People of the Silence (26 page)

Dune had ordered Poor Singer not to speak, not even to think. “Just gather sage,” he’d said.

The man sprinted closer, until Poor Singer could see his red shirt, belted at the waist, and the magnificent turquoise pendant around his neck.

Poor Singer squinted at the sleeping Derelict. He tried mouthing the word,
Dune.

Nothing.

Poor Singer edged closer and whispered, “Dune?”

Still nothing.

He stood at Dune’s feet and rubbed his toe in the sand, making noise. Dune’s smile didn’t even dim. “Uh … Dune? There’s a man coming.”

Dune opened one eye. “You are such a stupid boy. Didn’t I tell you a Singer’s purpose is to
see,
not to babble?”

“Yes, well, I thought I’d better babble before you got trampled.” Poor Singer pointed. “He’s coming fast.”

Dune lifted his white head and squinted at the man running toward him. “Ah,” he breathed. “Bad news.”

Poor Singer frowned skeptically. How could he know?

Dune sat up and waited.

When the visitor arrived, he bowed deeply. “I hope I find you well, holy Derelict.”

“You do, Ironwood. What—”

“Ironwood!”
Poor Singer spluttered. “The—the great War Chief of Talon Town?”

Dune yelled, “You
imbecile!
Ironwood is a man like any other! Except you. You’re dog urine!”

Poor Singer winced with embarrassment. You couldn’t be certain that what Dune said was truly what he meant. He’d called Poor Singer “slimy packrat dung” last night, and then explained his joy that Poor Singer had decided to become a part of the cleansing process of his people.

Poor Singer edged forward and asked, “Was that an insult?”

Ironwood was a broad-shouldered muscular man, his face hardened by years of weather, worry, and war. Dust sheathed his red shirt, and his moccasins were grimy from travel. The stout black bow over his shoulder gleamed as if waxed, however, and the arrows in his quiver looked newly fletched. A slim bone stiletto hung from his belt next to a stone-headed war club. The large turquoise pendant had been carved in the shape of a running wolf.

The warrior peered at Poor Singer as though he might be dimwitted, and said, “Dune—”

“What’s wrong, War Chief?”

“The Blessed Sun is dying, and he wishes you to be there.”

Dune scowled. “In what capacity? I see you offer me no mixture of ground turquoise and blue cornmeal.”

Poor Singer listened intently. When a person was dying the family sent such a mixture to the Singer they wished to attend the dying. If the Singer took it, it meant he or she accepted the dangerous physical tasks of washing, dressing, and handling the body of the dead, as well as the spiritual tasks of Singing the soul to the afterworld. The mixture would later be sprinkled over the corpse to sanctify it before the burial procession left for the journey down the sacred road.

Ironwood hesitated, apparently judging Dune’s expression, then responded, “I do not, Elder. The Blessed Sun demands only your presence. That is all.”

“Are you certain of this?”

“My orders come from his lips, holy Derelict.”

Dune rubbed his wrinkled chin, as though considering. “But he’s not dead yet?”

“Very close,” Ironwood said. “When last I saw him—”

“Then go away.” Dune waved a translucent old hand. “There’s nothing I can do until he’s dead. Tell Crow Beard I said so.” He flopped back on the sand, clasped his hands over his stomach, and closed his eyes. Sunlight flowed into his wrinkles.

“Elder,” Ironwood said, “the Blessed Sun is
dying.
This is not a request. He orders you to be present.”

“He’s just worried about his relatives. Tell him that when he’s dead, I promise to bring my Bashing Rock. I will personally smack him in the face to free his soul. Unless, of course, his relatives have already thrown him facedown in a hole and dropped a slab of sandstone over him.”

Poor Singer gasped.
Great Monster Slayer!
Suggesting such a thing about a Chief would have gotten most men whacked in the head and unceremoniously left for the coyotes. And Dune had just said it to the greatest War Chief alive!

Ironwood propped his hands on his hips. “Gather your things, Elder. We must leave immediately.”

“You must leave immediately, War Chief. I—”

“But, Dune!” Poor Singer said. A swallow went down his dry throat. “You’ve taught me that we must be generous and kind. If the Chief needs you—”

“He doesn’t. Not yet.”

“Dune,” Ironwood said, obviously choosing his words carefully. “If you will not come for the dying Chief, will you come for the Sunwatcher? Sternlight may need you more than Crow Beard does.”

Dune braced himself up on one bony elbow. His expression changed. For the first time he looked sincerely worried. “Why? What’s happened?”

“One of my runners, Wraps-His-Tail, was murdered last night. He had a badger’s paw in his fist and corpse powder—”

“Witchcraft!”
Poor Singer blurted, and took a step backward.

Ironwood shot him a glance. “Yes. The town has gone crazy with fear. They—”

“And your other runner?” Dune said.

“My other…” Ironwood’s expression slackened. “How did you know I’d sent—”

“Is Cone dead?”

Ironwood gestured lamely. “All we know is that he has not returned to Talon Town.”

Dune grunted as he got to his feet and walked off.

Confused, Poor Singer trotted after him. Ironwood brought up the rear, his footsteps light.

When they reached the sagging white house, Dune ducked under his door curtain. Poor Singer and Ironwood stood outside, glancing uneasily at each other. A single flute note blared, followed by the thump of a pack hitting the dirt floor.

“He’s packing,” Poor Singer said.

Ironwood ignored him, his hard gaze on the swaying curtain.

Awkwardly, Poor Singer added, “He’s a very holy man. I’m sure he’ll help in any way he can. He…”

Dune emerged from his house dressed in a clean brown shirt, his walking stick and pack in hand. He tossed the pack beside a sagebrush and headed straight for Poor Singer. He fell on his knees, bowed his head, and instructed, “This is going to be a grim journey. Sing for me.”

“Wh-which Song?”

“Sing! Before I lay a curse upon you and all your unborn children!”

Poor Singer’s arms shot heavenward, and he Sang the first Song that came to his mind:

“Far away in the north,

Lies the road of emergence

Cloud flowers blossom there.

And … uh … lightning flashes

Something … else … happens,

and

Raindrops fall—!”

“And,” Dune said as he got to his feet, “they have Singers who know all the words.”

Horrified, Poor Singer bit his lip.

Dune glared at him, grabbed his pack, and shouldered past Ironwood, saying, “Let’s hurry.”

“Don’t worry about anything, Elder!” Poor Singer called after them. “Have a safe journey. I’m not going home. I promise! I’ll be right here when you return!”

Over his shoulder, Dune yelled, “Remember what I have told you. Keep your tongue from waggling and practice being a bug. And don’t forget to feed the mice!”

Poor Singer muttered, “I hate mice,” but yelled, “
I won’t!
”

Fourteen

Father Sun had vanished from the sky, but echoes of his brilliance lingered, reflecting from the flat faces of the cliffs, turning the juniper-filled hollow where Cornsilk and Fledgling sat into a luminous mosaic of purple, deep green, and the palest of golds.

Cornsilk pulled her red-and-white cloak tight about her shoulders. They couldn’t have found a more perfect place. Water bubbled up from the sandstone and trickled down a pine-choked crevice in the rock. A small pool glistened at the base of the slope, surrounded by deer, rabbit, and bird tracks. It made hunting easy. They had already snared a rabbit for dinner.

While Fledgling skinned and rinsed the animal in the cool water, Cornsilk removed a handful of charred cotton from her pack, along with two chert cobbles. A shallow depression in the sandstone had old charcoal in it. She cleaned it out and mounded up her cotton, then carefully sprinkled dried pine needles and twigs over the top. You couldn’t add too many, or the tinder would smother the cotton and it would just smoke, rather than catching fire. She reached for her cobbles and struck them sharply against each other. They sparked. After several attempts, the cotton smoldered, then flared. Cornsilk quickly put her cobbles aside and bent to blow on it.

Orange flames crackled through the pine needles and licked up around the twigs. She added larger and larger pieces of wood until she had a good blaze going, then moved their tea tripod to the edge of the flames to warm. She had collected shriveled rose hips and juniper berries and added them to the water earlier. The gut bag swung, creaking.

“Fledgling?” she called. “How is the rabbit coming?”

Fledgling held up the skinned carcass, smiling. “Almost ready.”

His stubby hands caught the sunset gleam as he lowered the rabbit to the pool and rinsed it one last time. He had their mother’s broad cheekbones and their father’s eyes, but his own pug nose. Long black hair fell down his back, blending with the charcoal diamonds woven into his tan shirt.
He looks so much like them. I don’t. Why have I never seen that before?

Uncertainty gnawed at her soul. Cornsilk surveyed their camp. Junipers, she decided, could grow anywhere. The smallest dirt-filled gap in the stone held a tree twice her height. As the cool of evening deepened, they released their sweet scent and set it loose on the wind.

Fledgling walked back and knelt beside her. “Where’s that sharp blade you had?”

“Here, in my pack.” Cornsilk drew out her obsidian blade. As long as her hand, it was only a finger-width across.

“I’ll hold the rabbit,” Fledgling said, “if you’ll butcher it.” He pulled a back leg straight and held it out for her.

Cornsilk carefully sliced through the pink muscles and down to the leg joint. She had to work her blade through the tough tendons to get inside the joint, pop it loose, and continue through the meat on the opposite side of the joint.

The leg came off in Fledgling’s right hand and the remainder of the rabbit swung in his left. “Let’s cut off the other hind leg, and save the rest for breakfast.”

“All right. Here—let me skewer that leg and get it started. Then I’ll cut off the other one.”

Cornsilk pulled a long thin stick from the woodpile by the firepit and slid it through the leg. She propped it near the edge of the flames and picked up her blade again.

As she cut, Fledgling looked up at the twilight sky. “It might be a clear night. If so, it’s going to get very cold.”

“Hard frost by morning.” She watched her blade to make certain she didn’t slice off any of her brother’s fingers. “After we eat, we’ll gather more wood, then we’ll move our blankets close. We’ll be all right.” She glanced up and saw Fledgling’s brows draw together in worry. “What’s wrong, brother?”

The leg came off in Cornsilk’s hand and she reached for another stick from the woodpile. Fledgling watched her slip the stick through the tendons on the lower leg and lean it close to the flames. The first piece of rabbit already sizzled, dripping fat onto the gleaming coals. It smelled delicious.

Fledgling rose and took the rest of the rabbit carcass to the nearest tree. Removing the cord he wore as a belt, he tied it to the rabbit’s forelegs and looped it around a high branch, to keep the meat from hungry animals. After he’d knotted the cord, he turned. The carcass swung behind him. “You’ve been very quiet,” he said. “Is something wrong?”

Cornsilk longed to tell him how confused she felt, that
she
was the hidden child, but she’d promised her mother. She looked away, tucked her chert cobbles in her pack beneath the magnificent turquoise-studded blanket, then leaned back against the pack to watch the fire glow flicker over the towering cliff. The light moved like silent golden wings, fluttering, swooping. “I’m just tired, Fledgling.”

“Cornsilk?” Fledgling returned and sat cross-legged beside her. His hair fell over his skinny chest. “I’ve been thinking.”

Cornsilk reached for their clay cups, sitting close to the tripod, and used hers as a dipper. She filled her brother’s cup first, handed it to him, then dipped out her own. The rich fragrance of rose hips encircled her face as she sniffed the steaming brew. “About what?”

Fledgling looked at her over the rim of his cup. “Do you remember much from when we were little?”

Cold leeched up from the rock, biting at her legs like tiny teeth. She shifted to a new position. “No, not very much.”
And how I wish I did.

“Do you remember that Mother and Father said we were born at Talon Town?”

“Yes. What about it?”

“I remember many things,” he said, “but nothing of Talon Town.”

“Why would you? Mother said we left there right after we were born. It would be stranger if you did remember it.”

Wind Baby barely breathed tonight, tenderly touching the juniper and pine needles, fanning the flames of their fire. The scent of faraway rain carried on the breeze.

“Do you think people there remember us?” Fledgling asked.

“Somebody must.”

The gleam of the fire tipped his lashes as he looked over at her. “I was wondering if Ironwood would recognize … one of us.”

Fear prickled her veins. “And I wonder if any of Ironwood’s enemies would recognize us.”

Fledgling fumbled with the fringe on his blanket. “I know it’s dangerous, but I—”

“You or I could end up dead.”

A pained look creased Fledgling’s face. “Cornsilk, I
must
know who my parents are. I—I want to go. To ask Ironwood myself.”

Cornsilk turned both rabbit sticks, taking her time so she could think. “Fledgling, I have been asking myself many questions over the past two days, and the scariest question of all is about Ironwood. I mean, haven’t you wondered why he would give up his child?”