People of the Silence (43 page)

As his waist-length hair dried, it fluffed into a black halo around his shoulders.

“Silk?” he said. “Can you … I mean, I don’t wish to pry, but can you tell me about your family? Do you wish to?”

Her hand hovered. “What do you wish to know?” She finished the pad and reached for another.

“Did you have brothers and sisters?”

“A brother.”

“What was his name?”

“F-Fledgling. He was my age.”

“You were twins?”

“… Yes.”

Cornsilk’s hands shook. She concentrated on burning off cactus thorns.

“I have heard,” Poor Singer said in a soft voice, “that twins are especially close, that they live in each other’s souls.”

Cornsilk scraped the pulp into the pot. “Fledgling was my best friend.”

“How did he die?”

Grief cut off her air. She struggled to fill her lungs. “I—I can’t speak about that … not yet.”

All night long, she had seen Gnat thrust Fledgling’s head at Webworm. The bloody clouds, the stench of charred pine pitch, the coppery odor of blood … they had been as real last night as on the night they had happened. An icy mixture of hatred and rage chilled her.
Gnat and Webworm. They will be at Talon Town. I will find them.

Poor Singer awkwardly toyed with a lock of his hair. “I’m sorry, Silk. I thought it might help you to talk about them. When I was small, I used to beg my mother to tell me about my father. She would recite story after story, because I needed to hear them.”

Cornsilk laid her knife down. Pulp coated her hands. She spread it over her forearms. It felt luxuriously cool. “What did you say his name was?”

“Sitting-in-the-Sky. He was a great Trader. He used to visit the Hohokam many times a sun cycle.”

“Today, it would be too dangerous. If the Hohokam didn’t strike him down for bringing the wrong Trade goods, the Mogollon would ambush him on the trail and steal everything he carried.”

Poor Singer shoved the lock of hair over his shoulder. “True. No one is safe these days, not even an innocent Trader.”

Cornsilk dipped their cups full of boiling water and looked at the rafters, searching through the dried plants. She saw fans of juniper berries, saltbush seeds, lamb’s quarter and purslane, globe mallow, milk vetch, pigweed, ricegrass, spears of yucca, and several limp sunflowers that had been picked fresh, the stems slipped between the roof poles.

She gently plucked a handful of crumbly sunflower petals and put them in their cups to steep. A savory scent wafted up with the steam. “I don’t see any red dock root. I guess the prickly pear pulp will have to do. Tonight I’ll go hunting again. Before we sleep, I’ll make a grease salve, so your skin won’t feel so tight.”

“I’m sorry I spoiled your bobcat hunt.”

“It’s all right. I doubt she would have had much fat. I’ll look for a rabbit this evening, or maybe a badger.”

Cornsilk carried their cups over and set them on the floor by Poor Singer’s side. “We can sip tea while I apply the salve.”

He smiled, watching as she went to pick up the pot of pulp and bring it back.

Cornsilk knelt at his side, dipped her hands in and squished the pulp through her fingers until she had a watery glue. “Are you ready?”

Poor Singer sucked in a fortifying breath. “Yes, I think so.”

“I’ll start with your arms and chest.” She gently spread the pulp over his ropy muscles.

He shivered. “It feels very cold.”

“Good. It will take the burn out and help prevent scarring. Although”—she pulled his hair away from his left shoulder and frowned at the broken blisters—“your shoulders might be beyond help.”

Poor Singer twisted his neck to look and grimaced as she smeared the salve on. “That stings!”

“These are open wounds, Poor Singer. The blisters are all broken. The flesh beneath is raw.”

Poor Singer gritted his teeth as her hands moved gently over his tall skinny body. She coated his arms, chest, neck and face, but halted when she reached his groin.

“Here.” She shoved the pot over. “I don’t want to be responsible. If you thought it stung on your shoulders, just wait.”

Poor Singer gazed down at his penis and testicles. They had swollen from the burn and appeared, well, a little deformed. “I should have worn a breechclout, I suppose.”

Cornsilk gave him a skeptical squint. “Weren’t you afraid to expose yourself like that? Father Sun is the greatest creative Power of all. If he’d thought you boastful, he might have killed your semen to teach you a lesson.”

He picked up his swollen manhood and squinted at it. “Maybe he did.”

Cornsilk squinted, too. “Better salve it quickly. Just in case some is still alive.”

Poor Singer dipped his hand into the pot. “You think it will hurt worse than my shoulders?”

“I think you might have glimpses of the afterworld.”

Poor Singer gave her a dubious look, scooped up a handful of pale green salve, and smoothed it on. It didn’t feel so bad. In fact, it …

“Great gods!”
he screamed as he nearly leaped through the roof, doing everything he could to distance himself from his testicles.

Cornsilk sat back on her heels and sipped her tea as she watched him squirm. He’d clamped his lower lip between his teeth and squeezed his eyes closed until tears escaped to trickle down his cheeks. Against the sooty white wall he looked like a tortured warrior.

“Want me to finish your groin for you?” she asked dryly.

He looked at her. “Silk … you, you’re a woman.”

She set her cup down and gaped at him. Was this shame? Embarrassment? She could scarcely believe it. In her village, the differences between male and female bodies were hardly a secret. “Of course, I’m a woman. And my mother was a Healer, Poor Singer!”

“Its just that I—I have never
been
with a woman, and I’m afraid…” His voice trailed off.

The horrified expression on his face made her swallow her disbelief. He was almost sixteen summers old and still inexperienced? Quietly she said, “Why is that, Poor Singer?”

“Well, first of all, I was too scared to ask. And, second, well…” He lifted a shoulder. “No woman wanted me.” He looked nervously down at his sun-wounded genitals, and added, “I suppose that won’t change.”

Cornsilk smiled. “I
can
salve your sunburn, Poor Singer. No matter where it is. If you wish me to.”

“I—I’d rather do it. Thank you.”

He dipped his hand into the cool salve and shut his eyes. As he spread it over every tender pore, he gritted his teeth. Finally, he slumped against the wall and panted.

Cornsilk sipped more of her sunflower petal tea. “You’ll have to stand up so I can do your backside, Poor Singer.”

“S-soon.” His voice was toneless. “I’ll stand up soon.”

“Is the pain lessening? How are you feeling?”

Poor Singer slitted his right eye. “You don’t think … I mean … I’ve seen people with frostbite lose toes.”

“I watched my mother sever two frostbitten fingers once. Don’t worry. It just takes a very sharp knife. With fingers, you’ve got to slice the joint just right. That takes time and a steady hand. Since there’s no bone down there, it’ll be so fast you’ll hardly feel a thing.”

Poor Singer sat unmoving, his expression frozen. He didn’t blink. “That was
not
funny, Silk. Not one bit.”

Cornsilk smiled anyway.

Twenty-Five

Purple thunderheads marched eastward, trailing iridescent tendrils of rain across the rumpled desert. Against the golden undercoat of sunrise they seemed to be long-legged giants striding to meet Father Sun.

Gnat stopped in the bottom of Straight Path Wash to watch them. The cool morning air carried the scent of wet earth and sage. He took the fragrances into his lungs and held them for as long as he could before releasing his breath. As he did, the sun rose higher and peeked through a gap in the clouds, and a spectacular orange glow bathed the land. Gnat stood still for a moment, immersing himself in the beauty.

Webworm walked up and Gnat fell in step beside his lanky leader, heading up the wash again.

They had been marching for less than a hand of time, but already the War Chief seemed preoccupied. He had been tripping over nothing and cursing: back stiff, jaw clenched, a black braid draped his right shoulder. He resembled a man walking to his death. Blood had leaked from the severed head in his pack and soaked his red shirt.

The thirty warriors behind them muttered, no doubt wondering, as Gnat did, what ailed their new leader. The raid had been easy, the deaths quick. They had carried out their orders—though not one man had liked them. But what difference did that make? They had done much worse under Crow Beard’s command. Gnat ached for Beargrass, too. Murdering a friend … well, it wounded the soul. But it had been a disgrace that the War Chief had been unable to carry out the order himself.

Gnat had awakened twice in the night and both times Webworm’s blanket had been empty. Once, he’d seen Webworm out in the sage, cradling his wounded arm and kicking at brush.

Gnat veered around a head-high pile of mud. Saturated walls of earth had slumped off the steeply eroded banks and blocked half the drainage. Thirty summers ago, this wash had been a broad shallow stream. Now the sheer walls rose two body-lengths over his head. Here and there lonely roots hung out, dangling in the breeze, their long-dead plants not even the ghosts of memory. A babbling brook of rust-colored water flowed by. Gnat slogged through it.

Yuccas spiked up along the bank, their bulbous seed pods rattling like old bones in the cool breeze. Bleached stems of rice grass quivered.

Gnat’s gaze drifted southward, and he frowned, and stopped. His moccasins sank in the damp sand as he lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the rising sun. Puffs of smoke drifted among the clouds. “What’s that?”

Webworm looked up suddenly, as if Gnat’s voice had awakened him from a nightmare. His broad face lined with concern. “What?”

“Smoke. See it?”

Webworm squinted against the glare. “Yes. From the signal tower near Center Place. Three puffs … followed by two long strands, then a single puff.”

“If we saw the entire message. Let’s wait.”

They watched as the signal began to repeat, the gray smoke floating up among the Cloud People. At night the message would have been sent by draping a hide curtain over the window of the tower and building a fire inside. Three short flashes would have been followed by two longer bursts of light, then another short flash.

Webworm shifted the pack on his back. Gnat had wrapped Fledgling’s head in lengths of cloth to absorb the blood; it must feel like a granite boulder on Webworm’s shoulders.

“May I help with your pack?” Gnat asked.

“No, no, I…” Webworm shuddered lightly. “All night long I heard strange shrieks. I have an eerie feeling, as though the boy’s soul rides my back like an enraged eagle, just waiting to sink his talons into me.”

“Beargrass was your friend, and the boy … the boy was perhaps just Beargrass’ son. But we did our duty, Webworm, what more—”

“But why did I believe Sternlight?”
Webworm demanded as he swung around. “Never in my entire life have I trusted my cousin! He’s a stinking witch—and a murderer! Why did I believe his story about Beargrass?”

Gnat’s brows drew together. Webworm looked panicked, ready to flee for his life. “It doesn’t matter,” Gnat said. “Snake Head gave you an order, and you carried it out. What is
wrong
with you? You had no choice. None of us did.”

Webworm shook a clenched fist in Gnat’s face. “Didn’t you see the look on Beargrass’ face?” he hissed. “I knew him well! He told the truth when he said Fledgling came from his own body. Gnat … don’t you understand? I murdered a dozen innocent people! Many of them children!” Webworm’s eyes went wide and round. “Blessed Ancestors, I pray the gods forgive me.”

So their men would not hear, Gnat gripped Webworm by the good arm and pulled him closer, murmuring, “Many of the gods were warriors. They understand duty.”

“Do they?” Webworm shook off Gnat’s hand and seemed to be struggling for control. He fixed his gaze on the smoke signals again. After several moments, he said, “Something’s wrong. They are warning visitors to stay away.”

“Then we should get back soon. It is, perhaps, nothing, but—”

“But it may be.” Webworm pointed to the cut in the bank ahead. It had been packed down by thousands of feet, and the tan soil shone darker than the surrounding drainage. “Let’s take the slave crossing. It’ll be faster.” Webworm turned to the warriors who trailed behind them. Heads went up. “Come closer!”

The men crowded around Webworm and Gnat. Fearful murmurs ran through the ranks. They had all seen the signals. Many men lifted hands to the Power pouches strung around their necks, small leather bags filled with sacred items, and offered silent prayers to their Spirit Helpers.

Webworm said, “Be ready! This may be nothing more than a few people ill with a fever, but we must prepare. Perhaps Talon Town is being raided.”

The warriors pulled arrows from their quivers and nocked their bows. Against the background of the placid wash and slow-moving clouds, their movements seemed chaotic, their worried voices a muted roar.

Gnat drew an arrow from his own quiver and nocked his bow, then trotted toward the slave crossing with Webworm at his heels. The smoke signals repeated the silent warning.

When Gnat reached the crossing, he thrust out a hand to stop Webworm and pointed to the ground. Tracks dented the sand. “Look! Two people. A big man. He was heavy. See how his moccasins left deep impressions? The other is—”

“A woman,” Webworm finished. He began carefully walking up the south side of the trail, working out the tracks.

Gnat took the north side, eyes narrowed as he read the footprints left in the ground. “She was running when she ascended the earthen ramp. Her heels almost never hit the ground, she must have—”

“Blessed Father Sun,” Webworm whispered as he followed the man’s tracks up the slope. “Gnat … do you see this? Look, here and here.”

Gnat tilted his head in confusion. Not running. Not even walking.
But Dancing.
Despite the blurs caused by the rain, the prints clearly showed a man spinning around, his toes pointing one direction then another, as he climbed the ramp.