People of the Silence (85 page)

A smile twisted Sternlight’s lips, then his muscles loosened and his arms slid to the floor. The life seemed to fade from his eyes gradually, as though it took the soul time to separate completely.

Poor Singer could only crouch there, frozen, his knees shaking as he took in the blood, the tormented faces, the warriors’ lingering smiles. His stomach cramped against the bottom of his heart.

In a daze, he climbed to his feet and scaled the ladder as fast as he could, emerging into the sweet air with its clean scent of pine and bright sunlight. A voice echoed in his soul, deep and soft,
“The next time you return here, Buckthorn of the Coyote Clan, your world will be dying all around you. Be prepared to make an offering…”

Stumbling through the village, Poor Singer raced for the trail that cut a winding line up the side of the mountain. He would have to fast and pray for several days, then he would go to her. Beg her to …

Behind him, Jay Bird shouted,
“Poor Singer? Poor Singer, come back!”

*   *   *

Hot wind gusted through Gila Monster Cliffs Village, tousling Swallowtail’s hair about his tanned face. He stood with his antler tine poised over a half-finished arrow point. The stone lay on a square of leather in his left palm. He positioned the tip of the tine on just the right spot, applied pressure, and a long flake of stone popped off and spun to the ground. The edge would be deadly in another finger of time. That pleased him. He smiled and, surreptitiously, glanced up at Cornsilk.

She knelt beside Thistle, fifty paces away, stuffing jerky into her pack, talking and pointing up at the mountaintop. A long thick braid hung down her back. Her dress clung to the curves of her body in a way that made Swallowtail’s blood warm. Despite the ugly scar on her cheek, she was a beautiful young woman. He ran a tongue over his dry lips as he thought.

“Swallowtail?”

Sandals scraped on stone, and he turned to see his mother coming. Mourning Dove stopped and followed his gaze. Her plump face had sunburned on the long run and begun peeling yesterday. Pink spots of new skin dotted her forehead and cheeks. She asked, “The girl is going after him? Jay Bird’s given her permission?”

“Yes.”

Mourning Dove wiped her sweaty palms on her dark green dress. “Well, it won’t matter. By the time she returns with Poor Singer, Ironwood will be dead. Jay Bird just sent his guards to drag him out of the pen so they can begin torturing him. Ironwood is old. He won’t last more than two or three days.”

Swallowtail didn’t answer. Ironwood had captured his mother those many summers ago, and she hated him almost as much as she’d hated Snake Head. She deserved her revenge. Swallowtail nonchalantly pressed down with his tine and flaked off another long sliver of obsidian. “Do you plan to stay and watch?”

“I’m not leaving until Ironwood lies dead and I’ve had my chance to spit upon his corpse.”

Swallowtail nodded to himself.
That will give me a few days.

Mourning Dove frowned. “What’s the matter? What are you thinking?”

“Just wondering.” He continued flaking his arrow point. Black bits of stone fell atop the small scatter at his feet. From the time he’d turned three summers and first heard his mother tell the story of Young Fawn’s death, he’d been convinced that the First People were not human but evil Earth Spirits who roamed about killing and witching others. “Do you think there’s a chance that Cornsilk might go back to Talon Town? That she would ever decide to accept the position as Matron of the First People?”

It took a moment for her to answer. “Are you asking me if she might return, and depose Featherstone?”

He held his point up to the sunlight, checking the flake scars, admiring the fine workmanship. The Straight Path people had taught him well. He’d become a master flint knapper, the best in Talon Town. Every animal he’d butchered to feed his masters’ bellies had been a study for him. He’d learned how the tools worked on bones and muscles, how soft the liver was, and how the internal organs were connected. Stone and flesh were closely related, like cousins, or perhaps brothers.

“Yes, Mother, that’s what I mean.”

Mourning Dove searched his face. She had never understood him. She never would. A woman like her, so good and loving, could not conceive the depths of the hatred that coiled inside him like a serpent in the brush, ready to strike.

“I doubt it,” she said, “but it’s possible. Why? Do you think—”

“I think,” he said as he lowered the point, “that she may need ‘company’ on her journey to find Poor Singer.”

“You mean you will escort her?”

Swallowtail smiled. “Yes. She
needs
me, Mother.”

Fifty

Creeper smoothed his red shirt down over his belly and tried to concentrate on Weedblossom’s droning voice. She, Featherstone, and Whistling Bird stood on the east side of the grave dug into the floor. They wore white, and Featherstone’s dark gray hair glimmered in the light streaming through the window behind her.

Webworm stood on Featherstone’s left, at the head of the grave. The fine clothing looked regal on his lanky body. He wore a long tan-and-blue shirt with copper Trade bells dangling around the collar. They tinkled when he moved. He’d pulled his black hair away from his broad face and twisted it into a bun at the back of his head. A magnificent bone hairpin, inlaid with turquoise, coral, and malachite, held it in place.

Badgerbow, Yellowgirl, and the new War Chief, White Stone—his wounded arm bound in tan cloth—stood in the row beside Creeper. They all wore red, the color of mourning and death. Two warriors stood near the pile of dirt at the head of the grave. No one looked happy. Creeper forced his gaze back to the shallow hole in the floor.

Snake Head lay in the bottom, facedown. No one had washed his body or combed his hair. He still wore the bloody shirt he’d died in. Tainted possessions taken from his room had been tossed around him: turquoise beads, shell bracelets …

“From this moment,” Weedblossom said, and raised her gnarled hands to the ceiling, “Snake Head, the traitor, will be locked in darkness here in Talon Town. He will hear his own people curse him, feel them spit upon his grave, and be able to contemplate his arrogant foolishness.”

Weedblossom nodded to the warriors behind the dirt pile, and the men lifted a large slab of sandstone. Everyone backed away to give them room. The warriors walked forward and dropped it over Snake Head, taking care not to break his skull.

Creeper anxiously twisted his hands. He had hated Snake Head, but this punishment turned his soul cold. After Snake Head’s body had been returned to Talon Town, the elders had searched his chamber and, to their horror, discovered a jar of corpse powder. They’d begun questioning the Made People and other First People, and heard dozens of stories of his wickedness. The next day the elders had officially condemned Snake Head as a witch. Weedblossom had said that the speck of dust in his head had become a whirling dust devil, blasting anything in its path, and that he deserved to wail for all eternity for the crimes he’d committed.

“Good, now cover him up.” Weedblossom nodded to the warriors.

The two men returned to the dirt pile and began shoving soil back into the hole.

The elders filed out, then Webworm followed, and finally the clan leaders turned to go. There would be no sacred Songs, no Dances to celebrate his life. No one would weep or cut their hair in grief.

Snake Head was truly alone now.

Creeper walked out last, ducking through the low doorway into the bright noon sunlight. Talon Town sparkled whitely, and the canyon had a pale orange hue, as though washed out by Father Sun’s brilliance. Warm wind gusted across the plaza.

Webworm and the First People elders stood in a small group, talking in low voices, and the Made People went back to their daily duties. Badgerbow lifted a hand to Creeper before he disappeared through the gate that separated the eastern and western plazas. Creeper waved and headed for the ladders that led to Night Sun’s old chamber—now Featherstone’s chamber.

As he climbed to the fourth floor, sweat beaded on his cheeks and ran down his chin. The days had grown very warm. Wildflowers created a yellow and blue patchwork across the highlands. The canyon seemed too silent, though, as if people were still in shock from the raid.

Creeper shook his head. The very fact of the raid had the First People rushing about like dogs with the foaming-mouth disease. The next morning the elders decided that they had been too indolent and arrogant, believing themselves invincible. Changes were quickly instituted. Talon Town no longer had a front entryway. Nor were there exterior windows, or even tiny slits for ventilation. Featherstone had ordered them all walled up. The only way in or out of town now was by ladder. At night, those ladders were drawn inside. The new War Chief, White Stone, stood over the front, as always, but nine other warriors stood around the walls to help him keep watch.

They all vowed it would never happen again, but as Creeper gazed across the crowded canyon, at the huge towns and hundreds of small villages, he knew the time would come when they would not be able to protect themselves. A good War Chief with enough warriors could box this canyon tight, kill the Trade, and cut off access to wood, water and food. It might take moons, but in the summertime during a drought … Creeper shuddered. The Straight Path people considered themselves a nation of glorious warriors. Surrender was unthinkable.

He walked across the rooftop, ducked through the doorway into the chamber, and returned to his former activity: arranging Featherstone’s chamber for her. Early that morning he’d set out the pots along the southern wall, to his right, and stacked the baskets in the northwestern corner. He’d laid out sitting mats around the fire bowl, making certain everything was easy to reach. Featherstone’s eyes had worsened in the past few moons. Often, these days, she couldn’t see her teacup when it sat right in front of her.

Creeper knelt beside the fire bowl and spread the legs of the boiling tripod, then hung the pot in the center. The soot-coated clay pot swung gently.

Though Night Sun’s things had been removed and ritually buried beneath the floor of the plaza—to keep their depraved taint from causing illnesses or deaths—this chamber still
felt
like Night Sun. Creeper’s gaze drifted between the Buffalo Thlatsina on the south wall and the Sun Thlatsina on the north wall. The Buffalo seemed to be tossing his shaggy head, his long black beard flying as he Danced, while the Sun god had his pink arms spread, and one foot lifted. Through the window in the eastern wall, Propped Pillar leaned toward Talon Town. Two eagles, male and female, perched near the nest on the top of the stone tower, their heads cocked, searching for movement below.

Weedblossom had come in yesterday and ritually smoked the chamber to cleanse it of evil Spirits, and the faint fragrance of cedar clung to the walls. Despite such precautions, Creeper felt a sadness here.

He hadn’t realized until recently what a frustrated life Night Sun had led, and he sympathized with her. He couldn’t find it in him to hate her for loving one of the Made People. Though he had spent much of his life hoping to see Featherstone one day become the great Matron of the First People, Creeper wished she were just an ordinary old woman from the Coyote Clan. The past few days he had been very lonely. He missed Mourning Dove. They had shared a kind of intimacy that he would never have with Featherstone, no matter how much they cared for each other. Mourning Dove had been his
friend.
They had helped each other as much as they could given their circumstances, and had lain awake late into the nights just talking. He ached for that closeness, for the sensation of her sleeping in his arms.

She’s gone, you fool. Let her go.

Creeper crouched beside Featherstone’s rolled sleeping mats and spread them across the floor, then placed two folded blankets at the foot—the soft red-and-white one on top, as she liked it to be.

“Creeper?”

“Yes, I’m here.” He swiveled toward the door.

Webworm entered, carrying two small sacks. His blue-and-tan robe, woven of the finest cloth, shimmered in the light.

“What do you have in the sacks?” Creeper asked.

“Sandhill Crane cleaned out the slaves’ chambers. The slaves ran so fast none of them had time to take their belongings. These came from Mourning Dove and Swallowtail’s spaces. I thought you might wish to go through them.” Webworm tilted his head awkwardly. “I know how much you miss Mourning Dove. It occurred to me that a keepsake, something she loved, might help.”

“Thank you, Blessed Sun.”

Webworm came forward and held out the sacks. Creeper took them and set them on the floor near the fire bowl. As he untied the laces, he said, “Mourning Dove would have been very happy to see you as the Blessed Sun.”

Webworm walked to peer out the eastern window at Propped Pillar. “I still can’t believe the story you told about how she saw me as the fulfillment of Fire Dog prophecies.”

“But she did.”

Creeper turned over Mourning Dove’s sack and gently poured it onto the floor. What a pitiful collection: a crudely made pair of sandals; a piece of broken pottery that had been sanded to a round shape and hung on a cord as a pendant; a brown dress, tattered and worn thin on the elbows; a beautiful red dress—the one Snake Head had given her. Creeper picked it up with two fingers and dropped it a short distance away.
He
had touched it. A few other things completed the collection, none of them important. Creeper tenderly ran his fingers over the pendant. He’d seen her wear it many times. Slipping it around his own neck, he arranged it over his heart.

“Yes,” Creeper said, “she believed. I think she spent her whole life working to make certain you became the Blessed Sun.”

The words seemed to make Webworm uncomfortable. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I don’t know how to take that. I feel so incompetent, I’m afraid she might be right.”

“That you will destroy the Straight Path nation?” Creeper chuckled. “I don’t think so. It may take you some time to get used to the position, but you will do very well, Webworm. You have the heart of a great leader. And Featherstone will help you, as much as she can. I have always prayed that the two of you would one day lead this nation.”