People of the Silence (41 page)

“I ran out of food yesterday. If you hadn’t been willing to share with me, I would have had to hunt tonight. Hunting is always a chancy thing, and I was really too tired.”

“I wanted to share. When I become a great Singer, I’ll be able to share much more than food with people.”

He sounded happy and eager to help his clan. She studied his luminous brown eyes. “What will you do first?”

“Hmm. Well, I’ll either Heal the sick, or kill a few witches. Maybe both.” He grinned.

A smile came to her lips, and Cornsilk sat for a moment, savoring the joy. Poor Singer seemed to understand, for he gazed at her with his whole heart in his eyes.

Cornsilk rolled the dough into beautiful purple balls and dropped them one by one into the boiling water. A lavender froth swelled and leaked over the edge of the pot. As bubbles plopped on the burning logs, they sizzled wildly. Steam gushed toward the roof.

She sat back to wait for the dumplings to cook. The first Evening People glittered through the smoke hole. “It must have been hard for you, having your father die before you saw one summer. How did it happen?”

“Well … I…” He looked like he wasn’t certain. “My mother told me he broke his leg, and it became infected. She said it took three moons for him to die. She had loved him very much and refused to remarry. After that, all we had was each other.” He frowned into the pale red liquid in his cup. “Everything I am, I owe to my mother, Snow Mountain.”

Cornsilk sipped her prickly pear tea. It tasted deliciously tangy. “You don’t believe your mother?”

He lifted his head and frowned at her. “Does it show?”

“You looked uneasy when you told me the story.”

Poor Singer toyed with a pebble on the floor. “It doesn’t really matter. If she’s not telling me the truth, it’s because the truth brings her too much pain. I love her with all my heart anyway.”

Secrets. Did all parents keep things from their children?

Cornsilk sighed. “She must be very proud of you becoming a Singer.”

“Oh, yes. She is.” He took a small sip of his tea, and his stomach squealed so loudly they both stared at his sunburned belly. A nest of tiny black hairs filled his navel. It shimmered in the firelight.

“Are you going to throw up?” Cornsilk asked.

He squinted one eye as if in discomfort. “I hope not.”

“Sip slowly, Poor Singer. I think you need to keep it down.”

He burped, looked terrified, and cautiously said, “I think you’re right.”

Cornsilk used the flat juniper stick to dip out one of the dumplings. It had swelled into a fluffy pale blue ball. She put it in her bowl and cut it open. “They’re done.”

Poor Singer braced a hand on the floor and sat up as Cornsilk scooped the steaming dumplings into their bowls. Placing Poor Singer’s on the floor at his side, she gave him a horn spoon.

She cut her first dumpling in quarters, blew on it, then spooned a piece into her mouth. The prickly pear fruits added a flowery sweetness to the nutty flavor of the blue corn. She ate as if she’d been the one fasting for days, chewing and swallowing as quickly as she could. As her stomach filled, her desperation began to lessen. The knots in her shoulders eased. But her weariness deepened, weighting her limbs. She yawned, set her bowl aside, and lifted her cup of tea, drinking as she watched Poor Singer.

He took the shiny pebble from his mouth and held it in his hand while he used his spoon to mash his dumplings up. He poured some of his tea into the mixture to create a thick soup. Gingerly, he ate.

“Are you feeling better?” Cornsilk asked.

“More cold than sick.” Bumps prickled his skin.

Cornsilk rose, took the gray blanket from the floor, and carefully draped it over Poor Singer’s blistered shoulders. Fevered skin was always more sensitive to cold. “Does that hurt?”

“No. Thank you. It feels good. That was very kind.”

“You were kind to me,” she said matter-of-factly. “I can be kind to you.”

His eyes narrowed, and he seemed to be examining the air around Cornsilk, his gaze drawing a line around her hair and shoulders. “I think you would be kind to me anyway. You have a—a bright blue light around you. A Healing light.” He dipped another spoonful of his dumpling soup and swallowed it.

Cornsilk sat down, picked up her teacup, and scrutinized him over the rim. Her mother had told her about Singers who could see the colors of the soul, but she’d never met one. “Have you always been able to do that?”

“Hmm?” he asked, startled. “Do what?”

“See the colors of the soul.”

“Oh, no, not me.” He shook his head. “Not until today. Yours is the first soul I’ve ever seen. I mean, other than my own. And I only saw mine just before I saw yours.”

She lowered her cup to her lap. “What color is your soul?”

He smiled. “Yellow. Brilliant blinding yellow. That’s why I was laughing earlier.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s yellow!” He leaned toward her, his eyes wide. “Don’t you see, Silk. I’ve been sunlight all along. Of course I couldn’t
stand
in the light, not when I
am
the light.”

Cornsilk’s brows drew down. “Well, if you are sunlight, then what am I?”

“You,” he said, and looked at her with such love that she recoiled a little. “You are the sky at dawn.”

“You mean my soul comes from there? That it’s a part of the dawn sky, like a chunk cracked off, or something?”

Poor Singer bit his lip. “I’m not really a Singer yet, so I don’t know for sure. All I can tell you is that when you live inside your soul, it doesn’t feel like a chunk of sunlight or dawn sky, it feels like…” He stopped, as if he required concentration to speak correctly. “Well, I felt like I
was
sunlight, touching everything, shining everywhere all at once.”

Cornsilk smiled. He bowed his head as though embarrassed, and dark hair fell around him, framing his thin hawkish face.

His mouth tightened. “I’m sorry. Did that sound prideful? Dune says I have a problem with pride. I—I don’t mean to be vain, I—”

“You didn’t sound prideful at all. In fact, you sounded”—she gestured uncertainly—“innocent. I used to have a friend, a little boy…” Tears beaded on Cornsilk’s lashes. “His name was Brave Boy. He had seen five summers. He would laugh and—and the sound always made me ache inside, from happiness. Your voice sounded a lot like his. It made me ache, too.”

Poor Singer smiled and ate more soup, slowly ladling it into his mouth and waiting after each spoonful to see what would happen. Finally, he said, “So, you are on your way to Talon Town? To find your relatives?”

“I’ve nothing left. Nowhere else to go.”

“That’s where Dune is. When you get there, please tell him I’m well.”

“I will. If I find him.”

“Oh, you can’t miss him. He’s about this tall”—he lifted a hand to show her—“with no teeth and a bad temper. When you see him, I’m sure he’ll be bullying someone.”

As evening descended upon the canyon, the cold deepened, nipping at her skin. She finished her tea, untied her blanket from her pack, and wrapped herself in it. Warmth seeped into her, and her eyelids suddenly felt as heavy as stones. Firelight fluttered over the walls like a flock of golden butterflies. She had not slept since … since the night before last. She stretched out beside the fire and pillowed her head on her pack. The precious turquoise-studded blanket inside it cushioned her ear. A faint whisper filtered up through the pack, and Cornsilk strained to hear what the blanket was saying, but she couldn’t. She wondered if Poor Singer could, and looked at him.

He didn’t seem to. He just ate the rest of his dumpling soup and lay down an arm’s length away. Just before he pulled up his blanket, he put the pebble back in his mouth.

“Aren’t you afraid you’ll swallow it?”

He gave the matter careful consideration. “No. At least, I’m not afraid the pebble will hurt me. But it does worry me that I might accidentally hurt the pebble. I wouldn’t wish to do that. This pebble has been very good to me.”

Cornsilk snugged her blanket around her throat and looked at him askance. “Tomorrow, I’ll make a salve for your sunburn.”

He yawned sleepily and tossed more wood on the fire. Crimson threads of light spattered the ceiling. “Perhaps by then, I’ll be concerned. Right now, I just want to sleep, too. Have a good visit in the afterworld, Silk.”

“And you also,” she said, and closed her eyes.

Tears pressed hotly against her lids. Her dreams would be barren because her family wasn’t in the afterworld. She hadn’t cleaned and cared for their bodies. She hadn’t Sung the proper ritual Songs, or led the burial procession to the sacred
sipapu,
as was her duty. Her parents and brother would be homeless ghosts, wandering the earth, lost and wailing.

When sobs racked her chest, she squeezed her eyes closed.

A hand, large, but very gentle, stroked her hair. She shifted, and saw Poor Singer staring at her. His gray blanket lay open, revealing his bare chest. Concern sparkled in his eyes. “Are you all right?”

Cornsilk braced herself on one elbow and tried to breathe deeply. Hoarsely, she answered, “Poor Singer, I … I didn’t bury them, my f-family. I was too afraid. There were dozens of warriors running through the village. People were screaming. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t do anything except hide on top of the hill, and—and—”

“Shh,” he whispered, and pulled away the hair that had fallen over her eyes, so he could look at her. He smiled gently. “They will be waiting. If you want me to, I’ll go back with you.”

Her lungs shuddered as she exhaled.

He searched her tormented face. “We will find them and care for them. We can make travoises to haul them along the sacred roads. It might take a few days, but we’ll manage. Then we’ll Sing their souls to the afterworld. I’m a new Singer, but I think I can remember all the words to the Death Songs.”

Cornsilk eased back to the floor and pillowed her head on her arm. Her throat ached. “Thank you, Poor Singer.”

He smoothed her hair again. “Everything will be all right. Don’t worry. Ghosts understand more than people think they do.” He drew back his hand and pulled his blanket closed. “Sleep well, Silk.”

Cornsilk listened to his slow, even breathing and sank into an exhausted sleep.

Twenty-Four

The pink glow of dawn streamed down through the east-facing doorway, lighting Cornsilk’s face where she lay curled before the firepit. She inhaled a deep breath of the cedar-scented air and stretched her legs and back. The long run had taken more of a toll than she had realized. Twinges shot through her muscles.

She rolled to her back and blinked at the soot-smudged walls; the small house appeared truly dreary this morning. The baskets in the corner seemed to have edged another finger closer to toppling. They leaned so precariously, the slightest breath of wind would surely do it. The door curtain flapped in the breeze and she glimpsed birds perched on the frost-silvered sage outside.

She rubbed her eyes. Horrifying dreams had tormented her sleep. And through them all, the big white-faced bear had been there, advising her, trying to help her, nudging her with his nose when she took the wrong path and shrieking ghosts had her surrounded …

Cornsilk propped herself up on one elbow and caught movement from the corner of her eye. She turned slowly. A tiny brown-and-white field mouse hid between the pots by the doorway. The little beast watched her with shining eyes, ready to bolt, but too interested in the pile of corn crumbs by the largest pot. Its whiskers wiggled as it ate. Odd that she hadn’t noticed the pile of crumbs last night. Poor Singer must have left it there.

Poor Singer huddled in his gray blanket, snoring softly. Just the top of his head was visible. The light pouring through the door made his tangled black hair sparkle with pink highlights. He didn’t seem to have moved during the night. No doubt his body needed all of its energy after such a long fast.

Cornsilk shook her head. How could he and Dune sleep on this cold hard floor? She had tossed and turned all night, trying in vain to find a comfortable position … and trying not to hear the voices of her ancestors drifting up from the underworlds.

They had called and called to her.

And she had not known what to tell them. Cornsilk drew in a halting breath. In the middle of the night, she had scooped ashes from the firepit and rubbed them over her face, arms, and legs, to blind the ghosts who hunted her. Off and on for the rest of the night, she had scooped ashes and wished she had listened more closely to her mother’s teachings about how to appease angry ghosts.

At the thought of her mother, Cornsilk closed her eyes.… She would be one of those angry ghosts.

Quietly, she rose and rolled up her blanket. The mouse’s eyes never left her—but it did not run.

Cornsilk picked up the stick she had used as a poker last night and dug around in the firepit, isolating the hot coals by raking the ash aside. When she pulled out a larger piece of juniper, the woodpile shifted, sticks falling and clattering—the mouse flinched, but didn’t flee, and Poor Singer kept snoring. Cornsilk gently laid several twigs on the coals, then bent to blow on them.

Flames crackled. As they licked through the tinder, she added larger sticks until the fire burned steadily.

Untying her bow and quiver from her pack, she slung them over her shoulder, then dug around inside and pulled out her hafted obsidian knife, which she tied to her belt. Lastly, she unhooked the rawhide thongs which held the boiling pot to the tripod. She stepped wide around the mouse, still nibbling busily, and ducked under the door curtain.

Sunlight glazed the frosted brush and grass with dazzling sparkles. Her breath puffed whitely. The majestic cliff loomed above the canyon like a sleeping beast, silent, massive. The stairs cut into the stone carved a dark gash down the face. Mourning doves perched on the rim, cooing melodically. Their voices soothed her. The males uttered those soft melancholy sounds while in search of a mate. She hoped the females were listening.

Cool shadows clung to the bottom of the canyon, but spikes of pale yellow shot across the sky, and the tallest buttes had sunlit tops. Far to the south, Orphan Butte stood like a lone sentinel Beyond it, the land rippled into an infinity of red, gold, and green. The deeply eroded highlands looked gnawed, as if ravaged by the sharp teeth of ancient monsters. In every gash, a twisting green line flowed.