Year of the White Dog

By Tom Hooker

The year is 1540.  Strangers wearing shells like turtles and carrying sticks that roar and spit killing stones are on the rampage in what will become Mississippi in the New World.  The Spanish expedition led by Hernando de Soto has just destroyed a village to the southeast, and is headed for  the Chickasaw village of Chicaca.

A young Chickasaw maiden named Swift Doe has had a dream about a white dog, but it's not until the tribe's shaman tells a similar tale that it becomes apparent that Swift Doe has not had a dream, but rather a vision.  The tribe bands together to mount a defense against the invaders, but it's the internal threat of a traitor that threatens to destroy the village when de Soto and his conquistadors come calling.  This is historical fiction at its best, crafted by master storyteller Tom Hooker.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Escarpment Press
• Release date: Aug 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201562885

Book preview

Chapter 1

May 25, 1539

The bay is too shallow, Anasco, Hernando de Soto spoke in a normal tone, ignoring the flash and sizzle of the surf, which threatened to drown his words.

The conquistador stood on the beach, stroking his tawny beard with one hand, and frowning at the ocean.  Beyond him, two dozen cutters fought the tide between shore and ship.  Their bows pitched skyward upon the crest of each wave.  Oars flailed, tossing salty spray in the brilliant sun as the crewmen struggled to bring the boats in.  Above him, terns wheeled in the pallid sky.  The turbulent sea reflected the sun’s rays in glittering pieces, as if a thousand diamonds floated there.  Salt seasoned the air.  He turned.  Palm trees marked the line where beach met forest.  Saw grass layered the ground beneath.  Sea oats sprouted through the sand, completing the stark landscape. 

Far beyond the surf, his flagship, the San Cristobal sat, anchored bow and stern to keep her stable while the crew offloaded her cargo.  The La Magdalena and the San Juan, along with a half dozen smaller caravels and brigantines, surrounded the flagship.

Juan de Anasco, captain of the fleet, shifted his feet.  "I don’t understand, Commandante.  I’m sure this is the place I scouted last month.  The harbor was deep."

De Soto studied Anasco.  Perhaps you dreamed it.

The first of the longboats beached, and the crew unloaded the craft, staggering under the weight of their loads and the fatigue of a long pull on the oars.

The men are exhausted.  De Soto spoke through clenched teeth.  Since we haven’t had time to procure any natives, your men and mine will have to do all the work.  By forcing us to anchor so far out, you’ve added a day to the offloading.   Then the men will need an extra day to rest.

Anasco said nothing.  De Soto knew men like him.   Aboard the San Cristobal, he made quick decisions and gave forceful commands.  Ashore, his confidence fled like that of a startled rabbit.  De Soto knew Anasco was loathe to anger his commander, the man Emperor Charles V had commissioned as Commandante of La Florida Entrada, any more than he already had.

Hernando de Soto was hidalgo, a pure Spaniard.  No Jewish or Moorish blood tainted that which flowed through his veins.  Beneath his bronze tan lay the pale complexion of a European.  He had fought at Pizarro’s side against the Incas.   He was Governor of La Florida, which began on this peninsula and extended as far north and as far west as he could reach.   He could reach very far.

The men continued to unload the boats, carrying crates of iron and steel, arquebuses, gunpowder, crossbows, swords, chain mail, slave collars, and more.  They unloaded a portable forge for the blacksmith’s use in crafting raw metals into tools and weapons, things they would need as they pushed inland searching for the treasures of this strange territory.   The ships’ holds also carried horses, to provide transportation for the officers, along with cattle and swine, walking food for the expedition.

De Soto exhaled noisily.  "I suppose this place must have a name.  I’ll call it Bahia de Esperito Santo, ‘Bay of the Holy Spirit.’"

"Si, Commandante. Anasco said.  I will record it in the log."

"No, I will record it in the log.  We’re ashore now.  Once the cargo is on land, the only thing I expect of you is to rendezvous with us at the mouth of the Rio del Espiritu Santo two years from now."

Anasco nodded, avoiding de Soto’s eyes.

A horse and rider broke through the trees and cantered along the beach toward them.  The animal’s hooves tossed sand skyward, creating a halo in the sunlight.  The men stopped their work and stepped aside to open a path.  Upon reaching de Soto, the rider dismounted with the sure and purposeful actions of a military man.

"General Tinoco, de Soto smiled.  You bring good news, I trust."

"Not the best, Commandante," replied Diego Tinoco, the entrada’s cavalry commander.  The patrol you sent skirmished with a band of natives.   Two natives killed.  Two horses wounded.

Two horses wounded?  Badly?

One, sir.  It had to be put down.  The other will recover.

The frown returned.  Not a good start, losing a horse so soon.  Were any of the men injured?

No, sir.  They are well.  The natives fought a delaying action.  We discovered a village, recently abandoned, with seven or eight small, round huts.  Food still cooked on the fires.  We also found a cache of grain that can be added to our supply.

Good.  The village will serve as headquarters while we organize our expedition.

De Soto turned to Anasco, who stiffened almost imperceptibly, apparently an attempt to come to attention while looking as if he were already there.  See that the offloading is completed promptly, Anasco.

"Si, Commandante."

De Soto clapped his general on the shoulder.  Come, Tinoco.   Let’s go change the world.

Back to TOC

Chapter 2

Ah Hohche Hushi—The Planting Moon

(One year later)

The first time she saw the white dog the girl wanted to whistle, to see if it would come close enough to pet.  But a strange dog in a strange place isn’t always friendly, so she waited.

She stood at the edge of a meadow carpeted in grass so green and lustrous it seemed to glow from within.  A tender breeze folded the grass over to show its pale underbelly.  A mixture of conifer and hardwood trees encircled the field under an ice-blue sky.

The dog stood off to her right, head erect, a quarter way around the meadow.  Its short hair was pure white, like a cloud untinged by shadow. 

She hugged her slender arms and sniffed pine in the air.  Overhead, mockingbirds and robins, and even an owl, serenaded her.  Something moved to her left. She turned to see a huge black beast lope into the green field.  Short ebony hair covered it from head to hoof, unlike a buffalo’s longer, curly hair around its head and shoulders. A pair of horns protruded from the beast’s crown and curved so they pointed forward.  Muscles rippled under its hide like warriors dancing at a battle fire.

The creature spotted her and stopped, head up, body tense.  Air huffed from its enormous nostrils.  She felt rooted to the spot.  If it charged, she couldn’t escape.  The dog barked, and the creature’s head whipped around.  The black devil eased forward a few steps, as if evaluating the danger from this tiny white animal. 

Run, she thought.  But she couldn’t.  Her limbs were frozen, bound by some unseen force.

The dog met her gaze.  Its strawberry tongue lolled from its panting mouth as if in a laugh. She realized that all eyes were on the dog.  Birds, beast, everything.  The dog’s tongue disappeared as its mouth snapped shut.  Its ears perked upward and forward.  A silent message passed from canine to human . . . Watch.

The dog stepped toward the beast.  The huge animal’s head jerked upward, surprised at the challenge.  Still the dog advanced.  The creature dropped its head, so that the top of its snout brushed the blades of grass, and its horns were parallel to the ground.  It snorted, buffeting the grass beneath its nostrils . . .  and charged.

Swift Doe inhaled sharply.  The hssss of her breath broke the silence.  She lay on a sleeping mat woven from maize shucks and surrounded, in the dim light, by her and her parents’ possessions: baskets for gathering roots and berries, a hunting bow, and fur clothing.  She realized that she was in her family’s summer lodge and not . . . where?  Where had she been?  What had she seen?  She felt as if she had been in some strange place.  Swift Doe searched her mind, trying to remember, but the memory danced just beyond her reach.

Usually she recalled her dreams, but even an unremembered one was no cause for the sense of foreboding she felt.  It seemed this dream had dropped a burning ember in the center of her brain before disappearing.  Swift Doe sighed and pulled her ebony hair away from her face.

She scanned the lodge’s interior, searching for something to spark her memory.  The large, rectangular summer lodge had a thatched, gabled roof supported by poles made from trunks of small trees.  The walls were mats woven from reeds that could be rolled up to allow the breeze to flow through.  During the day, as the sun moved across the sky, one or more mats could be lowered to provide shade.  At night, Soft Answer, her mother, rolled all of the walls down to fend off insects and small animals.  A shadow moved in the space between two of the mats.  Oh, no!  Swift Doe clambered to her feet and rushed outside.

There you are.  Soft Answer smiled.  "Chukma nitaki. Good morning.  I thought you were going to sleep the day away."  The older woman stood in a small area cleared of grass and twigs and surrounded by the buildings of her family compound: the summer lodge, winter lodge, and storage shed.  Beyond them, other families gathered around their own breakfast fires, their voices muted.  She, like Swift Doe, wore a doeskin loincloth with another pelt wrapped, shawl fashion, around her shoulders and clasped at the throat.

I’m sorry, Mother, said Swift Doe.  You should have called me.

Soft Answer stirred the contents of a clay pot hanging over a slow-burning fire.  "No matter, I knew you’d wake soon.  My daughter isn’t one to waste daylight when there is work to do.  Hand me that bowl and I’ll dip some pashofa for you.  She paused.  Swift Doe, are you all right?"

What?   Oh, sorry.  What did you say?

"I asked you to hand me a bowl."

Swift Doe grabbed a clay bowl, and Soft Answer ladled a helping of maize stew from the pot.  You look like you are three valleys away.

That’s how I feel.  I think I had a dream last night.

Of what?

That’s just it.  I can’t remember.  It’s like having a word on the tip of your tongue, only it’s a memory on the tip of my mind.  I dreamed something, I’m sure of it.  Swift Doe sat on the packed ground, her willowy legs folded easily under her.

Well, think of something else.  That’s what I do.  When I look away, the memory often sneaks back in.

Swift Doe flashed a smile.  It’s worth a try.  What are you going to do today?

"Don’t you mean, what are we going to do today?"

Swift Doe rolled her eyes.

The maize, remember? Soft Answer said.  If we don’t get those seeds planted, we won’t have anything to eat come winter.  What will the village think if the chief’s family goes hungry?

Swift Doe gazed into the distance.

Soft Answer sighed. 

I’m sorry. Swift Doe blinked. I just can’t get this off my mind.  Swift Doe lifted her hair away from her neck for a moment to allow her skin to cool.  Could this be a vision?

Soft Answer held up her hands, palms out.  I’ve never heard of a woman receiving a vision from the spirits.   Weather Maker, or one of other men of the council, usually has visions.  What would the tribal elders say? Especially coming from a girl of only fourteen winters.

They’d have to accept it, if it truly came from the spirit world.

Indeed they would.  But you would have to convince them it really is a vision.

Swift Doe’s shoulders slumped.  And to do that, I’d have to remember it.  I don’t know what to do.

Neither do I, child.  The older woman scratched her cheek and gazed toward the sky, as if seeking an answer in the clouds.  Perhaps your father could suggest something.

That’s a good idea.  Swift Doe leaped to her feet.

Wait!  We still have to plant the maize.  Soft Answer chuckled at her daughter’s stricken look.  The day is young.  Besides, your father will be busy all morning with tribal business.  We’ll talk with him this afternoon.

Let’s get started.

Soft Answer used a piece of curved bark to scoop a hot ember from the fire into a hollow gourd.  Very well, let’s go.

They walked beyond the village’s palisaded walls to an open field covered with soft grass and broken remnants of maize stalks from last year’s crop, located near the Sequatonchee River, where the ground was most fertile.  A small shelter rose high above the ground on stilts in the center of the field. 

Swift Doe!  There you are!  I thought you’d be here already.  A young girl ran from the field toward her.

"Halito, Little Dove.  Hello.  Swift Doe smiled.  I didn’t think you’d be in such a hurry to go to work."

Little Dove made a face.  In a hurry to finish, maybe.  But if I have to work, it’s better to do it with a friend.

Swift Doe was only a couple of moons younger than Little Dove.  While Swift Doe’s body was lean and slender, Little Dove’s body had grown soft and promised the approaching curves of womanhood.  The time drew near when both young women would marry.

Soft Answer clapped her hands.  Let’s get started.  Father Sun won’t wait all day for us.  She moved to stand in the center of the field.  Swift Doe, Little Dove and a dozen other women of varying ages formed a circle about her.  Soft Answer held a shallow bowl filled with scented oil.  With the ember from her breakfast fire, she lit a straw taper, which she then used to light a wick floating in the oil.

She closed her eyes and lifted her face toward the sky, raising the bowl above her head.  "I ask the guardians of the four corners of the Earth to watch over and protect this field and the maize planted in it.  I ask Ababinili, the Father Creator, to bless this field and allow the crop to flourish."

She faced west.  I ask the guardians of the four corners of the Earth to watch over and protect this field and the maize planted in it.   I ask the Spirit of He Who Lives in Clear Skies to blow softly and to not send twisting storms of destruction and to allow the crop to flourish.

She repeated the process facing south and east, calling on the spirits of Clear Skies and Sun.  Facing north, she said, Spirit of Clouds, smile upon the field and the maize planted in it.  Withhold your frosty breath. Send your warmth to bring forth plentiful grain.  Mother Earth, send soft, gentle rains to nourish the crop and help it grow strong and high.

Soft Answer lowered the bowl and blew out the flame.  She smiled at the women who encircled her.  Now, let’s begin.

The women formed groups of three.  Soft Answer, Swift Doe, and Little Dove worked together.  Soft Answer took a pole that was as long as she was tall, with a flat stone blade attached to one end.  Strong Bow, the tribe’s flintknapper, had shaped the stone by chipping away pieces of chert to make an edge.  Then he honed it by polishing it with a rough stone.  The brittle quality that made the stone workable as a raw material for tools also made it fragile.  Soft Answer wielded the hoe carefully.  She chopped sprigs of grass away from the soil.  She then dug a shallow hole about the length of her hand from fingertip to wrist.

Swift Doe knelt, holding a bowl filled with chopped fish.  She scooped a small amount of fish into the opening.  Then she pushed the dirt back into the hole and inserted her forefinger in the middle of the soft earth. 

Swift Doe also carried a leather pouch filled with maize seed.  She dropped a seed into the finger hole and smoothed the earth over it.  The chopped fish would rot quickly and fertilize the maize kernel as it sprouted and grew.

Little Dove took a water pouch made from the stomach of a bear down to the river and filled it.  Then she splashed a generous amount of water on each planting. 

The work was hard under the hot sun.  Swift Doe and Little Dove swapped tasks often, leaving the easier work for the older Soft Answer.  Before long their bodies glistened with sweat.

Little Dove poked Swift Doe in the shoulder.  Look!

Swift Doe followed her gaze.  Stalking Bear came out of the forest and trudged along the edge of the field.  He pulled a travois laden with a freshly killed deer.

Little Dove’s eyes sparkled.  Isn’t he handsome?

Swift Doe smiled.  Got your eye on him, have you?  I’ll bet it’s no accident that he chose to walk by this field, where all the women could see the great hunter bring in another kill.

What’s wrong with showing off a little?  Besides, it’s not bragging if it’s true.

Swift Doe lifted an eyebrow.  Oh, yes it is.

Well, I still think he’s handsome, grumped Little Dove.

When they finished planting the maize, Soft Answer and the two girls wiped the sweat from their bodies with their doeskin shawls.  All the women marched around the perimeter of the field dragging their sweat-soaked clothing along the ground.  The strong human scent would discourage four-legged animals—deer, squirrels, and raccoons—from digging up the maize before it could sprout.

The village children who were eight to twelve winters old would occupy the stilted tower in the center of the field to stand watches in shifts, armed with slings and round stones, driving away any birds which might also try to steal the planted seeds

Once the trek around the field was complete, Soft Answer turned to Swift Doe.  Come, little girl.  Let’s go talk to your father.

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Chapter 3

Ah Hohche Hushi—The Planting Moon

A rabbit hopped along a narrow path that descended from a low ridge to the clear stream in the glade below. Spring’s arrival had brought flourishing greenery to the honeysuckle and azalea bushes bordering the route forest animals followed to the water. A canopy of leaves from surrounding oaks shaded the trail and muted the light from the mid-morning sun.  Dead foliage carpeted the forest floor and scented the air with a musty aroma.  The rabbit stopped. Its nose twitched as it sniffed the air, searching for the spoor of any predators.  It seemed about to resume its journey, when a bush off to the right scratched its nose.  In a blur, the rabbit pivoted and bolted into the woods on the opposite side of the path.

Thunder Turtle, kneeling between two azaleas, allowed himself a small frown.  His face and bare torso were covered in brown mud and a green paint made from the juice of crushed leaves, and he had strapped leafy branches to his loincloth and his topknot of hair.  Green vines encircled the limbs of the hunting bow in his left hand.  Any animal or man who scanned the bank of brush in which he hid would see nothing unusual, unless he moved.

Scratching his nose had been an inexcusable breach of discipline.  He hoped for larger game, so losing the rabbit wasn’t the problem.  Failing to maintain his camouflaged position could be more harmful than just losing a meal.  If he were in a war party, it could cost his life or the life of a fellow brave.  He certainly wouldn’t gain any favor among the more experienced warriors with behavior like this.  When he returned to the village, he would have to practice holding an immobile position while his friend Fierce Hawk dropped ants on his body.

That would be later.  Right now he must recover his composure and hope for a chance at larger prey.

After a while, Thunder Turtle got his wish.  Something brown moved in from his left.  He focused on being invisible and on keeping his breath slow and smooth.  A deer walked slowly along the path.

No antlers.  Doe.  Just a little longer, Thunder Turtle thought, and she’ll be past me.  Then I’ll be out of her line of vision. The doe stepped farther down the path.  She looked to her left, and Thunder Turtle knew he was safe.  In one swift motion, he drew and sighted his bow, bringing the nock of the arrow to the corner of his mouth.

The doe’s white tail flew up.  The muscles in the deer’s legs flexed. Thunder Turtle shifted his aim to a point just ahead of the deer and released the arrow. The deer leaped forward—and upward.  Thunder Turtle’s heart sank as his arrow flew under the deer’s white belly, so close it clipped a tuft of hair.  In two more leaps, the deer cleared the creek and disappeared into the forest.

The young brave wiped his brow, his efforts to remain camouflaged forgotten. What had gone wrong?  The deer couldn’t have seen him.  She was looking the other way.  He had been silent, hadn’t he?  He snatched a clump of grass from the ground and flipped it into the air.  As the torn blades floated down, they also drifted forward.  Ah!  The wind had shifted.  The deer had caught his scent. There wasn’t much he could do about that.  Nevertheless, he would have to return to the village empty-handed.  Again.

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Chapter 4

Ah Hohche Hushi—The Planting Moon

We can’t allow this to continue, Stalking Bear said, his muscular frame taut as a bowstring.  Even in springtime the days grew warm early, and the young man’s body glistened with a sheen of perspiration, as if he had been slathered in bear oil.  I returned this morning from a hunting trip along our southern border.  I saw Choctaw sign.

Chula Mingo, chief warrior of the Chickasaw village of Chicaca, studied the young brave.   What do you suggest?

The Choctaw have intruded into our land many times over the past moons.  If we don’t stop them, they will claim the territory as their own.  We’ve got to send a raiding party to hit one of their villages located near the border.  Burn it down.  That will deliver the message that we won’t be treated with disrespect.

Chula Mingo tamped tobacco into his pipe and lit it using an ember from the fire before him.  Maintaining a fire, even in warm weather, was necessary for cooking and for ceremony, and for smoking tobacco. He sat on a deerskin blanket in front of the tribal meeting lodge, the largest structure in Chicaca.  During warm weather he sat in this spot each morning, available to discuss the concerns of the villagers, like Stalking Bear’s problem.   The lodge was a long, wide gabled structure made of timbers and with a thatched roof, built on a raised mound in the center of the village. From this vantage point, he could see much of the village.  The compounds of the families spiraled out from the mound, interspersed among shade trees and walking paths. A palisaded wall encircled the village on three sides, with the Sequatonchee River on the fourth.  Below him, Jaybird brushed a hide of recently tanned buckskin.  Fine hair and dust raised by the brushing swarmed around her like a cloud of tiny insects.  The breeze carried a whiff of newly tanned leather.  Just beyond her, Strong Bow squatted, hunched over.  His back and shoulders flexed as his body swayed in a steady rhythm.   Sharpening an arrowhead, Chula Mingo realized.

Stalking Bear shifted his weight, signaling his impatience.  The chief exhaled a cloud of smoke.  And what do we do when the Choctaw retaliate?

Stalking Bear snorted.  We return the favor!

That is how wars begin, Stalking Bear.

I don’t fear war.

"Of course you don’t.  How old are you, eighteen