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

ocean, there’s a different people in every bend of the creek. Good country, too. Food everywhere, just for the picking up. Climate’s nice. No winter until you get up north. The mountains run right down and drown themselves in the sea. Beautiful land. People there live in towns like we do, but they fish, go out on the ocean and hunt whales, seals, walrus.”
    “Whales I’ve heard of. What are the others?”
    Trader sat rapt as Old White tried to explain, then drew the beasts in the dirt with a stick.
    “They could be like our Spirit monsters.” Trader gestured with his pipe. “Perhaps that’s where some of our legends come from.”
    “Perhaps,” Old White agreed. “But unlike your Horned Serpent, they don’t crave copper.” A pause. “Yes, I’ve seen some amazing things. Way up in the Western Mountains, I’ve crossed ridges with oyster shells cropping outof the rocks. Way up there, higher than any mountain you’ve ever seen, and a half year’s walk from the ocean. Oyster shell. The peoples who live there were as baffled by an oyster as you are by a seal.”
    “You’ve led a wonderful life, Seeker.”
    The old man shrugged it off. “A lonely one at times.” He glanced down at his feet, wiggling them in his moccasins. “These have carried me farther than any living man. Some of it was glorious, some downright miserable.” He tapped his carved wooden pack box. “I keep my memories in here.”
    “Do you do that with some incantation?”
    Old White smiled wistfully. “No. And if anything ever happens to me, I entrust the box, and the memories, to you.”
    Memories in a box? Trader sucked on his pipe. He didn’t think so. All those marvelous things were locked away in Old White’s head. And if he was right about going home to die, who would ever know the stories, sights, and places locked in the old man’s souls? No one, at least not until a person died and found Seeker’s ghost in the Land of the Dead. Even then there would be such a collection of souls around Seeker that it wouldn’t be worth the effort to fight the crowd in order to hear the stories.
    “Have you given any thought to what we’re going to do when we reach the Chaktaw?” Old White used the Yuchi pronunciation of the name.
    “Depend on the Power of Trade, I guess. Why wouldn’t they honor it?”
    Old White pointed at Trader’s face. “You have the markings of a Chief Clan tattoo on your face.”
    “It was never finished. I killed my brother before they could complete the job.”
    “It still says Chief Clan.”
    “I’m just Trader.” He stared at the fire. “If anyonequestions it, I’ll talk about my time among the Natchez. About Trade up the Father Water. It’s not like they can trick me by asking questions about local politics. I don’t even know who the clan chiefs are these days.”
    Old White arched an eyebrow in acceptance. “What about when we reach home?”
    “What were you thinking?”
    Old White stared at the fire. “I was thinking we’d just be ordinary Traders. Camp out below the palisade, listen to the gossip. No one will know me.” He glanced at Trader. “They might not even know you. You told me you’re not an identical twin, and ten summers have surely changed you. The sun has left you darker; the weather has aged your face.” He paused. “Thing is, but for the tattoos, we’d pull it off smartly.”
    “I’ll give some thought to explaining the tattoos. I’ve seen the like over most of the country. The cheek bar, the forked eye. As you noted so aptly, mine was never finished with the intricacies that make the Chief Clan tattoo so distinctive.”
    “Learned the design from Cahokia,” Old White noted. “A long time ago. Maybe it won’t be an issue. Maybe tell them you got it among the Caddo.”
    “I speak pretty good Caddo.”
    “After we’re there for a while, if it seems wise, maybe we’ll have the tishu minko call the Council. By then, assuming that no one recognizes you, Bullfrog