People of the Silence (45 page)

Silk groaned. “I hate to tell you.”

“How many?”

“Four. This is the fifth—”

“
Four,
” Poor Singer said softly, and looked down at her in astonishment. “You know that’s a holy number. Didn’t it occur to you that the bird might be trying to warn you?”

Silk’s lips parted. “What do you mean? Warn me? You mean … about the attack?”

The raven hopped to within pecking distance of Silk’s knee and uttered a soft sound.

“Silk? Have you ever been on a vision quest? Or gone through a kiva initiation—”

“No.” She knotted her fists around the use-polished digging stick. “Never.”

“Well, regardless, I think you have a Spirit Helper.”

“But they say that ravens are wicked, that—”

He blurted, “Who says?”

“My clan. The Ant Clan.”

Poor Singer made an airy gesture with his hand. “He doesn’t look wicked to me. Has he ever tried to peck you, or claw you with his talons?”

“No, he just pestered me. Why would a Spirit Helper be so annoying?”

The raven eyed Poor Singer as though waiting for his answer. Sunlight glinted in its left eye.

“Power is always annoying. Terrible and wondrous.” Poor Singer paused. “Black Mesa—he’s a holy man in my village—told me once that I had better listen to the Helpers who came to me in Dreams, or they would be forced to walk up to me in broad daylight to give me their news.” He scratched his cheek thoughtfully. “Which is all right if your Helper is Raven, but if Rattlesnake or Grizzly Bear happen to be your—”

“I don’t ever remember a raven coming to me in Dreams, Poor Singer.” Silk studied the raven, no longer looking irritated, but frightened. Her pulse had begun to throb in her temple. “If this bird really is a Spirit Helper…”

Her voice faded as the raven leaped to the rim of Silk’s basket, plucked up an onion, then spat it out and cawed his distaste while ruffling his wings angrily.

“Well, I don’t have any corn,” Silk apologized. “If I did, I’d give it to you. You know I would.”

The raven hopped to the basket’s handle and perched there, tilting its head to listen.

Silk chewed on her lower lip. “Are you sure about this, Poor Singer? I’ve never sought visions. Why would a Spirit Helper come to me?”

“Someone in the afterlife must have known you needed help.”

“Who?”

He shrugged. “A dead relative?”

“Which one?”

“How should
I
know? Does the raven’s voice remind you of anyone? An uncle or an aunt? Maybe he has your grandmother’s eyes?”

Silk leaned toward the raven and scrutinized it. “He looks like a bird, Poor Singer.”

“Well, maybe he’s not a relative. Maybe he’s one of the thlatsinas. Then again, the Great Warriors occasionally take flesh to communicate with humans.”

Silk gave him a skeptical look. “If one of the gods wished to communicate with me, why wouldn’t they speak a human tongue?”

“Maybe they have things to tell you that can’t be said in a human tongue.”

“Then how am I supposed to understand? I don’t speak raven. Any god should know that.”

Poor Singer’s mouth quirked. “Have you no sense of divine mystery, Silk? Gods don’t always wish to make things easy. In fact, they seem to enjoy making things difficult.”

The raven stuck out its neck and cawed right in Silk’s face,
four times,
then it leaped from the basket handle and flapped away, skimming the rolling badlands.

Silk clutched the fabric over her heart. “Great Ancestors. My heart is thundering.”

Poor Singer watched the big black bird until it disappeared into a red fold in the land. “The raven flew toward the Great North Road.”

Suddenly, his eyes widened. Puffs of dust drifted over the canyon rim, red against the deep blue of Brother Sky. “Silk … look.”

She rose and stood beside him, shielding her eyes against the harsh afternoon glare. “You think it’s a runner? Coming for you?”

“More likely for Dune. Few people know that he isn’t here. Come on, let’s go.”

Poor Singer picked up his basket and trotted down the trail, veering wide around dense clumps of cactus and leaping dangerous rabbit and coyote burrows. Silk pounded behind him.

By the time they reached the road that ran near Dune’s small white house, the man, dressed in dusty white, had climbed halfway down the steps cut into the cliff face. Wind billowed his long shirt so that it resembled wings. He might have been a snowy owl perched on the red sandstone, rather than a man.

I don’t have my strength back.
Poor Singer started to pant and slowed to a quick walk. The fast had sapped all of his reserves. Silk dashed on down the trail, reaching the house before the man set foot on the ground.

Poor Singer arrived, panting and near stumbling, as the man stepped out of the winding path through the sage.

“Here,” Silk said. “Let me have your basket of onions, Poor Singer. I’ll take them inside and get supper started. No matter what the runner wishes, we still have to eat tonight.”

“Thank you.” He slipped the basket from his arm and handed it to her.

Silk ducked beneath the shabby door curtain. He heard her set the baskets down with thumps, then pots rattled.

The man stepped out of the high sage and came forward. Poor Singer could see him clearly now. Red dirt stained his long white shirt. He looked even younger than Poor Singer, perhaps thirteen or fourteen summers, but he stood a good head taller, and had a moonish face—his mother had not been very good with the cradleboard. He had large black eyes framed by black hair that had been cut level with his muscular shoulders. It appeared he’d been doing hard labor for many summers.

“Good day to you,” Poor Singer called as the youth neared. “Have you come to see Dune the Derelict?”

“You are Poor Singer?”

“I am.” A tingle of foreboding went through him. “What’s wrong?”

The boy stopped before Poor Singer, breathing hard, and bent forward to shift the small pack he carried on his back. Sweat matted strands of black hair to his jaw. “I am Swallowtail … of Talon Town. The holy Derelict asks that you bring his burial herbs and tools so that he might care for the dead Chief’s body properly.”

“The Blessed Sun is dead?”

Swallowtail nodded. “So far.”

Poor Singer knew the stories of Chief Crow Beard’s marches to the afterworld—just when everyone thought he was dead, he always woke up. No wonder Swallowtail hedged his answer. “Burial herbs and tools? I don’t know where Dune keeps—”

“The Derelict said to tell you that his ritual bundle is hidden in the bottom basket in the corner.”

Silk ducked beneath the curtain and stood awkwardly by the door, peering at the boy. “My name is Silk. You said you are from Talon Town?”

“Yes.” Swallowtail had caught his breath and some of the flush had begun to drain from his round cheeks. “I am slave to the great Sunwatcher, Sternlight.”

Silk gave the boy a strained smile. “Come in. I put on a pot of beans this morning and just added fresh onions. We have some leftover fried cornbread from yesterday. We would be happy if you would share supper with us.”

The boy grinned. “Thank you! I’d be very happy to. Then I must go.”

“You can’t spend the night?” Silk asked. “But you must be tired after your run.”

Swallowtail nodded. “I am, but my master told me to be back within six days. It took me four to get here—two days longer than it should have. The rain turned the drainages into roaring rivers and I had to run far out of my way to find safe crossings.”

“Why must you make it back exactly on time? With the weather, anyone would understand—”

“No.”
Swallowtail shook his head vehemently. “My master would not understand. While I am away, my mother is locked in the slave chamber. If I don’t return on time, she could be killed.”

Poor Singer’s brows drew together. He had wondered why a slave, suddenly set free, wouldn’t run directly back to his own people. Though slaves were rare in the smaller villages, they were closely guarded, never allowed to go anywhere alone, and separated at night so that they could not conspire against their masters. The First People of Talon Town, it seemed, had found a very effective way of assuring obedience.

Silk walked over and held up the door curtain. “Please, go in and sit down. You must rest and eat first.”

“Thank you for your kindness.” Swallowtail ducked into the dingy little house, unslung his pack, and slumped down by the crackling fire. He leaned over to sniff the fragrance rising from the bubbling bean pot. “This smells wonderful!”

Poor Singer glanced at Silk as he passed. A frightened, almost panicked expression touched her face, though she tried to hide it from him by smiling.

He mouthed,
Are you all right?

Silk closed her eyes and nodded. “Go on in, Poor Singer. The beans should be ready.”

He touched her green sleeve gently, then ducked inside and went to his place on the opposite side of the fire from the boy. Silk had already laid out three bowls, horn spoons, and teacups.

Poor Singer sat down cross-legged and noticed how pale Silk looked as she entered and let the door curtain fall. Firelight flowed over her, accentuating the narrow waist and shadowing her small breasts. Her long hair swayed about her hips as she bent to pick up the basket of cold cornbread.

She brought it back to the fire and knelt between Swallowtail and Poor Singer. “I’m sorry to hear of the Blessed Sun’s death,” Silk said. “I heard he was a generous ruler.” She handed the basket of bread to Swallowtail.

The boy slid out two pieces of the flat round bread and bit into the first ravenously.

Gesturing with his bread, the boy said, “Not to slaves. The first time he beat me with a yucca whip I had seen only two summers. I had knocked over a pot of ricegrass seeds. I still have the scars—” he pointed to his back “—if you want to see them.”

Silk’s gaze returned to the bean pot. She filled each of their bowls and set them down, then dipped their cups full of sunflower petal tea. As she handed Swallowtail his bowl and cup, she asked, “Is … is Sternlight a better master? Kinder?”

Poor Singer could tell from the tone of her voice that the question had not been idle. Silk
needed
to know the answer.

The boy grabbed up one of the spoons and began ladling food into his mouth. Hadn’t he eaten in the entire four days? He took a bite of beans, ripped off a hunk of bread and repeated the process as quickly as he could. Finally, when he’d gobbled half his bowl, he sighed in relief, and slowed down.

“Sternlight,” he said around a mouthful of cornbread, “is a witch.”

Silk’s spoonful of beans quavered. She lowered it back to her bowl with a clatter. “I have heard that. But I never really believed it. Why do you?”

“Oh, he’s a witch, all right,” Swallowtail said, and took a gulp of his tea. “Both of his sisters vanished before they had seen fifteen summers.”

“Accidents happen. Someone goes off hunting and gets caught by a mountain lion, or bitten by a rattlesnake. Others die of thirst. Why would you believe—”

“He witched them,” Swallowtail said in a low, frightened voice. “Even his own cousin, Webworm, says so. Not only that, more than forty summers ago, his mother and father were murdered, and his cousin, Featherstone, was taken captive by my people—the Mogollon. Many say that Sternlight caused the disaster.”

“But he must have been just a baby at the time,” Silk protested. “How could he have caused it?”

“Oh, he had great Power even then,” Swallowtail said. “On his cradleboard, he used to point at birds, and they would fall dead from the skies.” He gave Silk a confident nod and slurped another spoonful of beans. “And, once, when Sternlight had seen twelve summers, he witched a deerbone stiletto and sent it after a man named Walking Hawk. That stiletto hunted the man down for three days, and all Walking Hawk heard before it lanced his heart was a whistling noise.” Swallowtail pointed with his spoon. “I heard that story from Walking Hawk’s brother. He was there at the time it happened.”

Silk took a bite of bread, before asking, “Well, perhaps Walking Hawk had done something bad to Sternlight. But why would he kill his own sisters and parents and cause his cousin to be captured?”

Chewing noisily, he answered, “So he could become Sunwatcher. Featherstone would have been Sunwatcher if she hadn’t been captured. When she escaped fourteen moons later, her soul wasn’t right. It still wanders all the time. Sometimes she knows who I am. Sometimes she doesn’t. Sternlight became Sunwatcher instead.” Swallowtail looked up suddenly, as if worried he might be talking too much.

“It’s all right,” Silk said. “We come from outlying villages. We hear almost no news. We’re grateful that you’re willing to share yours with us. Please, go on.”

Swallowtail used his cornbread to clean the last beans out of the bottom of his bowl, then ate the bread with his eyes closed, as if greatly enjoying the mix of flavors.

Poor Singer sipped his tea and studied Silk and Swallowtail. The boy seemed to be genuinely enjoying being able to tell stories about the First People of Talon Town, and Silk … she hung on every word. Very interesting. Though he had known her for only a short time, he had never seen her look so profoundly serious. Not even when she spoke of her dead family, or the attack on Turtle Village. She’d said she might have relatives in Talon Town. Perhaps that explained her distress? He’d be worried, too, if a powerful witch lived in the same town as his last living relatives.

Swallowtail tipped up his cup and drained it dry, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “It was very gracious of you to share your meal with me, a slave. I thank you.” He pushed to his feet. His head almost touched the ceiling. “But I must be going.” He grabbed for his pack.

“Oh, wait just a moment.”

Silk laid out the last four pieces of fried bread and spooned beans into the center of each, then rolled them up and handed them to the boy. “Take these with you, Swallowtail. That way you won’t have to stop to hunt tomorrow.”

He looked stunned. “Thank you. You are very kind. I hope to see you when you arrive at Talon Town. Good-bye.” He stuffed the cakes in his pack, slung it over his shoulder, and ducked through the door.