Flight of the Crow (The Southeast Series Book 2)

  FLIGHT OF THE CROW

  (Book Two of the Southeast Series)

  By Paul Clayton

  Copyright (c) 1996 Paul Clayton

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, scanning or any information storage retrieval system, without explicit permission in writing from the Author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locals or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  © Copyright 1996 by Paul Clayton

  Other works by Paul Clayton:

  Calling Crow (Book One of the Southeast Series)

  Calling Crow Nation (Book Three of the Southeast Series)

  White Seed: The Untold Story of the Lost Colony of Roanoke

  Carl Melcher Goes to Vietnam

  The Blue World and Other Amazing Stories

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Epilogue

  Around the middle of the sixteenth century, on the coast of what would someday be called the state of Georgia…

  Chapter 1

  The sun was a white-hot ember high overhead as Calling Crow of the Muskogee people ran through the rippling heat rising from the scrub grass field. His hunger thrashed and clawed inside his belly. He ignored it, but he knew it would kill him if he did not eat soon. He was too weak. His ankle turned on a rock and he fell. His head hung as he gasped hot, thick air into his lungs. Not far away, the ever-present sighs and rumblings of the sea called to him, telling him to give up his foolish struggle and sleep. Its voice was insistent and soothing at the same time, and his head drooped closer to Mother Earth and her final embrace.

  A sharp cry startled him and his head jerked up. Two seagulls looked down and laughed at him as they glided by.

  “He’s giving up,” one seemed to cry, “giving up!”

  “No!” Calling Crow shouted. “Never. I will find them.” Calling Crow stared at the receding shapes. He would find his woman, Juana and their child or he would die trying. But first he must eat.

  He sensed a change. The tepid wind had reversed direction and now blew off the land. He got slowly to his feet and looked at the forest across the field. He had seen much evidence of the people who lived in that forest and the great swamp beyond. If he were captured, they would kill him. It was crazy to continue to invade their territory, but this morning he had put his last arrow into a big buck deer. Now, with this wind, he could close in for the kill.

  As he walked toward the forest, he sang a prayer.

  I call on the Wolf,

  Four-legged brother,

  Give me your power,

  Swift and sure!

  “Brother Deer,” Calling Crow said hoarsely as he moved into a copse of trees, “only one of us will survive this day.” He came out onto one of the wide trails of the people who lived in this place. The deer crashed through the copse on the other side, heading for the great swamp. He quickly and silently crossed the trail and re-entered the forest, following the deer. When it paused, he knelt quietly. Again, his hunger and weakness washed over him in waves. A tiny sound in the clump of grass near his feet tickled his ears. He patted the sandy soil with his fingers until a tiny whiskered snout poked out of the grass. His arm a blur, Calling Crow snatched the fat mouse and gave it a single, shake, breaking its neck. His finger bled from the small bite it had taken, and he rubbed the finger on his thigh, then sliced the little creature’s underside open. He brought it up to his mouth and tore at the wet meat. It only amounted to a few small bites, but he thanked the spirit of the creature as its life flowed into his chest and limbs. Another mouse shot out of the clump of grass and Calling Crow flattened it against the sand. He snapped its neck and tucked it under the skin waist string of his breechclout.

  With a racket, the wounded buck began moving off through a thicket ahead. Calling Crow followed it, coming out of the spindly trees at the edge of the great swamp. The waters were still and covered with a brilliant green, floating moss. Long tufts of lighter green moss hung from the trees. It looked as if many young women had pulled off their skirts and hung them from the tree limbs to swim. Even the thick hot air was tinged green and full of the scent of decaying leaves and water lilies. It was a beautiful place, thought Calling Crow, but he could not pause to enjoy it, for it was also a dangerous place. He stared across the open space at the lance the people who lived in this place had planted in the earth as a warning. He must get the buck and leave quickly. But first he needed a drink.

  Calling Crow stared at the surface of the water for a few moments. He knelt at the water’s edge and skimmed away the skin of floating moss, creating a round hole where he could drink. Tiny fish flashed silvery light before disappearing into the darkness. An emaciated face stared up at him-- dark sunken eyes, cracked and bleeding lips, the face of a dying man. Frowning, he put his lips to the water and drank.

  The buck began to move and he got to his feet. He spotted it ahead. The arrow hung down and a smear of blood matted the deer’s side. The animal staggered, but held its antlers high and proud like a chief’s headdress.

  That pleased Calling Crow, for it truly was a buck worthy of a chief. He lifted off the mottled blue-black iron axe that hung around his neck and gripped it firmly. Keeping the barely moving breeze against his cheek, he moved into position. He must get close enough to deliver a killing blow. He was so weak there would be no second chance.

  A shadow passed over his heart. Something was coming. He waited a moment and felt a presence. There was another hunter about! He searched the swamp around him but saw nothing. It must be his hunger, he thought. It was making him crazy. He turned back to the deer. It moved closer to the placid surface of the swamp to drink.

  Calling Crow crept closer. The buck looked over nervously and Calling Crow knelt out of sight. He lowered the heavy iron axe and waited. The buck gazed at the flat surface of the water, hesitating. A dragonfly buzzed by loudly. Calling Crow turned. Again he felt the presence of the other hunter. Closer now, much closer. His every sense told him that this was so, but still he saw nothing.

  Calling Crow looked back at the buck as it lowered its proud head to drink. He must move now. Raising the axe high, he got to his feet and ran out. The flat surface of the swamp erupted as an ugly brown shape shot out. The big alligator’s jaws fully enclosed the body of the buck, leaving only the an
tlered head and hind legs showing. The buck’s powerful hind legs kicked the air uselessly as the alligator backed into the dark water. The sound of a great thrashing echoed beneath the overhanging trees.

  Calling Crow ran to the place where the deer had been. His arrow had fallen out and lay on the ground. He looked out over the black water. The buck’s head broke the surface and the water churned as the alligator shook its prey.

  “Mine!” Calling Crow shouted. “He was mine!”

  As if in answer, the alligator disappeared and the swamp forest grew quiet as death. Calling Crow looked at his feet. Only the alligator’s track and a few fading spots of water on the mud testified to what had happened. Calling Crow’s anger faded after a moment. This creature’s swiftness and hunting skill had been given him by the Great Spirit. Despite Calling Crow’s terrible loss and what it might mean for him, he could not be bitter. He looked into the water. Enjoy your meal, friend, he thought, for today you are the better hunter and deserve to eat.

  Calling Crow picked up his arrow. His hip felt afire from his many days of walking. He must search for a medicine tree. He turned tiredly and headed back toward the beach and the cooler air coming off the sea.

  Later, as the light of day bled away, Calling Crow found a copse of myrtle trees near the beach in which to hide and sleep. Sitting against a tree, he took the mouse from his waist string and sliced its belly open. He chewed without enjoyment, staring into the sky. The breeze was much stronger here, cooling him and enabling him to breathe easier. Soon the sky was indigo and the surf a song of lament. The cries of the gulls gave voice to his pain as the face of the women he loved floated before his eyes. The last time he had seen Juana, her belly was ripe to bursting with their child. That was fourteen moons ago. For the last ten of those moons he had struggled southward to find her. A Spanish priest had returned her to the island of Hispaniola. Afterward, Calling Crow had returned to his home village. Then, strangely, many of his people developed a fever and began to die. Calling Crow did not know why he himself had been spared the sickness-- it was more a curse than not to have died of it-- but the very bravos he had played with as children and who had chosen him as their cacique, or chief, blamed him for bringing it. They chased him from his home.

  After that, only the memory of Juana and the child that must now be feeding at her breast gave him the will to continue. The pain they’d suffered as Spanish slaves had strengthened their love like iron in a fiery Spanish forge. Back then he would look at Juana and see some good in the bad, crazy world of the Spanish. He thought of the time he had first met her, after the horse and rider had raced past them, scattering the people. She had fallen against him. As her eyes found his, the heat and dust of the noisy street fell away and there was only he and she on the earth. She smiled at him as he steadied her and in that instant he knew they were a match.

  Calling Crow smelled something on the breeze. In the growing dark he left the copse. Over the past five moons, he had passed one village after another filled with people dead of the Spanish disease, and many more ghosts. For that reason he did not like to move about in the dark. Tonight however, his hunger was making him crazy and he didn’t care.

  He left the crashing surf behind as he moved inland. Under the soft light of the bitten moon, with the rhythmic chatter of frogs and crickets in his ears, he spotted the regularly spaced silhouettes of huts in the distance-- a village. He crept closer. No dogs barked at his approach; no one cried out in their sleep. Only the wind moved here, clacking the palmetto fronds of the thatched roof overhangs. He crept into a long house. Many dead people, probably victims of Spanish fever, lay about on the sleeping shelves. Where a shaft of moonlight shone through he saw the hollow cheeks and blackened eye sockets of a dead woman, her arms wrapped around the dried-up remains of her baby. He hesitated for a moment, almost running back outside. Then he spotted a basket of maize in a corner. He crept over to it and knelt down to eat. As Calling Crow scooped a handful of the dry meal from the basket it seemed as if the eyes of a dead bravo nearby were watching him. Then he thought he heard the man’s voice. It was the tall trees outside bending in the wind, Calling Crow told himself. Despite his fear, Calling Crow shoved the dry grain into his mouth, barely managing to get it down.

  Someone cried out, “thief!” and Calling Crow choked on the maize, coughing painfully. A deep moan filled the hut. All of the dead had, without a sound, gotten out of their sleeping shelves and now surrounded him. He couldn’t escape. The women moaned sorrowfully as they stared at him.

  A bravo that had lain nearby approached. His bones showed through in places and maggots wriggled and crawled on his wet skin. He gripped a war club with a skeletal hand. “Why have you come here?” he demanded.

  “I want maize.”

  “So you take ours?” he said angrily.

  Several people echoed his indignation.

  “But I am dying,” said Calling Crow.

  The people laughed without mercy.

  The bravo scowled. “Many have died since the invaders have come, and many more will die.”

  Another dead bravo pushed forward. He carried a lance painted red for war. “Why should you live?” he demanded, pointing his lance at Calling Crow.

  “Yes, why should you live?” others shouted, edging forward angrily.

  Calling Crow remained on his knees as he shouted up at them. “I am searching for my woman and our child. I must find them.”

  The woman with the baby pushed forward. She shoved the dried-up child toward him. Its blackened, leathery arms and legs writhed in pain as it shrieked. “We are many women,” she said, her face a mask of grief and rage, “all dead! And all our babies are dead!”

  “Yes,” said the dead people in angry agreement, “it is so.”

  “Kill him,” someone cried.

  “Wait!”

  The crowd parted to let an old man through. Hardly any flesh remained on his face. A turban of red cloth covered his head and his eyes were like the glistening yolks of eggs set with brown stones. Calling Crow knew he was their cacique.

  The bravo with the war club called over. “We should kill him. He stole our maize.”

  “No,” said the cacique. He stared into Calling Crow’s eyes and it took all of Calling Crow’s courage to not look away.

  “Why not?” demanded the bravo.

  The cacique turned to answer him.

  Before he could, the others demanded, “Yes, why not kill him?”

  The cacique looked at Calling Crow. “Because he has a mission.”

  The people said nothing.

  “What is it?” said Calling Crow.

  The cacique laughed. “That is for you to find out.”

  “No!” shouted the war club bravo. “We must kill him.”

  “Yes,” shouted others. “Kill the stranger.”

  The cacique turned to them and raised his skeletal arms to stop them but they were not to be deterred! He turned to Calling Crow. “Run! Live and fulfill your destiny!”

  The people pushed past the cacique and Calling Crow leapt to his feet. He smashed through the cane wall of the hut and ran out into the night. They ran after him, their shrill, raging cries in his ears. He ran along the beach until he passed out.

  Calling Crow opened his eyes. He remembered his dream and looked around in the faint early morning light. Nothing moved. Fatigue washed over him and his head fell back. He slept again and then, in the growing light, a twig snapped nearby. He sat up quickly but it was too late. Seven bravos stood over him. Six of them were bare-chested and wore only breechclouts of skin, yet the intricate tattoos that encircled their bodies gave the appearance of garments. One of the six was Calling Crow’s height, but much broader in the chest, with long, thick arms. The seventh wore several necklaces of polished, iridescent shell about his neck, indicating his high rank. He had an angry, fierce face and eyes that tried to look in at one another. All the men wore their hair pulled up and back into topknots.

  The big man
pushed his flint-tipped lance painfully against Calling Crow’s chest, starting a rivulet of blood flowing.

  The crossed-eye bravo addressed the big man. “Do not kill him, Kills Bear,” he said in a thick accent. “We must take him before the council.” The cross-eyed leader spoke the Muskogee tongue, as many peoples along the coast did, although he spoke very fast, and with a nasal accent.

  Crossed-eyes looked down at Calling Crow. “Get up!”

  Calling Crow got to his feet. Crossed-eyes took Calling Crow’s iron axe from his belt. They then led him off through the thick forest. Crossed-eyes told Calling Crow that they were the Coosa people and that his name was Black Snake, and he was the leader of the Wolf society. The Coosa bravos were divided into four warrior societies, each with its own leader. They were the Wolf, Fox, Hawk and Bear societies.

  “Where are you taking me?” said Calling Crow.

  The big bravo called Kills Bear that had cut Calling Crow with his lance laughed. “You will not live long enough to tell anyone, so I will tell you. We live in a village east of here that is called Aguacay.”

  The cross-eyed one who was called Black Snake turned to Kills Bear. “That is enough. No more talk.”

  They began running and two bravos had to support Calling Crow in order for him to keep up. Around noon they reached the village. Passing through the palisade opening, Calling Crow saw many compounds, each containing three or four small square huts of woven thatch, mud-smoothed walls and thatch roofs. People worked at drying racks and pegged skins on the ground. They passed more of these compounds than Calling Crow could count. Finally they came to a square gathering-ground, fronting a large round structure with a conical thatched roof. Calling Crow assumed it to be their council house.

  Calling Crow fell to his knees in exhaustion.

  “Let me through,” someone called out.

  A light-skinned woman with a round, pretty face knelt in front of Calling Crow. She held a calabash of cool water before his lips and he drank. Strength flowed into him as he looked into her eyes.