People of the Silence (22 page)

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I was just … thinking.”

“Feeling guilty? You’ve always blamed yourself for far too much. His illness is not your—”

“No, no.” She swallowed. “I was thinking that my heart is dead, Ironwood. I don’t love anymore.” She paused. “But, I don’t cry either.”

He squeezed her arm, then let it go, and rose to his feet. Looking down, he said, “You’ve made a resolution, eh? Like giving up squash for the Summer Dances? All you have to do is say, ‘I don’t love anymore’ and the need is gone? You are Powerful, indeed, Blessed Night Sun.”

She gazed up at him. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his wide mouth.

I gave you up “like squash,” didn’t I?

She had made the decision in an instant. The day their baby died … she had known what she had to do, and she’d done it. For six moons afterward she couldn’t see him without longing to weep.

“I’m tired,” she said. “Will you stay with Crow Beard while I bathe and eat? I will return as soon as I—”

“Sleep, too,” he commanded gently. “I will be here.”

“If anything happens you’ll—”

“Let you know instantly. Of course.”

Night Sun brushed hair behind her ears and got to her feet. “I
will
be back soon.”

“As you wish.”

She started to walk past him, but halted. Lightly, she placed a hand on his arm and met his concerned gaze. “Thank you.”

“Your servant, as always.”

She left swiftly.

*   *   *

Snake Head leaned against the doorway of his chamber, watching the eastern plaza far below him.

“Which one of you slave brats stole my pack?” the Hohokam Trader, Blunt Face, yelled. “I know one of you did it!”

Five slave children, dressed in brown rags, gathered in a circle around the burly giant, most looking horrified by the accusation. They stared up with wide eyes.

Blunt Face propped his hands on his hips. He stood fourteen hands tall and wore a doehide shirt covered with copper bells. His black hair hung level with his chin. “If you won’t tell me, I’ll call for the War Chief. You don’t wish me oto do that, do you? He’ll punish you far worse than—”

“What’s wrong?”
Gray Wood, the slave master, stalked across the plaza, a yucca whip in his hand, and a bow and quiver of arrows over his left shoulder. He wore a red shirt and sandals. “What’s all the yelling?”

Blunt Face gestured to the pack of slave children. “One of these brats is a thief! I stowed my packs by the wall over there, just as I always do, and one of them is missing. It’s filled with rare Hohokam Trade goods! And very dangerous things! Power amulets and fetishes and—”

“All right.” Gray Wood bent forward and scowled at the children, ranging in age from three to fourteen summers. “Who took the pack?” he asked. “Tell me now, or all of you will feel my whip!” He shook it at them.

The three-summers-old girl put a finger in her mouth and started crying. She shrieked, “
I
didn’t do it! I swear it!”

“Well, who did? Tell me now or…”

Snake Head’s attention was drawn away when his mother emerged from his father’s fifth-floor chamber and started down the ladder to the fourth story. Weariness seemed to weight the tall and willowy woman like a cape of granite; her movements were sluggish. Snake Head lifted a brow. His mother’s eyes glowed.

But, then, she had just spent a finger of time alone with Ironwood.

Snake Head’s lip curled with disgust. As a boy, he had followed her, tracked her like a wolf on a blood trail, so he knew a great deal about her “secret” life.

The macaw behind him churred softly and cracked another pine nut. The fragments of hull tapped the floor.

Snake Head’s gaze went to the south side of the plaza, where the War Chief always stood watch on the roof beside the entry. Seventeen summers ago, just after his father had left on a trading mission to the Hohokam, Snake Head used to see his mother there often. She would wait until the town slept, then sneak from her chambers and go to sit beside Ironwood, just to talk to him, to touch him.

“At least, that’s how it started,” Snake Head murmured to himself.

Their meetings had gradually grown more intimate. As War Chief, Ironwood had to inform Night Sun the day before he left Talon Town, telling her where he would be and for how long, in case a crisis arose. No matter where Ironwood went—to the signal towers to send messages to neighboring villages, to check on distant antelope traps—he always found Night Sun waiting for him.

At the age of eight summers, Snake Head had been fascinated by this strange behavior. His mother would dress beautifully and leave before dawn, carrying a basket of food and a jug of tea. She never returned until after nightfall—and she seemed to think no one noticed her absences, or connected them with Ironwood’s.

“You were such a fool, Mother,” he whispered to himself. “About that and so
many
other things. I came to hate you for betraying my father. I only wish I—”

The birds suddenly went silent. The dogs in the plaza yipped and ran off with their tails between their legs.… Then, with a low growl, the shaking began. Snake Head braced himself in his door frame to keep from stumbling and listened to the roof timbers groan and crack. Stones shook loose from the canyon wall and crashed down to roll across the ground. Sharp cries and shouts rang out. The tremor lasted only a few moments, but by the time it subsided, Snake Head was breathing as if he’d run across the canyon and back. His knees had gone suddenly weak.

Night Sun rushed to her chamber and disappeared inside. Snake Head stared after her.

“Did you feel the rage of our ancestors, Mother?” he whispered. “They’re giving you just a taste of what will happen if I ever tell anyone about the things I witnessed as a boy.”

He rose and, as he walked by the macaw’s cage, thumped the bars until the bird squawked and flapped. Snake Head smiled and proceeded to his bedding. He stretched out on his back, trying to get some rest.

He would need it. The moment his father died, Snake Head would take over as the new Blessed Sun of the Straight Path nation.

Then, his life would truly begin.

Eleven

In front of their house, Cornsilk stood quietly in the morning light while her mother draped a red-and-white striped cape around her shoulders. Thistle had been fussing with Cornsilk’s clothing and pack ever since they’d finished breakfast, over a hand of time ago, making certain she had enough food and water, that her extra clothing would equal any change of weather.

People watched from the roofs of Lanceleaf Village, shading their eyes against the morning sun. All were curious, but too polite to ask the real reason for Cornsilk and Fledgling’s departure.

Thistle retied the laces on Cornsilk’s pack—for the second time—and grimaced. Her mother always fiddled with things when she had something to say but hadn’t yet decided how to put it.

Thistle wore a deep reddish brown dress; the color came from a dye made with ripe prickly pear fruit. A tan blanket draped her shoulders.

“You look beautiful, my daughter,” her mother said. “Don’t forget to tell Deer Bird that this will only be for a short time. Just until we know for certain whether the Tower Builders plan to attack us or not. When we know we’re safe, we’ll come and get you.” She stroked Cornsilk’s hair tenderly. “I miss you already. I must have you back in my life as soon as possible.”

Cornsilk gazed into her mother’s agonized face. Lines etched the skin around her dark eyes, and she looked as if she might cry. “Don’t worry, Mother. I’ll be fine. I should be going. Fledgling is already waiting for me on the trail.”

“Yes, I know, but…” Her mother spread her hands the way she did when coming to an important decision. “Just a moment, Cornsilk.”

Thistle ducked into the house, draping the curtain over its peg. Through the open doorway, Cornsilk could see her as she crossed to the big painted pot at the foot of her bed. She lifted the stone that weighted the top, set it on the floor with a solid thump, and dug around inside.

Cornsilk swallowed hard. She’d never seen anyone open that pot! From her earliest memories, her parents had forbidden her to touch it. For once, she had obeyed. Strange sounds came from that pot late at night, hisses and taps, as if something alive were trapped in there. Something dangerous enough to require that huge rock to keep it in.

Her mother pulled out a folded blanket and held it to her heart before ducking back outside. “Cornsilk,” she said, “if something happens to you or Fledgling—and nothing will, but just in case—I wish you to have this. It’s very precious to me.”

Cornsilk watched in awe as her mother unfolded the blanket. Polished chunks of turquoise studded the centers of the red, black, and blue diamonds that had been woven into the cotton fabric. Copper bells jingled at each corner.

“Where did it come from?” she whispered. “It’s beautiful.”

Thistle carefully tucked it into Cornsilk’s pack, then retied the laces once more. “It was a gift to me many sun cycles ago.”

Cornsilk girded herself, carefully considered the question, then looked at Thistle. “A gift … from my real mother?”

Thistle’s hands hovered over Cornsilk’s pack. A difficult swallow went down her throat. “Cornsilk … forgive me. I always meant to tell you.”

Tears filled Cornsilk’s eyes. The admission was like a blow to her stomach. She couldn’t speak. She stood there in silence, her mouth open, as the tears spilled hotly down her cheeks.

“Oh, Cornsilk.” Thistle left the pack on the ground and rose to embrace her. Holding Cornsilk tightly, she kissed her hair and whispered, “I love you so much. You will always be my daughter, even if I am not your birth mother. I—”

“Who is?” Cornsilk gazed up at her. “Who is my mother? And my father?” Desperation tickled the base of her throat. She
had
to know this.

Thistle shook her head. “I don’t know. Truly. I wish I did.” Gently, she stroked Cornsilk’s back. “When you return, I will tell you everything I know, and all the things I suspect. For now, remember that … that I did not tell you before because I feared for your safety. If my suspicions are true, you would make a great prize, or a target for some ambitious warrior, Cornsilk. Tell no one about this. Promise me.” When Cornsilk just stared at her, Thistle demanded, “
Promise me!
You must not even tell Fledgling. No one! Do you understand?”

Cornsilk managed to nod. “Yes.”

Thistle lifted the pack and held it out for Cornsilk. Numb, she slipped her arms through the shoulder straps and knelt to retrieve her bow and quiver from where they leaned against the wall by the door. She slung her quiver over her left shoulder.

“Mother, I wish you to know that I love you more now than I ever have. For … for all the kindness you have shown me. I promise to take very good care of that blanket.”

Thistle put her hands on either side of Cornsilk’s face and said, “There is one more thing, my daughter: if you are ever in trouble and need help…” Words seemed to have evaporated from her lips. Finally, her gaze hardened and she continued, “If you are ever
desperate,
take that blanket to Talon Town and present it to the great priest Sternlight. Tell him that I gave it to you. He will understand.”

“But isn’t he a witch? Why would—”

“
Don’t
ask me, my daughter. I can tell you only that I believe he will help you.”

Questions plagued Cornsilk, and things she longed to say. Was Sternlight her father? Where was her mother? Still at Talon Town? Why had neither of them ever come to see her? Even secretly, just to get a glimpse of their little girl?… Didn’t they care about her?

She hugged Thistle’s shoulders. “I love you, Mother. I’ll see you soon.”

In a strained voice, Thistle answered, “I know you will. I love you, too.”

With their arms around each other, they looked down over the familiar sights of Lanceleaf Village—the square of buildings that enclosed the plaza, the kiva that made a circle on the ground to the left. Two old men leaned against the ladder that stuck up through the roof of the holy structure, smiling, talking. A group of laughing children raced across the plaza with dogs barking and leaping at their heels.

Cornsilk turned to the road where Fledgling stood with their father. Beargrass wore a long gray shirt and red leggings. His black braid hung down his back.

“Fledgling is very frightened by all this,” her mother said as they walked. “You are braver than he is, Cornsilk. Please, try to ease his fears as you walk him toward the split in the road.”

Cornsilk squinted against the sun. Her heart had gone dead in her chest. “Should I walk him all the way to Grandfather Standing Gourd’s village?”

“No, just to the split in the road. Deer Bird expects you to arrive before dark tonight. He’ll be worried if you’re late.”

“All right, mother, I—”

Her mother suddenly hugged her so hard it forced the air from her lungs. Cornsilk jumped in surprise.

“Oh, my daughter,” Thistle said as she nuzzled her cheek against Cornsilk’s. “You are my joy. Never forget that.”

Cornsilk kissed her mother’s temple. “I love you, Mother. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. And so will Fledgling. I won’t let anyone hurt him. He is like … he
is
my brother. We’ll see you when the threat of war is over.”

Thistle released Cornsilk, her dark eyes moist. At that moment, Leafhopper ran from the gate with little Brave Boy sprinting at her heels. Five summers old, Brave Boy wore a perpetual grin. Leafhopper, however, looked sad. Every time one of her feet hit the ground, her chin-length black hair flapped over her ears like wings, and her chunky body jiggled.

“Cornsilk!”
Leafhopper cried as she threw her arms around her. “You were leaving without saying good-bye?”

“I’ll only be gone for a short time, Leafhopper.”

“I know, but I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you, too. Try to stay out of trouble.”

“I will … if you’ll promise not to let any raiders catch you.”

Cornsilk forced a smile, remembering what her mother had said about her being a prize or a target. “I won’t. I promise.”