Spirit of the
Turtle Woman

Lynn Sholes

 

 

SPIRIT OF THE TURTLE WOMAN

All Rights Reserved © 1999 by Lynn Armistead McKee

 

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.

 

Published by Stone Creek Books
Oakland Park, Florida

Originally published by Onyx Books

 

Interior design by Joe Moore
Cover art by Joe Moore

Excerpt from DAUGHTER OF THE FIFTH MOON
All Rights Reserved © 2001 by Lynn Armistead McKee

DEDICATION

For Madison and Gail. I miss you, still. 

Author’s Note

By A.D. 1500, at about the time of European contact, there were approximately 350,000 people living in Florida. Among these tribes were the Jeaga and the Ais. The Jeaga lived in what is now Palm Beach County, Florida, and the Ais north of the Jeaga from St. Lucie Inlet through Cape Canaveral.

These tribes were headed by a cacique, or chief, and were related linguistically. Based on the few words recorded phonetically by early explorers, it is believed these Indians spoke what is called Muskogee, a language also spoken by some Seminole and Creek. Therefore, when selecting character names I chose words structurally sympathetic to the language.

No one is certain what these Native Americans called their villages or towns. The Europeans usually named the areas and the rivers after the Indians who lived there.

Physically, the Ais and the Jeaga were relatively short, but robust. In examination of their remains, we find there is very little evidence of dental caries, but considerable attrition of the teeth. Shovel-shaped incisors are also characteristic. In some individuals great crescents are found in molars, a probable result of years of leather working. A full lifespan was probably about thirty-five to forty years.

Food was abundant in the region, the diet was made up of fish (both freshwater and saltwater), oysters, mussels, snails, deer, turtles, snakes, alligators, small mammals, berries, plants, and bread made from the coontie root.

They made their canoes from cypress trunks, and some were large enough to carry thirty people out to sea. We know they took their dugouts far out into the Atlantic, as we find the remains of tiger sharks in their middens. It is uncertain just how they caught such large fish.

There is still so much we do not know about the Indians of this region whose ancestors went back as far as 12,000 or more years ago. As Florida continues its rapid growth, undeveloped land becomes more and more scarce. Unfortunately, the sites where the Ais, Jeaga, Calusa, Tequesta, and other Indians lived are destroyed by bulldozers almost on a daily basis. Though legislation has been passed to protect such sites, “accidents” continue to happen.

When Spain ceded Florida to England, there were but a handful of Native Americans left in Florida. They were never defeated in battle, but lost their valiant fight for survival to common diseases such as influenza and chicken pox, for which they had no immunities. Even on the last of the Spanish maps, south Florida is labeled LAND OF THE INFIDELS.

From the scanty records we have of the aboriginal people of South Florida, I have attempted to re-create the culture and weave it into a good story line. I have taken some author’s liberties, but for the most part I have tried to ensure authenticity. It is hoped that this novel will bring about an awareness of the people who once lived here and will encourage protection of all historical sites. They are nonrenewable resources. 

 

Prologue

Southeast coast of the Florida peninsula, 2500 years ago. 

YUROK PLANTED THE SACRED STICK in the sand. The clan sat, legs crossed, waiting for the spirits to speak through the stick and show them which way to go. The Jeaga, the People, depended on the spirits for such things. And now they waited for guidance to find the place where they would settle. The eyes of the Jeaga remained fixed on the stick. The staff swayed in the ocean wind, and then leaned, the turtle-head effigy at the top pointing south.

Kaya took advantage of the short delay and rested. If she lagged behind when the clan was moving, she would have to run to catch up, and she knew her legs would not carry her that quickly. She was much too weak. She kept her distance from the others because she was no longer allowed to dwell among them. To the clan, she was dead.

Yurok plucked the stick from the ground and held it overhead. Everyone gathered his belongings and took up the journey again. They traveled south, as the stick pointed, as the spirits directed.

The unusual chill of the wind bit at Kaya. There were only two seasons here, wet and dry. Both were usually warm, and sometimes stifling hot. The Jeagas’ way of life was adapted to the heat. They were not prepared well for the cold.

Kaya held her new daughter to her breast. She was so very tired and wished they would stop for the day and set up camp. The brief rest while they had waited on the spirits’ voices to enter the stick was not long enough. Only three nights ago she had pushed the new baby out of her belly. No one had helped.

The night when the child was born, Kaya had gotten no sleep, the birthing taking until dawn. When it was over, she wrapped the afterbirth and buried it. When the sun rose, the clan continued the trek. Kaya swaddled the infant in a blanket, put her to suckle, and trailed the group. For days now she had eaten only the clan’s scraps. At night she huddled behind the dunes. She shivered in the cold air, keeping the child bundled close to her. In the dark Kaya felt the baby’s cold skin, listened to her labored breathing. The child’s suffering made her heart ache.

In late afternoon, at the mouth of a river, the clan watched the stick lean to the west. Yurok led them past the mangroves, upriver, where the foliage thickened with great oaks, lush vines, sabal palms, and strangler figs. There by the rushing water he planted the stick again. Kaya squinted in the distance, hoping the spirits had spoken. Relief spread through her like warm tea. This time the staff did not waver. It stood straight, claiming the spot as their new home.

Kaya’s belly cramped as the baby suckled, and she was anxious to lie down on the patch of green ferns at her feet. She reached in the pouch at her side, withdrew a medicine leaf and put it in her mouth. It gave her a little relief, though it made the bleeding worse. She felt weak, her head dizzy.

“The stick speaks clearly,” Yurok said. He scooped a handful of sandy dun earth and held it up, letting it slowly trickle out and catch in the wind.

Kaya sank to the ground. The infant whimpered. The child stirred fitfully. Kaya put her knuckle in her baby’s mouth. She didn’t have enough milk. They were both going to die.

The clan set up camp, and under the moon they celebrated.

Kaya chewed another medicine leaf and cleared a space beneath a red maple to sleep. Her head ached, and the dizziness grew stronger. She lay on the ground and pulled the baby against her. Her arms trembled with the effort.

In the moonlight she stared down at her beautiful child. Her throat tightened and her eyes teared. The child’s skin had lost its wonderful deep reddish-brown tone—her Jeaga heritage. Instead, Kaya saw a gray pallor, dull eyes, and tiny chapped lips.

“No!” She scolded herself for not fighting back, for the child’s sake. She could not let this happen. Perhaps she deserved to be dead. She was the one with the affliction. But the baby should not suffer.

She had to stop this before it was too late. Kaya got to her knees and put the baby in the deer-hide sling around her neck. She struggled to her feet. Yurok had to hear her.

Her head swam as she pulled herself upright. For an instant, she thought she would fall. She braced herself against the tree and focused on the small hearth fires. Her eyelids fluttered as she took the first step.

She heard the collective gasp as she stumbled into camp.

“Yurok,” she called, seeing him by his fire. “It is Kaya, your wife. And this is your child.”

A bulky shadow moved nearby. “He does not hear you,” the shaman said, coming before her. “No one does. Only I can hear you because I am a man of the spirits.”

“No!” she said, taking another step toward Yurok. Her knees wobbled, and she hesitated before she continued. “I have been banished, but I am not dead.”

“You have the affliction,” the shaman said. “You must be cast out. It has been decided.”

Kaya edged in front of Yurok. “I was your wife. Did you not love me before you discovered I carry a curse?”

Yurok’s eyes watered and he bit down on the inside of his cheek.

“Do not speak,” the shaman warned. “She is dead.”

Kaya swayed with dizziness. Her mouth was dry. The bleeding was worse, and she felt it course down her legs.

“Let her speak,” Yurok said. “I can hear her.”

Kaya held out the baby. “She suffers, Yurok. She grows too weak to cry.”

The shaman stepped in front of her. “Her line carries the affliction … passed through the daughters for generations until the debt is paid. It is the spirits’ design. The punishment.”

Kaya slumped to her knees, unable to stand any longer. A jagged stone sliced her knee, but she didn’t flinch. She was numb to pain now.

“Move aside,” Yurok told the shaman.

“Save your daughter,” Kaya cried. “Your blood also runs through her. See, it is your eyes that she has, and the straight line of your nose. She is a beautiful reflection of her father. It is only I who brings you shame.”

“This child might also bear the affliction,” the shaman said.

“And she might not,” Yurok answered. “Cheena, come here,” he called loudly.

Yurok’s sister came to his side, holding her own infant.

“Is your milk plentiful?”

Cheena nodded.

Yurok took the baby from Kaya’s arms. He stared into the infant’s face for a few moments, then handed her to Cheena.

Yurok gazed at the small group that gathered beside the shaman. “Be gone, all of you,” he said. “Kaya,” he said softly as he lifted her and carried her nearer his fire.

She felt the comforting warmth of him. He sat with her and rested her head in his lap.

“Keep her secret,” she whispered. “Do not let your daughter be without a spirit.”

Kaya’s strength was quickly leaving, but it didn’t matter, she thought. This was the way of the spirits, and the child was safe. She closed her eyes. She prayed the affliction ended with her and her death. She had suffered. Was the debt not paid?

Yurok stroked Kaya’s hair and listened to her ragged breaths mingled with the sound of the breeze rustling through the tall grass. The moon was high above them when she crossed over. The strain in her face transformed to peace.

From somewhere in the darkness the shaman chanted prayers.

Yurok rocked her gently until daylight, and then, alone, he carried her body deep into the woods. He dug a shallow grave and lowered her into it. He knelt over her and brushed her hair from her face. His face tightened with grief. The spirits were difficult to understand.

Yurok said a prayer that the ground in which she rested be sacred. And before he covered her with the earth, he said another prayer and slipped a bird feather in her hand so her spirit could take flight. 

Chapter 1

Southeast Florida, one-half mile inland on the banks of the Loxahatchee River, 2380 years ago.

 

THE JEAGA TURTLE VILLAGE was eerily still, though the women busied themselves with daily chores. The children ceased their romping and rested in the shade. The stillness seemed to have weight, and sagged over the village. The air was dense and stifling, and the mosquitoes were incessant pests.

Talli, the oldest of the three sisters, wiped beads of perspiration from her forehead with the back of her hand, and then returned to kneading clay. “Like this,” she showed her youngest sister, Nocatee, using the heels of her hands for the task.

“Why do you add sand?” Nocatee asked.

“You ask too many questions,” Sassa, the middle sister, said. Sassa was younger than Talli by only one full cycle of seasons.

Talli smiled at Nocatee. “How would you know things if you did not ask? Sassa, were you not the same when Nocatee’s age?”

Sassa looked apologetic.

“Sand is the temper,” Talli said. “The clay will not stay together without it.”

Suddenly Talli felt a chill, like cold rain running down her arms. She looked up and her stomach knotted.

“What is it?” Sassa asked. She stared at Talli’s face. “What is wrong?”

Talli stood up. “Stay here,” she said, moving away.

Nocatee’s face squirmed. Her nose wrinkled, and she squeezed her eyes tight as if she were about to cry. “Talli,” she whimpered, but her sister didn’t hear her.

Talli spotted Bunta as soon as he broke through the trees. She ran behind him to the center of the village, her heart drumming in her chest. She tried to see who the man was who hung over Bunta’s shoulder. The injured man’s arms dangled and flopped about, and a runnel of his blood trailed down Bunta’s bare back.

“What has happened?” Talli cried, glancing back. More men burst out of the cover of the forest, carrying wounded warriors into the village.

Winded, Bunta laid the man on the ground, dust puffing up in a brown halo. Talli winced at the sight of the broken lance shaft protruding from the man’s chest. “An Ais’ attack on our hunt party,” Bunta huffed.

Talli’s hand flew to her throat. The Ais lived to the north and were a contemptible and murderous tribe. The Jeaga tried to stay clear of them, but this morning the men from the Turtle village and the Panther village had gone together on a hunt, and the Ais had attacked.

“Where is Akoma?” she asked, forcing the question out of her mouth.

Bunta shook his head. Sweat dribbled down his face as he lifted the injured man’s eyelids. Bunta put his ear to the man’s nose and listened for breathing, while his hand searched the man’s chest for the feel of a heartbeat. “He is dead,” he said and looked up. Talli was gone.

She ran through the village, squinting to fight the glare of the midday sun. Where was Akoma? Was he hurt … dead? Fear ripped through her like a jagged-edged chert knife.

Women wailed. Some stood rooted in their horror. Other women darted about, searching for their husbands, their sons, their brothers. Some had found what they feared and knelt in the dirt, the sun hammering their backs as they hovered over their outstretched men. Bodies littered the earth like carcasses brought back from a hunt, but unlike the animals brought down by a hunter, these were not clean kills. Bewildered children shrieked and clutched at their mothers.

Talli wondered how many were hurt. The stream of bloodied men continued to come through the trees. There would be much for the Bone Cleaner to do.

The Bone Cleaner’s job was to strip the soft flesh from the bones of the dead, and then bundle the bones and place them on the charnel platform in the mud along the bank of the river. The Bone Cleaner stayed isolated and was considered unclean, but was highly respected.

So many were injured or dead, Talli thought. She prayed Akoma was not one of them. “Please,” Talli cried. “Please let Akoma be alive,” she begged the spirits. Tears trickled into the corners of her mouth.

~~~

Akoma was sure his eyes were open, but something was wrong.

He was being joggled, bumped along in the darkness. He heard someone scream.

“Move out of the way!” a deep voice shouted. “I have Akoma.”

“Is he alive?”

The jarring stopped with a thump, and Akoma became aware he was lying on the ground on his back. He could smell the dank odor of the soil. He felt heavy, as if he were sinking, being magically swallowed by mother earth.

Was that singing he heard or a woman’s voice?

“His wound is bad,” a woman said. “Where is his father?”

“He is coming.”

Akoma felt pressure and a stinging on the side of his head.

“Hold this here while I bandage the medicine swatch,” the woman said.

What has happened? He thought he asked it aloud. He was confused, and it was so dark. Maybe he had asked only in his head.

He strained to see, but still there was only blackness, not even a star in the sky. There came another voice and he thought it was Bunta’s, the War Chief. If there was just some moonlight he would be able to see and know for sure. It was so dark.

A pain shot through his head. Akoma tried to sit up, but felt a hand on his chest restrain him.

“Can you hear me, Akoma?” Bunta asked.

Akoma struggled to get his dry lips and heavy tongue to move. He forced air through his throat and made a gurgling sound.

“I think he does hear,” the woman said. “He is trying to speak.”

The voices became distant echoes, growing softer and softer. He heard a faint buzzing, almost just a vibration, and then he was aware of nothing.

~~~

Yahga-ta knelt by his son. “Akoma?”

There was no response.

“He sleeps deep,” the woman said.

Bunta turned Akoma’s head so the wound could be viewed. “He has suffered a blow to the head.”

Yahga-ta stiffened to speak without emotion. “Today my son became a man. He touched the enemy. It is not right that he dies and not know he has entered the world of men. Where is Putiwa? Get the shaman here for my son,” Yahga-ta said to the woman. “Find him now!”

The woman obeyed and ran through the village, looking for the shaman. Near the central hearth, Talli caught her by the shoulder. “Have you seen Akoma?”

She nodded. “Over there,” she said, pointing. “With his father and Bunta. I go for the shaman.”

Talli scanned the distance and spotted Yahga-ta, Akoma’s father, the cacique, the leader of the clan. He and Bunta stooped next to a body on the ground. Akoma? Did she dare go near?

Talli’s chest tightened with dread as she hurried there. She hesitated before coming next to Yahga-ta. She wiped the tears from her face. When she saw the young warrior lying so still, she gasped and fell to her knees. “Akoma,” she whispered, and then looked up at Yahga-ta.

“It is bad. He does not hear me,” Yahga-ta said.

Talli swallowed and choked back a cry. She brushed Akoma’s cheek with her fingertips, but quickly pulled her hand away. She should not have done that. “Will he be all right?” she asked. Yahga-ta did not answer.

She bent close to Akoma’s ear making certain she did not touch him. She whispered his name. Blood matted his hair, and some of it was already caked on his face. “It is Talli. Wake up. Wake up.”

“He is in the deep sleep,” Bunta said. “He does not hear anything.”

She straightened, afraid to be so close or it might happen.

“Talli!” It was Sassa. “Come. Mother needs you. Father is hurt.”

Talli put her fear aside and lifted Akoma’s hand in hers. It was limp and cool. She rubbed her thumb across his knuckles. Her shoulders shuddered subtly. Talli dropped his hand and stood up, but it was too late. The affliction. She grabbed her head, and shoved her fingers through her hair.

“Come now!” Sassa said, tugging on Talli’s arm.

Talli blinked as she struggled to focus.

“Now!” Sassa said, pulling her away from Akoma.

On the way to the family shelter, Talli kept glancing back until the milling people hid Akoma from view.

Nocatee stood inside the shelter that was about man high and constructed of bent saplings covered with palmetto thatch. Her dark eyes were wide with confusion as she stared out the opening.

Talli knelt next to her mother. Kitchi stared at her daughter. Talli’s eyes settled on her father’s injured arm in her mother’s lap. Ufala leaned his head back and grimaced as Kitchi’s finger probed one of the wounds in his arm. Talli saw her father’s heavy jaw clench, his eyes squeeze shut, and his large hands ball into fists, but he did not make a sound.

“The wounds are clean now,” Kitchi said. “There is nothing in them, but I fear the bone is smashed.”

Perspiration poured out of Ufala’s skin, and his long, sweat-soaked, silver-and-black hair clung to him. He was a big man, full of muscle that seemed suddenly to lose definition.

“Be grateful the Ais warrior was not wielding a shark-tooth club,” Kitchi said.

The thought of what her father’s arm would have looked like if he had been attacked with such a club made Talli cringe. That kind of club was edged with shark’s teeth set in notches along its length. It would have ripped the flesh off his bone and sawed through his arm. He probably would have bled to death.

“Get me some water,” Ufala said to Sassa. The girl took a water pouch and hurried to the river.

“Sort through the baskets and find some pilosa and snakebark,” Kitchi told Talli. “I need to prepare medicine. Stir the fire, and when Sassa returns with the water, boil the pilosa and snakebark.”

Talli rummaged through the baskets her mother stored beside their shelter in the shade of a large oak. Her father would be all right, but what about Akoma? If she hurried, as soon as Ufala was settled, perhaps she could sneak away.

Sassa returned with the water. Talli splashed a bit into the pouch suspended over the fire, and then handed the remaining container of water to her father.

Ufala flinched. “Kitchi,” Ufala said, nodding at his wife and gesturing with his head toward the pouch. He refused to take the water from Talli.

Kitchi grasped the otter-stomach from her daughter’s hand and gave it to Ufala.

“Back away, Talli,” he said after several swallows. “You should not be so close.”

Talli stepped back, her head down in respect.

“Do you brew something for the pain?” Ufala asked Kitchi.

“I make a medicine to put on the wounds,” she answered. “It will help.”

“Something stronger,” he said, palming his bruised ribs with his good hand.

“I will ask Putiwa,” Kitchi said, wiping the sweat from her husband’s face.

“The shaman is with Yahga-ta and Akoma,” Talli said. “Akoma is injured and Yahga-ta has summoned Putiwa to help.”

Kitchi’s head shot up. “You have not been near Akoma, have you? You did not touch him?”

Talli didn’t have to answer because Ufala groaned, and Kitchi focused on her husband.

“Do something, woman,” he said. “Forget Putiwa.”

“Talli will gather the herbs as soon as she finishes preparing this medicine.” Kitchi moved to peer in the pouch over the fire. She tweezed two rocks from the hearth and dropped them inside the pouch. There was an instant sizzling as the hot stones hit the water. A swirl of steam rose. “It is hot enough,” she told Talli. “Put in the medicine plants.”

Talli tore the leaves and stems and dropped them in. The solution bubbled. Kitchi scooted closer to Ufala.

Talli heard her parents talking behind her, but she did not follow their conversation. She stared across the village, straining to get a glimpse of something that would tell her how Akoma was. The center of the village, the plaza, was clear and the dirt steamed in the heat. The sunlight danced on the shelters as it splintered through the trees that shaded their homes. But there was nothing she could see that enlightened her about Akoma.

He had to be all right. How would she live if he was not?

“What is wrong with you, daughter?” Ufala asked sharply. “Your mother speaks to you, and you do not respond.”

Talli whipped around. “I am sorry,” she said. She looked back at the brewing medicine and saw the water had turned dark. “It is ready.”

“Scoop off the residue from the top and bring it here,” Kitchi said. “Pay attention to what you are doing. This is not a medicine to drink unless it is a time for cleansing. It is for dressing wounds. It keeps the bad spirits out of wounds and stops bleeding.”

Talli prodded the pouch along the suspending stick until it no longer sat over the hot coals.

Her mother took a small busycon-shell ladle and dipped out some of the elixir. She let it cool for a moment, but the concoction was still hot. She tipped the shell and poured the medicine in Ufala’s open wounds. The big man thrust back his head and his mouth opened as if to scream. His head came forward, and his chin pressed against his chest. Ufala let out a pent-up breath, grabbed Kitchi’s arm, and squeezed until the pain abated.

The color drained from Talli’s face.

“Move away, daughter,” Kitchi said. “Go and gather the medicine plants that will ease your father’s pain.”

Talli stepped farther back. She saw her little sister hiding her eyes. “Can Nocatee go with me?”

Kitchi nodded at her eldest.

“Come, Nocatee,” Talli called.

“Gather some sky-flower and pickerelweed,” Kitchi said. Just as Talli turned to leave, her mother said, “Do not stray. Stay away from the others. You do understand?”

Talli picked up Nocatee. If she was careful, there would be no danger. Her mother did not need to worry. She would keep her distance.

Talli threaded through the thicket along the perimeter of the village. At at a range where she was sure Kitchi could not see her, she reentered the village and headed to the spot where she had last seen Akoma.

Nocatee’s eyebrows dipped. “Mother said—”

“I know, little sister. We will only be a moment.”

Near enough to see clearly, Talli realized Akoma was not where she had seen him earlier. Her heart jumped in her chest, and she felt weak. Had he died? Her arms tightened about Nocatee.

She spun around and looked toward the leader’s hearth and his shelter, which stood at the head of the village in the east so the sun first shone on the place of the cacique. Yahga-ta’s shelter was a lodge much larger than the shelters of the rest of the clan. The interior was also different. The inside was bordered with log benches on which clan members sat during council meetings. At the end of the lodge, slightly elevated, was the place where Yahga-ta himself sat during those times.

Talli saw a small group gathered in front of Yahga-ta’s lodge. Did they stare down at Akoma’s body?

“We will get the medicine plants in a moment,” she told Nocatee, letting her slide down to stand on the ground. “Walk this way.” She took her young sister’s hand, moved a few steps, and then stopped. She felt a tingling along her spine. Talli looked at Nocatee and lifted her chin with her fingers. “It is all right,” she said. She stooped to Nocatee’s height. “Do not be frightened. Your little heart beats so fast.”

Nocatee squeezed Talli’s hand.

Between the men and women standing about, Talli saw someone did indeed lie on the ground. Her heart told her it was Akoma. Afraid of what she would see, she approached slowly.

She stopped outside the circle of people at Yahga-ta’s hearth, behind Bunta’s woman, Chinasi.

Putiwa chanted. His old weathered face was deeply wrinkled from sun, age, and responsibility. His eyes were filled with worry. Akoma was the spirits’ chosen one and Yahga-ta’s son. One day Akoma would take his father’s place. If the shaman failed to save him, it would not be a good thing.

Chinasi looked back at Talli. “Putiwa does his magic. Only the men stand close.”

Fear garroted Talli’s voice, and her words came out cracked and strained. “Is he dead?”

“No, I do not think so. But I do not believe he will survive. He drifts in the deep sleep.”

An unexpected wind whipped through the trees and a flurry of oak and bay leaves swirled about. Talli shivered.

Putiwa’s chant grew louder as he strode around the unconscious Akoma. The shaman took his turtle-shell rattle, the hard seeds inside clattering against the shell to Putiwa’s rhythm. The deer hooves, which were tied beneath the shell, clacked together. The peal of Putiwa’s old uninhibited voice and the beat of the rattle made the shaman’s music magical, and it saturated the village. The people watched and listened in awe, as they always did when the mystical man spoke to the spirits.

Chinasi rubbed the flesh that prickled on her arms. She spoke in a whisper. “If Akoma is to be saved, Putiwa will do it.”

Talli nudged past Chinasi and stopped just outside the band of men.

Akoma’s bandaged head inclined to the side. He was so still. Mora, Akoma’s mother, wept on her sister’s shoulder. Yahga-ta stood erect, donning a stern, determined expression. The colors the leader wore on his face for the hunt had already faded.

Talli took another step. Chinasi grasped her arm. “What are you doing?” she whispered. “Do not interrupt.”

Talli shook her head as if confused. She was so close to Akoma, but could not tell if he was breathing. She should feel something, but didn’t, and it frightened her.

Nocatee peeped through the mass of legs. She started to cry again and tugged at her sister’s hand. “Talli? Is Akoma dead?”

“I do not know,” Talli whispered. “Say a prayer, Nocatee. Say a prayer.” She picked up the little one again and rocked from side to side, as she often did to comfort her sister.

Nocatee cried into Talli’s shoulder. “Is Father going to die, too?”

“No. No, Nocatee. Father will be all right.”

“But Akoma—”

“Shh,” Talli said, stroking the back of her sister’s head.

Suddenly, the shaman fell silent. The breeze ceased and there was a disturbing hush. Talli pressed Nocatee’s cheek firmly against her shoulder.

Putiwa knelt at Akoma’s head, drew smoke from his pipe and blew it in the young man’s face. He uttered some magic words from the ancient tongue. The shaman stood and called out for two men to carry Akoma into Yahga-ta’s lodge. Talli’s heart thudded as she watched Putiwa present himself in front of Akoma’s mother.

Putiwa put his hands on Mora’s upper arms, and then drew a sign with his thumb on her forehead, smearing some yellow ochre above her brows. He said something Talli could not hear over Nocatee’s whimpering.

Talli put Nocatee down and pushed through the crowd. She grabbed the arm of one of the men who lifted Akoma.

“Stop, let me see him!”

Shocked by Talli’s boldness, the men paused, and Talli looked into Akoma’s still face. Abandoning her fear, she let the tip of one finger touch his arm. She felt empty inside, all black, and barren, and hollow. Like death. “Akoma!” she sobbed. Her head jerked up so she could see the eyes of the man in her grip. “Is he dead?” 

Chapter 2

“MOVE AWAY,” the man Talli had grabbed said, loosing himself from her. His face splotched red with aggravation.

Talli stepped back. The two men carried Akoma toward the shelter, and Talli followed. The brown thatch rattled in the wind. The decorative bands of shells that hung in the opening chimed, and the eyes of the wooden turtle above the entrance seemed to stare gravely.

Yahga-ta’s heavy hand came down on Talli’s shoulder. “Leave us. You cause a disturbance and intrude on our family at this bad time.”

Talli attempted to collect herself. “I did not mean to trespass,” she said. Nocatee tugged at her sister’s hand. “Please,” Talli pleaded, “just tell me if he lives.”

“Putiwa has done what he can. Akoma breathes, but the shaman has prepared his mother for his death. He painted a sign on her forehead to give her strength.”

Talli backed away, numb, stricken with disbelief. Akoma could not die. He was young and strong, and she had just been with him this morning before he left for the hunt. They had hidden near the river’s edge. He had held her hand and pulled her close. Her cheek had rested on his warm shoulder and she smelled his skin. She could still hear the sound of his heartbeat.

As the crowd dispersed, Talli clutched Nocatee’s hand. Nocatee huddled by her sister.

“Oh, Nocatee,” Talli muttered, opening her arms and embracing the little one.

“We need the medicine plants for Father,” Nocatee said softly.

“I know. Father will be angry if we take too long.” Talli wiped her eyes and sniffed. “Help me find the plants. He must already wonder where we are.”

~~~

They searched nearby, roaming through the floor of ferns and the flowering, sweet-smelling vines of the hardwood forest. “There,” Talli said, pointing to a patch of flat-topped clusters of azure blue flowers.

After gathering all they needed of those plants, Talli led Nocatee to a sunken place near the river where the soil stayed soggy and the pickerelweed grew in abundance beneath the cypress. They put the collection inside Talli’s pouch and returned to the village.

Nocatee kept out one spike of the violet pickerelweed flowers and pushed the stem behind her ear. She walked backward so her sister could look at her. “What do I look like, Talli? Am I as beautiful as you?”

~~~

Yahga-ta took his seat, an elevated platform inside his lodge. Bunta and Putiwa sat on the benches waiting for the cacique to speak. Akoma lay on a deerskin on the ground.

Yahga-ta nodded at Mora, who lowered her eyes in respect, touched her son’s cheek with the back of her hand, and then left the lodge so the men could speak.

The cacique held the fletching of an Ais arrow. “The drought stays long in the Ais’ memory.”

Bunta drew in a noisy breath. “How are we to respond to this Ais attack? They fear the drought will return and they want to position themselves on the river.”

“The Ais do not answer to the same spirits,” Putiwa said. “They enjoy bloodletting. It is their way. They will take life after life without hesitation and use the excuse that they have need to increase their territory. The Jeaga should strike back swiftly—show no fear.”

“And what does the war chief think?” Yahga-ta asked.

Bunta shook his head. “We are a peaceful people. We cannot become like the Ais,” he said, turning to Putiwa.

“We need to defend ourselves,” Putiwa said.

“Sometimes using a weapon is not a wise defense,” Bunta answered. “This should not be a hurried decision.”

Yahga-ta felt the heat of the afternoon sun permeating the thatch at his back. “Keep these things we discussed in your head, but let your mind be open through the night. Putiwa, consult the spirits. Bunta, contemplate each option. There will be strong opposition to whatever is decided, but we cannot permit that to divide us. The clan is too fragile at this moment. We will shatter if there is disagreement now. Let the people tend to their wounds and grief, and then we will call the council together.”

Yahga-ta dismissed them, and then sat beside his son. “And who will lead the Turtle clan if the spirits claim you?” he spoke softly. “Are all the Jeaga near their end?”

~~~ 

“It has taken you a long time,” Kitchi said upon her daughters’ return. “Your father suffers, and you dally somewhere in the woods. Why is it when you are off in the trees you become preoccupied and forget time? This morning it was the same thing.” Kitchi dug in the pouch around Talli’s waist and grasped a handful of the plant parts. “Bring the rest,” she said.

Kitchi shredded the plants into a small wooden bowl, and then pounded them with a pestle made from the hard wood of the lignum-vitae. Ufala had traded a knife for it a long time ago when some of the men took a large canoe to the Big Water and followed the coastline south for days. They came upon another tribe. Tegesta was what they called themselves. The trip was an adventure Ufala loved to speak about.

Kitchi added a few drops of water and stirred the medicine paste. “You should watch,” she said. “These are lessons every good woman needs to learn. Now, get me a piece of deerskin. Use my woman’s knife to cut a long strip. We will use it to bind Ufala’s arm so it will heal and not hurt so when he moves. The rest we will use around his middle.”

Talli obeyed her mother, but her mind strayed. She knew she would be taking a chance if she got close to Akoma now, but she yearned to see him again, to be near for even a moment. Her heart ached. They were not even betrothed. By custom, Talli was too young, and it was expected of Akoma, the one chosen to be the next cacique, to take a wife from a noble line. Not long ago Yahga-ta suspected she and Akoma had deep feelings for each other, and he had gone to Ufala. He instructed Ufala to keep his daughter away from Akoma. She distracted the cacique’s son from the sacred path he was to follow.

Talli had listened to Ufala’s order forbidding her to see Akoma, and Akoma had heard Yahga-ta tell him to dismiss the girl from his thoughts, but neither had been able to dispose of their feelings. They stole away whenever they could for brief moments of hand holding, passionate embraces, and hungry kisses.

Though Talli was not old enough to be officially courted, only the passing of another season was left before her father would entertain offers for her. As it was now, Akoma would not be allowed to speak for her, but she hoped the ways of the old ones would change.

Much was expected of Akoma, especially that he be the example of the People’s principles and codes. He could never break custom. Talli prayed the archaic conventions would be put aside, and the old ones would see she and Akoma belonged together.

“Come with me,” Kitchi said to Talli, breaking into her thoughts. Inside the shelter the shadows hung like the clumps of airplants that dripped from the cypress branches. Ufala lay on a hide atop a grass-woven mat. The braided hank of hair at his forehead fell loose and snarled to the side. The large-shell gorget he wore about his neck rested against his brown skin. The black markings on his chest were smeared and had lost all definition, looking more like dirt than the honorable painted symbols of a respected hunter.

Talli had never seen her father on his mat in the middle of the day. She had never seen him ill or injured. She felt a tinge of fright.

“His wound is not serious, is it, Mother?”

“More painful than dangerous. If the bad spirits do not get into it, he will recover.” Kitchi whispered, “He will never hunt or do battle again. The arm is maimed.” Her voice returned to normal. “His body is bruised and sore. It will take a few days before he moves about again without considerable discomfort.”

Talli felt relieved knowing he would be all right. That knowledge also relieved the guilt she felt for worrying more about Akoma than her father.

“Perhaps Talli should not linger so close,” Ufala said.

“And where will she sleep when the night comes?” Kitchi asked. She looked around. “Talli, move your sleeping mat near the wall.”

“What has taken so long to prepare this medicine?” Ufala asked.

“One cannot make effective medicines too quickly,” Kitchi answered.

“Then get on with it.”

Kitchi sat beside him and dipped her fingers into the medicine paste. She daubed it on Ufala’s wounds.

Ufala flinched as Kitchi tied a strip of wet hide around his arm. “That will keep the medicine from coming off, and when it dries, it will be stiff and keep your arm still while it heals.”

“Do you have to be so rough?”

“The bandage must fit tightly.”

“And what about my ribs? What can you do for that?”

“There is nothing I know to do other than tie a binder around you so when you move you do not jostle yourself.”

“Aargh, you have no skills,” he complained. “Talli, do you expect to learn anything from this woman?”

Kitchi ignored him and worked a wide strip of soft hide under his torso. She lifted both ends as he continued berating her. She knotted the binder, and then pulled it taut with a swift, fierce jerk.

Ufala gasped. “Get out!” he bellowed. “You have the touch of a bungling dullard.”

Talli hung in the opening a moment longer after her mother had gone out.

“Can I do something for you, Father?”

Ufala did not answer. He adjusted his position on his mat, groaning as he moved.

~~~

“Father is so unkind to you,” Talli said to her mother as she joined her.

“Ufala is a good provider.”

“What was it like when you were young … when he courted you? Was he always so gruff and dissatisfied?”

Kitchi gazed in the distance. “He came to this village often,” she said, “impressing my father with the kills he made on hunts, giving a portion to our family.”

Talli looked at her mother’s face. Prematurely drawn and tired, the lines all pulled down. Had her mother looked at her father the way Talli knew her own eyes looked at Akoma?

“I thought he was the most handsome man I had ever seen,” Kitchi said. She smiled and took a long breath, speaking on the outflow. “He was so tall compared to the men of my village. He made my heart flutter with all the attention. The other young women were envious such a man sought only my attention.”

Talli emptied the medicine bowl and wiped it out. “What happened to those feelings?”

“It was so long ago,” Kitchi said, her fingers busying themselves with a bone awl, punching small holes along the edge of a rabbit fur she would add to a blanket. She wanted to be ready when the season changed. “The first child I bore him was a boy. I have told you about your brother.” Talli nodded as Kitchi continued. “Ufala was very proud. He called the child Climbing Bear. He was sure the boy would grow to be the biggest, strongest, most fearsome warrior of our people. During the baby’s second winter, just before your birth, the air turned especially cold. The old ones suffered and so did the very young. Climbing Bear was not as strong as your father wanted him to be. He said I coddled the boy, that Climbing Bear had to be raised more as a man.”

Kitchi’s eyes filled with tears. She blinked them away, and then lifted her chin and shoulders, as if her straightened posture would help her brave the story. “When there was a shimmer of frost on the ground, Ufala carried his son into the cold river at dawn. That is a ritual of older boys, a part of their transition into manhood, not for a small one like Climbing Bear. Every morning Ufala trod to the river with him. Climbing Bear cried when immersed in the frigid water, and Ufala would dip him in the water again and again until he stopped crying. He thought it would make his son the strongest, the one with the most endurance. He did many things like that. He demanded too much of the child. Climbing Bear was just a little boy who sometimes still suckled at his mother’s breast, another thing Ufala disapproved of. That winter Climbing Bear got bad spirits inside, and he became ill. When he crossed over to the Other Side, your father could not accept it. He has always blamed me. He said his son died because I did not know how to mother him.” Now the tears streamed down Kitchi’s cheeks.

“But it was not your fault.”

Kitchi looked at the shelter where Ufala lay. “He never forgave me. He discarded his feelings for me with the bones of his firstborn. And then of course there was you. He keeps the secret out of shame. Over the seasons I have hardened my heart. It is difficult for me to remember the man who offered all he had to my father if I would be his wife.”

“Woman!” Ufala’s voice boomed from inside the shelter.

“What is it?” Kitchi called back.

“My stomach grumbles with hunger. What have you prepared?”

“I will heat some turtle stew for you.”

“Bah,” he grumbled. “You would let me starve if I did not ask for food.”

“He is hungry,” she said, returning to the fire. “I told him I would heat some turtle stew, but in all the commotion of the day, I have prepared none.” Kitchi’s expression darkened. “He will be angry.”

“He is always angry,” Talli said. “I will go to Chinasi, or take some from the central hearth.”

There was always food at the central hearth. It was a spoked hearth, and as the logs burned, the firekeeper pushed them inward. Each man donated a portion of his provisions. It was cooked and kept there for any member of the village who was less fortunate. It was also available to visitors. No one in a Jeaga village went hungry.

Sassa had Nocatee on her hip. “Should I go with Talli?”

“No,” Talli said quickly. “I will go alone. Stay with Mother and Nocatee.”

Kitchi cocked her head at her eldest’s abrupt response.

Talli strode off, and her mother watched.

~~~

At Chinasi and Bunta’s hearth, Talli stopped. Chinasi sat by the fire, but Bunta was not there.

“My mother has no stew, and my father is hungry,” she said.

Chinasi took a black clay bowl that glittered with the temper of quartz sand when she moved it. She ladled fish stew out of her cooking pot with a conch-shell dipper.

“Have you heard more about Akoma?” Talli asked.

“Nothing. Putiwa is still there.” Chinasi held out the bowl to Talli. “You are very concerned about him. Your outburst earlier has stirred rumors.”

“It is difficult to see someone so young struck down by the enemy.”

“Bunta says there were three injured from the Panther village. They fared better than our men. The Ais have come too close, intruded on our territory and now have attacked. My husband is troubled. We may lose more from their wounds … like Akoma.”

“Do not say that,” Talli said.

“The longer he stays in the deep sleep—”

“He will wake,” Talli said. “He is young and strong.”

“But injured very badly.”

“Thank you for the stew,” Talli said. “My mother will repay you soon.”

“Yes, I am sure Kitchi will do that.”

~~~

Ufala lay on his mat watching the bright light of the sun fade to a pale straw glow. He ached, and in the pit of his belly he felt as if there were a stone. Yahga-ta would have to call the council together. The Ais could no longer be ignored. The cacique had probably already spoken to Putiwa and Bunta. Yahga-ta would have included him, listened to his advice also, if he were not wounded. Ufala hated the Ais. He wished he could cut out the heart of the man who had done this to him and keep the enemy alive just long enough to witness his raw heart being eaten by a Jeaga warrior. For truthfully, that was what the Ais warrior had done to him by taking his good arm. Yes, that was what he wished, to taste Ais blood.

Ufala touched his fingers to his wounded arm, but could not bring himself to look at it. If the arm did not heal, he would never hunt again. He would never be a man again. What would Kitchi want with an old woman-man at her hearth? Who would provide for her?

He coughed, gritting his teeth with the pain. He could stand that kind of pain, he thought … but not this other that threatened from behind a dark shadow in his head. He had always provided for his family. He was a man. He had seen to it that his children had always had their bellies filled. And he had kept Talli’s secret. But now what? If he lost the use of his arm, he would be a burden to Kitchi, his children, and the clan. He would rather be dead.

Ufala thrashed on the mat, deliberately causing himself pain. If he had the strength, he would rise up off this insect-infested mat, take his lance in his good hand and charge the Ais on his own. Let them kill him quickly, and in so doing he might feel the warmth of some Ais blood before the spirits took him. At least he would die as a man.

~~~

Talli strayed from the direct path back to her mother, hesitating near Yahga-ta’s hearth. The village was quiet, and most people were tending the wounded or thanking the spirits for being spared. She stared at the thatch that prevented her from seeing Akoma, wishing her eyes were magic so she could see through it. Faintly she heard Putiwa’s chanting coming from inside. Akoma was still alive. Her heart tumbled with gratitude to the spirits, and she quickly said a prayer of thanks.

“Talli, why do you linger here?”

Talli turned to see Akoma’s mother’s sister, Raina.

“I am taking some of Chinasi’s fish stew to my father. He is hungry.”

“That is a good sign that your father will recover,” she said. “But you have taken a peculiar return path.”

Talli offered no explanation.

“It is my sister’s son, Akoma, who detours you, is it not?” Raina asked. “You are still upset.”

Talli hesitated, but then confessed with a nod of her head.

“You have affection for him,” Raina said. “That is why you tarry outside Yahga-ta’s shelter.”

Talli swallowed back her urge to cry.

“Oh, my,” Raina said. “You are more than friends. Yahga-ta was right.”

Talli realized she had disclosed how she felt about Akoma. Raina had caught her off guard.

The woman stepped closer to Talli. Her voice was a whisper. “Would you do almost anything to save him?”

“Yes,” Talli answered before her voice choked.

Raina tilted her head and looked curiously at Talli. “The stew will be cold if you do not go now,” she said.

Talli took a last glance at Yahga-ta’s shelter before moving on.

When she arrived at her mother’s side, she said, “Chinasi had fish stew.”

“Then he will have fish stew,” Kitchi said. “Let Nocatee give it to him. Help her with it.”

Nocatee entered the shelter first. Inside, Talli handed her little sister the bowl of stew.

“Father, I have brought you food,” Nocatee said.

Ufala opened his eyes. “Ah, my little Nocatee. You take care of your father. Talli, keep your distance. I suffer too greatly.”

Talli stopped where she was.

Nocatee put the bowl in Ufala’s hands after he sat up. He sipped the stew. “This is not turtle. It is fish.”

“Chinasi has shared with us,” Talli said.

Ufala lapped up the stew. “Your mother has cooked nothing for me,” he groused. He tousled Nocatee’s hair and smiled at her. “You are the only one who cares about me,” he said.

Talli watched her father’s face, the expression so gentle when he talked to her little sister. It was different when he spoke to the rest of them. She understood why Ufala found it difficult to show her affection, but there was no reason not to show a father’s love to Sassa. Perhaps it was the boy’s name, Nocatee, that won his affection. When Nocatee was older, Putiwa would give her a spirit name, a totem name she would be called by for the rest of her life. For now her name was Nocatee, the name Ufala had given her at birth, even over Kitchi’s objection.

“Yes, little Nocatee, you care for your father.” Nocatee hugged him. “And if it were not for Banabas of the Panther village, your father would not be here to provide for you. Banabas saved my life.”

Talli knew Banabas. He was close to her father’s age. Whenever he visited here, Banabas loitered about her, dawdling near the river if she had tasks there, gawking at her around her father’s hearth. Banabas and Ufala would sit beside the fire, telling stories and laughing. Whenever Talli served Banabas, he set his eyes on parts of her in a way that made her feel uncomfortable. She complained to her mother. When Kitchi brought the matter to Ufala, he clearly became irritated and said Talli was too imaginative.

Ufala put down the bowl and looked at Talli. “Sometimes you are so timid you appear rude to Banabas. He deserves your respect. He saved your father’s life. You should behave more favorably toward him the next time he is in our village.” Ufala’s eyes were harsh, and his voice demanding. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she answered, afraid that she did.