Before the Fires Went Out - Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

THE RIVER RETURNS WRONG

The river had withdrawn too early.

Makwa-itha stood near the edge of the eastern embankment where the packed earth sloped gradually toward the broad floodplain below the city. The morning air carried the smell of wet mud and reeds left too long beneath a hard sun. Farther out, beyond the last lines of standing water, long ribbons of exposed earth twisted through the basin where the Mississippi should still have spread wide and slow beneath the late summer heat.

The flood had come hard in the spring.

Too hard.

The water had climbed quickly against the lower fields, swallowing fishing camps and drowning sections of the eastern maize rows before retreating almost as fast as it arrived. The river usually lingered after flooding, feeding the black soil and leaving shallow channels where fish gathered thick enough for boys to spear them by torchlight after dusk.

This year the channels had become stagnant pools.

A fisherman from the southern marshes had brought word three days earlier that dead gar drifted belly-up near the reeds downstream. Another claimed turtles abandoned one of the backwater channels entirely. Neither man spoke loudly when giving his report. The river was not discussed carelessly. Too much of the city depended upon its moods.

Below the embankment, laborers moved steadily across the floodplain carrying woven baskets of clay and soil toward a low rise where repair work continued on an older mound platform damaged by rain runoff during the spring storms. Hundreds worked there already despite the heat. Women carried water jars from nearby wells. Young boys hauled bundles of reed matting toward the construction crews while supervisors watched from shaded positions beneath temporary awnings.

The city continued its movements.

That mattered.

As long as the city moved according to its proper rhythms, fear could still be contained.

Makwa-itha watched the workers for a long moment before turning back toward the great central plaza. Morning light had begun reaching the upper slopes of Monks Mound, though most of its western face still rested in shadow. The mound rose above the city like another piece of earth lifted by human hands into unnatural shape. Its broad terraces and packed-clay stairways caught the early light differently each season, and Makwa-itha had spent enough years observing them to know when the sun no longer touched them correctly.

This morning the shadows looked longer.

Perhaps only slightly.

But he noticed.

Two attendants waited several paces behind him near the path leading upward toward the ceremonial district. Neither spoke while he studied the river. Both men held themselves carefully still in the presence of silence. They had learned long ago that questions asked too quickly usually received no answer.

Finally Makwa-itha began walking back toward the city.

The packed-earth roads crossing the central precinct were already filling with movement. Traders from smaller settlements along the river margins had arrived during the night and now unpacked bundles beneath long market shelters bordering the plaza. Shell beads from the southern waters lay beside copper ornaments hammered thin enough to catch sunlight like fire. Potters arranged black and red vessels carefully upon woven mats while women from nearby villages traded dried squash and smoked fish for stone blades brought from distant quarry lands north of the river.

Children ran between the shelters carrying reeds or chasing one another through the dust until older relatives called them back sharply.

The city sounded alive.

But beneath the movement another feeling lingered quietly at the edges of everything.

People watched the river more often now.

Makwa-itha noticed where their eyes drifted when conversation slowed.

Ahead, the broad stairway climbing Monks Mound filled slowly with priests, attendants, and labor supervisors moving toward the upper ceremonial structures. Smoke from the sacred fires drifted low across the summit before being pulled westward by a dry wind moving in from the plains beyond the river.

That wind had come earlier this year as well.

Near the base of the stairway, an older priest waited beside several younger observers carrying carved measuring rods wrapped in deer hide. His name was Páhki. He had overseen seasonal calculations since before Makwa-itha inherited his father’s position among the ruling clans.

“The observers are prepared,” Páhki said quietly.

Makwa-itha nodded once.

“The sky is clear.”

“For now.”

The older man glanced briefly eastward.

Neither said more.

They climbed together.

The upper summit of the mound held several large timber structures surrounding the sacred fire enclosure. Beyond them, the city stretched outward in every direction. Smoke rose from thousands of hearths. Smaller mound platforms broke the landscape like islands rising from an endless sea of houses, storage buildings, workshops, gardens, and roads. Farther outward stood the great palisade walls encircling the central district with sharpened timber posts packed tightly enough to form a defensive barrier taller than two men.

Beyond the walls the city continued still farther.

Cahokia did not end where the palisade stood.

The settlements surrounding the ceremonial center spread outward across the floodplain and nearby ridges for distances a man could walk half a day before reaching the outermost fields. Visitors arriving by river often mistook the city for several cities grown together across generations until no clear boundary remained between them.

Makwa-itha had once believed the city endless.

As a child he had stood atop this same mound beside his father and watched the smoke rising from the morning hearths until the horizon itself seemed inhabited.

Now he knew how quickly emptiness could begin.

The procession toward Woodhenge formed shortly after sunrise.

The great timber circle stood west of the main plaza beyond several smaller mound groups. Its cedar posts rose from the earth in carefully measured positions tied to the movement of the sun throughout the seasons. Observers maintained the alignments constantly. Ceremonies depended upon them. Planting cycles depended upon them. The city itself depended upon them.

If the sky ceased moving properly above Cahokia, order beneath it could not remain stable long.

By the time they reached the circle, mist still clung low over portions of the western field though the morning had already grown warm. Younger attendants moved carefully between the posts preparing sight lines for the sunrise observation while older priests watched in silence.

Makwa-itha took his place near the central observation point.

The eastern horizon glowed pale orange beyond the distant river haze.

One of the younger observers lifted his measuring rod and aligned it carefully between two marked posts.

He frowned slightly.

Adjusted.

Looked again.

Páhki noticed immediately.

“What is wrong?”

The younger man hesitated.

“The marker stands correctly.”

“That was not my question.”

The observer swallowed.

“The sun rises too far north.”

Another priest stepped forward sharply.

“You measured poorly.”

“No,” the younger man said. “We checked twice before dawn.”

The older priest seized the rod from him and crouched beside the observation line himself. Several long moments passed while the first edge of the sun rose slowly through the haze.

No one spoke.

Makwa-itha watched the older man’s shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly.

The alignment was wrong.

Only slightly.

But enough.

The older priest stood carefully.

“The western marker shifted during the rains.”

The younger observer lowered his eyes but did not answer.

Makwa-itha studied the horizon beyond the circle. The sun continued climbing through thin haze drifting upward from the river basin. Birds moved low across the reeds in scattered groups instead of larger formations. Even the air felt uncertain.

Behind him the priests began discussing measurements quietly among themselves.

Too quietly.

He turned and walked from the circle before the conversation deepened.

The city had already begun the day’s labor in full by the time he returned to the central plaza. Workers crossed the packed earth carrying baskets of clay toward repair sites while runners moved messages between districts. Traders called out prices beneath the market shelters. Near one of the southern roads, several young men practiced with chunkey stones while elders watched from shaded positions nearby.

Normal movement.

Necessary movement.

Cities survived fear only while routine remained stronger than rumor.

Makwa-itha crossed the plaza toward the council structures near the eastern side of the mound. Before he reached them, one of the gate attendants approached and lowered his head respectfully.

“Men from Kaskaskia wait below.”

Makwa-itha slowed.

“How many?”

“Six.”

“Armed?”

“Hunting spears only.”

He nodded once.

“Bring them.”

The delegation entered the council shelter several moments later carrying tribute baskets covered with woven reed lids. Their spokesman was a broad-shouldered farmer named Toma whose village lay south along one of the river channels feeding the lower fields.

Makwa-itha recognized him immediately.

Toma had visited the city many times over the years.

Today he looked thinner.

Not starving.

But diminished.

The baskets were placed carefully upon the packed floor matting.

Too few.

Makwa-itha counted them without appearing to count.

Toma noticed anyway.

“The flood damaged several lower fields,” the man said before anyone questioned him. “The water remained longer there.”

Makwa-itha studied him quietly.

“The river withdrew quickly.”

“In some places.”

The answer settled heavily inside the shelter.

One of the younger attendants shifted slightly beside the wall.

Makwa-itha crouched beside the nearest basket and lifted the lid. Dried maize filled the bottom nearly to the rim, though he noticed immediately how tightly packed the kernels had been arranged to disguise the reduced amount.

Not empty.

But measured carefully.

“We sent what we could spare,” Toma said.

Makwa-itha replaced the lid gently.

Behind the spokesman, the other men stood silent with lowered eyes. Dust clung thickly to their legs from the road. One carried a healing cut across his forearm wrapped in bark cloth stained dark from old blood.

“You had trouble on the journey?” Makwa-itha asked.

Toma hesitated before answering.

“Some fields north of us stand abandoned.”

“Flooded?”

“No.”

The man glanced briefly toward the shelter entrance before continuing.

“The people left.”

Silence followed.

Makwa-itha waited.

“Where did they go?”

“We do not know.”

One of the older attendants near the rear wall shifted uneasily.

Abandoned fields were dangerous.

Not because fields could not fail.

Fields failed often enough.

But people who left productive land without visible cause carried fear with them wherever they traveled afterward.

Makwa-itha rose slowly.

“The city remembers those who honor their obligations,” he said.

Toma lowered his head.

“We remember the city.”

The words sounded correct.

But something beneath them no longer did.

After the delegation departed, Makwa-itha remained inside the shelter while afternoon heat settled heavily over the city. Outside, movement continued through the plaza as always. Labor crews rotated positions near the mound works. Traders negotiated beneath shaded awnings. Smoke drifted from cooking fires throughout the districts surrounding the ceremonial center.

Yet the feeling from Woodhenge remained with him.

The alignment had been wrong.

Not dramatically.

Not enough to frighten ordinary people.

But enough to linger.

Enough for priests to remember.

Late in the afternoon he climbed the western terrace of Monks Mound alone. From there he could see beyond the palisade toward the outer settlements stretching into the distance across the floodplain. Thin smoke rose from hundreds of hearths beneath the lowering sun.

Farther east the river reflected dull bronze light through exposed mud channels that should still have been underwater.

A flock of birds crossed above the reeds suddenly, then turned sharply back south as if unwilling to continue farther north.

Makwa-itha watched until they vanished.

Below him the city continued preparing for evening.

Drums from one of the ceremonial districts began sounding slowly across the plaza while women carried water jars toward communal fires. Shadows lengthened across the packed earth roads between the mounds. Children disappeared gradually into the clustered neighborhoods beyond the central district while labor crews stacked tools beside unfinished repair works before darkness settled fully.

The city moved toward night.

When he was young, nightfall in Cahokia had sounded different.

He could not explain precisely how.

Only that the city once seemed more certain of itself after dark. Fires burned with steadier purpose. Songs carried farther across the plazas. People moved with less caution beneath the shadows between the mounds.

Now silence gathered more quickly.

By full dark the sacred fires atop Monks Mound burned bright against the surrounding blackness. Their smoke drifted westward beneath a moon not yet fully risen. Most of the city had settled into sleep, though scattered movement continued near the market shelters where travelers and laborers still gathered around smaller hearths.

Makwa-itha descended slowly into the central plaza alone.

The packed earth still held warmth from the day. Above him the massive slope of the mound rose dark against the stars while the upper fires flickered along its summit terraces.

He walked without hurry across the open center of the plaza.

Somewhere beyond the palisade a dog barked once and fell silent.

Then he heard the drums.

Faint.

Irregular.

Farther south beyond the residential districts near the outer wall.

Makwa-itha stopped walking.

No ceremony had been ordered there tonight.

The drums continued softly through the darkness, uneven and uncertain, carrying across the sleeping city in broken intervals before fading again beneath the wind.

He listened for a long moment beneath the shadow of the mound.

And standing there in the center of Cahokia, with thousands sleeping around him and the sacred fires burning overhead, Makwa-itha realized the city no longer sounded the way it had when he was young.