People of the Thunder (North America's Forgotten Past) by W. Michael Gear, Kathleen O'Neal Gear Page A

beginning to burn in his chest. He stomped into the Men’s House, seeing his warriors lounging, smoking, dipping food from the pot of mashed beans and smilax root. “Get dressed. Get your weapons. We have work to do.”
    “What work?” Greenbriar asked. “I was thinking we did pretty well today.”
    “The Albaamaha are on the verge of revolt at Bowl Town. They have taken Fast Legs captive and are torturing him. I have just received our orders from the high minko. There is no time.”
    He stared at their stunned faces, some holding food only halfway to their mouths.
    “I said now,” he barked.
“Move!”

    The camp was a good one, as was indicated by the broken pottery, the ash-stained soil, and the old fired rock from countless hearths before theirs. The canoes were pulled up above flood stage if it rained hard upstream. Most of the grass had been mashed flat in the months since it had gone dormant in fall. Firewood necessitated a bit of a hike into the forest, but could be had for the taking once past the scavenged area.
    The waterway consisted of a narrow winding channel that was deeply cut into the yellow soil. Most of the route was overhung with trees, branches, and vines. But as the major link between the Tenasee and HornedSerpent Rivers, enough traffic moved through that most of the offending logs, branches, and shrubbery had been cut away.
    Trader looked back at the low hut they had constructed for the Contrary.
    “You two men are different,” she had told them. “You have no need to fear a woman’s moon. But I do.”
    That had been uttered no more than a moment after the last of the Yuchi had waved and vanished on the path leading back over the divide to the place where they had stashed their canoes.
    The parting had almost been sad, the Yuchi lingering, offering advice, fingering the pieces of shell, bits of copper, and Oneota figurines they had been given for their service. Each would have been more than happy to have labored for days without compensation, just to have the honor of saying they had helped the Seeker, the Contrary, and Trader make the journey up to the winding headwater. Then they had worked like slaves to portage the heavy packs and canoes the hard day’s travel over the divide trail.
    After making sure the canoes would float, Trader had led the way here, to this streamside camp. Once sure it would fit their needs, they had lashed the fallen walls of a hut together, and covered it for the Contrary’s privacy.
    “So,” Trader asked Old White, “do you fear a woman’s moon?”
    He shrugged. “Must be something to it. A great many people have ways to avoid it.” He paused. “On the other hand, I’ve been amongst folk who could care less. They never seem to sicken or be tainted by it. I have heard women say that they enjoy it. It’s their free time when they don’t need to fuss over babies, cook for the men, or do hard work. Instead they can sit inside, catch up on the news with friends, and do whatever makes them happy.”
    Trader placed his pipe stem between his lips. “That may be. I think I’d worry though. Even if I didn’t believe it, I’d still be suspicious.”
    “You were raised with the notion. It becomes part of the souls the way a log is part of a wall. No matter what, you will always believe that a woman’s Power is separate, distinct, and in opposition to a man’s. It always goes back to the white and the red. A man’s semen is white, the color of order and harmony. The woman’s blood is red, the color of chaos and creation. The two major Powers of life, always sawing back and forth in an attempt to find balance.”
    “And you, Seeker? You were raised believing that, too?”
    Old White smiled faintly. “Yes, even when among the peoples who don’t pay any attention to a woman’s monthly cycle, I still get the soul shakes.”
    “How many peoples have you known? Did you keep track?”
    “Too many to count,” he said. “And you get out along the western