Stone river crossing, p.13
Stone River Crossing, page 13
“Lil Mo!” The sound of his name flew like a warm breeze from the Choctaw shore. “Lil Mo!” He turned and saw Funi Man. The fog grew thick, and Funi Man disappeared.
In slow motion, Lil Mo danced. His head was underwater, but his feet moved to the chanting. New friends called to him. Not with words or chanting, but with open arms they called. They swam like fish. Their bodies were covered with scales, but they swam with arms and legs as people swim.
White as the barn owl, they came for him. Slick, cold arms wrapped around Lil Mo. A new home, he thought. They will take me to their home.
“Go with them,” said the owl man. The fish people gripped Lil Mo tight and pulled him to the river bottom.
CHAPTER 36
Lil Mo and the Fish People
“Lil Mo! It’s me, Funi Man. I’m here for you!”
For the first time, the water felt cold, bitterly cold. The chanting ceased, the spell was broken, and Lil Mo saw the fish people, the Owa Naholo.
White as death, their eyes were large and had no eyelids. Their mouths were blue and pink, and fish gills puffed and blew where cheeks should be. Their grip was mean, and their fingers clung to him like claws.
Lil Mo wrestled his arms free and thrust his hands through the surface of the water. The fish people clung to his legs, but Funi Man was stronger. He gripped Lil Mo by the wrists and slowly pulled him free, leaving the fish people swimming inches from the surface.
Funi Man would never forget how the Owa Naholo looked at him as he lifted Lil Mo from their grasp. Their mouths opened and closed, as if they longed to speak. Their big eyes pleaded with him to save them, too, to carry them far away from this cold river. But their arms were ready to grab him, should he step close to the water.
“You don’t want to be saved,” he said to the fish people. “You only want more victims.” He carried Lil Mo to the base of a sycamore tree and laid him on the leafy forest floor.
Lil Mo curled into a small round ball. Funi Man leaned against the tree trunk and ran his fingers through his hair, watching sun rays dance across the water.
“Yakoke, Holitopama. Yakoke,” he whispered, raising his face to the morning sky. He stooped to Lil Mo and patted the back of his head.
As the fog lifted, Funi Man carried his sleeping friend far from the river bottom, the home of the Owa Naholo. He carried him to his own home, nestled in the cornfields of Choctaw town.
Funi Man built a cedar fire, and soon the sweet smoke filled his house. With Lil Mo safely tucked in a pile of blankets by the fire, Funi Man moved to the porch. He settled on a chair and looked to the cornfield and the piney woods beyond. From a leather pouch he took two foot-long sticks, his chant sticks. He closed his eyes and began to sing, snapping out a rhythm with the sticks.
Lil Mo opened his eyes. Seeing he was nestled in a corner of Funi Man’s home, he closed his eyes and fell into the music. An owl called, but his song was muted by the morning. A young robin shot across the sky. A mockingbird joined the singing, and Lil Mo knew he was safe in the cedar smoke and Choctaw song of Funi Man.
An hour later, Lil Mo sat up and wrapped the blanket over his shoulders.
“Funi Man,” he said, rubbing his eyes. He felt the sting of the owl feather fan against his stomach. The pain of the blister wouldn’t go away. “Are you awake yet? I am ready to talk.”
“I never went to sleep,” said Funi Man, stepping in from the porch. “Let me get some water boiling.” Lil Mo sat silent as Funi Man made two cups of sassafras root tea.
The cup felt warm in Lil Mo’s palms. He wondered where to begin. He blew the tea to cool it, sipped once, and set the cup aside. Funi Man waited without looking at Lil Mo.
“I never saw the man before,” Lil Mo said. “But there are lots of people in Choctaw town I have never seen. I wasn’t worried. He didn’t talk or dress like everybody else. I should have asked him where he came from.”
“Son, you cannot blame yourself for anything that happened.”
“Hoke,” said Lil Mo. “I wish it was that easy, this not blaming yourself.”
Funi Man nodded and smiled. “You are growing up before my eyes,” he said. “I am very proud of you.”
“Yakoke. I am glad you are my uncle. My father and mother would never know what to think about the old man.”
“They haven’t lived here, Lil Mo. They can’t know everything on both sides of the river.”
“I know. I am sorry.” Lil Mo sipped his tea. “You are really good at waiting,” he said. Funi Man shrugged and took a sip of his own tea. “You’re not going to ask me anything?”
Funi Man shook his head. “Not yet,” he said. “You’re doing fine.”
“I don’t want to believe what he told me,” Lil Mo continued. “He said people here, Choctaw people, would try to sell us. We would be slaves again. He said I could not trust anyone. When I asked him why, he said for the money.”
“Witches are the best at spreading lies,” Funi Man said. “They use this gossip to come between friends.” He paused and felt the next question linger on his lips before he spoke it. “Lil Mo, do you trust me?”
“Yes. I trust you more than anybody.”
Funi Man said nothing. He knew Lil Mo had a secret, one he didn’t want to think about or tell.
The feather fan poked against Lil Mo’s stomach. The feathers were cold and wet from the blood of the popped blister.
“Will you not blame me?” Lil Mo asked, turning away from Funi Man.
“Lil Mo, after what you and your family have gone through, how could anyone blame you?”
“Hoke,” said Lil Mo. He lifted his shirt and pulled out the feather fan. He winced at the pain of the wooden handle against his tender skin.
Funi Man felt his heart beat faster. He saw the owl feathers, shiny and wet with Lil Mo’s blood. He wanted to grab the fan and fling it out the door. Instead, he sipped his tea and waited.
Lil Mo laid the fan on the floor and looked at Funi Man.
“The man gave me this. He told me never to tell anyone I had it.”
“Did he say what to do with it?”
“Not at first,” said Lil Mo. “But I saw him dance and wave the fan, looking at me. Funi Man, his eyes grew big, like a deep yellow hole. I felt myself falling in. He taught me how to sing and wave the fan.”
“What else did he tell you? Can you remember?”
“I remember he talked about what to do if anybody made me mad. He said to pick some of their hair and wrap it around the handle of the fan while I sang. Bad things would happen to them, that’s what he said.”
Lil Mo pulled his knees up close and wrapped his arms around them. He rocked back and forth. “I am afraid,” he finally said.
“You are right to be afraid,” said Funi Man. “The man was trying to turn you, son, to make you like him. He is full of hatred. He wants to punish anyone who crosses him.”
“No forgiving. That is his road, isn’t it?”
“That’s right, Lil Mo. He takes the road of no forgiving. It is a lonely and dark road.”
“Can you help me?”
“Yes, Lil Mo. I will do everything I can for you,” Funi Man said, sipping his tea. “But Shonti knows more than I do about healing. I’ll take you to her.”
“Did I hear my name?”
Lil Mo smiled for the first time in a day. He looked at Funi Man, who shrugged his shoulders and laughed. Shonti stood at the door.
Lil Mo looked at her feet. I wonder if she brought her friends, the ones that crawl and rattle? he thought.
Not a good idea, Funi Man thought back, so Lil Mo said nothing. He gathered the blanket around his shoulders and waited for whatever magic Shonti brought.
CHAPTER 37
Snakes of Shonti
“Come in,” said Funi Man. “We are already awake.”
“Achukma,” Shonti said. “Funi Man, I want you to stay close.”
“Lil Mo, hide the fan. She will take it from you,” the old man hissed, unheard by the others.
Lil Mo shook his head.
“Guard the fan. It is your only hope to save your family.”
“My family.” Lil Mo moved his lips in reply. “My family, yes. I must protect my family!”
He fought to stop his hand as it crept across the floor, but he could not. While Funi Man stood to welcome Shonti, he clutched the fan and quickly tucked it to his belly.
Funi Man pulled a chair by the fire for Shonti and stepped to the corner of the room, waiting. Shonti sat by Lil Mo and unfurled a dark red cloth. She took a single feather from the cloth and laid it on her lap.
Lil Mo’s eyes grew large, and he looked to Funi Man. The feather was soft tan and white. “Is that . . . ?”
Shonti held up her hand for silence. “Yes, it is an owl feather. A single feather can protect you. No talking now.”
Lil Mo wanted to tell her about the feathers now twitching on his belly. She already knows, he thought. The feathers grew warm, and his skin itched. The blisters burned, and he gritted his teeth to keep from crying out in pain.
“Lil Mo, are you hoke?” asked Funi Man.
Lil Mo nodded, but tears welled up in his eyes and streamed down his cheeks. He nodded faster, and his whole body rocked and shook. He leaned toward Funi Man with his mouth stretched wide open.
“Leave me alone!” Lil Mo shouted in a cracked and hissing voice. He flung his head back and spit across the room at Funi Man. “Go away and leave Lil Mo alone. You only want the money for yourself!”
Lil Mo heard these words come from his mouth, in the owl man’s voice. He shook his head with a violence he had never known. He tried to tell Funi Man it was not he who spoke, but no words came out. The muscles of his neck flexed and froze. Lil Mo could no longer control what he did or said.
“This will happen,” said Shonti to Funi Man. “The witch is strong and will have his say. This is not Lil Mo, you must know that.”
Funi Man took his chant sticks from his pocket. He pressed his back against the wall and slid slowly down to sit upon the floor. He leaned forward and tapped the sticks together, and Shonti nodded her approval.
Like small, quick worms they came, darting to every crack and corner of the room. In an instant they grew and became the rattlesnakes. The room shivered with their whirring. From the ceiling they dangled. From cracks in the floor, from walls and windows, from every place they hung and twisted. Their flicking tongues danced like flames. The snakes of Shonti curled around the house.
Though the words flew from his own mouth, Lil Mo felt like a spectator. He could only watch and listen as the owl man’s voice grew louder and louder.
“They are not your people, Lil Mo! Look at them. Look at yourself. Why would they help you?”
Lil Mo closed his eyes and moved his fingers to his mouth. He felt his lips moving, saying the words, and hoped no one else could hear. He opened his eyes and saw a strange and hurtful look on Funi Man’s face.
“You hear me, don’t you,” the owl witch said. “Yes, both of you hear me, and you know I tell the truth. Leave this boy alone!”
“Lil Mo, if you can understand me, you are safe,” said Funi Man. “You are still with us. Stay strong and know that we are here for you. Always, Lil Mo.”
Lil Mo felt a burning on his scalp. His hand moved to the spot where the owl man had taken his hair.
“What is it?” asked Funi Man.
“The witch took a piece of his hair,” Shonti said. “He’s using it to get to Lil Mo. As long as he is alive, Lil Mo is in serious danger.”
“Lies! Lies!” the voice hissed. “Listen to their lies and you die a slave, Lil Mo. I have come to free you!”
The room disappeared, and Lil Mo stood in the darkest of nights, in a wet and swampy clearing in the woods. Slimy green water covered most of the ground. An ancient cypress tree loomed over him, and moss sagged from the branches, surrounding him like a spiderweb.
There is no escape from this place, Lil Mo thought.
“Yes, Lil Mo,” the voice said. “Nothing but death will walk away from here.”
Funi Man and Shonti watched as Lil Mo curled into a ball on the floor. “What is happening?” Funi Man asked.
“Lil Mo is in a dream world,” Shonti said. “I will take care of him as best I can. You must take care of the witch, Funi Man, if we ever want to see Lil Mo again. I will let his parents know why I must keep him here.”
Funi Man gathered his shotgun and ammunition. He packed his saddlebag with two shirts, a bundle of dried pork, and bark for tea, then quickly made his way to the barn behind his house. He saddled his horse, Hawkeye, patting him gently and stroking his ears.
“Looks like we’ll be going on a trip,” he said softly. Hawkeye stomped and nodded, as if he understood. Funi Man tossed six pelts of fox fur on Hawkeye’s hindquarters. As he led him through the barn door, Funi Man spotted something leaning in a dusty corner.
“I have not used you in years and years,” he said aloud. “The shotgun didn’t work on the owl before. Maybe it’s time for some old Choctaw hunting.”
He picked up the blow-dart gun, a hollowed-out piece of seven-foot river cane, and six darts made of sharp thorns and twigs.
“Yakoke, Grandpa,” he said. “I promise to take better care of your gift. Yakoke.”
Funi Man stood at the door and watched the dark clouds gathering. He remembered the day his grandfather had given him the blow-dart gun. “I was the same age as Koi Losa, a little older than Lil Mo is now,” he said to himself. “I was quite a shot to be so young!”
He returned to the barn and saddled a second pony. Shonti stood on the porch, waiting for him to pass. “You will need some powerful poison,” she said. “I gathered some plants for you last night.” She tossed him a cloth bundle.
Funi Man replied with a tight smile. “What would we do without you, Shonti?”
“Ilvppa ittibai foyuka, Funi Man,” she said, returning to Lil Mo. She was right, Funi Man knew — they were all in this together.
CHAPTER 38
Witch Hunters
Koi Losa stood up from his bed of leaves. He yawned and stretched, keeping a sharp eye on Funi Man’s house. Soon after sunrise he heard Lil Mo call out in the voice of the owl man. He crept closer and peered through a small window. Whirring sounds came from the log walls.
No one could enter that house now, not with Shonti and her rattlesnakes guarding it, he thought, backing away.
Koi Losa watched as Funi Man led his pony from the barn, saddled and ready to ride. He saw Funi Man pause.
He is thinking about me, Koi Losa thought. “Maybe Koi Losa would be handy to have around,” that’s what he’s thinking.
Funi Man turned to the barn and soon appeared with the second pony.
“Yes!” Koi Losa shouted. He stepped from the trees.
“What are you doing?” Funi Man asked.
“Waiting for you, Funi Man,” Koi Losa said.
“I’ve been inside waiting for you!”
“I think you are trying to be funny,” said Koi Losa.
“You are getting more like Lil Mo everyday.”
“I hope so,” said Koi Losa.
The two witch hunters, Funi Man and Koi Losa, smiled at each other. They knew their playful words hid the nature of their journey. Lil Mo’s life was in danger, and the danger was darker than Bledsoe and his whip, more powerful than anything they had ever faced.
“Ilvppa ittibai foyuka,” Funi Man said. “We are all in this together.”
They rode side by side on the road going north from Choctaw town. As they passed friends on the road, Funi Man spoke and waved, but didn’t stop to visit.
“Is it a good idea that everybody sees us?” asked Koi Losa. “What if the witch finds out he is being tracked?”
“Koi Losa, the witch has too many owl friends to hide anything from him. They fly overhead. They hide in the trees. They watch from far away and so close they can feel you breathing. Day and night, at every moment.”
Koi Losa looked to the sky and the treetops.
“You won’t see them,” said Funi Man. “Not unless they want to be seen.”
“But why do we want him to know we are after him?”
“If he knows we are after him, he may come for us sooner. That is what I want. I am too old to chase a witch for hundreds of miles.”
Koi Losa said nothing, and they rode in silence for most of the morning. Koi Losa kept a keen eye on the tree limbs above them, while Funi Man kept his head low and listened.
By early afternoon, they reached the outskirts of Scottville, a nahollo town surrounded by small farms and one large plantation. They halted in front of a store with a wooden sign above the window that read temple’s trading post.
The front door stood wide open and Koi Losa saw Choctaw and Chickasaw men and women crowding around a counter. Koi Losa and Funi Man dismounted, tied their ponies to a porch rail, and stepped inside the store.
A stout nahollo man stood behind the counter.
“Who’s next?” he called out.
“Mr. Temple, I think it was this gentleman,” said his helper. He pointed to a leather-faced old Choctaw man with a clay pot under each arm.
“Thank you, Martin,” Mr. Temple said. “Okay, let’s take a look at those pots.” The old man placed the pots on the counter and kept his eyes on the floor.
Martin moved in a quick, nervous way. His arms and legs were thin as broomsticks, and everything about him was spiffy clean. He peered at the pots through round spectacles, which kept slipping down the bridge of his nose.
When he finished looking at the pots, Martin scribbled something in a book and showed it to Temple.
