People of the Silence (23 page)

Brave Boy grabbed Cornsilk around the leg and squeezed. “Goodbye, Cornsilk.”

She brushed tangled hair away from his round face and smiled at him. “Try to be good, all right?”

He looked up with wide eyes. “I will. And I won’t play hoop-and-stick with anyone else while you are gone!”

“I will miss you, Brave Boy.”

He grinned, said, “Good-bye, Cornsilk,” and raced away toward the village.

Leafhopper reached out to touch Cornsilk’s arm. “Come home soon.”

“I will, Leafhopper.” Cornsilk indicated the watching people with a jerk of her head. “No matter what they think about me being a witch, that’s not why I’m leaving.”

“I know,” Leafhopper said in a disbelieving voice. Then she backed away, turned, and ran for the plaza. Cornsilk watched until her friend disappeared through the gate.

“Ready?” her mother asked.

Cornsilk nodded and turned away.

Thistle held Cornsilk’s hand tightly for the rest of the walk. Fledgling and Beargrass were standing where the trail led off toward Deer Bird and Standing Gourd’s villages. From the looks of it, they’d been having a father–son talk. Fledgling clenched his fists nervously as they neared. Wind tousled the hem of his tan-and-brown cape. His brows, usually arched with mirth or curiosity, were drawn down above his pug nose.

Her father smiled. “Are you ready, Cornsilk?”

“Yes, F-father. Don’t worry about us.” When the word “father” stuck in her throat, Beargrass frowned.

He leaned down, cupped her chin with his hand, and looked at her with love in his eyes. “I’ll worry every instant you’re away. Protect yourself for me.”

Cornsilk hugged him hard. “I will, Father. You and Mother take care of each other for us, too.”

“We will.”

Her father patted Cornsilk’s back, rose, and cocked his head at Fledgling. Her brother looked miserable. He fumbled with the quiver over his shoulder, then ran his hand down the smooth wood of the bow tied to his belt. Tears filled his eyes.

Cornsilk winked at him. They had planned well. They would run straight past the fork in the road and head for the rock shelters that hollowed out the cliffs a half day’s walk to the south. They had camped there with their parents last summer, and knew it to be a beautiful place. A cool spring bubbled up from the sandstone, and fragrant juniper trees blocked Wind Baby’s evil antics.

“Come on,” she called to Fledgling. “I’ll race you to the split in the road!”

Cornsilk took off like a fleet-footed antelope, dust puffing beneath her sandals. She ran with all her heart, ran until the ache in her breast was overwhelmed by the panting of her air-starved lungs.

Fledgling pounded behind her, but she could hear him crying.

They turned around only once, on the crest of the hill, to wave to their parents. Then they sped down the other side toward the juniper grove that marked the split in the road.

*   *   *

Beargrass put his arm around Thistle. As though his attempt at comfort brought pain, she wept, but her eyes never left the horizon.

Tiny clouds of dust sprouted from the opposite side of the hill. Thistle’s gaze clung to each one. In the crystal blue sky above, two golden eagles soared, their wings glinting in the sunlight. Beyond rose the cliffs of Little Runt Canyon. At this time of day, shades of mauve, violet, and deep red glimmered. Ghosts Danced there, whirling and shaking human fingerbone rattles.

Beargrass rubbed his chin over Thistle’s dark hair. “It’s all right. While you fed them, I spoke with Stone Forehead. He’ll check on both of them tomorrow on his way to Talon Town. If anything is wrong, if they got lost or hurt, he’s promised to let us know.”

Thistle slipped arms around his waist and embraced him. “I thank the blessed thlatsinas for you. Did you know that? Every day of my life.”

Twelve

The scent of death permeated the air, coiling through Crow Beard’s room as if alive.

Bone weary, Ironwood leaned his shoulder against the clay-washed wall of the Chief’s chamber and closed his eyes. Just the illusion of sleep helped. His taut muscles relaxed, and he could finally pull a deep breath into his lungs. His buffalo cape warmed his torso, but his long black shirt and leggings couldn’t block the cold.

Sandals creaked on the plastered floor. Ironwood turned to his left and saw Sternlight standing over the sleeping Night Sun. Rolled in a single black blanket with white diamonds woven around the edges, she looked frail and thin, her beautiful face serene in the red light cast by the bowls of glowing coals.

Sternlight adjusted her blanket so it covered her exposed right arm, then rose and went to his mats in the southwestern corner. His white ritual shirt swayed about his legs as he picked up his red blanket and swung it around his shoulders. He gave Ironwood a sympathetic glance before he sat down, propped his forehead on his knees, and tried to rest. Waist-length hair draped around him.

The great priest could sleep, but the great warrior had to remain on guard.

Ironwood’s gaze drifted over the magnificent thlatsinas painted on the walls. Larger than life, they wore bright feathered masks and carried rattles in their hands. Four terraces of black thunder clouds adorned their chests, and red streaks of falling rain striped their kirtles. As heat rose from the bowls of coals brought in to warm the dying Chief, the gods blurred and wavered.…
Dancing.
Subtly, but Ironwood could see it. The thlatsinas seemed to spin, kirtles billowing, their hallowed feet pounding out the rhythm that had created the universe. If he concentrated, he could hear their voices.…

Ironwood shook himself. Sleep taunted him at the edges of his soul, beckoning like a lover’s arms.

He pushed away from the wall and walked toward the low doorway in the corner. Before he’d fallen asleep, Crow Beard had ordered the curtain lifted, so that his soul might wander about the canyon, saying good-bye. Ironwood crouched in the entry, shivering in the icy breeze.

A light dusting of snow had fallen. The roofs and plaza of the huge town shone silver. Talon Town contained eight hundred rooms, but most of them served as storage. Crow Beard and Night Sun always strove to have a three-cycle supply of food stored, in case of crop failure.

Many other rooms became guest quarters during solstice ceremonials, when the population of Straight Path Canyon swelled to tens of thousands. A few rooms had been built for ghosts. Talon Town—like the other great towns in the canyon—was holy ground, and clan elders and priests from distant places occasionally wished to be buried here, so that they might be close to the gods.

The practice provided a third kind of afterlife. Made People followed the north road to the blessed
sipapu
and traveled to the underworlds to live with their ancestors, while the First People became thlatsinas, but elders of the Made People who could afford to be buried in Talon Town continued to live in this world. Their souls walked about, mingling with other ghosts, speaking to all of the gods who regularly visited here.

Ironwood shook his head. He could imagine no more dismal an afterlife. What would a man talk to a god about? He would run out of topics in a matter of days and be stuck in the company of divine beings for eternity. A horrifying thought.

What had rich Made People with such aspirations done before Talon Town became sacred ground?

Legends said that many cycles ago the fourteen towns in the canyon had been occupied only seasonally. People came and went for ceremonials, but they didn’t stay—alive or dead—except perhaps by accident. Only in the past few generations had a constant small population of chiefs, priests, clan elders, and slaves lived here, caring for the ghosts, maintaining the sacred shrines and producing the magnificent turquoise figurines used for trade with outlying villages.

Because the First People had emerged from the underworlds, they possessed secret knowledge of those worlds that the Made People did not. Stories had been passed down from generation to generation, describing the trip through the underworlds, the traps laid by wicked monsters, the landmarks which guided traveling souls on the right path. For a price, the First People shared their stories, and might even provide the seeker with a turquoise wolf Spirit Helper to guide him on the journey.

The First People at Talon Town traded their knowledge for almost everything. Their beautiful black-on-white pottery came from the Green Mesa villages in the north, their hides and meat from plains hunters, their turquoise from Fourth Night House to the east. They grew some of their own crops through extensive water control projects—canals, reservoirs, dams, and the careful maintenance of farming terraces—but most food came to Talon Town as gifts from the faithful villages of Made People.

Each Made People clan had a specific role. Ironwood’s clan, the Bear Clan, provided warriors to manage the labor force, guard food reserves, and conduct offensive and defensive warfare when necessary. Buffalo Clan controlled agricultural activities. They were responsible for planting, harvesting, designing irrigation projects, and preparing food for storage. Ant Clan did all of the building. They cut trees, quarried stone, built the irrigation projects designed by Buffalo Clan, and constructed the multistoried towns. The majestic stonework of Ant Clan masons was esteemed even by the Fire Dogs. Coyote Clan provided hunters and Traders.

Almost unconsciously Ironwood’s hand lifted to the turquoise wolf pendant that Night Sun had given him. The first time they’d consummated their love, she’d told him how to get to the underworlds. They’d been lying on a hilltop under a blanket, staring up at a wealth of spring stars …

Ironwood rubbed his eyes and stared out at the night. Sound carried to this highest row of rooms. He could hear Singing from the kivas, the voices weaving a soft background for the night. In the distance, dogs barked, and a child shrilled angrily.

Many lesser clans of Made People existed: the Red Bird, the Buffalobeard, the Canyon Wren. But each allied itself with one of the four great clans, and so was considered part of it. Clans came and went, depending upon the strength of their hands, the productivity of their lands, and the faith in their hearts. Ironwood had witnessed the death of six clans: The Blue Bead had been hunted down and slaughtered by the Hohokam; the Mogollon had wiped out the Butterfly Shield Clan; Two Stone Clan had been destroyed by Ironwood’s warriors—their village burned, their bodies crushed with stones—when it was discovered they were witches.

And then there was the Hollow Hoof Clan, which had lost its sacred bundle to strange tattooed warriors who had come out of nowhere, stolen their Tortoise Bundle, and kidnapped a little girl … what had her name been? Yarrow and Red Cane’s daughter. Three or four summers old. Nightshade? He couldn’t recall for certain, though he had been in the plaza watching the sacred Dances that night. When the attack came, he’d dashed inside for his weapons and missed all but the last moments of the battle. He’d shot two arrows at the backs of fleeing men.

Over the years, Talon Town had lost many children to raiders. They stole them for slaves, then beat them half to death. Sometimes, an enemy warrior took children to make them part of his family. Perhaps his wife had not been able to give him a daughter, or his son had died from a childhood illness.

The Straight Path nation did the same.

Slaves moved about in the dark plaza below. Ironwood’s eyes followed them as they built fires, carried water and food, and prepared for the feast to be held later in the day. He could hear them talking in their strange Fire Dog tongue. Two women delivered wood to the Buffalo Clan’s kiva, carefully placing their armloads near the ladders that thrust up from the roofs.

From Ironwood’s fifth-story perspective, the kivas resembled huge rings on the white plaza. Inside, the Buffalo Dancers Sang, their voices rising like smoke into the frosty darkness.

He leaned out the doorway to check the stars.

Spider Woman had one spindly leg extended over the eastern horizon. When she had climbed fully into the sky, the Dancers would emerge from the kivas, to try once more to save the Blessed Sun’s life.

Behind him, Night Sun sighed. He turned. After a long yawn, she shoved back her blanket and got to her feet. Her bright blue dress clung to her slender body. She smoothed her mussed hair away from her face. When she twisted it into a bun on top of her head, as she did now, and secured it with turquoise-inlaid bone pins, she looked breathtaking.

Sternlight wakened at her movements, and called, “Night Sun?”

Without answering, she lit one of the torches from the glowing coals in the warming bowl. Made from shredded juniper bound together with cotton cord, the torch end gleamed with smoking red eyes. She blew them to life, creating a gold bubble of light in the room. Then she stepped over to her husband.

The Blessed Sun lay in the middle of the floor, covered with deerhides. The blood seemed to have drained from his wrinkled face, leaving it curiously pale in the wavering light. His eyes rested in bruised wells of flesh.

Sternlight rose. The copper bells on his white sleeves tinkled when he put a hand on Night Sun’s arm. “Why don’t you try to eat one of the blue corncakes the slaves brought? You’ve taken nothing in two days.”

Night Sun knelt at the Chief’s side, her blue dress spreading around her. Torchlight made the gray in her dark hair shimmer.

Ironwood glanced away and concentrated on the chamber. He couldn’t stand to think about her, about the freedom Crow Beard’s death would give her. Dared not.

Prayer feathers hung from the roof, and he watched them twist and flutter in the breeze. Every day clan leaders brought more. After Crow Beard’s death, each Made People clan would assign a representative to escort the Chief’s corpse down the south road to the sacred Humpback Butte, where his soul would climb into the skyworlds and become one of the thlatsinas. There, in the sky, he would bring rain and happiness to the people.

Ironwood’s mouth hardened. How strange that after death the Chief would bring happiness, when he had brought nothing but misery during his life.