People of the Silence (38 page)

Dune sucked in a breath and walked to the ladder that led down into the firelit chamber. Inside, he could see three people: Creeper, the short fat elder of the Buffalo Clan; the woman who had brashly wakened Dune from a sound sleep; and a prostrate old man. The old man lay on his back beneath a ragged tan blanket bordered with yellow and red designs. Dune put a foot on the ladder and descended. Sweet sage smoke bathed him.

“Oh, Blessed Elder, thank you for coming,” Creeper said, and waited anxiously while Dune climbed down.

“May I help you, Elder?” the kneeling woman asked.

“No. I’m fine. It just takes me some time.”

As slender as a willow pole, with delicate bones, the woman had a face like a chipmunk, with bright shining brown eyes and fat cheeks. Short black hair hung to her chin. Dune had seen her around Talon Town for many summers, but didn’t know her name. She looked to have seen around thirty to thirty-five summers, and the hissing tones of the Tower Builders’ language seeped into her words.

Creeper stood and took Dune’s arm to help him step to the floor. “Are you well, Elder?”

“As well as can be expected at my age, Creeper. And you?”

“Well enough. Thank you.”

The small fire in the middle of the floor smoked badly. Sage burned hot and fast, the leaves igniting in a wild blaze, then gobbling the wood. A thick bed of red coals remained. Sporadic tongues of flame licked up, flashing light over the soot-streaked white walls. Two brown blankets lay rolled on the south side of the circular chamber. Beside them sat a few possessions: a long-necked black water jug, two plain clay pots, one filled with yellow cornmeal, the other with red-spotted beans, a basket filled with roasted squash seeds, and one speckled grouse egg in a small bowl.

At the sight of the egg, Dune’s lips pulled in over his toothless gums.
So
 …

Creeper gestured to the woman, and said, “Elder, this is Mourning Dove. She is one of the Blessed Sun’s slaves.”

Dune nodded to her and gazed at the old man on the floor. “And who is this?”

“He is Lark.”

Dune knelt by the gray-haired man and studied his skeletal face. Sweat beaded his long hooked nose and ran down his wrinkled throat. Gently, Dune pulled down the blanket to examine the man’s chest. He could count Lark’s ribs. “How long has he been ill?”

Mourning Dove knelt on the opposite side, her eyes tense with worry. “This morning. He … he fell down in the plaza and could not rise again. We—Creeper and I—carried him here. Lark is so light, it was easy.”

Creeper knelt beside Mourning Dove and added, “Before his soul started to waver, Lark told us he had been witched. We didn’t know what to do. We thought perhaps you, being a great holy man, might—”

“Of course I’ll care for him.” Dune’s bushy white brows lowered. “But why would a witch harm Lark? Witches are clever; they select their victims with great care. What could Lark have done to anger a witch?”

Mourning Dove and Creeper looked at each other, then lowered their eyes. Creeper picked at the spatters of mud on his moccasins, as if suddenly embarrassed. Mourning Dove tenderly pulled the blanket back up to keep Lark’s chest warm. “He…” Her voice had gone hoarse. “Lark belongs to Snake Head, Elder.”

“So?”

Creeper nervously creased his black shirt with his fingernails. “It’s all right, Mourning Dove. Tell him.”

Mourning Dove nodded, but when she lifted her gaze to Dune, he saw sheer terror there.

“You may trust me, Mourning Dove,” Dune promised. “I’ll never repeat what you say to me.”

“Creeper told me that you would use your powers to protect me, but I…” Mourning Dove glanced up at the hole in the roof, assuring no one stood there, then she leaned closer to Dune and whispered, “Snake Head left last night before sunset. He took his blanket and a big pack with him.”

Dune frowned. “Perhaps he needed time to be alone after his father’s death.”

Mourning Dove shook her head. “No, Elder. Lark saw him, down by the wash. Snake Head was talking to another man. He gave the man that big pack, and—”

“And when Snake Head returned to Talon Town,” Creeper broke in, obviously longing to tell the story himself, “he saw Lark hurrying across the plaza, and must have suspected he had been seen.”

“How do you know? Did he call to Lark? Did he question him?”

“No,” Mourning Dove replied, “but Lark said that Sternlight stepped out onto the roof of his fourth-story chambers and lifted a hand to Snake Head, and Lark felt a sudden sharp pain at the back of his throat. Lark feared that Snake Head had commanded Sternlight to shoot a witch pill into his mouth. Then today, when he fell in the plaza and could not rise…”

“You believed it, too,” Dune finished for her. He nodded to himself. Sternlight seemed so strange and forbidding to the slaves that they feared him more than the gods themselves. For many summers Dune had fought to dispel the rumors of Sternlight being a witch, but his efforts seemed to inflame the situation, so he’d stopped. “Well, let us help Lark. We will worry about Snake Head later. Bring me the egg, please.”

Mourning Dove hurried to obey. Very carefully, she picked up the egg and the bowl and carried them to Dune. He set them on the floor at his side.

Creeper hunched forward like a bear preparing to leap. Red mottled his cheeks. “Holy Derelict, Lark is a friend to me, and has been for twenty sun cycles. Please, I know he is only a slave, but he is a good and loyal man. I—”

“I will do my best, Creeper. Now, please, be silent. I have duties to perform.”

“Yes, I—I’m sorry.” Creeper sat back on his heels and folded his hands in his lap.

Mourning Dove knelt beside Creeper—close beside. It did not require keen eyesight to see their attachment to each other, and Dune wondered at that. Though many of the Made People coupled with slaves, it was considered unseemly for clan leaders to do so. Well … it mattered little to him.

Dune picked up the egg and held it in his hands a moment to warm it, then pulled Lark’s blanket down to his waist. As he rubbed the egg over the old man’s stomach, he Sang:

Arise! Awake!

Look beyond the knotted road,

to the Straight Path,

Look beyond the tangle,

Make it straight, straight, straight,

Follow the Straight Path,

Arise! Awake!

Lark moaned. His arms moved weakly.

Creeper leaned over his friend and gently murmured, “It’s all right, Lark. The holy Derelict is here. He is cleansing you.”

The words seemed to soothe Lark. His arms fell to his sides again and he heaved a satisfied sigh.

Dune took the egg, cracked it on the floor, and poured it into the clay bowl. The purity of the egg would draw the witch’s evil—if there was any—from Lark’s body. He set the bowl above Lark’s head.

“Someone must stay with him,” Dune said. “When an eye appears in the egg, he will be Healed, but he may spit up the pill that was shot into his mouth. If so, keep it. Witches often mark their tools. We may be able to identify the witch from it.”

Creeper nodded and patted Mourning Dove’s hand. “Mourning Dove will stay through the night, and I’ll watch over Lark tomorrow.”

“Good.” Dune’s knees crackled as he got to his feet. “I’m going back to my blankets. Let me know if you need me again.”

Creeper gazed up gratefully. “Thank you, holy Derelict. I will.”

Dune climbed the ladder step by step, and walked to the edge of the roof, watching the twinkling Evening People. Spider Woman had just stuck one spindly leg over the dark canyon rim, crawling her way across the sky after Father Sun. Dune exhaled, and his breath fogged before him.

His gaze drifted over the white walls of the town and down to the wash, a black zigzagging line. Dune’s eyes narrowed.

Why would Snake Head, the Blessed Sun of Talon Town, meet with anyone in secret?

“Because he’s doing something his people won’t approve of,” Dune murmured to himself. “Probably selling out the Straight Path nation to the highest bidder.”

What had the big pack contained? Bribery? Payment for services?

Dune climbed down the ladder and hobbled across the plaza, his brow furrowed, wondering.

*   *   *

Poor Singer stood on top of the mesa, facing west. Afternoon clouds, like tufts of cattail down, hovered over the sunlit canyon. Their bellies glowed bright yellow, as if the gods had dipped each one in a strong lichen dye. He smiled. Not a breath of wind stirred. The skeleton of the land lay exposed. Red, gold, and white bones stretched in every direction, broken by slithers of drainages, speckled with pale green brush and dark green trees.

Far away in the southwest, the Thlatsina Mountains floated above the desert. Poor Singer could imagine them in his soul’s eye. The Ancestor Spirits must be joyous. They huddled around the peaks in the form of clouds, conversing with the gods, advising them on the curious ways of humans. Shining blankets of rain slanted down.

Mountains served as the ribs of the universe. On their journey through the underworlds, the First People collected seeds from the mountains they saw. When the First People emerged into this Fifth World, they planted those seeds in the exact positions they had occupied in Our Mother Earth’s womb, knowing that the roots of these mountains would sink deep and touch the peaks below.

The thlatsinas had done the same thing, except in the sky-worlds. They had collected seeds from the mountains on this Fifth World and replanted them in the clouds.

Sometimes, when the light was just right, humans could see the sky mountains. They looked like sculpted sunlight.

Poor Singer spread his arms, letting the sun beat life into him, offering his naked body to the beauty. A strange lightheaded euphoria had possessed him. As if his flesh had awakened from a long slumber, he felt tender and vulnerable, like a new shoot of corn that had just pushed up through the soil.

An ancient juniper tree clung to the rock beside him, growing out of the red sandstone. Its limbs twisted and curled, and long roots stretched out over the bare rock like ropes, running for five or six body-lengths, but each had managed to find for itself a tiny depression where windblown dirt and water collected. Poor Singer marveled. Every moment of its life, this tree had fought for survival. The sight brought tears to his eyes.

He thought of old Black Mesa. One spring, many summers ago, he had been helping Black Mesa in his garden. While Black Mesa weeded, Poor Singer carried pots of water for the young plants.

Black Mesa had watched him for a time, then sat back in the dirt and said, “Don’t water so much, boy. These plants are like people, they need to be a little scared.”

“They need to be scared?”

Black Mesa had nodded. “If the seedlings aren’t scared, they won’t sink their roots deeply into Mother Earth. Then when the droughts come they’ll blow away without a fight. If you want to save them, don’t make their lives easy, force them to prepare for the worst.” He’d nudged Poor Singer with his elbow. “Hurting makes everybody stronger.”

Poor Singer reached out and gently stroked one of the gnarled juniper limbs, full of respect for all the hurts this old tree had endured.

Poor Singer’s life had been easy. His mother had loved him very much. Granted, he’d been a lonely little boy, but even then, adults had praised and petted him. He had always had enough to eat and been warm through the long winters. He admitted now that he had no real understanding of suffering.

And it worried him, because he suspected he should. Every great Singer he had known had suffered terribly.

In the back of his soul, he could hear Dune shouting,
Great, great, great!
and squelched the thought.

Two hawks circled lazily out beyond the rim of the mesa. He watched them climb into the blue vault of sky and smiled. Sweat beaded on his hooked nose and soaked the black hair that clung to his narrow face. The thlatsinas played, one day sending freezing weather, and the next blazing sunlight.

He shifted the pebble in his mouth to his other cheek. He’d been carrying this stone under his tongue for two days, but it still tasted sweetly earthy.

Poor Singer turned his attention from the lazy dances of the hawks and ambled along the cliff’s edge, searching. Since he had managed, as Dune had instructed, to keep his “tongue from waggling,” he thought that today he would practice being a bug.

But which one? Did it matter? On warm days like this many appeared out of nowhere—and their presence proved a grave torment. He had an almost uncontrollable urge to slap each one and feel it crunch between his teeth. Probably because he hadn’t eaten in six, or was it seven, days?

He’d lost track of time. The eternity of the desert had swallowed him up, and he …

A beetle!

The black bug crept along a jagged crack in the sandstone, plodding over nests of grass and old juniper needles, its bulbous body gleaming in the afternoon light.

Poor Singer contemplated the beetle, then put his hands on the stone, spread his legs wide, and began a beetle-walk, his hind end high in the air, while his hands delicately probed the way and his body swung from side to side.

When the beetle stopped to touch a gray pine cone with its threadlike arm, Poor Singer reached out and smoothed his fingers over the closest cone he could find, one gnawed down to its fibrous heart. The chipmunks had stripped the cone, leaving a slender cob covered with a haze of glistening hairs. The softness amazed him.

The beetle crawled around the cone and into a pile of dried juniper berries. Its tiny mouth worked.

Poor Singer scrutinized the shriveled berries, picked one up, and tasted it. A vaguely sweet, moldy flavor coated his mouth. His face puckered. He put the berry back in the crack.

The beetle continued on its way, apparently unconcerned that Poor Singer mimicked its movements. The warm stone felt gritty beneath his palms. Dust filled his nostrils. As more and more blood ran to his head, he feared his face might explode. But he stuck to his task, seeking to learn, sense, and feel the world as beetle did.