

incised pottery, geometric earthworks, exotic burial tombs, and

stone and metal trade goods.

Their gigantic ceremonial earthworks and lavish tombs are

found throughout the eastern half of the continent, but fewer

than a dozen of their domestic sites--the locations where they

built their houses and lived their daily lives---have been located

or excavated.

Hopewellian cultures domesticated many plants we now consider

noxious weeds: goosefoot (Chenopodium berlandieri),

marsh elder (Iva annua), knotweed (Polygonum erectum), may

grass (Phalaris caroliniana), and, in some places, little barley

(Hordeum pusillum). Of their domesticates, only sunflower THE

lianthus annus) and squash (Cucurbita pepo) remain as modern

crops.

Isolated traces of corn appear around two thousand years ago,

but the crop didn't really catch on until about 400 A.D., at the

end of the Middle Woodland period; moreover, some researchers

believe that corn might have contributed to the demise of

the Hopewellian world by producing such food surpluses that

the traditional social structure--founded upon small, independent

farmsteads and transcontinental trade--collapsed and reformed

into what archaeologists call Late Woodland peoples

(400 to 800 A.D.). The Late Woodland period is characterized

by a sharp decline in mound building and in the absence of

exotic trade goods, but villages began to appear. Many of them

were fortified by earthen or log enclosures, undoubtedly indicating

social stress, perhaps even warfare. The luxury of a food

surplus may have made these Woodland peoples targets for raiders

from less fortunate cultures.

PEOPLE OF THE LAKES is something of a Hopewellian

travelogue that moves from the American Gulf Coast to Rice

Lake in Ontario, Canada. We want the reader to experience both

the similarities and the differences in Middle Woodland cultures

two thousand years ago. In the story, we call the classic Ohio

Adena peoples the High Head, and the Ohio Hopewell we designate

as the Flat Pipe. Adena is the older culture, dating back

to nearly 700 B.C. Hopewell seems to have merged syncretically

with Adena to produce a golden age beginning around 1 A.D.

Another center of activity is found in the Illinois and upper

Mississippi river valleys. We call this Hopewellian group Havana,

and their social organization appears to be the closest to

a hereditary chieftainship of any of the Middle Woodland societies.

The elite burials at the core of the mounds are almost

exclusively male; we assume, therefore, that these were patrilineal

clans. In places such as Tennessee, Mississippi, and Louisiana,

females were accorded higher status, and were generally

buried with more and richer burial goods. This probably indicates

a matrilineage in what are known as the Marksville and

Miller cultures.

One of our major goals in writing this series of novels is to

portray different personalities in the Native American world.

Readers of our previous books have met Dreamers, berdaches,

Healers, and shamans. The Contrary, one of many forms of the

sacred clown, is uniquely Native American, and uses the humorous

and the profane to communicate deeply serious and sacred

lessons. The revelations of Contraries are often as stunning

as they are profound. As you come to know Green Spider, we

hope you will gain a glimmering of the Contrary's incredible

power as a teacher, mystic, and reconciliator of the very duality

he represents.

Finally, writing a novel about the Hopewell is a sobering

experience for professional archaeologists. The data accumulated

in the past century come almost totally from excavations

at spectacular burial mounds and geometric earthworks, not

from the mundane sites that portray the everyday lives of the

people. This is not primarily the fault of the researchers, but

rather a fact of life in the struggle to find funding for archaeological

work. It is simply easier to gain financial backing for the

excavation of a grand architectural marvel than for the humble

house of a farmer. Unfortunately, this leaves a critical gap in

the information, which means that attempts to portray a dynamic

series of interacting cultures may take us so far out on a limb

that we end up clinging desperately to leaf tips.

Nevertheless, in the following pages, we've attempted to give

you a reasonable reconstruction of Hopewellian lifeways. If we

have piqued your interest in the Middle Woodland peoples, we

encourage you to consult the bibliography in the back of this

book, to visit your nearest archaeological park or monument,

and to learn more about this rare and precious era of our North

American heritage.

Introduction.

State Park Supervisor William L. Jaffman clutched his hands behind his

back and inhaled a deep breath of the fresh, storm- scented wind as he

walked the nature path that led around the northeast end of the park,

opposite the earthwork called

"The Circle."

Three people sauntered in a knot just ahead of him: an administrator, an

engineer, a political appointee. They laughed and talked, quite

oblivious to the magnificence of the Circle, where, two thousand years

before, ancient astronomers had charted the cycles of stars that most

modern Americans barely knew existed.

When Bill had explained the Circle to them earlier, they had stared

blankly at him, slightly irritated by his exuberance.

This was a simple matter for them. The state needed thirty five acres of

land. A mere thirty-five--one third of his park-- for a new highway

project. Their strained smiles had informed him at the outset that

nothing he said would change their minds--obviously the future had to

take precedence over the past. So all day his heart had been pounding a

staccato against his ribs, and now, as they neared the central mound

beside the park office, he. thought it just might break through and ruin

his new khaki uniform shirt.

He calmed himself by studying the maple trees. Every leaf glistened with

raindrops from the gentle afternoon shower that had fallen an hour

before. Like tears, they dripped down upon him when the wind gusted,

splatting on his high forehead and pointed nose, pearling over his brown

curly hair.

Was it his imagination, or did he hear soft, pitiful cries coming from

inside the Circle? He cocked his head, listening more closely. The

whimpers slid around the trunks of trees and crouched amongst the

branches. Murmuring to him. Pleading with him. He shouldn't be

surprised. Of course the ghosts knew.

They had heard today's conversations.

Bill had to jam his hands into his pants pockets and clamp his jaws to

keep from shouting. All he really wanted to do was to tell these

damnable bureaucrats to go straight to hell, to leave him and his park

alone.

But they'd just fire him, and then there would be no one left to fight

for the rights of the faithful souls who still lived and worked here.

Ahead, four shiny new state vehicles, Chevy Blazers--one complete with

an aerodynamic police-light bar--stood in a short row. Behind them, and

across the parking lot, hulked the galvanized-metal maintenance shed. As

usual, the garage door hung open, revealing the nose of the tractor

where Billy Hanson was no doubt struggling with the bent PTO again. One

of the summer temps--a college kid up from the university--had backed it

into a concrete guard post.

Jaffman had been a college kid once, and his father had never forgiven

him for settling on a degree in archaeology. But that had been a

different era, before the coveted MBA rose to such gaudy prominence, an

era when kids went off to school to make a difference, to follow their

hearts and learn about wonderful new things--not just to learn to make

money.

"You're wasting your life," his father, a CPA, had told him.

"What's with this? Archaeology? Son, you've got to think about making a

living, doing something for your future."

"But, Dad, how can you know where you're going unless you can see the

path you walked to get where you are now? I want to know where we came

from! What makes us human!"

Even at such a young age, he'd known in his heart that if human beings

destroyed the past or continued to deny its relevance to the present,

the species was doomed. Civilization was a fragile flower, with a

shallow root system. Without vigilant protection and care, the roots

would wither and die.

"Hey, Bill? Wake up!" Ed Smith, the state Department of Transportation

engineer, called, breaking Bill from his thoughts.

"What is it, Ed?"

Smith had been sent up from the capital, dutifully armed with maps,

surveys, and a stack of different-colored notebooks. Smith always wore

an off-white shirt--one with a plastic pen guard in its pocket. He kept

his gray hair short, and thick, black- framed glasses dominated his thin

face.

Anne Seibowitz, state director of Parks and Recreation, and Bill's boss,

stood to Smith's right, arms crossed. She wore a lavender twill skirt

that hung to mid-calf, and a maroon-and gray sweater. Her nose always

attracted Bill's attention; it looked like someone had pinched the sharp

end of it closed with pliers. She wore her black, silver-streaked hair

in a short, wavy cut completely in fitting with her status and age. Now

she rocked on her Italian boots, unaware of the grass, of the trees,

and, no doubt, of the pleading of the ghosts. Her real business, outside

of cadging funding from the legislature, was that of scrutinizing

visitation numbers, use-fee collection, and the cleanliness of public

rest rooms.

Across from Anne stood the suit, Roy Roman, the governor's aide. Around

forty, he had blond hair and wore a pale blue shirt, dark blue tie, and

had elected a brown tweed sport coat with leather patches on the elbows:

the ultimate for an expedition into the paved-trail hinterlands of a

state park.

Roman propped his hands on his hips and said, "All right, let's get this

started. The governor is very interested in finding a solution to this

little problem. We've been getting a lot of heat from people about this

highway improvement project. Unfortunately, it has been so blown out of

proportion that we've started to get calls from Native American

organizations. Maybe because this Soap group got involved."

"Soap Group?" Ed Smith blinked, the effect amplified by his thick

lenses. "What does soap have to do with anything? We're building a

highway, for God's sake." "SOPA," Bill explained. "The Society of

Professional Archaeologists.

Look, you can't expect to bulldoze an Adenahopewell site of this

importance without stirring up a hornet's nest. This park exists solely

to protect the earthworks." "We are protecting the earthworks," Ed said

forcefully.

"The highway right-of-way is exactly twenty-eight feet and seven inches

from the edge of the earthwork. Look, we've been out there. There's

nothing but grass in the area we plan to bulldoze.

We're not going to hurt the earthworks!"

Bill folded his arms across his chest, trying to lessen the ache that

swelled with each new gust of wind. "Please," he said.

"I've explained this over and over. Just because you can't see anything,

it doesn't mean it's not there. We're talking about archaeology, not--"

"That's ridiculous," Seibowitz responded. "Either there's something

there or there isn't! I personally walked over that area with Ed, and I

didn't see anything but grass either. There's not even a tiny bump out

there. It's as flat as a pancake."

"There are houses out there," Bill insisted in a precise voice.

"We had a field school up two years ago, remember?" She should, she'd

tried to do everything she could to stop it. The only reasons Bill had

managed to get his state excavation permit were that it didn't cost

anything and that the prestige of the university lent status to the

Parks Department. "They opened an exploratory trench across that part of

the park--right where you want to run your road, Ed. Several domestic

artifacts and features were uncovered from that trench. You know,

potsherds, stone tools. They even hit a fire pit." When he drew annoyed

looks from everyone around him, he added, "You can't see the houses. But

they're there. Underground!"

"Show me a house]" Smith retorted. "What are we talking about?

Foundations? Basements? It had better be good, to stop a

twenty-million-dollar highway improvement project!"

Bill ground his teeth for a moment. "Listen, Ed. Middle Woodland

domestic activities are the least understood aspect of one of the most

important cultural periods in the prehistory of the world!"

"Wait a minute." Roman raised his hand. "Middle what?"

Bill exhaled tiredly. How many times did he have to repeat himself?

"Middle Woodland. That's what archaeologists call the cultural period

into which we fit all the Adenahopewell sites like this one. The period

lasts from about two hundred B.C.

to about four hundred A.D. Middle Woodland is extremely important, but

it's largely an enigma."

"What do you mean, an enigma?" Seibowitz asked, frown lines etching her

forehead. "To hear the archaeologists talk, everything is an enigma."

Damn you, woman! All the archaeological parks in this state are under

your supervision--and you don't even know why they're important! Bill

forced himself to remain calm, professional.

"All right, think of it like this. These people developed trade

relationships that exchanged silver, copper, and furs from Ontario for

sharks' teeth, conch shell, and barracuda jaws from the Florida keys.

They imported obsidian from as far away as Yellowstone Park in Wyoming.

Mica was traded from North Carolina, greenstone from Alabama. Finished

goods like platform pipes, and raw materials like Flint Ridge chert,

were traded out of Ohio and then up and down all the major rivers. Had

white settlers not built the city of Newark, Ohio on top of the

earthworks, it would be one of the premier archaeological sites in the

world today. The Hope well people there covered four and a half square

miles with earth alignments. They built the first road in North America,

from Newark, Ohio, to Chillicothe."

"Yeah, but so what?" Smith asked. "We've got a bunch of weird piles of

dirt, huge circles, octagons, squares ... what were they used for?"

"They seem to have been places for worship and scientific study, as well

as social centers. We're just beginning to understand them. Most of the

complex earthworks were built to chart celestial events--the movements

of the sun, moon, and stars.

Archaeoastronomy is still in its infancy. I think we're in for a series

of shocks as we begin to find out just how sophisticated these people

really were."

"So, it was like an empire? Similar to what they did in Rome?" Seibowitz

asked, her nose looking even more pinched.

"No. It wasn't an empire. And that's one of the big problems." Jaffman

pressed his toe into the grass as he thought.

Birds sang in the trees, but the whimpers still continued, seeming to

follow the entourage around the park, rising and falling with the wind.

"The culture appears to have been focused around trade rather than on

military conquest. At Pinson Mounds in Tennessee, people piled up over a

hundred thousand cubic meters of earth. At the

"Hopewell site, in Ohio, they mounded almost fifty-four thousand cubic

meters of earth. The amount of earth at Newark would have been anyone's

guess, probably well over a hundred thousand cubic meters. The point is

that it took generations--and considerable planning--to undertake such

extraordinary engineering projects. You can't stand on the Eagle Mound

inside the Great Circle at Newark, or look across the Octagon there,

without being awe struck."

"Right," Smith said. "Awestruck. Big deal. Some chief told his Indians,

' boys go dig here, and pile there,' and liking their scalps on their

heads, they did."

Bill tightened his arms, hugging himself. He wondered if Hopewell

engineers, two thousand years ago, had that same single-minded lack of

imagination. ' ' chiefs, Ed. Like I said, just farmers who came together

on special occasions to build some of the most remarkable earthen

monuments in the world."

Roy Roman shook a strand of blond hair away from his face.

"I don't get it. If these folks were so great and they were spread all

over the eastern half of North America, why haven't I heard about them?"

He pointed to the low mound of earth near the park office. "That mound

Kathleen O' Neal & Michael W. Gear - People 6 - People of the Lakes

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