People of the Silence (25 page)

“You
told
me,” he mocked. “Yes, you did. But I know better. You were with one of my warriors!”

She stalked across the room, eyes blazing. “Crow Beard, what is wrong with you? You’ve been acting like a madman for moons! Accusing me of betraying you, slapping your daughter for no reason—”

“When I ought to have slapped you!” he shouted, and shook both fists in her face.

Night Sun took a step back. He wouldn’t dare. As Matron of Talon Town, she could divorce him and leave him with nothing. “You have no right, my husband, to disgrace me by making such charges. You are the only man I’ve ever been with. The only man I ever wish to—”

“Don’t lie to me!”
Crow Beard grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her until she thought her neck might snap.

“Stop! Crow Beard, stop!
Stop it!
” she yelled. When he didn’t, Night Sun drew back and slapped him with all the strength she could muster.

He gasped, startled, and gazed down at her—eyes wild with struggle and despair. “I’ll kill you before I’ll let someone else have you! Do you understand me?
I’ll kill you!
”

Frightened, exasperated, Night Sun had run from the chamber, hurrying down the ladders, then across the western plaza and out into the moonlit desert. She followed the curve of the towering canyon wall eastward toward Kettle Town. Sister Moon hung directly overhead, wavering through wispy clouds like an oblate silver shell. Her gleam tarnished the massive cliffs, glittered off the corn plants lifting their first leaves, and lit Night Sun’s way as she strode down the road.

Despite the time, dozens of fires sprinkled the canyon bottom, twinkling and flashing as the wind blew.

Night Sun hugged herself. She should have grabbed her cape. The spring chill ate at her flesh.

This nonsense had begun last summer. Crow Beard had suddenly started following her, showing up unexpectedly at Healings, or birthings, staying just long enough to assure himself she was indeed where she’d told him she would be. When she returned to their chamber later, he’d be lying with his back to her, and no matter how she tried to soothe him, he refused to discuss it.

And she’d noticed other things. His hair had started to thin. Every time she cleaned his juniper-bark hairbrush, black strands came out in handfuls. Worse, he’d told her he could no longer “be” with her beneath the blankets. Night Sun assumed he must be going through the Calming that men experienced at his age; he might wobble for a time, but would soon find his footing again, and everything would be all right. If she just pampered and petted him, all would be well.

But he seemed to be getting worse.

She’d seen him trifling with the slave girls, touching them intimately … and said nothing.

Night Sun broke into a run, her yucca sandals padding down the moonlit trail as breath tore in and out of her lungs. Windblown gravel grated beneath her feet. “Blessed sky gods,” she called in a choking voice, “tell me how to make it better! There must be a way to fix this!”

She thought she heard faint footfalls behind her, but saw only wind in the new corn. A coyote howled on the canyon rim high above her, and she looked up. Twinkling Evening People peered down at her.

Night Sun ran faster, trying to drive the misery from her soul. When she reached Kettle Town, the colonnade—like huge teeth—seemed to be leering at her. She veered right, taking the trail that led down to Straight Path Wash. Rain had fallen two days ago, and a silver ribbon of water flowed in the bottom of the ravine.

She ran headlong for it. Nothing she did pleased Crow Beard. There had actually been a time last moon when Crow Beard had looked at her with hatred in his eyes. Since that moment, her loneliness had been growing, eating holes in her soul.

A stone thrust up in the middle of the road, but Night Sun didn’t see it until too late. She tripped and toppled into the fresh green grass that lined the way.

“Ah!” she grunted as pain lanced her ankle.

Moccasins sounded on the path, and she saw a tall man running toward her. “Blessed Night Sun,” he said in a deep voice, “did you harm yourself?”

He knelt in front of her, his eyes looking over her face and body, in concern. It was the new War Chief, Ironwood. She had barely noticed him at the ritual installation a summer ago, but she knew his reputation. He’d led a strange life. He’d married at the age of fourteen summers, but his wife and son had both died in childbirth less than a sun cycle after the ceremony. In his grief, he’d vowed never to touch a woman again. And he’d kept that vow, dedicating himself to the arts of war. He’d become a legendary warrior. People in small villages whispered that Ironwood was really one of the Great Warriors in disguise, come to save the Straight Path people from destruction.

Night Sun smiled. God or not, he was a handsome man. He wore his long hair in a braid, and the style accented the oval shape of his face, the high arch of cheekbones, and the strong line of his jaw.

“It’s my ankle.” She leaned forward to touch it, and groaned. “I twisted it badly, I’m afraid.”

“I’ll carry you home—” He reached for her.

“No, just … please … I wish to sit here for a time. You may return to your duties. I’ll be along as soon as I’m able.”

“But”—his brows slanted down—“Blessed Night Sun, it is not safe for someone of your status to be out alone at night. The Mogollon dogs are raiding. They might be anywhere.”

“Yes, well,” she said in exasperation, “if they kill me tonight, at least I won’t have to go home.”

Ironwood peered at her a moment, then looked away. “May I escort you to another town? A—a more pleasant place?”

He must have overheard her argument with Crow Beard. But then, who hadn’t? As War Chief, Ironwood would have been standing guard on the roof near the entry. Not only must he have heard the argument, he’d doubtless seen her run away … and followed, staying far enough away to grant her privacy, and close enough to help if she unwittingly found danger.

She rubbed her ankle. “No, thank you.”

He sat down in the grass beside her. Apparently, try as she might, he wasn’t going to leave.

Ironwood stared off into the distance, examining the flickering fires and the uneven line of the dark cliffs, gazing anywhere but at her. She saw him wet his lips nervously. He looked a little frightened.

“Scared?” she asked.

“Hmm?” He turned to frown at her.

“I’d be scared if I were you.”

“Would you?”

“Why, yes. You’re in a bad position out here. My husband accuses me of dallying with one of his warriors, and then you wind up in the middle of nowhere with me—alone.”

“But I can’t just leave you out here, Blessed Night Sun. Much better that I stay to protect you than run the risk of having you killed by our enemies.”

“That would reflect badly on you, wouldn’t it?”

A wry eyebrow lifted. “I believe there are some who might hold it against me.”

“But if my husband finds out—”

“People will be Singing about my courage long after I’m dead.”

Night Sun blinked, then she laughed. Ironwood grinned in response, his white teeth shining in the darkness. How good it felt to laugh. She hadn’t really laughed in a long time, not since before this insanity with Crow Beard began. She felt deeply grateful to this young man for a few instants of relief.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Your servant, Matron.”

Night Sun’s smile dwindled. She expelled a worried breath. Though she wished to stay, she knew she’d better not. For
his
sake.

“Well, if you will help me up, I’ll try to walk home.” She struggled to get her feet under her.

Ironwood rose, slipped his hands beneath her arms, and pulled her to her feet. Her injured ankle gave way the moment she put weight on it, and she fell against him with a small cry. He clutched her tightly, holding her up.

Perhaps it was the comforting strength of his arms, or just the feel of another human body against hers, but all of the weariness from the long birthing, mixed with the worry about Crow Beard, flooded to the surface, and she started to cry. She buried her face against his shoulder to hide her embarrassment.

He said nothing, just stroked her back until her weeping subsided. Then he stepped away and laid a gentle hand against her hair, anxiously studying her face. “Are you all right?”

“Of course not,” she said sharply. “I can’t walk!”

“Here,” he said, and turned sideways. “I think if you’ll slip your left arm over my shoulders, I can get you home without too much trouble.”

Night Sun did. He gripped her left hand with his and slowly started forward. On the way, they’d laughed …

“No, Ironwood,”
Sternlight whispered harshly, the sound of his voice cleaving her from those sweet memories.
“Don’t you … witches fly about spying on people! Perhaps … saw something…”

Night Sun drew her warm blankets up around her throat and shivered, struggling to return to seventeen summers before, concentrating on the feel of Ironwood’s body against hers.

Sleep lurked just beyond the edges of her awareness. She let it creep into her thoughts, twining itself around her soul, drowning out the external voices.

Across a gulf of time, Ironwood smiled at her. Happy. Laughing …

Third Day

Misty rain falls.

I lift my face and open my mouth, letting coolness coat my tongue. Gray clouds huddle above me. As sparkles fall from their bellies, they twist in the wind, flash and tumble. Their voices are silken. The fragrance of damp stone and earth encircles me. I was desperately hungry earlier, but now my body seems to float above this shallow wash like a wisp of cloud.

I am not alone anymore.

Over the past two days, I have found a strange world of endless horizon, where silence is the voice of forgiveness. I talk with the plants, and they answer in lilting tones as warm as a buffalo’s undercoat.

“We hunt silence not to know freedom,” Dune once told me, “but to know relatedness. From all living things, something flows into you all the time, and flows from you into them. Silence teaches us our dependence. By doing so, it washes the face of our soul clean, so we can see it better.”

The walkingcane cactus beside me whispers as Wind Baby shakes its blossom-laden arms. I study the delicate purple petals. When raindrops pat their faces, they nod.

And I know what they are saying.

Just as the rain started last night, I had a Dream.

I stood at a walled-up doorway, knocking gently at first, then slamming my fists against the stones, demanding answers, wanting reasons, screaming: “You can’t hide! Let me in! Tell me the truth! Let me in!”

In a deafening roar the wall crashed down, the stones crumbling before my eyes. Dust boiled up, and for a moment I could not see. Then …

I stood stunned, my raised fists trembling.

Because I had been knocking from the inside.

*   *   *

I sit very still.

And look out across the drenched land. Light winks on the surface of each wet pebble. The cliffs below are wavering sheets of silver. Sinuous threads of muddy water shine in the drainages.

I stretch out on the damp stone and open my arms to the weeping heavens. These tears are immaculate. I want them to soak clear to my bones.

Thirteen

Poor Singer straightened and winced. He’d been twisting gnarled sage out of the ground, and the small of his back stabbed him as if yucca leaves had been driven into it. His arms ached, and thirst plagued him. He glanced at Dune. The old holy man lay in the middle of the road, his mouth open in a toothless grin. Wind Baby playfully blew sand over his tan shirt and into his gaping maw. Dune didn’t seem to notice.

Poor Singer wiped the sweat from his forehead and gazed up at the crimson cliff and the large rock painting that hid beneath the jagged rim. The painter must have lowered himself by ropes and hung suspended while he’d created his design. Two Humpbacked Flute Players adorned the wall, one male, the other female. The male had an exceptionally long penis. The female’s blue head nestled beneath a large white spiral. The red paint came from crushed hematite, the white from gypsum, or maybe chalk, and the blue might be dried larkspur petals. Poor Singer smiled. If so, the female flute player would soon be headless—plant pigments didn’t last nearly as long as minerals did.

His gaze moved over the rest of the cliff face, searching for other paintings, then drifted southward.

Weathered sandstone ridges receded into infinity, glowing lavender and purple in the morning light. Gray shadows pooled at the bases. On the distant horizon, an unearthly golden gleam sheathed the spire of rock that Dune called Woodcutter’s Penis.

Poor Singer turned. Far to the west, the Thlatsina Mountains wore a misty crown of clouds. His eyes tightened with longing. Did a glimmering turquoise cave hide in that breathtaking blue?

Fragments of that Dream returned to him every night, and he relived the screams, the angry kicks, the strange woman …

He looked back at Dune. What a slave master the Derelict had turned out to be. He wouldn’t listen to any of Poor Singer’s stories about himself. He’d eaten all the food Poor Singer had brought, apparently without the slightest remorse. He’d ordered Poor Singer to go for days without eating or drinking, while he worked him brutally. Then the old man had smiled and claimed he was attempting to teach Poor Singer how to forget himself.

It was both annoying and amazing.

Only yesterday he’d been telling Dune how many Sings he’d been to, and how much he’d learned from them, and Dune had cocked an eyebrow and pleasantly observed, “It must be difficult to fill yourself up with divine Power, when you’re so full already.”

Poor Singer throttled another sage and twisted it, grunting, until it popped from the ground. He threw it on the huge pile to his left. As he bent for another, he spotted a dust cloud coming up the road from the south. He shielded his eyes against the morning glare.