People of the Silence (59 page)

Sternlight gave her a thoughtful inspection. “Yes, it’s very beautiful, but Dune meant more than that. A wild freedom lives in your soul, Silk.”

“Freedom?”

“Yes. You see, most people never really know freedom, though they pretend they do because it eases the pain of their imprisonment. But you, Silk,
are
free. People could cage you and tie you up, and you’d still be free. The heart of your freedom doesn’t beat in this world. It beats in the skyworlds. Dune was trying to tell you that you were born of the sky—not of the earth. And…” he said with a curious frown, “that is
very
strange.”

Her forehead lined. “Why?”

Sternlight lifted his brows. “Only First People are sky born. That’s why, after death, First People return to the sky.”

“But what does that mean about me? Why would I have a sky-born soul?”

“I can’t answer that. I’ve never seen a Made Person with a soul like yours.” Sternlight pointed to the canyon rim where two golden eagles perched, their brown bodies dark against the dusty blue heavens. Their sharp eyes searched the canyon bottom for movement. “You must seek that answer yourself. But if you seek in the high places, where earth meets sky, the thlatsinas will help you.”

Cornsilk squinted thoughtfully at the eagles. Behind them, billowing Cloud People followed the sky roads south, toward the homes of the Fire Dogs. She’d been wondering about many of the things Dune had said in the kiva—especially about Poor Singer being born proud, and how it was a great risk to discuss love with someone his age. Both had angered her. Poor Singer had acted selflessly the entire time they’d been together and always looked at her with warmth. Maybe Dune didn’t know Poor Singer very well.

Bravely, Cornsilk turned to Sternlight. “What was it that Dune didn’t wish to tell Poor Singer? About love?”

Sternlight smiled. Wind Baby flipped long hair over his eyes, and he tucked it behind his ears. “Oh, mostly that love is essential to any spiritual life.”

“But I thought it was bad for Singers.”

“No, no, Silk. Until love has quickened a soul, it is like an unfledged eagle. Only half alive. Filled with yearning. Believe me when I tell you that a soul that does not know the depths of love will never fly to the gods. A Singer’s wings are woven from love.”

“Poor Singer … he—he doesn’t think it’s good for him to be with me.”

Sternlight’s eyes seemed to go vacant for a time, as if lost in memories of another time, a tender time, filled with hopes and dreams.

“Silk,” he said at last, “to love
is
to seek the gods. The first instant we feel love as little children, we set foot on that divine road. After that, every moment we spend loving is another step closer to the gods. Until the final moment, when we must leave the ground and fly.”

“Then why can’t Poor Singer know these things?”

He bowed his head. “When the time is right, Dune will tell him. Just now, Dune’s trying to get Poor Singer to look beyond his body. That’s the first step for a Singer, and it isn’t easy at Poor Singer’s age. Perhaps you shouldn’t be together just yet. But someday soon, he will need your love as desperately as he needs food, or water.”

Cornsilk creased the fabric of her dress in anxious fingers. “I feel better knowing that. Thank you, Sternlight. I promise not to tell Poor Singer until after Dune has already done so.”

He touched her hand to still its nervous movements. “I knew you wouldn’t. Your sense of honor shows on your pretty face, Silk.”

Cornsilk smiled. How odd that their conversation flowed so easily, like that of old friends. From down in the wash, laughter rose, and Cornsilk heard a child squeal with delight, then a dog barked.

“Well”—Sternlight gathered himself and stood—“let us start speaking to the members of the Ant Clan who live here. Perhaps we will find your family before another night falls, Silk.” He extended a hand to her. His white shirt billowed around his tall body.

Cornsilk looked at those long fingers for a moment, thinking:
This man might be my father?
Then she placed her hand in his and let him pull her to her feet. As their gazes held, her heart ached. She had so many things to tell him, and to ask him. But she needed to be absolutely sure before she revealed her blanket, and herself, to him.

He gestured to the dirt trail. “Go ahead. I’ll follow.”

Cornsilk walked the worn path through the boulders with her eyes on the trail, and her soul floating in the past, seeing her mother’s face.…

“Do not ask me, my daughter. I can tell you only that I believe he will help you.”

Cornsilk glanced at him over her shoulder. He walked with his head down, his expression peaceful. His steps barely made a sound.

What favor did this great priest owe her mother? And when had he incurred the debt?

A very long time ago, probably, when her mother had lived in Talon Town.

As she rounded the curve of the wall, and headed left, due east toward the entry, she saw Webworm standing guard with a young man at his side. Certainly one of the First People, the youth wore a rich purple shirt decorated with copper bells. Each time the wind tousled his hem, the bells tinkled pleasantly. Across his chest glimmered gorgeous red, blue, and yellow macaw feathers.

Webworm turned to look down at them, and Cornsilk quickly lowered her head, like a woman with a purpose and a place to go.

Sternlight came up beside her and whispered, “If you can, Silk, try to avoid the man in purple.”

“Why? Who is he?”

“He is the new Blessed Sun. His name is Snake Head.”

“Why should I avoid him?” She looked up at Sternlight and saw how pale his face had gone, as though he
feared
the Blessed Sun.

Sternlight replied, “He is not known for his kindness to young women. Think of him as you would a scorpion.”

A cold shiver ran down her back. “I see.”

As they walked through the entry, Sternlight murmured, “Stay close to me, Silk. He’s grown very bold of late.”

Sternlight put a hand on her shoulder and guided her across the plaza toward a group of seated women who sorted and folded clothing. Neat piles of shirts, dresses, dance sashes, and cotton capes lined the wall. When the women saw Sternlight coming, they went quiet and grave. Like stone statues, they watched as Sternlight and Cornsilk neared them.

“A pleasant afternoon to you, Yellowgirl,” Sternlight said to the oldest woman. Muscular, square-bodied, and in her forties, she had sallow cheeks and a thin face. Her short hair hung even with her chin.

“And to you, Blessed Sternlight,” she responded without looking up to meet his eyes. “What may we do to help you?”

“This is Silk. She is of the Ant Clan and was born in Turtle Village. She is searching—”

“Sunwatcher?”
a shrill edgy voice called. “Come over here!”

Cornsilk saw Sternlight’s jaw clamp. He took a breath, whispered, “Stay here, Silk,” and hastily walked across the plaza to meet the Blessed Sun halfway.

The Chief had his head cocked and a seductive smile on his face. Sternlight stood a head taller, which forced Snake Head to crane his neck to see Silk. The look he gave her made her stomach muscles clench. The women sitting against the wall looked Cornsilk up and down, and whispered behind their hands.

Yellowgirl said, “You do not look like a mason, child. Your arms are too skinny. And you should have well-muscled shoulders.”

“I’m not a mason, but my mother was. She—”

“She was killed in the attack?”

“Yes. The Tower Builders—”

“What was her name?”

The questions fired at her one after another left Cornsilk feeling naked and vulnerable. She braced her feet and met Yellowgirl’s hard glare. “Her name was Beeweed. She was not born in Turtle Village, but moved there f-from Lanceleaf Village.” Surely that information could not hurt. “She married a man of the Coyote Clan, named Watertoad.” In a shaky voice, she asked, “I am here looking for cousins who left Turtle Village long ago. Do you know of any?”

Yellowgirl shook her head. Her short black hair flipped over her sallow cheeks. “I am the master mason here, and I have never heard of any Ant Clan woman coming from Turtle Village. But we do have several Coyote Clan women who used to live in Turtle Village. Do you wish to speak with them?”

Cornsilk shifted her weight to her left foot. “No. If they are not Ant Clan, they’re not my relatives. Thank you for your help, though. Would you pass the word around that I am searching for relatives?”

“Yes, child, I will, but listen to me.” Yellowgirl leaned forward with her eyes narrowed. “If you wish the Made People in Talon Town to speak with you, you must stay away from the witch.” She jerked her chin toward Sternlight.

Cornsilk turned. He still stood in front of the chief, blocking Snake Head’s view of her. “Do you truly think he’s a witch? He seems so kind.”

Yellowgirl snorted derisively, and the other women laughed. “All witches do. That’s how they lure their victims into their snares. If you do not wish to end up with corpse powder in your belly,
stay away from him!
”

Cornsilk folded her arms to hug herself. She stood uncomfortably, her gaze on the drifting Cloud People, until Sternlight returned.

He stopped at Cornsilk’s side, gray-lipped, clearly upset, but his voice came out calm. “What did you discover?”

“Yellowgirl says there are no Ant Clan people here that came from Turtle Village. But she is going to pass the word around.”

Yellowgirl lowered her gaze when Sternlight looked at her. He did not seem to notice this act, or if he did, he’d witnessed it so often, it no longer affected him. But it astonished Cornsilk. In her village, if a person refused to look at one of the holy people, it was a subtle accusation of witchery, implying the person feared the Evil Eye. The Evil Eye could cause miscarriages, illnesses, even death if the witch were Powerful enough.

“Thank you, Yellowgirl,” Sternlight said, then added to Cornsilk, “There are others from Turtle Village here. Do you wish to speak with them? They might be able to tell you of Ant Clan members elsewhere who came from Turtle Village.”

Cornsilk gazed up into his serene eyes. “Perhaps later. For now, I think I’d like to return to my chamber. It was a long journey. I’m very tired.”

“Yes, I understand.”

Cornsilk started to walk away, then turned back to Yellowgirl. “Thank you, Yellowgirl. I appreciate your help … and advice.”

Yellowgirl gave Cornsilk a quick glance. “I’ll let you know if anyone turns up who might be a relative of yours.”

“You’re very kind.”

Sternlight said, “Let me walk you back to your chamber.”

Cornsilk nodded, and kept her head down as they walked past the Blessed Sun, Snake Head. But she could feel his eyes upon her, probing, and her shoulders knotted. The image of a scorpion had lodged in her soul, one in human form, but heartless, deadly, and willing to prey on its own kind.

When they reached the ladder, Cornsilk gripped one of the pine rungs, and asked, “What did the Chief wish to speak with you about?”

Sternlight gave her that limpid gaze. “He asked about you, who you were, what you were doing here. Things like that.” He paused. “Silk, if the Chief sends for you, do not go, and if he approaches you when you are alone, tell him you are here with the holy Derelict. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I—I think so.”

“Not even Snake Head would dare to challenge Dune—I don’t think.” Sternlight put a friendly hand on her shoulder. “Rest for now. I will keep asking about your family. Perhaps we may yet find someone from Turtle Village who belongs to your clan.”

Silk searched his face, trying, once again, to find any resemblance. For a moment she struggled with the desire to speak openly with him—but, in the end, merely nodded. “Thank you, Sternlight.” Then she quickly climbed the ladder and headed for her chamber.

*   *   *

Poor Singer stood beside Dune, staring wide-eyed at the dead man. The magnificent blanket, studded with chunks of turquoise, had been folded at the bottom of the foot drum. The turquoise sparkled in the flickering firelight. Wispy gray hair clung to Crow Beard’s scalp, contrasting with the rude stone cobble that protruded from the ruins of his face. The eyes had dried out and shrunk into the orbits, and the lids had drawn back over flat, lusterless lenses. The lips, too, had drawn into a mocking rictus, which, along with the rock, gave the sagging face a masklike appearance.

While the face had shrunk, Crow Beard’s belly had swollen, and periodically made a gurgling sound. Poor Singer winced as he looked at it. The distended stomach pressed tightly against the cotton fabric of his blue-and-gold shirt like an inflated bladder. Despite the coolness of the kiva, the evil spirits of corruption had began to grow and thrive in the Chief’s body. A faint sickly sweet smell taunted Poor Singer’s nostrils.

Dune turned to Poor Singer, a bushy white eyebrow raised. “Here.” He handed Poor Singer a small pot of white paint, chalk mixed with water. “I’ll paint his arms if you will paint his legs.”

Dune had rolled up the sleeves of his huge white ritual shirt so he could work, but the hem dragged on the hard-packed dirt floor.

Poor Singer wet his lips anxiously. “Paint them … how?”

Fatigue tugged Dune’s wrinkles into a mass of criss-crossing lines, nearly burying his small round nose. The white hairs in his bushy brows stuck out at odd angles.

“Paint his legs with lines of white dots,” Dune said, “representing his kinship to the Evening People. Paint all the way from the groin to the ankles, and try to keep your lines straight. We want the Wolf Thlatsina, who guards the entry to the skyworlds, to know that Crow Beard is sky born, like the stars.”

Poor Singer nodded, dipped his forefinger into the paint, lifted the hem of Crow Beard’s shirt, and pulled it up past the crotch. The penis looked like a newly hatched chick in a gray-frosted nest of pubic hair. The gasses of corruption had expanded the scrotum like an overgrown egg. A shiver went through Poor Singer when he touched the cold, clammy flesh; a queasy feeling slipped around his stomach.