People of the Silence (28 page)

“Learning to be a Singer has its own pressing needs. Far more pressing than a penis against a breechclout, Ironwood. A Singer must become a world in himself for another’s sake—and it is a great undertaking.”

Ironwood sliced another curl of wood from his stick. “At Poor Singer’s age, I was a world in myself for my own sake. I wished to live, and love, and…”

“Many who come to me do, too. Remember the lessons taught by the Humpbacked Flute Players? Male and female are two halves of a whole. I try to show young Singers that our creativity, our fruitfulness, our very ability to love, are one. Fertility is sacred. It is the Creator.”

“The Creator?”

“Of course. The needs of the body and the needs of the Spirit aren’t different, Ironwood. Power is Power.”

“They feel different.”

Dune smiled toothlessly. “That’s why humans wage constant war upon themselves—and why you are at war with yourself. You must befriend fertility. Stop using it like a tool. The Creator only befriends those who befriend her first.”

Ironwood turned his flake over to use the sharper side. “I know of no god that I wish for my friend.”

“Well,” Dune sighed, “do the best with what you have. A god you hate is better than no god at all.”

Ironwood cocked a brow. What a strange statement! He did hate a few of the gods—especially those he’d prayed to in battle, begging them to take his life instead of one of his friends’ lives. But they’d let his friend die anyway. What sort of gods were those? “Is it really possible to end that internal war over fertility? We are humans, after all. Vain, boastful—”

“To truly love is hard work. And a lonely struggle. But it is possible. Singers understand that there is a mysterious fruitfulness in solitude.”

“Solitude?” Ironwood propped his stick on his knee and frowned out at the tendrils of mist rising above the canyon rim to become clouds. “I’m not sure I could stand that. I enjoy the company of others too much.”

“Solitude is a necessary preparation for living with others, War Chief. People, especially young people, get in trouble because they lack a foundation of solitude. Solitude, you see, is the heartbeat of the soul.”

“Hmm,” Ironwood grunted. “I thought they got in trouble because they lacked a foundation of themselves.”

“That’s what I said.”

Ironwood glanced at him. “Poor Singer is new to the shaman’s life. Aren’t you afraid he’ll get bored and leave while you are away? I would.”

Dune smiled sadly. “The only thing I fear, War Chief, is the pride lurking in his heart.”

“You mean he is too proud to be a good Singer?”

“I mean that pride is Poor Singer’s worst enemy.” Dune placed his walking stick across his knees. “For some Singers the villain is wealth, for others it’s the devotion of their people. For Poor Singer it is pride. Every time he speaks kindly, or touches gently, he feels very good about it. In fact, it makes him feel quite superior. He’s proud of himself for being kind.” Dune gripped his walking stick as if trying to wring the life from it. “If Poor Singer isn’t diligent and careful, that enemy will gouge out both his eyes and blind him to the real needs of others.”

Ironwood raised his stiletto again, but stopped with his obsidian flake hovering above the wood. He squinted at the road. A blurry form dressed in white raced toward them. “A messenger from Sternlight; he wears white.” He tucked his flake and stiletto into his pack and slung it over his shoulder.

Dune stood. “Coming for us?”

About fourteen summers old, with shoulder-length black hair and a moonish face, the boy had large dark eyes and was unusually tall-and muscular for his age. Snake Head had given the boy to Sternlight just after Mourning Dove had given birth to him.

Ironwood called, “Greetings, young Swallowtail. Do you search for us? Or others?”

The boy stopped and bent over to brace his palms on his knees while he breathed deeply of the crisp morning air. He kept his dark eyes averted from Dune, as though afraid the legendary Straight Path holy man would steal his Fire Dog soul. “War Chief, you must … come quickly. The Chief … he’s almost gone. My master wishes Dune to be there when it happens, so that the great Derelict might take over … and carry out the physical tasks of caring for the Blessed Sun’s body and soul.”

“What!”
Dune shouted.

Ironwood reddened. He still carried the unopened pot of ground turquoise and blue cornmeal in his pack.

“Dune,” he said as he turned, “if I had presented the sacred mixture to you, you wouldn’t have come, no matter what I told you, and I had strict orders from Crow Beard to bring you.”

“You lying son of a weasel! You disrespectful dog drool!”

The Derelict, holy man to four generations of Chiefs, hobbled across the sacred road, gazed at him sternly, and whacked Ironwood in the back of the head with his walking stick.

Young Swallowtail let out a shocked shriek and took off in the direction he had come from, his legs pumping like a terrified coyote’s. He glanced over his shoulder repeatedly, as if to make certain neither of them followed him.

Ironwood rubbed the knot forming at the base of his skull. “I had my orders. It was your own fault, Dune. You forced me to deceive you when you kept asking if Crow Beard was dead.”

Dune sucked his wrinkled lips over toothless gums. Glaring, he lifted his walking stick and pointed to a pink sandstone pillar which stood in the distance. “Do you know what that is?”

“Of course I do,” Ironwood responded. “It’s called Woodcutter’s Penis.”

Dune slitted an eye. “Woodcutter was the last man to deceive me.” He planted his walking stick and headed toward Talon Town. Sunlight glittered through his wispy white hair as he hobbled away.

Ironwood’s gaze riveted on the pink pillar.

“Dune!” he yelled. “Wait! I am innocent! I was under orders … Dune? Dune,
wait!
”

*   *   *

Poor Singer knotted his gray blanket around his shoulders, picked up Dune’s long-necked water jug from beside the door, and ducked beneath the door curtain.

Sunset sheathed the canyon. The cliffs threw long cold shadows across the flats and exuded the dusty scent of evening. Luminous patches of gold lay like dropped scarves on the tallest buttes. A single brilliant pink cloud hovered above the western horizon.

Poor Singer walked with his shoulders slumped, head down, kicking every sage that leaned into the trail. He’d kept his fast. The gnawing hunger pangs had receded to leave a terrible craving for food. Even the winter-dry stems on the four-wing salt-bush had started to look good. A floaty halo hung at the edge of his vision, and his thoughts wandered even more than usual.

“I’m morose,” he muttered. “Why am I morose? I shouldn’t be morose. This is one of the great moments of my life. I’m studying with the renowned Singer, Dune the Derelict. Why, there are young men who would give their very lives to be where I am today.”

He kicked another sage. The fragrance of crushed leaves surrounded him. He knew better than to eat sage leaves; they gave a man a terrible headache. Finches twittered in the brush, hopping from branch to branch, eying him curiously. A finch, on the other hand …

“I’m probably morose because I haven’t eaten in so long. How many days has it been?” He squinted down at the narrow slash of wash where the trail ended. “I had my last corncake for lunch on the day I met Dune. What’s that? Six days?”

He’d lost track of the physical world and begun doing some very strange things …

“Ah!” He tripped over a big black rock in the trail’s deepening shadows, and fell on his face. Sage raked his cheeks and stabbed him in the chest. The water jug, by some miracle, didn’t break, but rolled to one side and rocked mockingly on its curved side.

As he pulled himself to his feet, he cried, “Blast you, rock! Do you have to do that to me every night?”

After all the times he’d tripped over it, he still forgot where it was. Out of frustration, he kicked the rock, picked up the water jar, then limped on down the trail.

“Give their very lives, ha! All I’m studying is Dune’s house. I’m not studying with Dune. He’s two days’ walk away!” Anger and sorrow boiled in his empty belly. His clan expected him home in a moon or two—home, and transformed into a real Singer. “I can see it now. I’ll go home and someone will ask me to do a Sing, and I’ll get up, open my mouth, and nothing will come out because I still can’t recall the words! Nobody will believe me when I tell them I arrived, and Dune left and never came back. Or if they do,
that
could be worse!”

The little wash zigzagged along the base of the cliff and had, over countless summers, carved out a rounded pool in the red sandstone. Water collected there, pure and sparkling.

Poor Singer knelt and dipped in his jug, letting it gurgle full while his gaze roamed the stillness of the desert. He really ought to eat. Though the fasting kept his soul clear, he couldn’t be certain he wasn’t doing crazy things. He’d been having elaborate conversations with the white pieces of plaster that cracked off Dune’s house and the sage that grew up around the walls. Only that morning, he’d spent a hand of time accusing the firepit of sabotaging his efforts to make tea because the charred cotton he used as a starter would never catch. He’d placed the cotton over the red coals, as he did every morning, and blown on it until he thought he’d faint. When all he got was a pitiful smolder, he’d become convinced the firepit had evil intentions. Though, naturally, the pit denied it.

Poor Singer pulled his full jug out of the pool and rose to his feet. Water dripped from the curve to spatter on his toes. The damp ceramic felt cool and gritty. Twilight had deepened, turning the sky into a dove-colored dome. The red canyon walls had shaded purple. The shallow pool would be covered by a thin sheet of ice in the morning.

Poor Singer took a deep breath. The damp scent of water increased as darkness grew. Soon, the mountain lions, bobcats, and coyotes would be following the scent to drink from this shallow pool.

He started home.

A supernatural quiet came over the desert as evening fell. Birds perched on the cactuses, soft gray feathers fluffed out for warmth, their songs hushed. Wind Baby, who had been puffing unpredictably all day, had gone still. Poor Singer’s moccasins, patting on the dirt trail, gave a lonely voice to the night.

Perhaps, if the firepit would let him, he’d boil some venison jerky and make a nice broth for dinner. He’d add a little salt and maybe throw in some dried onions. He doubted his stomach could handle any blue corn dumplings, though the idea …

He tripped over the black rock and, let out a howl of dismay as he staggered to catch his wobbly balance. The pot seemed to weigh half the world. “What’s the matter with you?” he demanded of the rock. “Look at this! My toe has a big bruise! Why can’t you live somewhere else? You’re ugly and have sharp edges! I hate you!”

While he sucked in a breath, preparing to get really nasty, Poor Singer
heard
a voice, not words exactly, more like wind through dry grass:

Why do you insist on kicking me in the belly every day?

Stunned, he stood silent, mouth open.

“Bless the Spirits! Did you just say something to me?”

The rock glared at him, and Poor Singer blinked and straightened.

“I—I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He continued up the trail toward Dune’s house, wondering if a lack of food produced delusions, or if it opened his soul to voices he would not otherwise hear.

The latter, stupid. That’s
why
shamans fast.

Poor Singer grinned and trotted through the darkness, trying to stroke each sage he’d ruthlessly kicked on the way to the pool. Unfortunately, they all looked alike, so he couldn’t be certain he’d apologized to the right ones. Well, no matter, tomorrow he’d Sing for them, and then they would all know.

As he approached the shabby little white house in the jungle of sage, Poor Singer spied a small round pebble glowing in the trail. He picked it up, and put it in his mouth, to remind him that if he kept his own tongue from waggling, he might hear some of the voices that called from the depths of the Silence.

He suspected Dune would approve.

Sixteen

Webworm knelt in the doorway of the Blessed Sun’s chamber, keeping guard, his gaze drifting over the land beyond Talon Town. Frost coated the fallow fields and lay upon the golden ledges of the canyon. Every flat rock shone. Down near the wash, the people bustled in Streambed Town. Like Talon Town, Streambed Town curved in a huge half-moon shape, but it was much smaller. About eighty people lived there. Priests dressed in white stood in the plaza, along with several brown-clothed slaves. Cottony tufts of cloud hovered just above the canyon rim.

What a magnificent morning—not that he could enjoy it. The Chief’s chamber overflowed with whispering dignitaries, all waiting for the Blessed Sun to breathe his last. Webworm secretly wished the Chief would just do it. Then he and everyone else in Talon Town could get back to their normal lives.

His gaze drifted to the empty plaza, where slender coils of smoke rose from the kiva roof entries. The smell of burning juniper wafted up to him. He inhaled deeply and shivered against the chill. What he would give to be down there.

Sternlight said something soft, inaudible. Creeper asked, “What? Is he waking?”

“No,” Sternlight answered. “It was just a moan.”

Creeper glanced at Webworm and they exchanged an exasperated look. Webworm liked Creeper, despite the fat little man’s peculiarities. Creeper had a bad habit of overhearing private conversations and repeating every word. But he had always treated Webworm with kindness and respect, probably because Creeper was in love with Webworm’s mother, Featherstone.

Badgerbow, of the Coyote Clan, leaned against the south wall, a blanket over his shoulders. His knee-length kirtle had been painted with thunderclouds and mountains. He had brought twelve bunches of prayer feathers to hang from the ceiling.

Webworm watched the sacred offerings trembling in the air currents of the room.