People of the Silence (79 page)

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Featherstone sat in the plaza with her eyes closed, her gray head in her hands, listening to the reedy voice of Weedblossom speak to Moon Bright and fidgety old Whistling Bird. She’d never met with these esteemed elders. Oh, she knew them all right. Each of the First People knew the others. But what would such elders wish with her? They had always spoken kindly to her when they passed, but hurried away, as though worried Featherstone might suddenly go vacant on them, and they’d have to look into her empty eyes, or touch her soulless body. So why did they sit here today with frowns on their withered faces?

“I cannot agree!”
Whistling Bird shouted. “What if she loses her soul at some critical moment? Do you have any idea what kind of devastation—”

“Our kinship system was established just after the First People emerged from the underworlds, Whistling Bird!” Weedblossom said sternly. “Shall we abandon it because you now think it’s inconvenient?”

“Not inconvenient, Weedblossom. Dangerous!”

Featherstone opened her blurry old eyes and looked at them. When she’d been a child and flown on the back of Dragonfly, she remembered looking down upon Center Place with awe. Weedblossom had always been the greatest of the elders to her. Ever kind, she was considerate to those of low status, and a very great Singer. All of the homeless ghosts who came to Weedblossom, begging her to help them reach the afterlife, went away feeling joyous. Featherstone knew because she often felt the ghosts’ emotions as they trotted past Talon Town.

Brilliant sunlight fired the white plaza, making Featherstone squint. The slaves had run away. Made People wandered about soberly picking up refuse, trying to piece their lives back together. Several of the children had been hauled off as captives, young Toadboy from the Buffalo Clan, Red Spark from the Ant Clan … she ached for them all, remembering how the brutal Fire Dog, Crooked Lance, had hurt her.

“We have faced danger before, Whistling Bird,” Weedblossom said.

“But never from the inside! Don’t you understand? This”—he gestured to Featherstone—“could be the greatest threat the Straight Path people have ever faced!”

Featherstone frowned. The elders had come to Talon Town at dawn, surveyed the damage caused in the raid, then called out Featherstone. So, here they sat, on willow-twig mats, Moon Bright to Featherstone’s left, Weedblossom to her right, and Whistling Bird directly in front of her. Because they were in mourning after the deadly raid, they all wore long red robes belted at the waist with white sashes: red in memory of the bloodshed, white to cleanse the hatred from their grieving hearts.

Featherstone gazed methodically around the circle. Hunchbacked Moon Bright nervously smoothed her fingers over the dirt of the plaza. Her silver hair blew in the warm breeze that swept Talon Town. Deep wrinkles lined her face, reminding Featherstone of a winter-killed buffalo carcass, shrunken and brown. Moon Bright didn’t seem to know what to think. The diminutive Weedblossom, on the other hand, looked determined. Her knotted fingers rested on her knees like sharp talons. She wore her white hair in two short braids. She kept glancing at Whistling Bird with fury in her eyes. Whistling Bird didn’t seem to notice. He stared unblinking at Featherstone, as if evaluating her fitness. His bald head gleamed golden in the sunlight.

“Featherstone?” Whistling Bird asked. “Do you think you can do it?”

Featherstone blinked and frowned. “Do what?”

Whistling Bird shook his head. “See? What did I tell you? She doesn’t even know what we’ve been speaking about! How can she possibly—”

“Featherstone?” Weedblossom tenderly patted Featherstone’s cheek. “Try to listen. We’re discussing something very important.”

“What?”

Moon Bright wet her lips and leaned closer, as though proximity might help Featherstone understand better. “You, Featherstone, are the last female member of a once great family. Seven generations of Red Lacewing women have ruled Talon Town. If Night Sun does not return, and we think it likely,
you
have the right to claim the position of Matron of the First People. What will you do? Do you think you are fit to rule?”

Featherstone sat back, stunned. “Hallowed rain gods,” she whispered. “
I
am next in line?”

“You are the
end
of the line, Featherstone,” Weedblossom said gently. “Which is why I think that, no matter the risks, you should take your place.”

“Well,” Whistling Bird said sullenly, “she is old. Perhaps she will not rule long enough to cause any—”

“Hush!” Weedblossom snapped. “Have you no heart?” Then she turned back to Featherstone. “Would you like to rule, Featherstone?”

As though awakening from a long sleep, Featherstone suddenly understood what they were trying to tell her. She pulled herself up straight, looked Weedblossom in the eyes, and said, “It’s my duty to serve, Weedblossom. My wishes are of no concern. Besides, I’ll have my son to help me. I—I pray.” Off and on throughout the morning, she’d cried, terrified for Webworm and Creeper. “My son is all that I need to rule well.”

Weedblossom peered at Moon Bright and Whistling Bird. “Which of you dares to deny a Red Lacewing woman the right to rule her people?”

Moon Bright said, “Not I.”

Whistling Bird threw up his arms. “All right! I can’t fight all three of you!”

Forty-Six

Evening poured through tattered clouds, streaking the sky with pale lavender light. Long shadows crept across the rolling desert. Out in the sagebrush a fox yipped. Ironwood sat on the ground beside Cornsilk, his muscles aching, and listened. As the Fire Dog warriors went about setting up camp, lighting fires, throwing out bedrolls, they laughed and talked. He knew how they felt, heady with the giddy rush of triumph. The scent of roasting jackrabbit spiced the air. Ironwood’s empty belly groaned. Would Jay Bird feed his captives tonight? They always received breakfast, to give them the strength to run all day, but Jay Bird had not yet deigned to offer them a supper.

Just at the edge of camp he could see young Red Spark’s body where it lay trussed to a pole like a deer carcass. The girl had broken and run in a futile attempt at escape. One of the Fire Dogs had nocked an arrow and nonchalantly shot her down. Ironwood could still see that deadly sliver as it arced and drove the vicious point through the girl’s back.

But why didn’t Jay Bird leave her where she fell? Why carry a worthless corpse for a whole day?

Anger and humiliation vied inside Ironwood. He hated himself for allowing this to happen. How could he, the great warrior and legendary War Chief, have walked straight into the arms of his enemies? He should have scented the danger and been able to shout a warning to the guards on the walls. Instead, he’d been wallowing in his own guilt and pain, and completely ignored the scratching of carefully placed sandals, the faint pungency of fear sweat on the night wind … until too late.

Fool! So many mistakes.

He glanced around at the six men with nocked bows who surrounded the prisoners. Including himself, fifteen people—counting hapless Red Spark—had been captured. They slumped in various positions, most already asleep after the brutal run. Only he and Sternlight remained awake. Sternlight sat cross-legged at Poor Singer’s feet, watching the camp. Poor Singer curled on his side next to Cornsilk. Before he’d fallen asleep, he’d gently rested his hand on a lock of Cornsilk’s long black hair. Night Sun lay to Ironwood’s left, breathing deeply, her beautiful face slack. Dune lay flat on his back on his blanket-covered litter ten paces away. He’d been too exhausted from the jostling ride to move. As Ironwood’s gaze moved over the captives, he silently named each one:
Four Fingers, little Cottonwood Boy, Greenshoot Woman
 … His gaze shifted to Thistle. She roamed the camp freely. But why shouldn’t she? Her treachery had allowed the disaster to take place. She would be a hero to Jay Bird and his people.

Ironwood looked down at Cornsilk. Despite what Thistle had done, he could not find it in his heart to hate her. She had raised his daughter as her own. At Ironwood’s request, she had arranged it so that Cornsilk’s litter was left near him for a short time each night, so that Ironwood could look at her and make certain she still breathed.

He reached out and stroked Cornsilk’s limp hand.

To his surprise, her eyes fluttered open. She had wakened often in the past three days, but had gone right back to sleep. Her face was still swollen and hideously bruised. For a long moment, she stared curiously at the sky, as though not certain where she was, then turned and looked at Ironwood.

“What—”

“Shh,” he whispered. “The guards have forbidden me to speak to anyone. If they hear us, I’ll be punished. Talk in a very low voice and don’t look at me when you do. Focus on someone or something else.”

Cornsilk swallowed hard and let her gaze drift to where Thistle stood, speaking with Jay Bird. The elderly Mogollon Chief looked as ragged and tired as Ironwood felt. His filthy shirt hung in tatters; his gray hair and thin face bore a coating of red dirt. He stood four hands taller than Thistle. She had to tip her head back to look Jay Bird in the eyes.

Cornsilk let out a sigh, as if the sight of her “mother” eased her soul. She whispered, “What happened?”

Ironwood watched Swallowtail roaming the periphery of the camp. For over a hand of time, the tall boy had been circling Cornsilk, getting as close as he dared, trying to catch a glimpse of her face. Ironwood did not know why. Perhaps Swallowtail just wanted to make certain she was all right—Cornsilk had, after all, been kind to him. Ironwood murmured, “It’s a long story, my daughter. You were shot in the face. We removed the arrow, and then Talon Town was attacked. Thistle led Jay Bird and his warriors into the plaza. Many were killed. It all happened very fast. We were taken prisoner. Jay Bird spared you because he believes you are his granddaughter.”

Cornsilk’s gaze shot back to him, questioning, then returned to Thistle. “But I’m not. Am I?”

“No. But Thistle never knew for certain who your parents were. I wished it that way—to protect you, Cornsilk. She must have guessed that I was your father and assumed your mother was the slave Young Fawn. She was Jay Bird’s daughter.”

Cornsilk seemed to be taking this in. “What will he do when he discovers I’m not his granddaughter?”

“You will be safe. Thistle will make certain of that. She loves you very much, and Jay Bird will grant Thistle whatever she wishes. Thistle helped him pull off the greatest raid of his life. He knows how much he owes her.”

Cornsilk shifted to look at Poor Singer. The tall, skinny young man snored softly. Dirty black hair fell over his shoulder. Dread tensed Cornsilk’s features. “And what will happen to Poor Singer and the rest of you? If my mother asks, will all of you be allowed to go free, too?”

“I don’t know. He will certainly want me dead.”

“Dead?” Cornsilk asked feebly. “Why?”

One of the guards cocked his head and peered at Ironwood suspiciously. Ironwood shifted, bracing his hands behind him and leaning back to stare up at the stars twinkling through the charcoal puffs of clouds. The guard studied him a time longer, then turned to sniff in the direction of a roasting rabbit.

Very softly, Ironwood answered, “Jay Bird has good reasons.”

When she didn’t answer, Ironwood glanced at her. Tears trickled from her eyes, streaking the dust that covered her bruised face. His heart went out to her. “Do not grieve for me, Cornsilk. Unlike most men, I have lived to see my greatest dream come true, to see my precious daughter grow to womanhood. My life has been full and mostly happy.”

“But there must be something—”

“I think our time is up,” Ironwood said when he saw Thistle push through the camp with two warriors at her sides. “I’ll try to speak with you more tomorrow.”

Thistle called, “Cornsilk? Are you awake?” and anxiously trotted forward.

Both guards nocked their bows and aimed them straight at Ironwood’s chest. He sat placidly while Thistle knelt beside Cornsilk and smoothed dirty hair from her wounded face.

“Oh, my daughter,” Thistle said, and bent to kiss Cornsilk’s dirty forehead. “I’m so glad to see you. How are you feeling?”

Cornsilk reached out. Thistle took her hand and clutched it tightly. “I’m hungry, Mother.”

“I’m sure you are.” Thistle gestured to the warriors. “Please, carry her to Jay Bird’s fire.” She stood and backed away, glancing only perfunctorily at Ironwood.

As the guards lifted Cornsilk’s litter, she lowered a hand toward Ironwood, the palm open in a gesture of need, and gazed down through wet eyes.

He dared not reach back, but he watched as they carried her away.

*   *   *

Webworm had long ago lost any sense of his body and staggered more than trotted after White Stone, the best tracker of the Bear Clan. White Stone’s body wavered on the trail ahead, like one of the heat Spirits that haunted the distances.

The way led inexorably south, across the rolling hills, over the flats with their grassy sand dunes, and into the rolling juniper forests that slanted up to the Gila Monster Cliffs—the forbidding stronghold of the Mogollon.

If we don’t catch them before they reach the mountains, it’ll all be over. We’ll never have another chance like this.
Webworm tried to swallow, his mouth burned dry. How long since he’d drunk? Last night? That morning?

Almost two days since he’d slept.
Run! You can do this. Run, Webworm. Find them. Avenge yourself and your people. You can sleep later … forever, if necessary.

He tripped over a scraggly saltbush, teetered, and stumbled to a halt, hands braced on his shaking knees as he bent double and panted for breath. Every muscle burned and quivered; his stomach cramped. He straightened, leery of resting too long, and looked back. His warriors were strung out across the flats for as far as he could see, their red war shirts tattered and dust mottled.

He turned after White Stone and stumbled forward again, pushing himself just a little farther. The world had come undone, and it was partly his fault. A War Chief accepted responsibility for his mistakes.