People of the Silence (19 page)

“Please,” Star Hunter interrupted, tugging on Night Sun’s arm. “Tell me the truth. I am so tired. Is my baby going to die?”

“Not if I can help it,” Night Sun said, gripping Star Hunter’s hand firmly. “Stop thinking such thoughts. I need you to be strong.”

“I’ll try, but I…” Her body convulsed.

Night Sun watched and waited. When the contraction eased, she ordered, “Sweetwater, please come over here. Take Star Hunter’s left arm. I’ll take her right.” Then to Star Hunter she said, “Your womb is wide enough. It is time you got into a birthing position.”

Sweetwater folded her arms, refusing to move.

Night Sun snapped, “Get up, blast you, before I—”

“You do
not
order me!” Sweetwater yelled. “Not in this village. Your status means nothing here! What you are doing is forbidden! When a child comes early, no help should be given. We do
not
wish the baby to live!”

Night Sun shot a hot glance of promise into the old woman’s eyes:
I’ll deal with you later!

Star Hunter held tightly to Night Sun’s arm and panted, straining to rise. Her legs shook.

“For now, just sit up, Star Hunter. That’s enough. When the next contraction strikes, I will support you so you can squat. The birthing will be easier. Mother Earth will be pulling while you are pushing.”

Star Hunter smiled tiredly. “Yes, all right.”

Cloud Playing ducked through the doorway with Mite and Catbird following. “I’ve brought the yucca roots, Mother. I cut them up outside first, and Mite has the boiling pot on the tripod.”

“Good. Set the pot over the fire, then throw in the chopped roots. When suds begin to pour over the top of the pot, remove it from the heat and soak several lengths of cloth in it for me.”

“Yes, Mother.”

Cloud Playing tossed in the roots while Mite arranged the pot over the low flames. Catbird stood in the doorway, a finger tucked into her mouth. Her soft eyes followed her mother’s every movement.

Star Hunter gave her youngest daughter a smile. “It’s all right, Catbird,” she said. “The Blessed Night Sun is here. You needn’t worry now.”

“But I heard our mistress shouting. You’re not going to die … are you?” Her young mouth puckered.

Star Hunter glanced at Night Sun, eyes bright with worry, but she said, “No. I’m not,” and bit her lip as the next contraction hit. Her face wrenched with pain.

“Cloud Playing, take Star Hunter’s other arm. Help her up.”

Cloud Playing hurried to obey. They lifted Star Hunter into a squatting position, where she wept and groaned through clenched teeth. Her grip tightened on Night Sun’s arm until her fingers dug into Night Sun’s flesh.

Catbird stood in the doorway, crying, “Mother! Oh,
Mother
!”

Night Sun craned her neck, anxious for any sign of the baby.

A violent hiss made everyone jerk around as the pot boiled over and great tufts of suds plopped into the fire.

Mite grabbed a folded cloth to move the tripod away from the flames.

Star Hunter twisted and moaned, then stared at Night Sun. “Don’t let my baby die. It’ll break Whitetail’s heart. He wants this baby so badly. Even more than I do.”

“You’re doing well,” Night Sun said. “Everything is fine.”

Star Hunter collapsed weakly, breathing hard, when the contraction subsided.

Sweetwater leaned forward, her wrinkled face taut, and hissed: “Have you ever seen an early baby that was any good? To anyone? Why do you wish to burden our clan with a useless runt?”

Night Sun ignored her and turned to Mite. “Please, drop in four lengths of cloth, then use a stick to stir and remove them. While they cool, bring me the cup at the edge of the fire.”

“Yes, Blessed Night Sun.” Mite found a worn dress in a pile by Sweetwater’s blanket, ripped off the sleeves, tore them in two, and grabbed a long stick from the juniper pile. She dropped the cloths in, stirred them, and brought them up steaming. Propping the stick against the wall to cool, she reached for the cup.

Night Sun took it from her hand and sniffed it. The mugwort leaves smelled pungent enough. To test the temperature, she dipped her finger into the brew. Very warm, but not too hot.

“Star Hunter,” she said, “try to drink this. It will help hurry the birth.” Slipping an arm around Star Hunter’s shoulders, Night Sun put the cup in the slave’s hands and held her steady while she gulped the liquid. “There, that’s good.” She took the cup back and set it on the floor behind her. “Now, rest for as long as you can.”

Star Hunter nodded and hung her head between her knees, breathing in swift shallow gasps. A branch broke in the fire, throwing a wavering carnelian veil over the room.

Sweetwater rose to her feet and stood over Night Sun, peering down hatefully. “Why aren’t you tending to the Healing of your own family? You’re supposed to be the great Healer of Talon Town. Go home! Stop wasting time on a worthless slave baby!”

Night Sun spent part of every day Healing the people in Talon Town, but she truly needed the time away. “Other people need me, too, Sweetwater.”

Sweetwater’s eyes narrowed skeptically. “You would abandon your own family to Heal slaves?”

“What?” Night Sun said in confusion. “My own family?”

Sweetwater blinked. “You don’t know? A Trader came by yesterday morning, from Talon Town. He told us Chief Crow Beard was very ill. He said that Sternlight told him the Blessed Sun might by dying.”

Speechless, Night Sun could only stare. Crow Beard had been ill often in the past sun cycle, but—

Cloud Playing rose. Her blue dress shone purple in the gleam. “When did my father fall ill? We have only been gone for three days. He was fine when we left!”

“Do not shout at me, girl!” Sweetwater retorted. “That’s all the Trader said. I know no more.”

“Mother? Could this be?” Cloud Playing whispered, her eyes frantic. “Do you think Father needs us?”

Night Sun’s pulse quickened. Despite all the things Crow Beard had done to her over the years, she still cared for him, but he hadn’t let her touch him in summers. He shunned her cures, refused her his bed, tormented her at every opportunity. Still … she had been his wife for thirty summers.
How will I survive without him?

“Yes,” Night Sun said softly. “He needs us. But I cannot leave until Star Hunter and her baby are safe. Then we will go—”

“The baby’s coming!” Star Hunter cried. She grabbed Night Sun’s arm, struggling to get into position.

“Cloud Playing!” Night Sun said sharply. “Help me hold her up!”

Cloud Playing lunged to grab Star Hunter’s left arm.

Star Hunter’s whole body shook and her moans became helpless cries. She twisted to one side, then to the other, and rocked back and forth, tears trickling down her face. When she screamed, little Catbird put her hands over her ears, and shrieked, “Oh, Blessed Father Sun, don’t let my mother die! Please don’t let her die!”

“Sweetwater, for the sake of Our Mother Earth,” Night Sun called, “take Catbird outside and away from here!”

The old woman grudgingly hobbled across the floor, grabbed Catbird by the hand and dragged her outside. A slap sounded. Catbird’s wails grew shrill, like an animal with an arrow in its belly.

Star Hunter sagged back against her arm, gasping, “Please, make the baby come … please … please…”

Cloud Playing peered at Night Sun imploringly—did she, too, believe Night Sun could say a prayer and make the pain end? Cloud Playing’s children had come into the world in less than a hand of time and she’d been on her feet in two hands. Such agony must terrify her.

“Cloud Playing,” she said gently, “let us ease Star Hunter back to the sleeping mat. I must check the child.”

Star Hunter groaned when Night Sun reached inside, rolling back and forth on the mat, saying over and over, “Help me, Wolf. Help me, Wolf. Blessed thlatsinas…” Then she cried out and grabbed for Night Sun’s and Cloud Playing’s arms, hauling herself forward.

“Good, Star Hunter,” Night Sun said, watching the fluids that leaked from her womb. “The child is coming. I can see its bottom. It’s coming out first. Cloud Playing, help me to lift her higher.”

Star Hunter half-stood, legs spread and trembling, her whole weight supported by Night Sun and Cloud Playing. Like a boat riding waves, Star Hunter bobbed up and down, sobbing, clawing at Night Sun’s arm.

The baby boy slid out onto the soft blankets in a pool of blood.

Night Sun said, “You have a
son,
Star Hunter. You were right.” Night Sun examined the wet, blood-streaked infant and her heart went cold. “He’s … he’s very beautiful.”

Star Hunter laughed and cried as they lowered her to the mats, and Night Sun reached for her pack. She pulled out a sharp obsidian flake, severed the baby’s cord, and knotted it.

“Let me see him!” Star Hunter panted. “I—I want to look at him.”

“Just one moment,” Night Sun said. “Mite, hand me those pieces of damp cloth.”

“Yes,” she said and pulled them from the stick where they had been cooling.

Night Sun tenderly cleaned the gore from the boy, then lifted him by his ankles and shook him. Star Hunter, smiling, stretched out her arms, wanting the baby.

Night Sun shook him again. And again.

Cloud Playing put a hand to her lips. Mite edged forward, staring. As though time had ceased, both of their faces froze. Their expressions might have been carved from wood.

Night Sun slapped the boy on the back and buttocks, turned him right side up and shook him back and forth. His tiny head hung limply.

She held him by the ankles and shook him once more.

“Night Sun?” Mite asked. “Is he…”

Night Sun hesitated. “Yes.” Biting back her own sorrow, she cradled the dead baby in her arms and rocked him gently.

Star Hunter wept. The sound tore Night Sun’s soul. She had lost three newborns herself: two boys and a girl. One of them had been taken from her before she’d even had a chance to see it. She had heard it calling to her for moons, calling and calling …

It was a woman’s trial. Something no man could fully understand. After moons of speaking to the child, feeling it move inside you, seeing it grow up in your dreams, a powerful love, like no other, developed. The shock of losing that child, of suddenly realizing you would never look into its living eyes—it stunned the soul.

“Oh, Mother,” Mite whimpered. She ran to kneel beside Star Hunter and gathered her mother’s drenched body in her arms, holding her tightly.

“Cloud Playing,” Night Sun said, “soak these cloths again and wring them out.”

Cloud Playing took the soiled lengths of fabric, dipped them in the warm yucca water and squeezed them out.

Night Sun washed the baby thoroughly and gestured wearily toward the folded blanket where Sweetwater had been sitting. “Fetch me that blanket. This little boy is getting cold.”

Star Hunter suddenly put a hand on the floor and gasped, moaning as the afterbirth flooded out. Mite supported her during the contractions.

Cloud Playing brought the blanket and Night Sun carefully wrapped the boy, so that only his face showed, making certain his soul would stay warm over the long cold night ahead.

Tomorrow his clan would dress him and Sing over his body. Relatives would offer gifts and their finest blankets, then bury him beneath the floor of a room, a place where his mother frequently walked, in the hopes that his soul might someday wish to enter her womb again and be reborn.

Night Sun prayed it would be so.

She walked to Star Hunter and laid the dead baby in her arms, saying, “Hold him for a time, Star Hunter.”

Star Hunter tenderly kissed her dead son’s forehead.

Night Sun said, “Cloud Playing, please rinse those cloths out again. Mite and I will wash Star Hunter and clean up here. Then she must sleep.”

The Singing stopped in the kiva outside. Perhaps the men had just realized that the birthing cries had ceased.

Blessed sky gods, Night Sun had forgotten about Whitetail, the father. He would be eager to know how his wife and child were doing.

A clamor rose, feet clacking on the kiva ladder, then soft thuds as a man ran across the plaza.

“Star Hunter?”
Whitetail called.
“Sweetwater?”

Night Sun ducked out the door into the glare of winter sunlight to meet him halfway.

Nine

Buckthorn dressed in the predawn glow, quietly slipping on his long plain-weave shirt, buckskin leggings, and yucca sandals, trying not to wake Dune. The holy man slept on the opposite side of the house, wrapped in a faded gray blanket. Just the white top of his head showed. He’d snored all night—the sort of snores that shook the very earth. Buckthorn had gotten little sleep.

As he laced his sandals, he yawned and looked around. The fire had burned down to a bed of charcoal. Leftover tea from last evening sat in a clay pot at the edge of the coals, probably still warm. But Buckthorn couldn’t have any, just as he hadn’t had any for three days now. Dune had ordered him to fast for four days and climb the mesa every dawn. And, to Buckthorn’s amazement, he had found that hunger kept his mind clear and his heart open to the faint voices of the thlatsinas who lived on the mesa top.

Buckthorn reached for his yellow cape, dyed a rich hue with a mixture of sunflower petals and ground lichen. As he slung it over his shoulder, a field mouse sneaked under the door curtain and sniffed the air. Every mouse for a day’s walk knew Dune left crumbs of cornbread at the head of his sleeping mats. The mouse bounded across the floor and began munching happily, its whiskers quivering.

Buckthorn watched in fascination as the mouse clawed through Dune’s hair to get to more breakfast. Dune shifted, shoving his blanket down so that his toothless smile showed. Buckthorn had seen it before, but it continued to astound him. He’d concluded that Mouse must be the old holy man’s Spirit Helper. That was the only reason he could see for not swatting the creature and throwing it into the stew pot.

Buckthorn tiptoed to the door and stuck his hand around the ratty curtain, testing the air outside. Cold. Very cold. He would need his blanket. He tiptoed back and grabbed it.