Free Copper Falcon by W. Michael Gear Page A

across sun-sparkling water.
    Back home, the arrival of a canoe from any distant place would have occurred amidst fanfare and excitement. In Cahokia, no one gave us a second look as the canoe drove up onto the charcoal-stained sand.
    I watched Father leap ashore. He took a couple of paces, then dropped to one knee, his head lowered. As our warriors bore our craft up on the beach, I stopped beside him, dismayed by the expression on his face: torn, with a couple of tears leaking down his hard, tattooed cheeks.
    “Father?”
    He choked out, “After all these years …”
    I glanced around at the bustling people, caught the damp odors of rot, urine, smoke, and cooking food. “How do they know who has arrived in this chaos?”
    I felt suddenly small. Unsure of my place in the world, of who I really was. For days’ travel up or down the Tenasee River from Copper Falcon Town, if anyone didn’t recognize my distinctive facial tattoos, I only had to say, “I am Flint Knife Mankiller, son of High Chief Red Mask Tenkiller, of the Four Winds Clan.” Eyes would widen, and people bowed and respectfully touched their foreheads.
    As I struggled with the fact that I was suddenly no one, Father stood. Knowing him as I did, I could see an unaccustomed worry behind his dark eyes.
    I had imagined our arrival at Cahokia: people rushing toward us, a bubble of excitement rising at the arrival of a canoe from distant lands. We were, after all, the warriors who fought for the Morning Star’s southern frontier.
    “My chief, does no one know who we are?”
    His lips thinned as he stared at the bustling men and women loading and unloading canoes around us; then he took in the stalls and ramadas displaying food, ceramic pots, statuary, and every other conceivable good.
    “Didn’t used to be this busy.” Then he added in an unsure whisper, “It’s still a hard run to reach our kin at Horned Serpent Town. Our cousins will need time to prepare. They’ll remember us.”
    Was this the stone-cold man who cowed the T’so barbarians with his very glance? Was that fear I heard in his voice?
    “Father? Are you sure this is the right course?”
    He steeled himself, calling to our warriors, “Collect your weapons and packs.”
    He lifted his pack from the hull and withdrew a white-painted stick decorated with red lines and woodpecker feathers. This he handed to young Five Wings, ordering, “Bear this to my cousin, Lord Green Chunkey. He’ll be in his palace in Horned Serpent Town. Inform him of our arrival and our need of lodging in the clan house. If you lose your way, just ask. You’re Four Winds Clan. No one can refuse you.”
    “Yes, my chief.” Five Wings took the stick as if it were sun-blessed rather than a messenger’s staff. He turned on his heels and sprinted up the long beach, weaving between people, stalls, and canoes.
    I retrieved my own pack, heavy with a rolled blanket, my chunkey stone and lance, food, and personal kit. Next came my shield, bow, quiver of arrows, and war club.
    Father ordered, “Sixkills and Cut Hand, you will stay and guard the canoe. The rest of you, come. We have a fair run to reach Horned Serpent Town.”
    “Where you from?” A big, bluff man paused to inspect us. His wide grin almost split his face; a crafty look barely hid behind his eyes. I couldn’t quite decipher the amorphous design of his facial tattoos. He wore a common brown hunting shirt that fell to the knees; a rope belt with pouches was tied at his waist. I couldn’t place his accent.
    “Copper Falcon Town,” I told him with great solemnity.
    “And where is that?”
    “
Copper … Falcon … Town,”
I repeated as if he were a dolt. “On the Tenasee. At the upper rapids.”
    His eyes remained vague, but he said, “Ah, good Four Winds,
that
Copper Falcon Town.” As if anyone could think there were others. “I’m Seven Skull Shield, a man well known in Cahokia. Seeing that you lords are visiting, I would be most happy to offer my