Small Fires in the Sun: First Were Natchez, Then Came the Spanish, the French & The African Slaves

By Herbert R. Metoyer, Jr.

A sprawling historical drama chronicling the Colonial history of Louisiana.
Mukta, an African man aboard a slave ship in the mid-18th century, allies himself with the slavers and is rewarded with relative freedom. Yet when the ship arrives at the slave market, Mukta’s master sells him on a whim. Metoyer’s novel is filled with such cruelty—betrayals, bloody battles, sexual violence, etc. Multiple, diverse perspectives tell a range of stories. In one scene, Two Dog, a Native American of the Natchez people, has a seemingly supernatural experience in a temple; soon after, French adventurer St. Denis rides a boat into the wilderness and wonders whether his men will be ambushed. Where the author excels are his depictions of people and places long extinct. He sprinkles authentic foreign words into dialogue and colorfully describes indigenous villages, local dances, and customs. While Metoyer capably describes the elaborate power plays of early Louisiana, his descriptions of daily life are vivid and often graphic. Toward the end of the novel, St. Denis’ wife, Emanuelle, encounters a young man named Robert Trevor; within minutes they struggle to contain their passion. Throughout the novel, Metoyer reminds readers that the Natchez are headhunters, and their social order is divided into a rigid class system. Each ethnic group is deeply suspicious of the others, and tempers are often deadly. Many characters occupy a moral gray area: Mukta is a slave, but he also molests the women aboard the slave ship. St. Denis is mostly honorable, but he leads expeditions that eventually destroy the indigenous communities. Metoyer doesn’t gloss over the brutality of the age. His enormous cast of characters is as selfish and merciless as their historical inspirations.
Exhaustively researched and unflinching in its descriptions, bringing early America to life while shedding light on some of its least remembered founders.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483558080

Book preview

1774)

PART I

Cross Roads

A Slave Ship

(Herb Metoyer, 2009)

Chapter — One

May 1724 —

LAND AHEAD! LAND, AHEAD TO PORT! Mukta heard the crow nester yell above the noise of the gentle surf. Louisianne!

Somewhat expectantly, Mukta raised his large, muscular-gone-to-flab body from the short stool upon which he sat and slowly ambled toward the rough plank stairway that led from the lower deck of the Marianne, a hastily converted frigate. A few moments later, he emerged shielding his eyes from the brightness of the morning sun with his thick arms.

A beautiful day, he said to himself. Almost too beautiful. But then, landfall was always a beautiful sight, no matter what the conditions. He hated the sea and always would, even if he was forced to sail it for the rest of his life. But hopefully, his ordeal would end soon. And when that time came, he would jump ship, leave the bitch, Marianne, and return to his homeland deep in the interior of Africa.

Suddenly, he sensed something foreboding — something that sent an ominous chill coursing through his body and causing him to shudder despite the warmth of the morning sun. He lifted his nose and sniffed audibly. What remained afterward was a fleeting odor that reminded him of burning hair and rotting snake eggs. Not good, he said to himself. Diablo, is it your presence I smell? If so, be gone. I’ll have no business with you this day.

Almost reverently, he reached down and touched the small leather pouch that he wore tied to the waistband of his filthy, canvas loincloth. Within it was his life — his past, present, and future; a few small gold trinkets and pieces of silver that he had managed to scavenge over the past five years. Droppings left behind by the crew. Someday, when the sack was full, he would jump the Marianne and return to his village a wealthy man. There, he would settle down, resume his life, take several wives, and father a hundred children. This was his dream, the only thing that gave purpose to his otherwise worthless existence.

But before he jumped ship, there were three dogs of Hades that he had marked to die. Three — he had sworn to kill with his bare hands. Mendoza, the Portuguese, would be first. Then, Cecil, their homosexual cook, followed by the grand Capitaine John Thomas Fortierre. The Portuguese would die because he was the one who had gotten him drunk and shanghaied him into slavery five years ago. Cecil would die because the scurvy, little, rotten-tooth weasel would not give him his daily rations except in exchange for sexual favors. The Captain would die just because he happened to be Captain of the unholy Marianne.

With some remorse, he recalled the terror of waking from a drunken stupor to find himself shackled and chained in darkness, deep within the bowels of the Marianne. He was frightened and sick, and almost driven mad from the incessant slapping of the sea against the ship’s hull. He could still hear the Portuguese and several others laughing at him in the shadows.

Aye, matey, look what I catched me-self with a bottle of rum. What would have cost the Captain ten stout men and a few broken skulls, I catched with a small flask of rotgut.

And right you are. An ape that size ought to bring a better than fair price on any block.

He had strained on his shackles, but it was useless. The irons were stout and strong. Finally, he gave up, his spirit crushed. In the shadows of the swinging lamps, several of the slaves began to discuss mutiny. A few days later, their plans were finalized, and the mutiny was set to take place the next time they were taken up on deck to exercise.

In the beginning, thoughts of freedom made his blood race. But soon after, the initial elation faded away. And the thought of a mutiny by slaves, who had no knowledge of the sea, or the instruments necessary to navigate its vast domain, frightened him even more than did his uncertain future as a slave. So, out of concern for his own safety, he warned the Captain, believing that the Captain would only alert the slaves that he was aware of their intent and thereby discourage any further attempts.

Nothing, however, could have prepared him for the slaughter that took place two days later. The Captain had not warned the slaves. Instead, he had prepared and lay in wait until the slaves made their move. Then, he and his officers swooped down, cutlasses swinging, and pistols firing aimlessly into the innocent and guilty alike. Within seconds, it was over.

Once the mutiny was quelled, the Captain brought everyone on deck and forced him, Mukta, against his will, and in view of all, to identify everyone who had participated. Then, he, along with the rest of the slaves, watched while bodies were whipped with cats, and hands, breasts, and penises were hacked off. And when that was finished, the still screaming souls were chained together and tossed from the sides of the ship into the shark-infested, blue-waters of Hell.

As compensation for his role in saving the Captain and his crew, he was made Master of the Slaves. His reward, however, was not without a price. The burden of guilt weighed heavily on his mind for a long time. Many times in the night, when the wind was just right, and usually at the third glass of the dog’s watch, he was still plagued by the cries of those he had doomed. And each time he lay his huge body down to rest, he was forced again to watch in horror, the visions of black, faceless bodies struggling to stay afloat in a fast reddening sea.

As time passed, however, so did much of his guilt, but not all. Most of it, he supposed, would remain with him for the rest of his life. Normally, he was not a violent man. He was, however, a survivor, doing what he had to do, when he had to do it, in order to persist. At one stage in his life, he was a humble and gentle herder of cows, trying to survive on the vast, arid savannas of Africa. Content, he was, without malice toward neither man, beast, or God — not even when the beasts killed and plundered his herd, or when the Gods held back the blessed life-sustaining rains.

The Marianne and her crew, however, soon altered that phase of his life. He was something else now. Something more in the eyes of some, something less in the eyes of others. Yet, the fact that he was only one small step removed from the fate of those subservient to him did not, in any way, diminish the zeal with which he pursued his duties. Any compassion he might have had for his unfortunate charges had long ago been secreted away in a place inaccessible to him and mortal man.

But, because of his heavy hand, the Marianne was never again threatened with mutiny, not once in all the five years he had served as her Slave Master. Usually, by the time they had completed a crossing, even the noblest of warriors had been reduced to something less than a sniveling pup.

So, it was with pride that he went about his task deep in the bowels of the superannuated vessel. The Captain ruled topside, but below decks — he, Mukta, was supreme.

Channel ahead! Fifteen degrees right, then straight as a boar’s prick, the crow nester yelled to the helmsman.

Mukta raised his head and looked up at the crow’s nest, resting high, near the top of the foremast.

All hands on deck, shouted the boatswain. And suddenly, the deck was filled with hurried activity as the swarthy, ragged, unkempt seamen hauled in the yards of mainsail, coiled the rigging, and stowed the spit-kids tightly beneath the spar deck. Only the small topsails and an aft spanker were left aloft to propel the vessel up the channel to the mouth of the Mississippi.

Mukta glanced out over the starboard side and noticed the deep emerald and blue color of the sea slowly changing into a soft muddy brown, a sure sign that they had entered the correct channel that would lead them up the illusive and mysterious river.

This would be his second trip into the French port of New Orleans. Most of the time, they sold their slave cargo in Cuba, or Haiti, and sometimes along the Eastern seaboard. Yet, of all the places he had visited, he found the Louisiana coast the most intriguing — especially the swamps and marsh lands, crowded with thick growths of willows, mimosas, tupelo gums, ungainly pines, and marsh elder. Cattails, great cane breaks, and palmetto thickets grew rampant along the water’s edge. And interspersed within, were giant cypress trees with feathery, green foliage and cone-shaped trunks that rested on huge knobby roots that reminded him of someone’s knees. Hanging from their branches were long masses of gray moss-like hair that everyone called Capuchin’s beard. He had no idea who Capuchin was, but the sound of the name seemed more than fitting.

The wind caused the topsails to snap, shattering the stillness, and rousing flights of pelicans, herons, swans, and egrets from their nests and feeding grounds in the nearby marshes. Mukta marveled at the spectacular sight, thousands of water fowl of every species, stretching their long necks and filling the hazel-blue sky. When they were gone, he stretched his massive arms and scanned the shoreline, hoping to spot an alligator or some other type of reptile sunning or swimming lazily among the lilies and irises.

Suddenly, the hair on his neck stood like the hackles of a dog. He turned quickly to see why, and found the cold, gray eyes of Captain Fortierre staring directly at him.

How many dead? the Captain asked solemnly.

Four, Mukta replied.

Damn. One would think my job was to feed the sharks, rather than make a livelihood. Well, step lively and get the bastards over the side. We’ll be in port soon.

"Oui," Mukta grunted as he turned and lumbered back down into the hold. He had almost forgotten to perform his most important daily chore, that of throwing the bodies of those who had died during the night over the side.

At the bottom of the stairway, he closed his eyes tightly to adjust them to the darkness. Then, he crossed to a short ladder and crawled up into the t’ween deck. He stopped before a young mother and attempted to take the dead body of a small boy from her arms. The woman resisted, cursing, and calling him vile names. Then, she made the mistake of spitting directly into his face. Without another thought, Mukta drew back his massive arm and swatted her heavily across the mouth. She released the child quickly, and just as quickly, buried her bloody face in her shaking hands. Mukta then picked up the cold, stiff, little body and carried it topside leaving its mother to cry softly in the darkness.

Once topside, he avoided looking at the child’s face. In fact, he never looked any of the dead in the face. Not that he was afraid or felt any pity for them. It was just a matter of doing his job, and he could do that very well without having to look into their glassy eyes, or their infected, blotched, scaly, black faces. Handling their stinking, maggot-ridden bodies was enough — wasn’t it?

He was just about to pitch the body over the side, when a wheel pin struck him suddenly, and hard, across the upper muscles of his left arm. He yelped, dropped the body to the deck, and spun around into a defensive posture. He cowered immediately, however, once he saw it was the Portuguese.

Stupid swine. The Captain would carve your black rump if he knew you were throwing his good irons to the fish, the Portuguese said, pointing to the single, rusty shackle still fixed to the child’s ankle.

Mukta looked down, grunted in acknowledgement, then stooped to remove it, his eyes watchful, should the Portuguese decide to strike him again. The Portuguese snarled, then sauntered off. After he was out of range, Mukta picked up the dead body and heaved it angrily over the side. Yes, Portuguese, you will be the first to die. Then, I will drain my bladder down your slimy throat, he promised himself as he returned to the hold of the gracious Marianne.

As Mukta went about his tasks, he was ever mindful of evil eyes staring at him in the darkness from every quarter, watching his every move. Stupid bunch of mongrels. It wasn’t his fault that they were in chains. And it wasn’t his fault that he was the one tasked with the responsibility of beating some sense and respect into their black carcasses. Fate had done that, not him. Didn’t they realize that he was trapped just as they were? That he was confined to the hold of a stinking ship when his heart yearned for home and Niema, the girl he was supposed to marry? No, he supposed not. Well, it did not matter. It still would not change one thing. As the wind blows, so do the sands of the desert. Besides, they deserved no better, he rationalized. And you, you deserve less than that, he said with his eyes as he glanced over at a young Mali boy who called himself Kiokera. What fool in his right mind would beg aboard a slaving vessel for a look-see. Well, you got your look-see all right — a look-see at Hell.

Mukta did not like the boy. In fact, for reasons he could not adequately explain, he hated the boy almost as much as he did the Portuguese. Maybe, it was because of the embarrassment he had sustained on the day the boy was first lured aboard — the way the youth had kicked him in the groin. He could still hear the crew laughing now. Then too, maybe, it was the boy’s eyes, the way they slanted like a snake’s. Evil, want-to-do-me-harm eyes. Evil eyes, waiting in the dark. For what? For me to fall down the steps and break my damn neck? Mukta chuckled to himself at the thought.

When he had finished throwing the last body over the side, he returned to his stool and sat down weightily to rest his sweating body. A large, thick-furred rodent caught his eye. He watched unconcerned as it crawled slowly in and around the huge hand-hewn timbers that formed the ribs of the bloated vessel.

When it was out of sight, his attention shifted slowly to a young girl lying, unchained, on her side near the forward bulkhead. Naked from the waist up, her dark reddish skin glowed amber in the sunlight that filtered from above through the cracks in the floor of the deck. Quietly, a subtle warmth settled in his groin and slowly spread throughout his body. With deft hands, he reached down and massaged himself as he surveyed her well-proportioned body, her full breasts standing like they had been carved from ebony, the outline of her ample buttocks, tightly wrapped and straining against the small piece of broadcloth that barely covered her nakedness.

Silently, he wished that she could have been his own, or someone like her. This one, however, would never do for a mate. This one had been ruined. Barely a week out to sea, the Captain ordered him to bring the frightened girl up to the quarterdeck where he ravaged her. To make matters worse, the Captain had forced him to stand and watch, knowing that his balls were aching and burning like fire for want of a woman.

After that, it seemed as if every other day, he was directed to bring her topside where other officers and privileged crew members took their pleasure. It happened so often, that he stopped bothering to replace her chains. She wasn’t the only one forced to submit. They did it to some of the others, too. The younger, the better. She, however, quickly became their favorite, primarily because the little bitch had started to enjoy her excursions. And before long, she was nothing but a wicked, little conniving whore, using her woman’s wit indiscriminately to maintain her favor among the slimy bunch of lice-ridden cutthroats. This had both surprised and angered him — to see her smiling and grinning up in their faces and switching her tail around like some bitch-dog in heat. Then, what really angered him further was the fact that the girl had rejected his advances, forgetting that he was the one, in the beginning, who had nursed her bruises and tried to make her comfortable after her initial ordeal. Well, he took care of that. Had to knock her around a little to get her attention. But once that was accomplished, from then on, it was nothing but milk and honey. Milk and honey.

Normally, he was not allowed to enjoy liberties with the slave women in his care. That right was reserved only for the Captain and a chosen few. But occasionally, when the need was severe enough, he accepted the risk and stole a few moments of pleasure. Most of the time, however, he was forced to obtain relief through the services of Cecil, their homosexual cook. He detested this liaison with a passion. But had he refused, Cecil would have withheld his daily rations of salt pork and biscuits. Just thinking about the act made him sick to his stomach. And there were many times, when he was laboring over the cook’s, red-like-a-monkey’s backside, that he had to restrain himself from snapping the filthy, little weasel’s neck — like a chicken’s.

The throbbing urgency of the turgid growth in his loins again demanded his attention. Casually, he glanced up the stairs. The moment was opportune. All hands were occupied on deck. And if he hurried, he could take his pleasure now, without undue risk.

He stood up, glanced quickly up the stairway again, then made his way over the bodies to where the girl lay. She looked up at him apprehensively, her arm half raised as if she expected him to strike her. Then, her eyes dropped to the pulsing protrusion beneath his loincloth, and he could see that she knew what he wanted. Without prompting, she rolled onto her back submissively and raised her knees. Mukta smiled in satisfaction as he stroked his hugeness into a hard mass.

Well, my cunning, little she-devil, tomorrow it will be some other bewitched fool who will be praying at your dark, sacred altar. Then, he lowered his huge body awkwardly between her dark thighs and rubbed the head of his soul across her moist portal. Suddenly, he plunged deeply. She groaned in pain, but did not attempt to escape. Instead, she gritted her teeth, forced herself to relax and following thereafter, was the slapping sound of flesh upon flesh — a sound not unlike the snap of the wind against a high-flying canvas sail. Milk and honey. Nothing but, milk and honey....

Kiokera lay on his back, his hands shackled behind and above his head. Silently, he watched the motion of Mukta’s huge, ashy-black rump rising, and flaring between the girl’s outstretched limbs; his obscene grunting and snorting not unlike that of a wild boar rooting in the bush.

Such a sight, under different circumstances, would have started the sap flowing through his fifteen-year-old body. But at the moment, all he could think of was the aching in his swollen joints and the burning pain centered around his rubbed-raw wrist and ankles. His buttocks were numb. He attempted to turn over onto his stomach, but his rusty chains made it difficult. Giving up on the idea, he changed his mind in favor of his side, positioning his head carefully in order to keep his face out of the dried vomit he had deposited there several times during the voyage.

On one side of him lay Tuanu, another boy from a village several miles west of his own. Tuanu had been having a difficult time, and several times during the voyage he was sure the boy had died. Diarrhea had drained his body of all fluids, and now, all he did was sleep.

While he felt a deep compassion for Tuanu, all he could feel toward himself was blinding anguish. Anguish that was born of his own stupidity. Because, unlike Tuanu, he had not been run down, chained, and dragged aboard the Marianne. He had walked aboard willingly and of his own accord — like a lamb right into the mouth of the lion’s den. How he wished his parents had never moved from Mali to live on the West Coast of Africa.

He had been fishing at the time, riding the gentle swells of the surf, when the big ship glided into view and dropped anchor several hundred yards offshore. For a while, he had sat and watched as the men went about their duties, furling the sails and securing the rigging. Afterwards, several swarthy sailors lowered long boats into the water and paddled toward the shore with what he assumed were casks for water.

Finally, curiosity got the best of him. So, he pulled in his nets and paddled closer for a better view. He was awed by the size of the vessel, its length and breadth more than ten times the length and breadth of the largest canoe he had ever seen. Barnacles, other clinging sea life, and green algae covered the hull near the water line. Dry, aged, pitch oozed from the cracks along the edges of the long lengths of planking. And painted in green, on both sides of the bow, behind and below the hand-carved, weather-beaten image of a woman’s head whose eyes stared sadly out to sea were the words, Marianne.

He heard laughter and looked up to observe several rugged-looking seamen leaning over the bulwark.

Ahoy, down there, he heard one say who spoke his tongue. Come aboard, if you like and see what a real canoe looks like.

Kiokera smiled and waved back at the seaman. He had seen tall ships like this several times before, drifting silently and majestically along the coast with their yards of off-white sails filled with a stiff breeze. He, however, had never seen one up close, not like this. So, when the opportunity to actually go aboard presented itself, he could not resist. Elated, he paddled quickly alongside and climbed the rope that had been thrown over the side for that purpose.

The friendly seamen helped him up and over, then stood back and watched amused as he wandered open-mouthed about the holy-stone scoured deck. Occasionally, one would say something to the other in a tongue he did not understand. Then, they would look at him and laugh.

He was gazing up into the rigging supported by a tree-tall mast, when a huge black fist slammed into his neck just above the shoulder from behind. He went down heavily. He was scrambling to his knees when he saw the frightening giant for the first time, large as two men, with huge gargoyle-like eyes, his black, sweaty body glistening in the heat of the glaring sun. He jumped to his feet and sprinted for the sides. But, several seamen gathered quickly and blocked his escape. Trapped, he stopped and turned again to face the stalking monster of a man. He waited on guard, and when Mukta was in perfect range, he closed his eyes and kicked with every ounce of strength his body could muster. Mukta groaned, grabbed his groin, and doubled to his knees in pain.

He was about to sprint away again, when someone else struck him with a club across his back, almost cracking the bones of his shoulder blades. He went down again, crying out loudly in pain. Then, through the fog, he watched as the angry giant picked up a short length of rope with a knot in one end and swung. On the first blow, the knot struck him beside his face and tore open the insides of his mouth. Unable to do anything else, he crawled into a ball, covered his head with his arms, and remained there until mercifully, unconsciousness came and rescued him....

From that day forth, his life had been a living Hell. One fueled by the flames generated by the ever-growing hatred that was shared equally between him and his black slave master. And while he lay aching in the steaming void, reeking of unwashed bodies, urine, vomit, and feces, most of his waking hours were spent conjuring up ways for Mukta to die. Sometimes, it was by an axe. Sometimes, impalement. Sometimes at the feet of a herd of elephants or in the mouth of a starving lion. And sometimes... it seemed as if Mukta sensed his thoughts. For on those occasions, and for no other apparent reason, Mukta would suddenly turn and send his whip snaking out to bite him in the darkness like a horned viper.

Still, he dreamed. He had once seen a harpoon in the hands of a seamen. It was this wicked-looking instrument that became the favorite weapon of his fantasies. Deep down, however, he knew he would never get the opportunity to do such a thing. And even if he did, he doubted that he could actually take another’s life. But, thinking about the possibility helped. It made the time pass, and took his thoughts off the pain and misery of himself and the others around him.

Suddenly, he heard Mukta’s groans taking on a higher pitch. Wearily, he turned to watch the big black’s wide hips flailing away between the girls far-flung legs, gaining tempo with each crushing blow. Abruptly, Mukta’s body came to a straining stop. The muscles corded along his neck and rolled up the back of his bald head. Then, he released a long, tortured groan and fell away limp.

For a moment, Kiokera stared at Mukta in open contempt, his anger swelling and growing. Soon, he was retreating again into his fantasy world to conjure up yet another way to rid the earth of monsters like… Mukta.

Milk and honey, Mukta said to himself as he lay between the girl’s legs, resting and basting himself. And when the basting was done, he arose, wiped the sweat from his brow, and walked away on legs like shaky pillars. He felt them before he turned to see them… Eyes. Evil snake-eyes, staring, always staring.

He stopped, looked at the boy and scowled. He considered putting the whip to his young ass again, but then decided that they were too close to their journey’s end. Instead, he just smiled at the boy contemptuously and continued his way back to the bottom of the steps. There, he turned his face up and breathed deeply of the fresh sea air from above, momentarily forgetting the ghoulish odors of human evacuations and rotting flesh that permeated the bowels of the lady Marianne.

Yet, despite the air’s refreshing effect, he suddenly found himself wishing they were back at sea, headed in the opposite direction. Something wasn’t right. Above, he could see dark clouds sliding beneath the summer sun. In the distance, he could hear the somber rumble of thunder. Something was different about this day. Something bad — not good, he said to himself. Diablo, stay your distance. Do not pester Mukta this day….

Chapter — Two

TWO DOG SAT HALF ASLEEP ON THE DIRT FLOOR of the Natchez Temple watching the hypnotic flames of the perpetual fire. At fifteen-summers-old, he was the youngest of the seven guardians assigned the duty of maintaining it. They were supervised by a priest they all referred to as the "Old Guardian in his presence, and Old Frog-eye" behind his back.

At the moment, he was alone. Four of the guardians had gone into the forest to replenish their stock of hickory and oak logs. The two most senior guardians and the priest had gone with their chief, the Great Sun, and the Great War Chief to the Natchez village of White Apple.

Normally, the four youngest guardians maintained the supply of wood while the more senior guardians usually sat around watching the fire, playing games with sticks or rocks, or telling tall tales. This day, however, he had not been feeling well, and for this reason, the Old Guardian had decided to leave him in charge. This suited him just fine. He didn’t like foraging in the forest anyway... Too many ticks and other jumping vermin about. Smiling to himself at his good fortune, he brushed his long, stringy, unkempt hair back from his slender, gaunt face, bit into a half ripe apple, and relaxed in the shadows of the smoky, ancient temple.

The temple of the Natchez empire was a large, rectangular structure 30-feet wide and 60-feet long with walls that stood 10-feet high. In spite of its size, there was only one small entrance. Above the entrance perched three handcrafted, flat-planed, wooden eagles painted red and white. One was in the center at the apex of the roof, and one on each side of the doorway.

To enter the Temple, one had to pass through a break in the mud, palisade wall that surrounded it. Perched on stakes embedded in the mud wall were the skulls of enemy warriors whose sightless eyes watched the perimeter guardedly. In piles to the right of the passageway were the excess skulls for which there were no stakes, and to the left, stacks of short lengths of hickory and oak firewood. This wood was used to sustain the perpetual fire.

Between the wall and the front entrance of the temple rested a large, round, wooden block. Braided around its base was the hair taken from the scalps of enemy warriors. Upon the top of the block, more braids had been woven to form a facsimile of a flat basket. During the spring, flowers, seeds, eggs, and eagle feathers were placed in the braided basket; during the harvest season, offerings of maize, hominy, berries, and melons; and during the winter, nuts, and small portions of dried fish and wild game.

The inside of the temple was divided into two parts. The center of the first part, and the larger, contained the fire. Further to the rear, was a crude, hand-hewn altar upon which rested the sacred calumet and several other religious artifacts which included a two-foot-high figurine of a pregnant woman, a mummified frog, two chalices, a leather tobacco pouch, and five arrows with golden tips. Hanging from the wall, suspended by two leather thongs, was a large wooden disk, two-feet in diameter. This disk was highly polished and painted to resemble the sun with red and yellow rays radiating from its center. On each side of the disk, on pedestals, were fire pots filled with bear oil. They also burned both day and night.

Along the walls of the first and the second part were shelves upon which nestled the bones of previous Great Suns with those of their wives and servants stored neatly in meticulously woven split-cane baskets. Strange red and white markings in a language known only to the Old Guardian identified each.

In order to sustain the fire, a chute had been constructed at a sixty-degree angle. It held short logs, two- to three-feet in length, end to end. As one log burned away, another automatically fell into its place. It was the guardian’s sacred duty to keep the fire burning. Failure to do so, by law, resulted in the death of all, including the high priest.

According to legend, the fate of the Natchez depended upon this flame. As long as it burned, they would prosper. Two Dog wasn’t sure if he believed the legend or not. The fire burned continuously, so there was no way of verifying its validity. Not to say that he was inclined to find out, he was just mildly curious like all young boys and wondered sometimes... Just what would happen if, for some reason, the stinking fire did go out.

Off in the distance, he heard thunder. It was the rainy season, and numerous thundershowers were to be expected for the next several weeks. Good, he said to himself. Maybe, the rain will cool things down some.

During the winter, attending the fire wasn’t so bad. But during the summer, it was the worst job in the world. The heat within the mud walls was almost unbearable, and the temple felt more like an earthen oven deep inside the bowels of Hell rather than a hallowed resting place for the dead.

Still, he supposed as he glanced around the wall at the baskets filled with bleached-white bones, it wasn’t the worst job around. The job of a Turkey Buzzard man had to be at the bottom of the heap. When a Great Sun or his wife died, they were laid out in the dead house or buried until their bodies could decay. Then, the bone picking Turkey Buzzard men would go to work using their cane or stone knives and long, claw-like fingernails to remove as much of the flesh as possible. From there, the bones would be taken in cane baskets and placed on anthills. Three days later, when the ants finished, the bones would be spotlessly white. No, there was no way he would do that job. Just the thought made him want to puke.

He really wished that he could have been born into the Sun class, the highest of the four classes in their society. Then, he would really have it made with full-time servants and anything else he wanted. But that was out of the question. To be a Sun, you had to be born one. He had been born an Earth Person, the lowest of the low. So low, that the land-stealing Frenchmen who wandered up and down the Mississippi like deadly river serpents often called them Stinkards. To escape their birth status, his mother decided to donate his services to fill a vacancy on the guardian staff. This act elevated him and his mother up one step to the level of the Honored People. This was about as high as a guardian could expect to go without becoming the high priest. Beyond that, only the most courageous warriors could ascend to the next higher rank of the Noble People, and that took a lot of tattoos — one for each enemy head brought back for the temple wall.

All in all, he had not done too bad as a guardian. The most he had to do was go out and cut wood every other day, and he could live with that well enough.

Two Dog’s eyes began to grow heavy and he found it increasingly difficult to remain awake. Drowsily, he reached over and poked into the fire with his poking-stick, moving the embers about and watching the sparks ascend erratically toward the rafters like swarms of reckless fireflies.

A gentle rain began to fall. So, he lay back on his mat and listened to the light, rhythmic pattern that sounded like thousands of tiny feet dancing upon the thatched roof. It was peaceful and relaxing. So peaceful, that he soon fell fast asleep....

Somewhere in the vicinity, lightning struck, and the mud walls of the temple trembled, startling Two Dog awake. There was an unusual smell in the air, not unlike burning feathers. He shook himself fully awake, glanced quickly about, then panicked. The fire was almost out. One of the logs in the chute was stuck and had not fallen as it was rigged to do. Just in time, he thought smugly as he adjusted the log. A few moments more... and I would have been standing neck-deep in dog dooky.

That crisis abated, and thankful that Old Frog-eye had not been there to witness the little mishap, Two Dog removed a piece of apple skin from his widely spaced teeth and settled back down on his cane mat.

Several peaceful moments passed. Then, Two Dog noticed that the wind was slowly growing in intensity. Minutes later, it was randomly lifting the thatch from its sampling anchors and allowing moisture to enter the sacred place. Several drops struck the fire and exploded — popping like over-roasted hickory nuts. Two Dog sat up, mildly concerned now. This type of trouble, he did not need. Silently, he poised on his haunches and watched those leaks closest to the fire. They did not appear to be getting any worse. Certain now that it was only a moderate shower that would soon pass (and wishing it would), he allowed himself to relax.

He was just on the verge of falling asleep again when he discerned a distant, strange noise, one that he had never heard before — like a herd of horses or a swarm of locusts headed in his direction. Its magnitude frightened him. He got up, walked to the single entrance, and peered out. The rain was now falling in torrents and the day was dark as any night. He could see nothing.

Without any further warning, the storm struck like an angry bear slamming into the side of the temple. The wind howled, ripped the thatch from the roof, and scattered debris everywhere. Rain fell freely into the temple through the huge gaping holes and lashed meanly at the fire. Outside, he could hear trees groaning in pain as their roots were yanked from the soil, their branches snapping like twigs. And beneath the mask of the storm’s fury, faintly discernible, he could hear screams and wailing from the village.

For a moment, he was disoriented, with no idea of what he should do next to protect the fire. Where is everyone? he wondered. Can’t they see it’s raining hard enough to put this stupid fire out.

For lack of something better to do, he started spinning around and around, turning on his heels, his face and severely sloped head lifted into the darkness and howling repeatedly like a lone wolf in distress, hoping that someone would hear and come to his aid. He grew dizzy, so he abandoned his spinning. When he came to a stop, he happened to notice the large altar. Frantically, he rushed to it and swept the religious artifacts off with the back of his arm. Then, gathering all the strength his young body could muster and still howling, he dragged the heavy, hand-hewn object to a position above the fire. It helped some, but the wind and rain continued to take their toll.

Where is everybody?... Damn-it! Why don’t they come and help me? he said to himself in anger and frustration as he attempted again to nurse the fire. I never wanted this woman’s work, anyway. This was my crazy-assed mother’s idea. I wanted to be a warrior.... And where is that old, frog-eyed, know-everything priest? This is his job. All I was supposed to do was cut the fucking wood.

Scrambling about the muddy floor and howling painfully, he did what he could to preserve the fire. He tried to protect