Singer for the Great Serpent

By K.D. Langston

Singer for the Great Serpent combines speculative, historical fiction and para-fantasy--written from the perspective of a Native American teenager coming of age during the War of 1812 who is torn between cultures and surrounded by violence.

Long before the wild west of popular legend, the U.S. frontier lay east of the Mississippi. It was a field of contention for dozens of nations stretching from the Alachuan prairie of Florida, where the first cowboys rode into the sunset, through the pine barrens of the southeast, a continual battlefield, and along the Gulf of Mexico, where seaports changed hands as frequently as the numerous prostitutes working there.

Seen as a critical part of the hemisphere, with an extraordinary potential for resource exploitation and economic development, many gave all they had to earn or maintain a stake in the region. Several nations had been there for generations, arriving long before any other humans. They had the most to lose.

The Creek Nation had formed from the remnants of several like groups of native people late in the seventeenth century. The horrors of that time destroyed many other nations, mostly through the work of old world diseases aided by their henchmen, greed and slaving. Surviving, having adjusted to the challenges, the Creeks grew in power and influence. But what they had endured over the previous century was only the beginning.

By the late eighteenth century, land was the main commodity in play. The Creeks possessed much valuable farm country, mainly coveted for cotton growing, which they had begun to do themselves. This story begins at a time when powerful and acquisitive enemies surround the Creeks, and divided as they were over solutions to their problems, the Creeks were quickly becoming their own foes.

Sandy Weatherford, a Creek boy living in this tumultuous time, looked at the world and saw one filled with dangers for his people. The solutions seemed even more difficult. With numerous potential enemies and allies, Sandy needed to negotiate a place in his own society find a way to help his people survive, and he hoped, to thrive for generations. He was pulled in numerous directions: by his soldier uncle, his Scottish father, American missionaries, his traditional mother, and his shaman grandfather.

He came to believe the most useful tool was belief in the Creeks' powerful god, the Great Serpent. The elusive creature was believed to be an avatar of the Sun, the principle Creek god considered the creator of the world and humans. The Serpent could visit earth, however, unlike the sun, and defeat the Creeks' enemies if it chose to do so. The challenge for Sandy was in how to compel the Serpent to do just that.

• Language: English
• Publisher: K.D. Langston
• Release date: May 8, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311196453

K.D. Langston

I suppose I know K.D. Langston as well as anyone. In our numerous metal halide-lit discussions at the dumpster behind Krispy Kreme, I think I have learned enough to at least present a brief profile of this author. K.D. Langston is a pseudonym, although not at all a clever one. Through this device, he hopes to maintain some separation between his various works, whether fiction, non-fiction, or simply sub-standard. With extensive training in a number of social sciences, including multiple unnecessary graduate degrees, Langston has tried to explore the interactions between groups of people who live in starkly different ways. The political science fiction focus in several of his works derives from his close study of tribal, family-based societies as they interacted with larger, more complex groups of people, usually nation states whose organization was based on contract or coercion. I cannot say whether his use of scholarly knowledge in his fiction is a continued embrace of academia, a repudiation or even indictment of it, or maybe just a stain among many on a borrowed soul, overdue, by the way. Nonetheless, having spent years writing material that few in academia ever read, Langston decided to branch out into the fictional realm where he assumed he might expand the audience who could ignore his ideas. So far this supposition has been proved accurate. In most ways, however, the author remains a mystery, even to me. I have attempted to discern Langston's origins, difficult through accent analysis and the author's questionable grasp of English, even less from appearance. Early in our relationship, I had been convinced of a foreign birth, although I never asked to see a birth certificate, after all, why bother? But now I'm sure Langston was born to a southern American family like myself. Take that for whatever meaning it might have. I'm sure everyone will have a different set of misconceptions about the south with which to pass judgment on his character. I would have to guess at K.D. Langston's personal situation: an age near my own, that is in the middle of middle age, in middling health, of a muddled albeit vaguely European-American ethnicity, and of lower middle class origins. I should add that I was confused initially, as with many aspects of his life, since what I can see and hear of Langston leaves the impression of someone much older. After further thought, my conclusion was understandable given the author's primary diet, admitted distractability, and self-professed nano-phobia (particularly for gases dissolved in brown solutions, artificial, short-lived subatomic particles, and seed ticks). I hope to have a website operating soon. Whether I will use social media on Langston's behalf is another matter. The author refuses to have any connection to such means of communication, in large part, as best as I can gather, because of a fear of some sort of corrupting effect it might have. Also, he refuses to use most newly invented verbs, especially those made from recently coined nouns. He will likely continue resisting until FDA approves the use of these words as actions, or when emailing, tweeting, texting, facebooking and such become obsolete. For those hopeful that he may succumb to social media, he has described to me a sort of protective device that might be employed, but, unfortunately, I have yet been able to collect enough scrap tin to fashion the described headgear. No, aluminum will not suffice. And even with the approved accoutrements, Langston might still resist social media (but might give me leave to do so). Meanwhile he will continue writing. Ultimately, he hopes to assemble a vast collection of fiction and non-fiction, most dealing with arrangements of humans, hypothetical or real, interacting under different assumptions about how societies should be organized and what values they should possess. Some of these might involve true science fiction as well while others might incorporate elements of counter-fantasy or para-fantasy, both he sees as a possibility when tribal people seek support from their animistic religions when faced with well-armed foreigners amazed with their own prowess. Langston envisions a transformation of many of these works into movies for the Disney Deranged Channel, Lifetime single-episode miniseries, or aerial, mimed circus performances, all with the possibility of further extending his audience and the potential for people to ignore his work.

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Singer for the Great Serpent

By K.D. Langston

Copyright 2015 K.D. Langston

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Prologue

The Serpent’s graceful shadow glided across the wall, body rippling, wings folding and unfolding. The music of rattles, flutes, and drums kept time with the writhing images.

The sounds and shadows had mesmerized the assembled children. The Shaman’s voice came as a surprise when he began chanting in rhythm and rhyme from the darkness behind them.

"Before people lived on the land, before time began, the Great Serpent wound his way through the primeval forest digging great channels for the First Waters to flow across the ground. Brilliant sparks shot here and there from the seams between his scales as he pushed and scraped his body against the earth.

"Once finished with the rivers, he plowed the soil along the banks with his rippling body, making the plains rich and fertile. The sparks that fell from his back sprang into life of their own, myriad creatures that would find their place in the waters, or the earth, the air, or the forest; each with a place, a purpose for the People who would come from the West to inhabit the lands purified by the Sendj’holodji, this Great Winged, Horned Serpent. He is known by the People as the Brilliant Wonderful One, the Purifying Messenger of the Maker, and the Immaculate One. He is the embodiment of the Sun on earth.

"His first mission nearly complete, the Serpent raised his massive body from the ground and, shining a bright light from his sparkling, bejeweled forehead, looked out over the land. He had done the bidding of the Great Maker of Breath and molded the earth for the People. His job now: to bring the wind, water, and fire the People would need to flourish.

"The Sendj’holodji raised his head higher and higher, his horns piercing the clouds, driving bolts of thunder to the ground thousands of feet below. Smoke and flames rose from the blackened points of earth, fire for cooking and warmth.

"The Serpent spied the massive white glaciers to the north, his next target, and spread his wings, briefly casting the world in shadow, and then taking flight.

"His wings spawned winds and storms that pummeled the land, inuring it to the future presence of humankind and bringing the air that sustains the People. He bared his fangs and shot a thunderous noise across the fields and valleys as he swooped down over his work.

"An instant later, he was soaring above the great glaciers far to the north. He beat his massive wings and aimed brilliant lightning at the ancient ice from his crystalline forehead, the power of the Sun itself on Earth, breaking and melting the rivers of frozen water. The First Water flowed for leagues, through the mountains, down the valleys and into the land he had prepared, filling the rivers and lakes and swamps, and finally, flowing to the Great Seas to the south and east. The People would never want for water.

"The Sendj’holodji turned and flew back across the land. His work complete, he sent a refreshing east wind across the land to awaken the People, then in the West slumbering in the thick mist of Before Times.

"The first to see through the waning fog were to guide the People into their new home. They were called the People of the Wind, the Hotali Clan. The daughters of that clan would, from then on, bear leaders to guide the People and to speak on their behalf.

"The People, still dazed and disoriented but following the Wind leaders nonetheless, crossed the Grandmother of All Rivers and entered their new homeland. They looked upon the creations of the Maker of Breath, and the land hewn by the Great Serpent and knew it was meant for them alone.

"Soon after arriving, and while crossing the swamp alone, a young man of the Hotali Clan met the Sendj’holodji. The Serpent told him about his relationship to the People and the land, the plants and the animals, and that the People must care for it all. The Serpent told him to divide the People by families; each designated by which new creation of his they spied first. They were to be ranked forever based on their discoveries.

"This young man who witnessed the Serpent was the Wind King, the Hotali Miko, a boy before, now a man. He went before the people and set in motion the contest charged them by the Serpent. He sang of his meeting in the swamp. He told them all that the Sendj’holodji had told him, what I tell you now. So, the People went out and sought the creatures the Serpent had told them about.

"The first to return were those who saw the Bear, called Nokosi. The next were the Katchi, Panther, then the Deer, Icho, and the Wolf, Yaha. Many others followed, each in turn, each ranked below the last, as it would be… forever.

"The Wind King told the People that all the clans were necessary and that there may be many more to come. All children, he said, would be of their mother’s clan and no one was to marry one of their own. Those men of the higher clans would marry those women of the lesser, and the women likewise. No man could create a dynasty, yet the Serpent’s law established order and hierarchy. The Serpent said: ‘men, as they are jealous and prone to being prideful, will be tempered by their mothers and sisters’. Newcomers to their land would thus wish to join the People of the Serpent through marriage, strengthening both peoples.

"The Hotali King told them he would be the last and only Miko of the Wind. From henceforth, he said, ‘all Miko shall be chosen from the Bear [Nokosi] Clan by the people in council with one another’, but the Wind leaders shall speak for all in meetings and for the people with foreigners and bring the Serpent’s power to others who would ally with the First People. The Wind Singers were to remember and to sing the Songs of the People.

"The Wind Miko told them the Sendj’holodji would visit from time to time, appear to boys of the Wind Clan who were at the time of becoming men, tell them his wishes, and bring messages from whom you know as the One: the Maker of Breath, the Sower of Stars, the Keeper of the Sun.

"The People called themselves just that, the People, for they were the only ones. They were the chosen ones. Eventually, others moved in on the edges of their world, to help them, to bring them new tools, novelties, and curiosities. Some present challenges or otherwise make life difficult. Some want more than we can give… including the land prepared for us by the Great Serpent.

The People, however, remained steadfast in their devotion to their families, to the Sendj’holodji, and to the Maker of Breath and would not be distracted." The speaker cleared his throat. He leaned towards the fire and into the light resting on his heavy, gnarled cypress-knee cane. His voice had been a disembodied presence emanating from the darkness before. His appearance startled some of the listeners there.

He was the Old Singer, Hopa’tHliyahola. Many young people had walked several days to hear the powerful and respected shaman speak. This was the first time many had seen him.

Hopa’tHliyahola sat down and stared at the fire. He looked tired. His attendants, responsible for the shadows and sounds, gathered around him, two supporting his elbows. Few youths had heard him tell the Oldest of Tales before. Few beyond the fire knew the story, though it was the most important of all their peoples’. No shaman in the nation could tell it as well.

The Old Singer glanced around the gathering. He did not make eye contact with any of the young people. No one dared ask questions at this point, though they usually would with any other lesson or story. The Old Singer coughed, spit tobacco juice into the fire, wiped his chin, and straightened his ancient, stained, once-white turban. The blue and yellow dyed, French-trade ostrich feathers sticking out of the top, bobbed and swayed with his movements.

Hopa’tHliyahola pulled his dusty beige woolen robes around himself even though the night air in the large council house was not cold. He looked into the fire with his cloudy dark eyes. He began talking again without finding the gaze of any of his pupils.

"This is the true story of our beginning, that of the Original People. Others have joined us since; more have come and gathered around us. Some bring us things of value… others only want from us the things they need… others appear malevolent and would push us back into the West, the Land of the Dead. Those who shun the Serpent make the most trouble; they wrench away our allies and defame our deity.

Now they all call us ‘Creeks’ or sometimes ‘Creek Indians’. We do not mind. We know who we are. We will never forget. We must never forget. We are the Children of the Sendj’holodji, the Purifying Messenger from the Maker of Breath. This is our most sacred story, one no singer will tell to anyone who is not of the Original People.

Others called ‘Creeks’ may wish to learn the history. They must not. Keep it inside… protect it. But the story must not be forgotten. I will tell it now thrice more. Listen children."

Four is the sacred number of the Creeks.

Chapter 1

Sandy slapped the tethered deerskin ball with the palm of his hand. He had been too forceful before, using the heel of his fist, and the ball had hit the girl in the face hard. He could still see the red mark on her cheek.

Honestly Sandy, is that your best? she asked from the other side of the pole, striking the slow-moving, head-sized ball with clenched knuckles, sending it back on its taut line to his side, more quickly than it had arrived. He grinned and hit the returning ball as hard as he could. She ducked and pretended to be frightened, smiling at him. Sandy hit the ball again as hard as he could.

The girl knelt on the ground and watched him. He felt self-conscious about being scrutinized, so he let the ball finish winding around the pole on its own and joined her in the gritty dirt, crossing his legs in front of him. She sat on top of her knees and bare feet as was proper for a Creek woman.

Sandy thought about what to say, how he might impress her. He looked down at his belted blue woolen flap tucked between his bare, gangly legs. His overly large feet stuck out and he tried to tuck them under more.

He inspected his swarthy, sunken chest. He tried to poke it out more to make himself look stronger, bigger. Sandy traced the line of the pole to the top where the large, carved wooden fish sat, painted green. It was a nice one though not as good as the one in their town.

The girl handed him a small skin bag filled with parched corn. They said we could not prepare stew today even though we have plenty of ingredients… no fires. She twisted her small mouth in an apologetic way he found charming, especially given her pudgy youthful cheeks. She kept eye contact with him for much longer than most Creek girls would. She, of course, would never look at any adult in the eye for that long.

I like this just fine. He said taking the corn. He regretted his conciliatory manner right away. She would think he was a compliant fool, not a man.

I like it as well, she said smiling. Sandy smiled back at her and looked down. He wanted to stare at her. She looked beautiful in her ivory-colored cotton shirt.

She wore the European man’s garment as a dress cinched around her narrow hips by a wide black leather belt with a big polished silver buckle. Around the shirt collar hung a long chain of beads made of hand-shaped blue and green melted Spanish glass. Sandy resisted the temptation to follow the beads down her chest. He remembered trying not to be noticed when he had watched the beads bounce on her breasts as she played ball.

The fancy outfit was a product of her recent coming-of-age ceremony. Sandy was the same age but had yet to complete the male equivalent. Why would she even agree to play with him? She had a real name, a beautiful adult one, Okosi, which meant One Who Brings Forth Buds. Every boy in their town wanted her. He felt like his heart would fly out of his chest every time he thought about her.

He looked up enough to find the ends of her long, black hair and followed the sleek strands to her smooth, round face. She smiled and looked away herself, taking a few kernels of corn between her teeth and chewing.

What do your green eyes mean again? she asked, looking into them. With the palm of his hand, Sandy drew down the cropped bangs of his short brown hair, another color trait that distinguished him. His hair was not long enough for him to hide behind it. He looked away. He had never liked his eyes. They were like his father’s, which he had not seen for almost two years. He remembered the color, ugly, muddy, like unripe acorns, not the beautiful, deep, chestnut brown of most Creeks, and hers. He looked at her eyes for a moment. He thought about what to say to Okosi, how to say it right.

Hopa’tHliyahola says I will be a singer one day, Sandy said, dejected. Maybe I will replace him.

You do not want to be speaker and shaman for the town? She looked at him for an instant.

I want to be a soldier… like my uncle.

Singer is more important. Our town has only one, after all. We have many men who fight. They love it so much. Her tone in the last sentence was slightly sarcastic.

But none who fight like my uncle. He is Tustanugi t’Hlako, after all. He shot her a determined expression. Okosi nodded, looking away. Sandy realized he had sounded too defensive again, and he was telling her something she knew. Everyone understood the prestige of the head warrior’s title. No other designation in the Creek Nation was more important or bestowed more power, especially in times of war.

Where is the Tustanugi? she asked. I thought he would be eager for a fight. He has not killed anyone in hours. More sarcasm, Sandy had come to expect and admire her humor. He could not let her criticism of his uncle go unanswered however.

I guess you think he was at the Burnt Corn Creek attack. He tells me he wasn’t. There are some here that were responsible; I know. But Uncle would never do that… not attack fellow Creeks. He would even let his enemies arm themselves before he dishonored himself. The clash of Creek against Creek at Burnt Corn had happened nearly a month before. The blood law required an answer from both sides in the battle.

No, I understand, Okosi said. I just… There’s so much anger around.

Right, but the Tustanugi t’Hlako would not take refuge here. Sure, he has enemies out there who are looking for revenge. But he would not hide from anyone. Besides, he hates the Americans. Sandy put his palms on the bare ground behind him. He began to worry he had spoken with too much anger. He did not like feeling trapped either.

Will he be angry to know you are here? Okosi spread her long, tanned fingers on her thighs and straightened her back, relaxing her shoulders.

Of course, but he won’t find out. I’m leaving as soon as I am able.

The gate’s still open. Sand from a storm has jammed it open. How might they stop us? she asked. He followed her eyes to the front of the compound. He knew the flimsy gate would not keep anyone out or in even if it were closed. He looked for a moment at the two, armed American soldiers standing there. They did not look worried.

Each wore a blue uniform trimmed with blood-red fringe hanging below the breast and shoulder blades. They wore tall shining black hats shaped like drums. There were several more in the compound but only a few of the Americans had the crisp blue jackets of U.S. military. Those that did looked impressive.

Most of the outsiders were Mississippi militia attired in the haphazard way of the Americans. Sandy could never make sense of what Americans wore. There seemed to be little order or reason in their dress.

The soldiers might try to stop you… do you want to leave soon? he looked into her eyes again to hear the answer.

Soon… yes, to Pensacola. We should all leave… soon.

Why? Do you suspect trouble? he asked. He knew about the militant Red Sticks’ philosophy but did not know their immediate plans. Their name in Creek was Safa’lka Chati but even Creeks used the names interchangeably. Sandy figured Okosi might have kin closer to their leadership than he.

Yes, but I don’t know much, Okosi said. The Safa’lka Chati are coming though. They look to avenge Burnt Corn Creek. Some of their leader’s kin were killed there. They know there are Creeks here responsible for it.

I suppose one cannot blame them, Sandy said. And I know they don’t like Mimbs either. They insist he’s not really Creek… but civil war…?

I hope not. There’re other Creeks here they are looking for too. We might be safer elsewhere… soon. We might not be able to travel north… or even back to town.

I don’t know Mimbs very well, or the others, but I don’t care much for his fort here. It’s ridiculous. And he invited the American soldiers here. That can’t turn out for the best. Sandy looked around the so-called fort.

Would the Safa’lka Chati kill Americans? Okosi asked.

If the Americans are here… in Fort Mimbs… on Creek land, the Safa'lka Chati would kill them. Some of them reject everything European. They resent the Creeks who collaborate with Americans. They have painted their war clubs with the red cinnabar and now they will see it through. They will not put them down until there’s blood to replace the vermillion. The Safa'lka Chati think they have much work to do, a lot of killing… especially if they believe what you say about Burnt Corn. He glanced around to see other Creeks milling around. From where he sat he could count dozens. Some looked disoriented, others worried, still others just angry. The palisade enclosed a large area, nearly the size of a typical Creek town. Sandy could count at least eight wood framed structures from where he sat with large open areas in between.

He knew most of the Creeks felt out of place here on the frontier of their nation at the edge of the great cypress swamp that drained into Mobile Bay. The small, makeshift stockade of sharpened locust and tupelo trunks surrounded Sam Mimbs’s house, the homes of his kin, and numerous outbuildings. People had begun calling it Fort Mimbs as a joke.

They why did you come here? Okosi asked softly, watching his eyes.

I was just helping Len bring provisions. We do have relatives here. Some fear Safa’lka Chati vengeance, of course. Some welcome it. Everyone seems to be caught up in a blood feud with somebody else. Anyway, I hadn’t planned to stay… but then the American soldiers came. Their Colonel Beasley held out his shining long knife. He said ‘no one will leave’. He mimicked the American’s accent in as good a baritone as he could muster. He said ‘it was for our own good’. I don’t know if he would really stop us.

Now I think it’s for our own good to leave, she said.

Sandy lowered his voice. They say once you can smell an American it’s time to part company.

I’ve noticed that never takes long. She looked down and then away, watching another Creek boy about Sandy’s age coming towards them.

I guess I need to teach you two how to play tetherball, the Creek boy said, sitting cross-legged in the dirt next to Okosi. He was a little taller than Sandy, darker, with very short black hair and a perpetual, huge, toothy grin he showed when he was with those younger than himself. The deep, elongated smallpox scars on his cheeks made him look older than Sandy. Many considered him an expert at the ancient Creek, tetherball game.

We played, David, Sandy said, irritated that a rival had interrupted his time alone with Okosi, even if David was his best friend. Didn’t you see?

I saw something… but it didn’t look right to me.

I think Sandy is the best I’ve played, Okosi said.

David laughed. Then I think you haven’t seen me. He puffed out his chest with pride. He wore a blue patterned cotton shirt, a short alligator teeth choker around his neck, a red woolen flap, deerskin leggings, and moccasins. He seemed to be inspecting his apparel as if to encourage his friends to admire what he wore. A series of tattoos shaped like alligator teeth ran across the top of his chest from one shoulder to the other. Sandy noticed a new steel Spanish knife at his friend’s belt. It was long and fat. And impressive, Sandy reluctantly admitted to himself.

Oh, but I have seen you play, Okosi said. Remember? You should sprout a beaver’s tail if you want to beat Sandy. She stared at him, eyebrows raised.

David frowned and looked dejected.

She must have felt sorry for him the moment she teased him because she touched his forearm. What can you tell us about the Safa’lka Chati? she asked.

Sandy frowned this time. He did not like to see her show any affection to another boy.

The Red Sticks? They’re old fools and young upstarts, David said, regaining his usual bravado. They can’t get at us here. They won’t dare to… especially with the long knives around. There’re nearly a hundred Americans here now, with our warriors on top of that. We just elected my cousin Dixon to be captain of the Creek warriors here. He looked around. There was a note of concern in his eyes. Sandy knew Dixon had been a leader in the Burnt Corn attack. Those he killed would have kin looking for retribution.

Dixon’s story was one increasingly familiar to Creeks. He had recently rejected the offer of marriage from a powerful clan, Sandy’s own. He knew only too well of Dixon’s folly, as his people had been calling his decision.

The girl, one of Sandy’s cousins, had a twin sister and many felt that was a bad omen. Dixon’s real rationale, however, was that he had fallen in love with a white girl from South Carolina whose family had emigrated to the area about a year ago.

For a Creek boy, a jebani, to marry a white girl was a huge problem. His children could not be Creek. Creek women had often married white men, especially women from the clans of the Serpent, who wished to connect the Creek Nation to powerful and useful outsiders. But their children would always be Creek since Creekness descended through women. Dixon had made a serious blunder. It may not have been a life-threatening mistake, but he had compounded the error with the attack on his enemies at Burnt Corn. David continued with an air of nonchalance.

Besides, most of the Tustanugi from the towns near here took up the white sticks for peace, even your uncle did. We’re in no danger.

I wouldn’t be so sure about our safety, Okosi said. My mother and I are leaving in the morning.

I know. I heard. Many are headed to Pensacola. But the Spanish don’t have anything like the Americans, David said. They can’t help the Creeks. Mimbs has the right idea, I tell you. We need to befriend the Americans. Sandy understood the quality of American goods compared to the Spanish. There were far fewer Spaniards too.

All the Americans care about is taking our land, Sandy said bitterly, without looking at his friend.

You’re listening to your uncle too much, David said They’re good people, the Americans. They want to help us. Colonel Beasley talked to me for a long time. He’s a good man. You should listen to him. Sure, we might have to give up a little more land but we still have more than we need, especially where they want it… in the east.

Our Tustanugi says we can’t afford to give them any more. And do you forget… the Americans are on our western borders now too. They might occupy all but the land of the dead soon. They shun the Great Serpent.

It won’t be our choice. So many of the hard heads are deep in debt to them. They won’t admit how much they like American things.

It’s not their fault, Okosi said, clenching her teeth. Who can blame someone for being bewitched? Look how you cling to that new European knife like it’s a second manhood or something. She looked away and spoke under her breath. I doubt you know how to use your first. Sandy grinned.

It’s not like that. David, staring at her with defiance, was trying not to look hurt. Besides, I’m going to New York with the next group of missionaries. They might send me to the military academy even. That’s where the future is… with the Americans, in their army. That’s where the real warriors will be.

There are Creeks who will kill you for saying that, Sandy said. The Safa’lka Chati are looking especially for Creeks who help the Americans.

Maybe so, but the Red Sticks can’t get to me… can they? He glared at Sandy, then Okosi. They’re bumbling idiots… they are going to start a foolish war.

I’m not sure they’re so incompetent, Okosi said. You should go with us tomorrow too. It’s only a two days’ walk south to Pensacola. You might be able to get a third manhood from the Spanish… maybe a cannon to hang on your belt.

Sandy suppressed a