People of the Silence (24 page)

For three days, memories had haunted Ironwood … voices of children begging him not to kill their parents … men and women screaming as they ran from burning villages. He had served Crow Beard for eighteen summers, faithfully and efficiently carrying out each insane order.

Because of that loyalty, hollow eyes crowded Ironwood’s soul, staring at him, cursing him—sparing Crow Beard the anguish.

“Night Sun?” Sternlight tried again. “May I bring you something? A cup of hot tea, perhaps?”

“No,” she murmured.

The frail sound of her voice struck Ironwood like a physical blow. He walked outside, hoping to lessen the pain.

The interplay of light mesmerized him. A yellow blur of reflected firelight tinted the smoke that hung over Talon Town. While starlight illuminated the barren fields in the canyon bottom, the snow that frosted the rimrock outlined every ledge.

Night chilled his skin as he raised his eyes to the sky.

Spider Woman had almost cleared the horizon.

“Sternlight,” he called. “It is almost time.”

“Is she up?”

“Soon.”

“I’m coming.”

The Sunwatcher picked up his conch shell horn. Conch shells came from the faraway ocean, a place Ironwood could barely imagine. Traders said the water went on forever. Ironwood had spent his entire life in the desert. Could such a place truly exist?

Sternlight swept by Ironwood. Just outside the doorway, the ladder to the roof leaned against the wall. He climbed it and stood on the highest point in Talon Town. The priest’s weight made the roof creak. A dark shadow against the starry sky, Sternlight lifted the shell to his lips. A shrill high-pitched blast split the darkness. Then another. Four in all.

At the call, people emerged from their chambers. Some filtered into the plaza. Others perched on rooftops. The elderly gathered to his left, along the eastern wall, sitting with blankets over their white heads for warmth. To his right, along the western wall, children huddled in their parents’ laps, eyes wide.

Sternlight descended the ladder. He stood beside Ironwood, his conch shell tucked beneath his arm.

Neither said anything for a time, then Sternlight whispered, “Have the runners returned from Lanceleaf Village yet?”

“Soon. I expected them today. Perhaps tomorrow.”

“You posted warriors at the signal towers, so we would know in advance—”

“Of course, Sternlight.” He exhaled wearily. “But with the snow, Blue Corn may not have seen the fires. He…”

Ironwood’s voice faded as, one by one, the Buffalo Dancers climbed from the kiva’s subterranean warmth and ghosted out into the cold plaza. They moved in the loose-limbed gait of dominant bulls, tossing their shaggy heads. Wisps of eagle down fluttered from the tips of their horns.

A buffalo’s skull was hollowed out to fit over the Dancer’s head, leaving the long bushy beard to warm his naked chest. Below that, the men wore kirtles and moccasins. As they trotted in front of the fires, their shadows bounced over the white walls like dark giants, and their feet kicked up puffs of snow.

When they reached the center of the plaza, the Dancers split into four groups and marched to the places marking the cardinal directions. They stood in silence, shaking their horns, their bodies swaying gently as if blown by the wind. The great Power of the buffalo banished illness and brought snowstorms to the mountains. In the spring, the snow melted, flooded the ephemeral creeks, and Brother Desert opened his eternal eyes. Buffalo gave life to the world, as they had since the emergence into this Fifth World.

“Sternlight!” Night Sun shouted.

Ironwood spun and saw Crow Beard lift a hand, as though to summon one of them.

Sternlight did not turn. Ironwood said, “He’s awake.”

Sternlight bowed his head. “I know.”

The Buffalo Dancers began the sacred Songs, cleansing, pleading with the Spirits for help. As though he had just enough strength to do it, Sternlight tugged his gaze away and plodded inside to kneel beside the Chief.

Night Sun smoothed a hand down Crow Beard’s wrinkled jaw. “Hello, my husband,” she said softly. “Are you—”

“Go … away,” the Blessed Sun ordered, and feebly glared at his wife. “Sternlight? I wish … only Sternlight.”

“I am here, my chief.”

Crow Beard’s head lolled sideways. He squinted as if having trouble discerning the Sunwatcher’s features in the pale glow. “Find Dune … bring him.” He coughed weakly. “He must be … here … before I die.”

“Yes, my chief. I will see to it.” Sternlight drew one of the deerhides up to Crow Beard’s chin. “Night Sun is here, too.”

“No,” Crow Beard hissed, and closed his eyes.

Night Sun’s jaw trembled. She reached out and gently placed her fingertips on her husband’s hair. “Crow Beard, I have been waiting for—”

“Go away!”

She sat so still she might have been carved from wood. Ironwood’s fists clenched. He longed to say something to comfort her, but speaking would make matters worse.

Sternlight reached across the dying Chief, lightly touched Night Sun’s cheek, and rose. He walked to Ironwood. When he passed the bowl of warming coals, his white ritual shirt took on a bloody hue. “Do you know where old Dune the Derelict lives?”

“Yes.”

“Dispatch a runner immediately, and tell him…” Sternlight gestured awkwardly. “Warn him that Dune is odd. The old hermit may refuse to come.”

“Even if Dune knows the Chief is dying?”

“Oh, yes. Dune will know instantly why he has been summoned. Make sure the runner tells Dune this is not a request; it is a command from the Blessed Sun.”

“If you foresee such problems, perhaps I should go myself?”
I would do almost anything to be away from this chamber.
“Dune knows me. My presence might make the chore easier.”

Sternlight glanced at Night Sun. She fussed with the Chief’s blankets and hides, making certain every portion of Crow Beard’s body stayed warm. “While Crow Beard no longer needs you, I fear that Night Sun might.”

They exchanged a knowing glance, and Ironwood lowered his eyes. “She doesn’t need me, Sunwatcher. She is a remarkably strong woman.”

Ironwood turned to go, but Sternlight gripped his shoulder, stopping him, his expression serious. “My words were not an accusation. I meant them sincerely.”

“I know that.”

Sternlight murmured, “I will prepare a mixture of ground turquoise and blue corn for you to take to Dune. But if he shows any reluctance to come back with you, Ironwood, don’t give it to him.”

“You mean that you wish me to deceive one of the most Powerful shamans in our people’s history?”

Sternlight’s dark eyes seemed to expand. “Exactly. And hurry. I will expect you in two or three days.”

“Three. Dune is old and frail. He will need the time. Keep a lookout for my runners.”

“Of course.”

Ironwood ducked through the doorway and strode out into the cold. He glimpsed Sternlight leaving after him, heading in the opposite direction, probably to prepare the turquoise and blue corn.

Ironwood climbed down four ladders, set foot on the snowy plaza, and veered wide around the shuffling Dancers. He made his way through the spectators. His own chamber lay to his left, on the southeastern end of the U-shaped structure.

Adults dipped their heads respectfully as he passed, and a few children reached out to touch the hem of his long shirt. Just a touch, nothing disturbing. When they brought their hands back, they stared at their fingers, young eyes worshipful. Two women smiled. Ironwood nodded politely in return, but the effort made his heart pound.

Silently, he cursed himself. How could memories sixteen summers old still be so vivid?

Night Sun had asked him once “to forget.” As if it were as simple as walling up …

A man’s hoarse scream split the darkness.

Ironwood whirled and pulled his bone dagger from his belt in one smooth movement.

Stunned silence fell over Talon Town, then chaos erupted. People ran in every direction, shouting orders, hurrying children inside. Infants wailed shrilly. Several old people stood up to get a better look at the commotion.

Five warriors dashed through the gate that connected the halves of the plaza.

“What’s happened?” Ironwood demanded.

“Come quickly!” the lanky, square-jawed man in front replied. In the ruddy glow of the plaza fires, Webworm looked as though he’d just witnessed the rebirth of the Monster Children. “Creeper found a dead man.”

Ironwood sprinted past his warriors.

People flooded toward the gate and the western plaza entry, shoving and shouting at each other. Frightened gasps carried on the wind. Ironwood had to force his way through, yelling, “Move. Move!”

When he made it through the gate, he turned left and raced for the entry. He found Creeper, leader of the Buffalo Clan, kneeling over a body, dressed in his magnificent ritual costume. His headdress lay on the ground beside him, the long buffalo beard shining in the amber gleam cast by the town. The body lay sprawled between the two mounds. The fourteen-summers-old slave boy, Swallowtail, crouched behind Creeper, a horrified expression on his face.

“Who is it?” Ironwood asked. “Is it—”

“It’s Wraps-His-Tail,” Creeper answered, and used the back of his hand to wipe sweat from his eyes. Short and fat, Creeper resembled a bear. Thick black hair covered his bare chest and arms. His white kirtle and moccasins shone eerily in the dim glow. “I sent Swallowtail out to fetch more wood for the fire. Swallowtail almost tripped over him, and came running to tell me. When I saw the blood, I yelled for Webworm.”

Ironwood’s closest friend lay curled on his side, his face turned northward toward the road that led to the sacred
sipapu.
The Evening People’s radiance glinted in his blood-speckled eyes.

A hollow ache spread through Ironwood’s gut.
My friend, gone.…

Brains showed through the crack in Wraps-His-Tail’s skull. Clearly, he’d been taken by surprise. His bow and his quiver of arrows were missing, but the slip knot securing his hafted stone knife to his belt remained intact. An eerie smile had frozen on his face—as if he’d seen his attacker and thought him a friend.

Who would kill him? And why? What purpose would his death serve?
People killed out of hatred, fear, self-preservation—but behind all of those lay desperation. What could have driven a man to be desperate enough to kill Wraps-His-Tail?

The murderer knew what news he carried.

But what part? The child? No. Not even Wraps-His-Tail knew the truth about that. He had instructed Wraps-His-Tail to ask if Beargrass would return to be his deputy if open warfare broke out. Did the murderer fear what Ironwood would do when he heard Beargrass’ answer?

He raised his eyes to Webworm. The man’s square jaw tightened in response.
I would have demoted you and put Beargrass in your place.

But Webworm and Beargrass had been great friends. Webworm simply didn’t have it in him to murder a friend over a question of status. Did he?

Ironwood returned his gaze to Wraps-His-Tail.

“What’s that in his hand?” Ironwood pointed.

“What?” Creeper asked. “His hand?”

Creeper reached out and tenderly uncurled Wraps-His-Tail’s cold fingers to pick up the object. A moment after he did, he let out a small cry and threw it on the ground. Furiously, he scrubbed his hand in the dirt.

The crowd surged forward, murmuring and craning their necks to see better.

“Blessed gods,” Creeper whispered. “It’s a badger’s paw. But … what’s it sprinkled with?”

“Corpse powder,” Ironwood answered, and shivered involuntarily. Powdered corpse flesh had a distinctive silver sheen that clung to the skin. In the light cast by the town, it glowed with a bizarre brilliance.

Harshly, Ironwood ordered, “Webworm, find Sternlight!”

*   *   *

Night Sun lay wrapped in two blankets at Crow Beard’s side. Through the pinned-back doorflap, she could see Ironwood and Sternlight standing outside the chamber, their tall bodies dark against a canvas of glittering stars. Ironwood had his arms folded across his broad chest. Sternlight stood against the wall. She only caught a few of their words, but Sternlight spoke calmly, patiently, while Ironwood’s deep voice had a bite to it.

“… why Wraps-His-Tail?”
Ironwood asked.
“… murder has reasons … who could possibly have known…”

Sternlight replied softly, and Night Sun did not hear his answer.

Her thoughts drifted. Thinking about Ironwood. About the first time they’d been alone together.

Blessed Spirits, what a long time ago … it seemed another life.

It had happened late in the Moon of Greening Grass.

Night Sun had spent all day supervising a difficult slave birth and had felt weary beyond exhaustion. As she’d crossed Talon Town’s moonlit plaza, desperate for sleep, she’d looked up and seen Crow Beard standing in the doorway to their chamber, silhouetted blackly against the golden glow of torchlight. He had his fists clenched at his sides and his legs spread as if bracing for a fight.

He’d been acting strangely for moons, growing more and more frightening with his sudden emotional outbursts, punishing the children for no reason at all—especially their two-summers-old daughter, Cloud Playing, which enraged Night Sun. And worried her.

Night Sun had climbed the ladders to the fifth story, and when she stepped off onto the roof, called, “Crow Beard? Is something wrong?”

Night Sun hurried forward, her Healing pack in her hands. As she neared the door, Crow Beard turned and walked inside. Night Sun followed, dropping her pack by the door, untying her turkey-feather cape and hanging it on a wall peg.

“What’s wrong this time?” she demanded.

Crow Beard slowly crossed the chamber and stood over their bed, staring at the rumpled red-and-black blankets. He wore a thin sleeping shirt. “You were out with one of my warriors, weren’t you?” he said in a tight voice. “While I slept, you—”

“
What?
” Night Sun blurted. “I was down helping with the birth of Running Doe’s daughter! You knew that. I told you!”