People of the Silence (49 page)

Sternlight exhaled hard. “Tomorrow will make it worse.”

“How is that?”

The wind had risen to a constant shriek outside, and Ironwood could hear sand rattling on the buildings. Sternlight looked up the staircase, as if dreading the cold that awaited him when he emerged from this warm, firelit womb.

Sternlight said, “Snake Head caught me just before I came here. He told me that he will decide his mother’s fate tomorrow. He’s calling a gathering of the Straight Path elders. Be ready, Ironwood. There is no telling what that angry young man has in mind.”

“Will I be invited to the proceedings? I’m not one of the First People, nor am I War Chief. I have no authority to ask.”

“I will request that you be Night Sun’s guard. Snake Head may accept. He may not. If he does not, you will accompany me, as
my
guard.”

“I’ll be ready.”

“Good. Until then.” Sternlight rose, touched Ironwood’s shoulder as he passed, and climbed the stairs.

Ironwood sat quietly.

Too many things had happened for him to sort them out.

He needed to lay his own plans. The elders might condemn Night Sun to death, and if they did, he had to have a way of getting her out of Talon Town.…

*   *   *

Sternlight’s white ritual shirt gleamed as he walked across the empty plaza in the starlight. Talon Town curled around him like a gigantic embracing arm. The sounds of people coughing and snoring, infants whimpering, and dogs growling at unusual night sounds filled the air. In one of the chambers, someone played a flute. The sweet lilting notes wavered over the town like the glitter of fine jewels. He tried to concentrate on the soothing melody, but failed. Though a cedar-scented wind caressed his face, he smelled only the blood on his clothing. Coppery. Sickening.

No one stood outside, not after seeing Cloud Playing’s mutilated body this afternoon. They didn’t dare. Witchcraft! The slaves had performed their duties and dashed for home. The Made People had spent most of the evening in their kivas discussing the horror.

He could feel the fear, like a palpable, breathing thing.

As Sternlight reached the first ladder soft voices drifted up from the roof holes of the kivas. Someone mentioned his name, then:
“Did you see … corpse powder?… everywhere. Witches hide … come out to steal peoples’ souls.”

Sternlight climbed faster, trying not to think, not even to breathe until he reached his chamber.

When he ducked beneath his door curtain, he quickly dropped it and sank against the wall. Sweat stung his eyes. Starglow streamed through the window on the rear wall and threw a long silver rectangle across the floor. Absently, he focused on the tiny shadowed undulations of the plaster, not really seeing them, seeing only the horrifying sights of the day he’d just lived through.

In a whisper, he asked, “Oh, Cloud Playing, what happened?”

With frightening tenderness, he touched each spot of her blood that dotted the lower half of his shirt.

“My friend…”

She had been kind to him, treating him more like a brother than a distant cousin.

Though he’d washed his hands a dozen times, red crescents curved beneath the fingernails. The nauseating smell of yucca soap mixed with old blood burned his nose. Clenching his hands to fists, he shook them at some inner foe.

“Blessed gods,
what happened?
”

Voices called to him. The thlatsina masks that crowded the walls had been plaguing him for days, calling and calling, but he could not make out their words, as if their voices traveled over a great distance. He noted that dust coated their faces. One of Swallowtail’s duties was to dust the masks. The youth had not been doing his job.

Sternlight frowned at the masks. Dark-furred muzzles and beaked faces gazed back, eerie, somehow haunting. “Can you speak louder? I’ve been trying very hard to understand you, but I can’t.”

The Badger mask seemed to be screaming at him. He shook his head. Dogs made sounds that humans couldn’t hear, he knew, because he’d watched them closely all of his life. A dog would stand up, lift its head, and its throat muscles would move silently, but a sleeping dog across the plaza would wake and prick its ears. Were the thlatsinas calling to him in voices too low for him to hear?

“A truly Powerful priest would be able to hear you,” he whispered.

The Badger Thlatsina’s blue slits of eyes seemed to glow. Sternlight swallowed convulsively.

“Please, can you speak to me in a human tongue?”

Closing his eyes, Sternlight concentrated on
listening.
A tingle shot through him, and he jerked his eyes wide to stare at the Badger mask.… Not words, but a hoarse guttural cry of rage.

“What
is
it?”

His belly threatened to empty itself. He had walked into his chamber two nights ago, returning from performing a Healing on Featherstone’s aching hip—which he did about once a moon—and surprised Mourning Dove. She’d let out a shocked squeak, dropped the tray of corncakes she’d been carrying, and breathlessly explained, “Forgive me, Blessed Sunwatcher. Creeper thought you might be hungry after Singing for Featherstone.”

The Badger mask had been lying on the floor behind her, canted sideways, peering at Sternlight with hollow eyes.

“What happened?” he’d demanded, quickly going to the mask to rehang it on its peg in the wall. The wood felt damp.

Eyes huge, she’d exclaimed that she’d noticed how dirty it was and tried to clean it with a wet rag. In the process, she’d accidentally knocked it to the floor. The heavy wooden mask weighed as much as a small child. Mourning Dove apologized that she hadn’t had the strength to lift it back up.

Sternlight shook his fists in frustration. He walked to his sleeping mats, not bothering to undress, and stretched out on top of his blankets, staring at the rectangle of starlight that stretched across the white plastered floor.

“Thlatsinas, please, help me to understand.”

When he closed his eyes and curled on his side, sweet inaudible voices whispered in his ears … like butterfly wings brushing against his soul, just barely there, not quite real.

Strange images flitted through his dreams: Cloud Playing Dancing with the Badger Thlatsina … a fiery blue cave filled with black water … a beautiful young woman … her face coated with blood.

Twenty-Nine

Webworm stood in the doorway of Chief Snake Head’s chamber, waiting for Mourning Dove to leave. She knelt near the macaw’s cage, her tan-and-white dress dragging the plastered floor as she gathered and folded the Chief’s soiled clothes, then tucked them into her black wash sack. The macaw kept an eye on her while it ate sunflower seeds. Each time the bird cocked its head, its magnificent red, yellow, and blue feathers flashed wildly. The sound of cracking hulls grated on Webworm’s frayed nerves. He clutched his bloody pack against his chest and shifted to brace his feet. Heart sore, aching from the bruises he’d acquired in the battle, and desperately weary, he wished this were over. He wanted to go home and speak with his mother. Perhaps they would tell stories about Cloud Playing … and he could hear her laughter again in his soul.

Webworm straightened when Snake Head whispered something. The Chief stood on the far side of the room, stroking the Badger Thlatsina’s muzzled face. The black painted figure contrasted eerily with the white wall; its red-and-white striped muzzle gleamed in the crimson light cast by the warming bowl. Snake Head murmured, “Yes, I know … it’s all right.”

Webworm and Mourning Dove exchanged a glance, but neither said a word.

Mourning Dove finished putting clothing in her wash sack and rose to her feet. The macaw let out a low menacing whistle, but she didn’t look at it. “Is there anything else you require of me, Blessed Snake Head?”

Snake Head let his hand fall to his side. “No,” he answered without looking at her. His long yellow robe swayed with his movements. “Not tonight. You may go.”

Mourning Dove bowed respectfully and rushed by Webworm. He saw her dash across the rooftop for the ladder, probably wishing to get away as quickly as possible, in case Snake Head changed his mind.

Webworm inhaled a breath and held it in his lungs to fortify himself.

Snake Head turned and gave Webworm a haughty, irritated look. “What is it, War Chief?” When he tilted his head, his long eyelashes threw shadows over his cheeks. He wore his black hair loose tonight, and it hung to the middle of his chest. As though a fine patina of copper coated his straight nose and large dark eyes, they shone with an orange hue.

Webworm carefully removed the grisly prize from his pack and unwrapped the layers of bloody cloth. The fabric had mashed the boy’s nose to the side and pressed his mouth into a frozen cry. Blood clotted tangled hair to his cheeks. “As you instructed, Blessed Snake Head, I killed the boy. Here is the proof.”

Snake Head crossed the room with a smirk on his handsome face. He scrutinized the severed head. “He doesn’t look anything like my mother. Odd, isn’t it?”

Webworm longed to blurt out his suspicions that Sternlight had tricked them all, but he merely nodded and extended the prize to Snake Head. “He is yours, my chief.”

Snake Head took a step backward and flicked a hand uncomfortably. “Put it on the floor. I don’t wish to touch it until it’s been cleaned and purified.”

Webworm knelt and eased the head down. Memories floated in his mind—happy times around Beargrass’ fire, the wide-eyed little boy listening to the exploits of warriors.
Forgive me, little one. My fault … all my fault.

“And what did Beargrass have to say for himself?” Snake Head asked.

Webworm stood. “He maintained until the very end that the boy was his son. He—”

“Well, that’s to be expected,” Snake Head interrupted. “I assume you taught him the price for betraying the Blessed Sun?”

“He is dead, yes.”

“And the rest of the village?”

“Burned. I left no witnesses—at least none we could catch. A few people escaped, but not many.”

Snake Head laughed gleefully. “Oh, I can’t wait until my mother hears the news. Perhaps I shall tell her myself, just to see her face. Do you think she truly believed she could hide the child forever?”

Webworm shrugged. “I cannot say, my chief.”

“Well, she will also pay the price for her treachery.” Snake Head narrowed his eyes like a hawk about to sink its talons into prey. He glared down at the boy’s head. “I’ll see her
dead
for this outrage.”

“But…” Webworm’s mouth gaped. “She’s your
mother,
Snake Head.”

“Yes, well, of that I’m certain, but as to who my father was, I’ll probably never really know.”

Webworm’s gaze went over Snake Head’s face in detail, tracing the arching brows, straight nose, and oval shape. Snake Head looked so much like Crow Beard that, if thirty summers had not separated them, they might have been twins. How could he make such a ridiculous statement?

Snake Head must have sensed Webworm’s incredulity, because he lifted his chin and ordered, “Go away, War Chief. I have many things to think about besides you.”

“Yes, I—I know.” Webworm bowed his head. “My heart aches with you over the loss of your sister. She—”

“Yes, yes, of course it does.” Snake Head turned on his heel and walked away to kneel before the glowing coals in his warming bowl.

Webworm backed out of the chamber. Starlight, reflected from the white walls of Talon Town, threw a pale bluish gleam over the cliff. He walked toward the ladder. Every muscle in his body hurt. He rubbed his tender shoulder. Beargrass had struck him with a war club before Webworm could lift his arm to deflect the blow. Deep fiery pain throbbed in the swollen lump; Webworm feared the blow might actually have cracked a bone. As he climbed down the ladders to the first-story roof, he inhaled the rich scent of frying corncakes.

Webworm walked around the curving roof line until he reached his mother’s chambers. The ladder thrust up through the roof hole. He stepped onto the first rung, and heard Creeper say: “Oh, Blessed Featherstone, let me help you with that.”

Webworm knew that tone. He couldn’t help but close his eyes briefly before he climbed down into the soft red light and stepped to the hide-covered floor.

Thlatsinas danced around the walls, leaping and spinning in time to some eternal drum that Webworm had never been able to hear. A tripod held a pot of tea suspended over the bowl of coals in the middle of the floor. The sweet fragrance of spruce needle tea rose. Corncakes and a bowl of pink-spotted beans sat near the coals, keeping warm.

His mother leaned in the northwestern corner, to his right, wearing a turkey-feather cape over her dress, her jaw slack, eyes focused on nothing. Gray hair straggled around her shoulders and framed her wrinkled face. Her prominent nose shimmered with beads of sweat.

Creeper sat next to her with a bowl of beans in one hand and a horn spoon in the other. Judging from the bean juice dribbling down Featherstone’s chin, he’d been trying to feed her.

Webworm looked away. Seeing his mother like this always brought him pain. How could a woman who had spoken to Sister Moon in the sparkling voice of a meteor have come to this end? Webworm would have given anything to go back to that time when the Fire Dogs had ambushed her. He would have killed every one of them with his bare hands—though it meant he’d never have been born.

“How long has she been like this?” he asked.

Creeper said, “Two or three hands of time.”

“What brought it on?”

“Who can say? We were speaking about witches and witchcraft. Featherstone was telling me about the witches Jay Bird executed when she lived among his people as a slave.” He made a helpless gesture with the spoon. The red glow coated Creeper’s plump face and flickered through his chin-length black hair. Short and pudgy, Creeper wore a buffalo cape around his shoulders. The kinky fur glittered with crimson highlights when he moved. “She just … drifted away.”

Webworm sank to the floor near the bowl of coals and gestured to the food. “Is this mine?”

“Yes. I made supper right after I brought Featherstone back. I hope the corncakes are still warm.”