People of the Silence (87 page)

Poor Singer lowered his muzzle to rest on his paws. “No, no, I’m not. But what does that matter?”

“It matters a great deal to the gods. They are fanatical about justice.”

“But Keeper, many of the gods were warriors. They are also fanatical about duty and responsibility. Ironwood is a good man. He was only doing his duty to his people and his Chief. And I am doing mine now.”

She drew back her head as if in disbelief.
“You consider dying for no reason to be your duty?”

“But it isn’t for no reason. I’m offering my life for Ironwood’s because I believe the world will be better with Ironwood in it. So many have already died because of me. Please, let me do this?”

The magnificent blue fire began to subside. The walls went from a blazing azure to pale blue, and finally to an icy gray-white.

The Keeper’s black eyes seemed to grow in that tarnished gleam, huge as an owl’s, and just as wary. She asked,
“Do you now understand what it means to have the heart of a cloud?”

Poor Singer’s mouth went dry. He bent to lap water from the floor, cooling his hot throat, calming his nerves. The moisture tasted sweet and warm. He licked his muzzle to dry it.

“I believe,” he answered through a long exhalation, “that the heart of a cloud is tears, Keeper. I’ve been thinking a lot about it. We often speak of the Cloud People shedding tears for us, to give us life. Rain is their tears.”

A bare smile touched her face.
“And walking upon the wind? Do you know what that means?”

Poor Singer shifted uncertainly. He had been worried about this one. His tail brushed the stone wall as he thought about it. “If I lived in the heart of a cloud, I would be able to look down upon the world from high above the chaos, to see it more clearly. I think that’s what it means. If I could live inside the tears of others, I would see life more clearly.”

As though she found the rounded pits in the stone floor fascinating, she thoughtfully smoothed her fingers over them. When she looked up again, her dark eyes seemed to fill half of her beautiful face.
“Your offering tonight proves you have grown the heart of a cloud. You
are
a Singer. Your people need you.”
She rose to her feet and her red dress swayed about her tall body.
“Now go and walk upon the wind. Tell your grandfather what you did here. What you saw here. He will understand.”

She started back for the trail that skirted the dark pond, and Poor Singer sat up. “But, wait! What about my offering? Do you accept it? Will you help me to save Ironwood’s life?”

The Keeper of the Tortoise Bundle bowed her head.
“If you will do as I told you, you will be a very great Singer one day. Make your
life
an offering, Poor Singer. It will save far more people than your death. Someday, when you are able, return here. I will teach you what I know of clouds and tears.”

She walked around the trail and vanished into the crevice in the cave. The pond wavered from the breath of her passing, and fragments of light danced over the walls.

Poor Singer stood on weak legs. He started back up the tunnel, his head hanging low, feeling numb.

“Poor Singer?”

The call was faint. He turned to look into the maw of the cave, but saw only darkness.

As he pushed through the tangle of barberry and out into the bright moonlight, he felt something, like a hand upon his shoulder. Frightened, he whirled around, breathing hard, scanning the snowy meadow and the glistening peaks, but …

“Poor Singer?”

*   *   *

He jerked awake, gasping, staring wide-eyed at the coral gleam of dawn. Charcoal clouds drifted on the eastern horizon, their bellies clothed in the palest of golds. Cornsilk knelt beside him. She wore a clean black-and-white cape and buckskin moccasins. A thick black braid draped her left shoulder. Her wound had healed, but an ugly yellow bruise remained around the raw pink scar high on her cheek. His gaze drifted from the scar to her full lips, pointed nose, and the oval line of her jaw. He sat up and hugged her fiercely.

Heartsick and weary, he cried, “Oh, Cornsilk, I’m so glad to see you.” The feel of her slender body against his soothed him.

She slipped her arms around his waist and hugged him back. “I half-expected to find you spinning around and flapping your arms like a moth.”

“This time … well, I had to learn to be a cloud.”

She gently pushed back and looked him over in detail, as if checking to see what injuries he’d sustained during the transformation. Apparently satisfied he was all right, she unslung a small pack from her back and unlaced the ties. “I knew you’d be starving. Can you eat now? Did you learn to be a cloud?”

He nodded, feeling curiously floaty, and cold, terribly cold, deep down. “I’m starving. What did you bring?”

Cornsilk sat beside him on the gray limestone and pulled out two bags. “Your grandmother, Downy Girl, gave me venison jerky and ricegrass-seed bread.” Cornsilk’s dark brows drew together as she searched his face. “But you’ve been fasting for many days, Poor Singer. You’d better just eat a little. You might throw up.”

“I’m willing to take that chance.”

Cornsilk handed him a length of jerky and pulled out a gut water bag. “Drink this first, Poor Singer. It will cushion your empty stomach.”

Poor Singer took three sips and handed the bag back. “Thank you, that tasted good.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and took a small bite of the jerky. His stomach squealed and cramped.

Cornsilk watched him closely. Behind her an eagle soared through the morning sky. Its long wings flashed gold as it dipped into the wind and sailed westward. She said, “Are you all right, Poor Singer?”

He took another small bite. “So far.”

“Good. We have a long walk back to Gila Monster Cliffs Village.”

“We do?”

“Poor Singer,” she said with a frown, “it took me four days to find you. Fortunately you left a trail clear enough that a five-summers-old child could have followed. But, in your condition, it will take us at least three days to get back.” Cornsilk’s expression turned contemplative. “And I think, Poor Singer, that we should get back as soon as possible. Jay Bird is very worried about you.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t send ten men to drag me back.”

“Both Dune and I asked him not to.”

Poor Singer’s brows raised. “And he listened?”

“Dune had that look in his eyes, you know the one I mean? It’s like a shout, telling you that all the evil Spirits in Creation will be loosed upon you if you don’t obey?”

He nodded, and sighed. “Boy, do I know that look.”

“I pleaded with Jay Bird to let me search for you. He watched me for a long time with his eyes squinted. Then he nodded and said he trusted me—because you loved me. He gave me permission to find you.”

Poor Singer reached out and took her hand. Her fingers felt thin and delicate in his grasp. “Cornsilk, I do love you. I want to be with you always. If … if you want to be with me?”

She gave him a sad smile that broke his heart. “I want that more than anything in the world, Poor Singer.” And her smile faded. She turned away. “But I don’t know where we’ll ever find a home. My mother—Thistle—has decided to stay here, at Gila Monster Cliffs. But I can’t, Poor Singer. Nor can I go back to the Straight Path nation, and my father…”

Poor Singer lowered his jerky to his lap and frowned.
He must be all right. The Keeper said … seemed to say …

“Cornsilk? What’s happened while I’ve been away?”

She shoved a rock out of the way and slid over next to him, as if needing his closeness. “Your grandfather regrets that he killed Sternlight in front of you.” She frowned at the ground. “I didn’t know Sternlight well, Poor Singer, but he was kind to me. I will miss him.”

“So will I.”

“Even though he murdered your mother?”

“I didn’t know her at all, Cornsilk.” Poor Singer took another bite of jerky. She clearly didn’t wish to speak about her father yet. He chewed slowly, giving her more time. The jerky had a tangy flavor he didn’t recognize, like cedar bark smoke mixed with phlox blossoms. “I’m still uncertain how to feel about Sternlight killing her to save me, but I know he did what he thought he had to. There is honor in that.” He glanced at her and found Cornsilk scooping the pine needles between her feet into a pile. “And the others?” he asked cautiously. “What has happened to them?”

“Your reaction to Sternlight’s murder seemed to temper Jay Bird’s anger. He freed Night Sun and Dune, though guards follow them wherever they go in the village.” She paused, her mouth open.

Fear charged his drained muscles. “And your father? Tell me about Ironwood.”

She sat quietly for several moments, watching the sky turn from pink to a rich shade of amber. Sunlight struck the highest peaks first, and the pockets of snow seemed to burn. Then, as Father Sun’s face peeked over the horizon, light flooded the lowlands, chasing away the last vestiges of night.

“Cornsilk.” His gut twisted. “Is your father still alive?”

“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “When I left, he was still locked in the pen. But I’d heard rumors that Jay Bird was planning on sending guards to drag him out.” She knotted her fists. Cool fragrant breezes blew up from the meadow below them, tearing strands of black hair loose from her braid and fluttering them about her pretty face. “To begin torturing him.”

Poor Singer dragged her pack over, tucked the remaining food back inside, and tied the laces. Then he slipped his arm over Cornsilk’s shoulders. “Could you help me up? We need to leave now, and I’m not very strong.”

Cornsilk put an arm around his waist and hugged him tightly. “I’ll carry you all the way back, if necessary.”

Poor Singer rose on weak knees, and they began picking their way down the trail.

Fifty-One

Nauseated, trembling, Ironwood sagged in the arms of the guards who dragged him down the rocky trail. His knees raked the ground, leaving blood trails. They threw him into the plaza, facedown, and left him lying there. It took several moments before he could muster the strength to turn his head. Mogollon Fire Dogs crowded around him, forming an irregular circle. He couldn’t see them very well, except for their clothing. They had dressed in their finest for this grand event. The red, yellow, and blue fabrics tinkled with shell bells and glittered with polished stones. Ironwood blinked to clear his blurry vision. The crack on the skull he’d received just before Sternlight’s death had left him blind for …
for how many days?
Five? Six? His sight was returning slowly—not that it mattered. He would only need his physical eyes for a short time longer.

Rolling to his side, he tried to breathe. His entire body had become an open wound. They’d taken turns. Some of the villagers had stabbed him with sharp sticks; others had tied him down and used their stone knives to slowly slice open the muscles in his legs, arms, and on his face. Jay Bird never let them go too far. If the blood flowed profusely, he ordered it stanched with glowing stones. If Ironwood appeared thirsty, Jay Bird personally held a water jug to Ironwood’s lips. They’d kept him well-fed, to fortify his strength. They wanted him to live and suffer for as long as possible, believing that his pain would comfort all the friends, husbands, wives, and children whom Ironwood had killed.

He bowed his head and gazed at the tight leather thongs binding his bloody hands and feet. He did not fear death, not really. He had seen too much of it to be afraid. He knew its course, and its character. Indeed, at this point, he would see death as a friend.

He feared only the aftermath.

The Mogollon would make certain his soul did not reach the afterlife—just as they had with Sternlight’s. Jay Bird had forced Ironwood, Night Sun, and Dune to watch the burial. And though he hadn’t been able to see, Night Sun had told him what followed. The Fire Dogs had thrown Sternlight into a hole, covered him with a stone slab, and laughed. The news had withered Ironwood’s heart. All of his life, Sternlight had stood by him, helping him, covering for his errors. Sternlight had deserved better.

Neither of them would sit with their ancestors and discuss the old times, or hunt and fish to their hearts’ content. Jay Bird would assure that Ironwood’s soul remained locked in the earth for eternity, too, lost and wailing. He who had spent his life seeking the companionship of others, longing for it, would never enjoy it again.

But it’s a punishment I deserve. Sternlight did not.

An odd burning filled his chest. He lifted his eyes and tried to find Night Sun through the blur of shapes and colors.
There
. Standing tall and straight. Jay Bird stood on one side and Dune on the other. Two guards flanked them. She must know he did not have much time left, yet she made no sound. She would not shame the Straight Path people by begging for Ironwood’s life when she knew already it was lost. Nor would she give the Fire Dogs the satisfaction of seeing her weep.

Pride welled inside Ironwood. Though he could barely see her, he gave her a smile.

Ironwood heard the guards coming, closing in around him, their sandals scuffing the ground. Blurry figures loomed against the blue sky.

He cocked his head. “What now?”

They didn’t understand his language, and wouldn’t have answered if they had. Their gazes were riveted on Jay Bird. The Chief slowly walked through the crowd, his black shirt with white designs swaying around his legs. Jay Bird knelt and gripped Ironwood’s chin, twisting his mutilated face up so that he could peer into his eyes. Ironwood could make out the Chief’s thin face and black splotches of eyes. The elder’s hair resembled a fuzzy gray halo.

“Are you seeing better?” Jay Bird asked.

“A little.”

“Good.”

“Why?” Ironwood asked hoarsely. “What is it you wish me to see?”

Jay Bird got to his feet and stood over Ironwood like a wrathful god. “I wish you to know the moment the world goes completely dark.”

Ironwood braced himself. “Is it time to die?”

“No, my old enemy. It is time for you to walk the lances.”