Fire the Sky by W. Michael & Kathleen O'Neal Gear

Author:W. Michael & Kathleen O'Neal Gear
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pocket Books
Published: 2011-08-14T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY

PEARL HAND WAS UP BEFORE THE REST OF US; SHE DRESSED IN HER travel clothes again.

The hunters had scrambled at her every whim, cooking, filling her bowl, refilling it, offering her first servings of everything. They had taken the dishes, washed them, kept the fire, built her a small shelter, and one even offered his little cooking pot for a night jar. The fact that the bowl was empty and obviously unused in the morning erased a curious anxiety that had plagued my sleep.

Blood Thorn bore all this with a detached amusement. Nor could I tell who entertained him the most: me or Pearl Hand.

She didn’t let us linger but had us packed and on the trail by sunrise. As we worked out of the backcountry, we began encountering people. Each time we did Turkey Track called out, “Make way for the lady! She goes in service of the Cofitachequi mico! Make way!”

And they did, scurrying off the trail, dropping to their knees, palms uplifted, heads down, as we passed.

“So much for the chance to learn anything about what’s happening locally,” I growled to Blood Thorn. Traders thrive on the local gossip: Who’s squabbling with whom? What items are in demand? The personal habits of the leaders? Little fascinating facts and insights? These can make a big difference in a trader’s ability to profit.

Blood Thorn’s barely hidden smile proved more irritating than a blister beetle in my breechcloth. He smugly said, “Now you know how the rest of us felt in Toa and Apalachee.”

“At least I told you what we were up against.”

“Yes. And you always ended it with ‘trust me,’ even though it seemed incomprehensible at the time.”

“Worked out, didn’t it?”

He arched an eyebrow. “That’s why I’ve surrendered my souls to you . . . and Pearl Hand.”

Mollified, I continued to hurry along and kept an eye on Skipper. His pack was half-empty now. The poor old man was pushing himself just to keep the pace.

We began passing inhabited farmsteads. But when we crossed through a small village, the houses were empty, weeds growing in the gardens, grass thick around the barricaded doors. The ramadas had a ratty look, with strips of roofing hanging loose; water pooled in the mortars while grass grew at their bases.

A hand of time later we wound through a small town that was empty, forlorn, and weed-choked. Only the charnel house off the plaza showed any sign of maintenance, the weeds pulled, the paths leading to it heavily traveled. The stench revealed why: The place had to be full to the rafters with victims of the pestilence.

“I’m getting a bad feeling about Cofitachequi,” Blood Thorn said in Timucua.

“Whatever happened here, it’s bad.” I wondered what that meant for de Soto’s arrival. I’d been expecting the vibrant and thriving Cofitachequi I’d seen five years ago. Now I was wondering if even Telemico would be inhabited.

By late afternoon—after passing through two more abandoned villages—we broke out of the forest into a heavily farmed bottom on

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