People of the Silence (36 page)

Ironwood climbed the ladder to the fifth-story roof and sat cross-legged in the rain, peering at the fires that flickered across the lowlands. Hundreds of them. Straight Path Canyon had neither the farmland nor the water to provide for the masses who had migrated here to be close to the sacred First People. Still, they came. He gazed down at the silver stream of water slithering through the wash. When the wind gusted just right, he heard flute music—faint, lilting. Perhaps it came from Kettle Town.

Ironwood held his cape closed around his throat and blinked against the raindrops. He longed to sit here until the cold lanced his bones. Maybe when his flesh felt as icy as his soul, he’d be able to think straight again. He’d been stumbling around like a fool, not knowing what to do or how. Feeling lost.

He inhaled deeply of the damp night, and his thoughts returned to Night Sun.

… Remembering the first time they’d had days alone together.

Before Crow Beard had left on his trading mission to the Hohokam, he’d given Ironwood specific instructions:
“She is to go nowhere alone. Do you understand me, War Chief? Nowhere. Not on a walk to a nearby town, not to visit relatives, not even down to the wash to fill a jug of water. Do not let my wife out of your sight—ever!”

The words had been delivered with such utter gravity that Ironwood had vowed he would obey. He had escorted Night Sun everywhere—to her dismay.

Crow Beard had been gone for half a moon when Night Sun packed for one of her Healing trips to the neighboring villages.

The day before she planned to go, she and Ironwood had been standing in the middle of the plaza, surrounded by people weaving blankets, making pots, and knapping out stone tools, when he’d informed her that he would be accompanying her. Night Sun had grabbed three greenware pots from a potmaker and thrown them at Ironwood. He’d ducked the first one. The second had struck him in the shoulder. The last had missed—after which she’d called him unpleasant names.

She’d tried to sneak out of Talon Town in the middle of the night to avoid him.

Naturally, he’d anticipated her, and followed.

For three days, she’d refused to speak to him. Then, on the fourth day, they had been walking along the eastern end of the canyon, Night Sun in front, Ironwood guarding her back. He’d been studying the swirling patterns in the cliff. As though sanded by the hands of the gods, the designs felt as smooth as combed cotton. He ran his fingers over those he could reach, and marveled.

Night Sun strode along the trail, oblivious to the majesty, her tan-and-black dress dancing in the wind. She’d plaited her long hair into a single braid that hung to the middle of her back. Every so often, when she gazed into the distances, he caught sight of her triangular face with its pointed nose and large dark eyes. Her beauty stoked a hollow longing inside him.

As they rounded a bend in the trail, storm clouds rolled over the rim and engulfed the sky, rumbling and spitting rain. Thunderbirds roared. Ironwood jumped. Spring thunderstorms were common, but could be very dangerous.

“Blessed Night Sun?” he called. “We should find cover!”

Lightning slashed the heavens, so brilliant it blinded him, the roar almost deafening. Ironwood fell back against the cliff, his gaze glued to the sky. A searing web of light stitched the tortured heavens.

Night Sun also leaped back against the cliff, breathing hard, her eyes wide.

Ironwood started toward her, and a bolt of lightning lanced down, blasted a juniper tree less than two hundred hands from them, spraying wood and striking fire. Flames burst to life in the branches. Sparks blew, and grass and brush flared. Junipers torched as the wildfire rushed through the grass.

“Come on!” Ironwood yelled and ran for Night Sun. “We have to find cover! There’s a rock shelter up that talus slope!”

Grabbing her hand, he dragged her up the slope. Loose rocks and gravel made the climb difficult, but they reached the shelter, which sat about a hundred hands above the raging prairie fire. Smoke boiled into the air as the flames leapt and roared.

“We should be safe here,” he said as he sank to the floor of the shelter and leaned back against the cool sandstone.

The clouds opened and rain poured down in a shimmering opaque wall of water. The air smelled of burning cedar and rain. Blue smoke curled in the wind.

Night Sun sat down as far away from him as she could, which wasn’t far given the size of the rock shelter. The stone hollow stretched two body-lengths across and less than half a body-length deep—but if Wind Baby kept blowing from the north, it would keep them mostly dry.

Ironwood unslung his pack and pulled out his gut water bag. Tipping his head back, he took several swallows.

The rock shelter had a lovely view of the surrounding country. To the east, grassy flats stretched for half a day’s walk, punctuated by square buttes and weatherbeaten ridges. Far away, the Bearclaw Mountains etched a jagged blue line against the sky. Snow lay heavy on the peaks. Southward, and curving up toward the northwest, the cliffs of Straight Path Canyon gleamed wetly, as if washed with fresh blood.

Ironwood handed his water bag to Night Sun.

She looked at his extended hand, then into his eyes, and said, “I don’t like you.”

He shrugged. “You don’t have to like me to drink my water.”

Ironwood leaned closer, the bag almost touching her arm.

Night Sun took it and drank, but she glared at him.

She looked beautiful, slender and willowy in her sand-matted dress. She drew up one knee, but the other leg, long and tanned, lay exposed to the gray stormlight. Windblown rain beaded her skin.

“Well, we might be here for a while,” he said. “Let’s make the best of it.”

He pulled a fabric pouch of venison jerky from his pack, unlaced it, and handed her a piece. As she reached for it, their fingers brushed, and a curious tingling sensation went through him. He drew his hand back. How strange that her touch would stir such sensations. Or perhaps not so strange. He hadn’t been alone with a woman since before the death of his precious wife, Lupine. His body remembered the texture of a woman’s flesh, despite his soul’s diligent attempts to forget.

He concentrated on his jerky. Smoky richness coated his tongue.

The Thunderbirds took the storm to the southeast and waving tendrils of rain blotted out the Bearclaw Mountains. Lightning continued to flash as the fire burned out beneath them. The downpour lessened to a steady patter. On the opposite rim of the canyon, a small herd of buffalo ran. From here they resembled black dots against a sage-sprinkled background.

“Buffalo,” he said reverently. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen them so close to the canyon.”

Night Sun followed his gaze and frowned.

“When I was a boy,” Ironwood said, “my father used to take me out to watch the herds. We never hunted them, because there were so few left around our home; we just sat on the hilltops and watched. During mating season, they touch each other very tenderly—did you know that?” She didn’t respond, and he continued, “The bull nuzzles the cow with his head, and she rubs her shoulder along his side. And they play all the time, running and leaping and twisting in midair.” He laughed. “Even when they butt heads, it’s rarely combat, but more an enjoyable contest of wills.” He chewed another bite of jerky.

She gave him a sidelong glance. “Do you miss them?”

“Oh, yes, very much. I miss their loose-limbed walk and the way they toss their shaggy heads when they run.” Ironwood paused. “Most of all, I miss looking into their eyes.”

“Their eyes?” The anger had faded from her voice, but she still sounded hesitant.

Ironwood nodded and bowed his head. “It’s not easy to explain, but … the Creator lives in their eyes. I always saw Her looking out at me.”

Night Sun frowned down at the smoldering desert. Wisps of smoke struggled against the rain.

Ironwood took another drink of water, washing down the last of his jerky.

Night Sun sat silently, perhaps wondering at her War Chief’s sentimentality. Unease stiffened his spine. He barely knew her. Perhaps he should not have revealed such … softness.

When she folded her long legs under her and turned to face him, Ironwood immediately glanced up. Night Sun gave him an apologetic look.

“Forgive me,” she said. “After the past three days you must think me cruel, but I—”

“No, not at all. I think you’re angry with your husband for ordering me to spy on you.” He gestured awkwardly. “I would be, too, if I were you.”

She scooped a handful of sand from the floor, letting it trickle through her fingers. Wind gusted into the shelter, and a lock of black hair worked loose from her braid and fluttered over her large eyes.

Ironwood’s gaze traced the smooth line of her jaw before coming back to her eyes. He found Night Sun watching him—and something in her expression made his stomach muscles go tight. She looked … determined, as though she had decided something and was silently asking questions about it. Questions he did not understand.…

As though in a dream, she bent forward and pressed her lips to his. Confused, in shock, he just sat there. Thunder rumbled over the canyon and lightning glittered across the sky. Night Sun slid closer and slipped her arms around his waist.

“N-Night Sun, please don’t—”

She covered his mouth with hers, and her kisses grew insistent. A warm tide coursed through his veins. The sheer intensity of it frightened him. Ironwood lifted his arms and left them suspended uncertainly in midair. Blood pounded deafeningly in his ears. Night Sun’s embrace tightened, and her breasts against his chest left him shaking.

Leaning forward, she pushed him to the floor of the rock shelter, and he felt her tears running warmly down his cheeks as she stretched out on top of him. Her whole body shuddered from silent sobs.

He took her face firmly in his hands and forced her to look at him. “Why are you doing this? To hurt your husband?”

Night Sun sank against him, burying her face in his long hair. “More to hurt myself, I think.”

Her tears trickled down Ironwood’s neck. The answer went straight to his heart. Gently, he wrapped his arms around her back. A friendly gesture, nothing more. “Why would you wish to do that?”

“Because I can’t be what he wishes me to.”

Against her hair, he murmured, “People must be who they are. That is the way the Creator made us.”

“Not me.” She shook her head violently. “My duty is to—to be who people wish me to be. I’ve never been who I am, I—”

“Then perhaps it’s time to start.”

She pushed up and searched his face. “I’m afraid the First People will throw me out.”

“Well,” he said with a tilt of his head, “these are the chances we take.”

She arched one graceful brow. “You think that it’s worth it to give up all that I have to be all that I wish?”

“Of course.” Ironwood wiped the tears from her cheeks, letting himself drown, if only for a moment longer, in the softness of her skin. “I know I’m irresistible,” he said with a grin, “but I think we should stop this.”

“Oh, yes, I suppose we should. Forgive me.” Night Sun nuzzled her cheek against his palm before she sat up. It was such an intimate loverlike gesture that Ironwood’s grin evaporated.

He pulled his hand away and closed his numb fingers.

His expression must have startled her, because she went still and gazed at him nakedly, as though afraid of what he might say.

… The squawking of a turkey in the enclosed room below drew Ironwood’s attention back to the present, and Talon Town. He looked down at the rain-slick plaza. Another squawk erupted, then a flurry of wings.

Ironwood leaned his head back, staring up at the falling rain, as if it could wash the memory from his eyes.

Despite the long lonely summers—and a daughter born and taken away from him—Ironwood had never regretted loving Night Sun. If he died tomorrow because of those brief moons of joy, it would be a small price to pay.

Loving her was the only thing he’d ever done that meant anything.

Twenty-One

Cloud Playing walked swiftly down the darkening trail, trying to reach Talon Town before the storm worsened. A half a hand of time ago, black clouds had rushed in and blotted out the first Evening People. Misty rain had fallen for a while, then stopped. But it would return. Lightning flashed over the eastern horizon.

She broke into a trot. The canyon wall loomed like a brooding giant across the drainage, mottled with silver patches of moonlight. In front of her, Straight Path Wash carved a deep jagged ravine. The trail dropped down into it through a still, wet world.

Cloud Playing descended, her footsteps as silent as in a dream. A trickle of water burbled in the bottom. She leaped it effortlessly and started up the opposite side of the drainage. The fragrances of soaked stone and earth twined into a rich perfume.

As she neared the top, an eerie sensation possessed her. Her pace slowed. Just beneath the crest, she found herself at a dead stop, breathing hard. Shafts of moonlight penetrated the clouds and threw odd shadows. She stared at one that resembled a crouching monster. She would have sworn it had eye sockets, huge and empty, and focused solely on her. But it didn’t move.

“You are almost home,” she whispered, irritated with herself. “Stop being silly.”

She continued up the trail, peering about uncertainly as she strode out onto the mud-slick flats several bow shots from Kettle Town. In the flash of lightning, the pillars in the front stood out like ugly square teeth in a fiendish grin.

Talon Town glittered in the distance. Torches lit the plaza, casting a fluttering amber glow over the white walls and the Great Warriors. They had their heads up, anxiously gazing out across the night. Cloud Playing smiled and—

Movement caught her eye.

A nightmare feeling swept over her so strongly the world went out of focus for an instant.

A voice spoke from the shadows, “Who—who are you?”

“I am Cloud Playing, daughter of—”

“Cloud Playing? You are Cloud Playing?”

“Yes! Who are you? What are you doing out here skulking around in the shadows?”