People of the Silence (29 page)

Creeper hunched forward like a small black bear, hissing in Badgerbow’s ear. Badgerbow nodded. He had a long misshapen face, deeply scarred in battle, and only half a head of black hair. He had been poorly scalped by the Mogollon many sun cycles before, leaving the pitted bone of his skull naked on the left side of his head.

On the walls, the thlatsinas watched and listened, their painted bodies reflecting the sunlight that flooded the room. Webworm studied them warily. People said they were holy, but Webworm felt only evil coming from those masked figures. The Wolf Thlatsina had his fangs bared, his ears pricked, his yellow eyes wide and alert. No matter where Webworm moved in the chamber, Wolf tracked him, as though distrustful of Webworm’s presence.

He glared at the gaudy thlatsina. Though the bestial figure had a wolf’s head, his body was human, the lower arms and legs painted black with white spots. His chest shone pure white.
If I were Chief, false god, I would replaster the walls over the top of you, burying you forever. You would never look at anyone that way again.

Wolf’s eyes glimmered, and a faint smile seemed to turn up the corners of the thlatsina’s muzzle. Or a snarl?

Webworm’s fingers tightened around the deerbone stiletto tied to his belt.

“In beauty it is begun,” Sternlight softly Sang. “In beauty it is begun.”

Sternlight walked around the dying Chief, sprinkling cornmeal to the four directions. Despite his forty-three summers, the priest looked remarkably young. He had bathed at dawn and left his waist-length hair loose. Against the pure white of his long shirt, it glinted blacker than black.

Soon,
Webworm promised.
Very soon. I will expose you for the witch you are, cousin.

After Wraps-His-Tail’s death, Webworm had searched everywhere for Sternlight, without success. The Buffalo Dancers had seen him leave the Chief’s chamber, but he had not been in his room when Ironwood ordered he be found. Half a hand of time later, Sternlight had walked up the trail from the wash, humming pleasantly, his white shirt blazing in the starlight.

And had the audacity to say he had not even heard the commotion!

“He’s waking,” Night Sun said.

She sat in the northwestern corner, her graying black hair twisted into a bun on top of her head. Her triangular face with its long eyelashes had gone deathly pale. She wore a scarlet dress fringed with seashells.

“No, he’s not, Mother.” Snake Head sat on the floor beside her. Starkly handsome, he had a perfect oval face, large dark eyes, and full lips. A priceless purple shirt decorated with copper bells and macaw feathers draped his tall body. “It was just a deception of the light. A cloud moved across the face of Father Sun. That’s all.”

Webworm had to bite his lip to keep it from twisting in disgust.

Snake Head’s haughtiness grated on him like sandstone on raw flesh. The man had never suffered, not in his entire twenty-four summers. He had been treated as delicately as a precious Green Mesa pot. Because of that, he remained a boy in a man’s body. He was intolerant and quick to judge. As Snake Head gazed upon his dying father, he showed no emotion at all. He might have been gazing upon a dead rabbit—or been a dead rabbit himself. The youth cared for nothing. No … Webworm shook his head. That wasn’t quite true. Snake Head cared very much about his own enjoyment. More than anything, Snake Head relished watching people die.

Webworm peered out the doorway at the sunlit plaza and fervently prayed for Ironwood’s return.

People had emerged from their chambers and begun their daily duties. Slaves with water jugs walked down the dirt path that led to the wash. A few women had tumplines around their foreheads, bearing the weight of the cradleboards they wore on their backs. The whimpers of an infant carried on the air, high and breathless. Two old men, white-haired and hunched over, crossed the eastern plaza with small square looms and balls of cotton yarn under their arms. Webworm could hear their laughter.

Then he saw his own mother, Featherstone, roaming around outside the town. Wearing her best cape, made of buffalo fur and macaw feathers, she looked regal—like a woman on her way to a grand ceremony. And, perhaps, that’s where she thought she was. Webworm’s heart ached. Dark gray hair lay tangled around her withered face. She used her walking stick to tap the dusty ground, then hobbled around in a circle, her lips moving in words too distant to hear. At times, she could be completely lucid, loving, and funny … but she had bad days. Days when she didn’t even recognize Webworm, and begged over and over for him to tell her his name.

Love swelled within his soul. Featherstone had once been very Powerful. At the age of ten summers, she had been chosen by the priests of the Straight Path nation to be Sunwatcher. Then she had been captured by Fire Dog raiders, and they had clubbed her in the head so often that many of the cords which tethered her soul to her body had been severed; it hung by a thin thread now—sometimes in her body, other times gone.

Featherstone tripped over a rock and staggered. Webworm went rigid, fighting the impulse to rush to her, but she did not fall. She had fallen two summers ago and snapped a bone in her wrist. It still hurt her on cold days.

Sternlight knelt and placed his ear close to the Chief’s mouth. “His breath is about the length of my finger. He must be on the road to the skyworlds.”

Webworm glared at Sternlight.
If my mother had not been captured and beaten by the Fire Dogs,
she
would be Sunwatcher now, and you would be nothing.

Creeper blinked his wide black eyes and whispered, “Look, Crow Beard’s moving!”

The Chief groaned.

Badgerbow sucked in a breath and edged forward expectantly. Night Sun rose to her feet, but did not approach. She stood in the corner with her hands clasped tightly in front of her, her beautiful face tense. Snake Head remained sitting on the floor, eyes half-lidded. He watched his father like a warrior standing over a wounded enemy.

Sternlight leaned forward, and his long black hair framed his beautiful serene face. “Good morning, Crow Beard.”

“Dune? I wish … Dune.”

Sternlight answered, “The Derelict is not yet here. But he will be, soon. Swallowtail just returned to say they are coming, and the watchers in the signal towers reported two men on the north road. Give them perhaps another two hands of time. Dune is old.”

The bruised circles around the Blessed Sun’s eyes had turned black, making the rest of his face seem very pale. “His Bashing Rock … do you think he brought it?”

“Of course,” Sternlight replied in a comforting voice, and tucked the corners of the blanket around Crow Beard’s throat. “He promised you he would on your eighteenth bornday, didn’t he?”

“He’s getting old. Sometimes, he forgets.” The Chief’s head lolled sideways, and he squinted at Sternlight, as if trying to make out his features.

“He hasn’t forgotten about this, my chief. Now rest. They will be here before you—”

“My wife,” Crow Beard whispered. His age-spotted fingers fumbled at his blankets. “Where is … my wife?”

“Oh, Crow Beard.” Night Sun hurried forward like a woman who had just heard her death sentence commuted. She knelt by Crow Beard’s side and gripped his hand. “I am here, my husband.”

The chief seemed to be struggling to find the strength to speak. His eyes drifted before he could focus on her face. When he did, the lines of his forehead deepened. “Before I … I die,” he said. “I wish you to know … I—I forgive you.”

Tears filled her eyes. “I love you, Crow Beard. Don’t leave me.”

Breath rasped in his lungs. “Tell me … will you?”

Night Sun leaned closer to him. “Anything. What is it, my husband?”

“Almost seventeen … summers ago … I went to trade … with the Hohokam. When I returned … ten months later…”

Night Sun’s face suddenly went gray, and Webworm feared she might be about to faint. He got to his feet, preparing for the worst—and saw Snake Head smile grimly at his mother’s back.

She gripped her husband’s hand tighter. Against the brightly colored background of Dancing thlatsinas, Night Sun looked as still and grave as a corpse. “Yes? What about it?”

“I knew…” Crow Beard’s head dipped in a nod. “Could tell from the marks … on your belly.”

“W-what?” Night Sun exchanged a panicked glance with Sternlight, and Sternlight’s jaw set. “I had been sick, I—”

Crow Beard shook her hand weakly. “Do not lie … not now. Tell me … the child?”

“There is no child, Crow Beard,” Night Sun insisted. “I swear to you! That is the truth.”

The blanket over Crow Beard’s chest rose and fell rapidly. His breathing had gone shallow. “The child … where did you … put it?”

Webworm stared at the elders, but they appeared as stunned as he. Creeper’s round face had slackened until his mouth hung open. Badgerbow stood rigid, the bare half of his skull sickly yellow in the sun. Had Webworm understood correctly? A child? Night Sun had birthed a child nearly sixteen summers ago? While her husband had been gone? And Crow Beard knew nothing of the child’s fate? At the terrible implications Webworm’s muscles contracted, bulging through his red warrior’s shirt.

In a shaking voice, Night Sun said, “You are ill, my husband. You should sleep.”

Night Sun tried to rise, but Crow Beard’s fingers dug into her hand with a strength Webworm would not have thought he possessed. The Blessed Sun pulled his wife to the floor again, and Night Sun let out a small cry.

“Crow Beard, listen to me. Please! You do not know what you’re saying. There is
no
child. Let me go. Please, I—”

“A boy?” the Chief rasped. “Or a … a girl?”

Sternlight stepped forward with the silent grace of a deer. He dropped to Night Sun’s side. “My chief,” he said softly as he gently tried to pry Crow Beard’s fingers from Night Sun’s hand. The Chief fought him, tightening his hold. “Night Sun is tired. She has not left your side—”

“I must know!” Crow Beard demanded. “
Tell me, Night Sun,
or gods help you … I—I will never leave this place. I will walk at your side every day for the rest of your life. I will kill you … over and over … in your dreams. You’ll never sleep without me beside you, never look upon the world without seeing me.
I promise you, I will never give you peace
—”

“Crow Beard!” Night Sun sobbed. “I beg you—”

“You must answer me, my wife. The child … may have a claim. If so, I have last duties … to perform.”

Snake Head suddenly lurched to his feet. The macaw feathers on his purple shirt shimmered in a rainbow of red, blue, and yellow. “A claim? On my pitiful share of the wealth! Father, are you saying my mother betrayed you? I mean, we’ve all heard the rumors, but I never believed them!”

Sternlight lifted his head and in a silken voice said,
“Didn’t you?”

Snake Head’s eyes slitted. “What are you saying?”

Webworm stood awkwardly, not knowing what to do. Adultery was punishable by banishment—even death. The clans would go mad. A woman of the First People had
never
been found guilty of such a crime!

As though his strength had failed, Crow Beard’s hand fell back to his blankets with a soft thud. Night Sun quickly got to her feet and backed away, breathing hard, rubbing her wrist.

“Mother?”
Snake Head demanded.

She shook her head. “He’s ill, my son. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

“Then you deny having a child by another man?”

“Yes, of course, I do!”

Crow Beard’s hands knotted in his blankets. “Ironwood? Must tell … Jay Bird’s brood. Where is Ironwood? I want my War Chief! Ironwood?
Ironwood?
”

As though terrified, Night Sun placed a hand over her mouth.

Snake Head chuckled darkly, and Night Sun jerked around to stare at him.

Webworm gave her a questioning look as he walked by, but she would not meet his eyes. He bent over the Chief’s bed. Crow Beard’s nostrils had pinched, as though he could not get enough air. “Ironwood is bringing Dune, my chief,” Webworm said. “I am Webworm, his deputy.”

“Closer…” Crow Beard’s eyes wandered, as if seeking him through some growing mist. “Closer.”

Webworm knelt. “What do you wish, my chief?”

An eerie gleam entered Crow Beard’s eyes. “My sister-in-law’s grandson … yes, I remember. You have always served me … loyally. Do you … do you realize that if … if a savior rises now … you have Fire Dog blood. Do you understand?”

Webworm frowned. “No, my chief. Try to tell me what you require of me. I will do anything you ask.”

Crow Beard reached out feebly and touched Webworm’s moccasin in trust. “I wish you to … to find the child,” he said. “Do you hear me? Find the child?”

“Yes, find the child. And after that?”

“K-Kill it.”

Night Sun blurted,
“Crow Beard, for the sake of the gods! There is no child!”

Crow Beard fumbled at the leather fringes on Webworm’s moccasin. “Find the child,” he repeated. “You—you must … kill the child.”

Webworm lifted his head and fixed Night Sun with a hard look. “Where is the child?”

Night Sun folded her arms and hugged herself. “I have told you the truth, grand nephew. No child exists.”

Snake Head grabbed his mother’s sleeve and spun her around. His purple shirt contrasted with the deep red tones of her dress. “My father says you bore a child while he was away Trading. Where is it? Answer me!”

Night Sun’s expression changed from desperate worry to rage in less than a heartbeat. She slapped her son with all the strength in her slender body. “Do not
ever
speak to me that way again, my son.”

Snake Head’s mouth puckered into an enraged pout, but he backed away.

Webworm propped his hands on his hips. “What do you wish, Snake Head? If there is a child, we must learn where it is, or we cannot carry out the Blessed Sun’s order.”

Snake Head seemed to be weighing possibilities. “Creeper?” He turned to the fat little man with the jet black hair. “You are Elder of the Buffalo Clan. What are the wishes of your people? Whom do you believe?”