People of the Silence (56 page)

“I am here, Ironwood,” Mourning Dove called up from the chamber. “I’ll tend to their needs.”

Ironwood peered down through the hole in the roof and saw her plump chipmunk face staring up. She wore a faded brown dress. The rich scent of turkey and blue corn stew bathed his face.

Ironwood’s brows drew together. Why would the Blessed Sun’s slave be tending the needs of Dune’s assistants? Was Snake Head keeping an eye on them?
Why?

He said, “Thank you, Mourning Dove,” and turned back to Poor Singer and Silk. “When you’ve eaten and rested, I’ll return for you. Will two hands of time be all right?”

Poor Singer glanced at Silk, then shrugged. “That’s fine, Ironwood. Thank you.”

Ironwood waited politely as Poor Singer climbed down into the chamber. He’d expected Silk to follow, but she stood there with her long hair blowing, looking straight at him. Their gazes held. Almost as if their souls touched, he could sense the questions in her eyes.
Many
questions.

Ironwood cocked his head. “I don’t know what you’re asking me, Silk. Can you say it in words?”

She blinked, as though the fact that he’d read her eyes startled her—then backed carefully away from him. “I would like to talk with you … when your time permits.”

“May I ask what about?”

She glanced at Webworm again, then back to Ironwood. “A-about Talon Town. I think I may have relatives here.”

Ironwood sensed her grim determination.
Perhaps the last family she has. Blessed Spirits
 … He smiled warmly. “Whenever you wish. We do have several people here from Turtle Village. I’ll be happy to introduce you to them.”

“Thank you.” She turned then, and hurried down the ladder into the chamber.

Poor Singer said something to her, but Ironwood couldn’t make out the words.

Ironwood fingered the deerbone stiletto on his belt. The girl’s entire world had been destroyed. She must be feeling lost and lonely, looking for anyone who might be able to give her hope.

Unconsciously, his gaze lifted to Night Sun’s door. As Father Sun climbed higher into the azure sky, the shadows retreated and the white plaster seemed to blaze.… Ironwood knew about loneliness.

To still the sudden ache in his chest, he walked to the ladder, climbed down into the plaza, and headed for his own chamber.

To pack.

Hope came in many guises.

*   *   *

Poor Singer sat with his back against the white wall, eating his bowl of stew self-consciously. The slave, Mourning Dove, laid out fresh clothing for them, then unrolled sleeping mats on the far side of the room and spread two red-and-black blankets over them … as if Poor Singer and Silk would be sleeping together.

He could barely swallow his food.

He glanced at Silk, but she hadn’t noticed. She ate her stew with her forehead furrowed and her gaze on the toes of her sandals—living inside her soul. She’d had a strange expression on her face when she’d climbed down the ladder. Why? He couldn’t ask until the slave left.

He ate more stew and looked around. Two body-lengths square, the bright white walls fascinated him. They must replaster constantly to keep them looking this clean and fresh. Beautifully woven mats rested on the dirt floor. Red, yellow, and green designs covered them. A warming bowl filled with cheery red coals sat in front of him. The teapot stood on one side with a stew pot on the other. The slave woman had dipped up two cups of phlox petal tea and set them near the warming bowl.

Mourning Dove seemed to be taking an unusually long time fixing their bedding. A tiny, delicate woman, she wore a plain brown dress. Her eyes were bright, shining, her cheeks fat, and she kept glancing uncomfortably at Silk.

Poor Singer finished his stew and reached for one of the clay teacups. As he lifted it to drink, a sweet flowery fragrance rose.

“Please,” Mourning Dove said finally. “I—I do not wish to be presumptuous, but…” She walked to stand in front of Silk, her eyes wide. “I heard you say that you came from Turtle Village. Is that true?”

Silk looked up. “Yes. Why?”

Mourning Dove wrung her hands anxiously. “There is a … a great Dreamer in this town. Her name is Featherstone. She saw you in a Spirit Dream.”

“Me? She saw me?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“What did she see?”

“Well, it wasn’t very clear, but she saw you running away from a burning village and climbing onto the back of a huge bear. You rode the bear away into the darkness—and came to Talon Town.”

Silk’s shoulders tightened, and Poor Singer set his cup down with a loud
clack!

He turned to Silk. “Blessed Ancestors, Silk! You’re always having dreams about—”

She jerked up a fist to silence him, and Poor Singer clenched his jaws to stifle the bubbling questions.

Silk’s gaze focused on Mourning Dove. “Did this Featherstone say why the bear brought me here?”

Mourning Dove swallowed hard. “Yes … she said you’d come to hurt her.”

“To hurt her? Who? Who am I supposed to hurt?”

“The Blessed Featherstone. And everyone in this town.”

“No.” Silk exhaled and shook her head. “No. I’m sorry. I’m not the woman this Featherstone saw. There must be another coming. I don’t know anyone here, and even if I did, I bear Talon Town no ill will. I lost all of my family when Turtle Village was attacked. The part about the burning village was correct. But I’m here, in Talon Town, hoping to find cousins.”

Poor Singer felt suddenly lightheaded as he realized where he’d heard that name before. Young Swallowtail had mentioned a Featherstone—hadn’t she been the cousin that Sternlight had witched so she would be captured by the Mogollon? The one who would have been Sunwatcher? Silk clearly hadn’t connected the woman’s name with Swallowtail’s story.

Mourning Dove shifted uneasily. “You’re not here to hurt Featherstone?”

“I told you, I don’t even
know
her. Tell her I wish her no harm.”

Mourning Dove seemed relieved. “That will make Creeper very happy. He was frightened when he saw you. He asked me to—”

“Who is Creeper?” Poor Singer asked.

“The leader of the Buffalo Clan.” Mourning Dove smiled. “And someone who loves the Blessed Featherstone.”

From her voice, Poor Singer figured that Mourning Dove cared deeply about Creeper. Disturbed, he picked up his tea again. Something wasn’t right about all this.

Silk said, “Thank you for tending to our needs, Mourning Dove. The stew and tea were delicious. I think we’ll try to rest before Ironwood returns to get us. We don’t need anything else. You may go now, if you wish.”

Mourning Dove left reluctantly, studying every line of Silk’s face while she climbed the ladder to the roof.

Poor Singer waited until he no longer heard her steps, then he whispered, “What was
that
all about?”

Silk’s head fell forward and her wealth of black hair tumbled around her, dragging the floor. “I don’t know, Poor Singer. But it scared me. Why would anybody think that I—”

“Did you notice the name? Featherstone?”

Silk frowned at him, then her jaw dropped. “Wait! Isn’t she the woman Swallowtail told us—”

“Yes! Sternlight’s cousin who was taken slave by the Mogollon. I didn’t think you remembered, or you wouldn’t have been so calm.”

“But why would she Dream about me?”

Poor Singer gestured lamely. “I don’t think she did. But—but it’s strange that we should walk into Talon Town right after she had such a Dream.”

Silk glared up through the roof opening at the dust that sparkled in the brilliant morning sunlight. “If one of the First People told such a vision to a Buffalo Clan elder, do you really believe he would have told a slave? And then asked the slave to ask us about it?”

Poor Singer frowned at the sitting mats and shook his head. “It doesn’t sound wise, does it?”

“It sounds ridiculous … unless someone is trying to frighten us?”

“Why would anybody wish to frighten us? No one here knows us. Except Dune.”

Silk tossed her long hair over her shoulder and reached for a cup of tea. She sipped it thoughtfully. “Dune doesn’t know me. And he couldn’t have known I’d be coming with you.”

“Did anyone else know you planned to come here?”

“No one.” Silk’s fingers tightened around her cup. Her mouth pressed into a hard line. “Only my … my mother. She told me to come here if I was in trouble.”

“But if your mother’s…” Poor Singer halted at the hurt look she gave him. “Do you think her ghost came to speak to this Featherstone?”

“More likely her ghost would have visited Sternlight.”

“The great Sunwatcher? Why?”

“She knew him … I think.”

“How? Did Sternlight visit Turtle Village?”

Silk shook her head so subtly that he wasn’t certain she’d done it. She turned the cup in her hands, then took a long drink before she set the cup on the floor near the warming bowl. “Poor Singer, there are things I haven’t told you. But I—I think now that I should.”

“You can tell me anything you want … or don’t want. You’re my friend, Silk.”

Her jaw muscles worked under her smooth cheeks, and naked fear shone in her eyes. “I know that, Poor Singer. I think I’ve known it for days. But I just couldn’t convince myself to speak about it—to you or anyone.”

“Is it so terrible?”

“I’m scared. I may be in real trouble.” Silk slid around and took both of Poor Singer’s hands in a hard grip. “Sternlight may be my father.”

“Your
father!
”

“Shhh! Not so loud.” She glanced up at the doorway. “Yes. My father.”

“But—but how could that be, Silk?”

“It’s a long story.” She heaved a breath. “And I only know pieces of it. Did you see the man standing watch over the town?”

“Up above the entry? Yes.”

“His name is Webworm, and he’s the new War Chief. He is the one who said Sternlight was my father. Or rather he—he accused Sternlight of being my brother’s father, just before he killed my brother and the man I had always believed was my father.”

Poor Singer swallowed down a suddenly dry throat. “I don’t understand any of this, Silk. Does it have something to do with Featherstone’s Dream?”

“It might…” Sweat beaded her broad cheekbones. “If my mother is really Night Sun.”

Poor Singer leaned forward to stare into her eyes from less than a hand’s distance. “Silk, this is all very confusing. Perhaps you’d better start at the beginning.”

Thirty-Four

Ironwood rolled an extra shirt and tucked it into his pack. His chamber spread two by two body-lengths. Thlatsinas danced on each wall: Badger in the north, Buffalo in the east, Bear on the west, and Ant Thlatsina on the south. His sleeping mats lay against the west wall, beneath the ring of scalps that encircled the Blessed Bear Thlatsina. The long black and gray hair that hung from the scalps contrasted sharply with the white plaster. Every day he fed the scalps, sprinkling corn pollen over them to keep their souls contented, in the hopes that they would protect and nourish him in return.

The rest of the western wall glinted with a variety of weapons: obsidian-tipped lances, an intricately carved bow, bone stilettos, a buffalo hide helmet, and several beautifully woven shields.

A row of baskets and pots stood along the north wall.

Ironwood slipped a hafted chert knife into the pack. In about ninety hands of time, he and Night Sun would leave on their first journey together in over sixteen summers. His memory flashed with scenes from the past, precious moments that left his soul aching.

It would not, could not, be like that again. Not at their ages, and not after all that they’d been through. But just being alone with her for a few days would be enough for him. It would, perhaps, have to last him the rest of his life. He’d read the tone of her voice and seen the look in her eyes—she knew he was desperate, and she remained undecided.

Picking up a small pot of charred cotton for starting fires, he tucked it into the bottom corner of his pack.

“If she says ‘no,’” he murmured as he stared into his half full pack, “I
will
go away. I—I don’t know where. But I’ll find a place.”

With her son ruling Talon Town, Ironwood could not stay. While Crow Beard lived, they’d both had excuses. He could tell himself that, though she loved him, she could not leave her husband; the scandal would have shamed all First People. But now … if she rejected him now …

He jammed a bag of dried turkey into his pack and jerked the laces tight. Being cast off now would wound more than his heart.

He placed his pack against the wall and rose. An oval of sunlight shone through his roof entry and made a bright spot on the southern half of his chamber. Almost noon. Time to leave. Heaving a sigh, Ironwood climbed the ladder and stepped out onto the first-floor roof. The white walls gleamed with such strength he had to shade his eyes to see.

Webworm stood at his station overlooking the entry, talking to short, stocky Gnat. Webworm, tall and lanky, towered over his deputy. Both wore red warriors’ shirts. Behind them, the irregular walls of the canyon gleamed a rich ruddy shade. The shadows of roaming Cloud People splotched the canyon bottom and sheathed distant Sunset Town, where it lay across the wash to the south; the shadows muted the bright gold blocks of rooms, turning the town a dull brown. The first faint greening of grass capped the southern rim above the pale sandstone slickrock. The wind smelled like warm sandstone. Planting ceremonies would be held soon.

And perhaps my own winter of the soul has almost passed.

As he climbed down the ladder, the slaves in the plaza began laughing, and turkeys squawked in rhythm to the pounding of feet. Women and children had drawn two lines, one at each end of the plaza, and were running foot races. It was a common practice, this midday break from chores to eat and play. Looms with half-finished blankets stood stacked against the northern wall, sporting red, tan, and green designs. Near them, cradle-boards leaned. Blanketed infants mewed and waved tiny fists. Dogs slept in the cool shadows beside them. A flock of gobbling turkeys, heads bobbing, strutted around, trying to avoid being trampled.