People of the Silence (60 page)

In between painting dots, he distracted himself from the corpse by gazing at the magnificent ceremonial chamber.

Thlatsina masks hung over the small wall crypts, glittering with precious stones. Thirty-six in all, they wore brilliantly colored headdresses of blue, yellow, red, and deep black feathers. Tufts of pure white eagle down crowned many masks. Neck ruffs of buffalo, badger, rabbit, and other hides gave the appearance of beards. But Poor Singer’s eyes lingered on the sharp fangs and polished beaks that glinted in the fire’s amber glow. Poor Singer could
feel
their souls. Even in the empty eye sockets, he saw a strange, haunting light.

The circular kiva stretched at least a hundred hands across, supported by four red masonry pillars and encircled by three bench levels. Each bench had its own sacred color, yellow, red, and blue topped by white walls.

Another body rested on the opposite foot drum, covered completely by a beautiful Death Blanket. Poor Singer couldn’t guess who it might be.

He finished one leg and started on the other.

Being more practiced than Poor Singer, Dune had already finished both arms. Leaning over the Chief’s face, Dune frowned, and dipped his crooked finger in his paint pot. Over the left eye, he painted a crescent moon.

“What does that signify?” Poor Singer asked in a hushed voice.

“It will tell the sky gods that Crow Beard was a special man, a leader of renown, and deserves to be treated as such.”

Poor Singer finished the right leg and set his pot down at the edge of the foot drum. “What do we do next?”

“I must take care of this next step. Just watch.”

Dune’s bundle sat above Crow Beard’s head. He hobbled to it. The malachite, turquoise, and jet beads glittered as he rummaged through it and pulled out six feathers and a coil of cotton string.

Dune held them up for Poor Singer to see. “These will give him the ability to fly to the skyworlds.”

He tied a feather to a wisp of Crow Beard’s hair, one to each hand and ankle. Then he slipped the string around the dead chief’s back and tied a feather over his heart.

“When Crow Beard reaches the top of the sacred Humpback Butte,” Dune said, “these seed feathers will sprout and in a blink his whole body will be covered with feathers. He will have long pointed wings, just like Prairie Falcon, who gave the feathers.”

Poor Singer clasped his hands before him, marveling. He had, of course, seen bodies after they’d been prepared for burial, but the ritual remained a secret. Only very holy people knew why things were done as they were. On the fabric of his soul, he could imagine the grand transformation and see the dead Chief sailing through the heavens.

“You may help me with this next part.” Dune pulled a small leather bag from his bundle. It was painted with a red spiral and blue slash of lightning. “Open your right hand.”

Poor Singer hurried forward and extended his open palm. Dune poured it full of cornmeal and draped a string over Poor Singer’s wrist. “Fill Crow Beard’s hands with meal, then tie them shut.”

“Yes, Dune.”

Poor Singer had to pry the Chief’s stiff fingers open. He filled the right palm, forced the fingers closed around the meal, and held them shut with one hand while he looped the string with the other. He pulled it tight and knotted it.

While Poor Singer finished the left hand, Dune rubbed meal over the chief’s face, dribbled some into the death-grinning mouth, and filled the sunken eyes. The yellow of the meal flashed golden in the fluttering gleam.

“Why did you fill his eyes with meal, Dune?”

“To cleanse them of any lingering taint he might have picked up in life. This way he may look upon the glories of the skyworlds with new eyes, eyes unpolluted by the horrors of this world.” Dune pointed to the tied hands. “By your labors, you have given Crow Beard the ability to enter those worlds. You see, upon arrival at the first skyworld, Crow Beard will need to sanctify his path by sprinkling cornmeal to the six directions.”

Reverently, Poor Singer whispered, “I understand.”

Dune frowned down at the Bashing Rock. Finally, he sighed and tugged the rock loose, inspecting the stains on the smooth surface. “Normally I don’t leave my Bashing Rock in, but Hard Snake needed the reminder.”

Poor Singer leaned forward, uncomfortable with the need to correct Dune. “You mean … Snake Head?”

Dune set the Bashing Rock to one side and sprinkled corn meal into the crater where the nose had been. “Probably,” he answered.

Next, Dune pulled a white cloth from his bundle and held it up to the light. Three holes pierced it. “And this,” he said as he covered the Chief’s face, “represents the billowy clouds that will hide Crow Beard’s face when he returns to bring rain to our dry country.”

Dune arranged the cloth so the holes fit over the eyes and mouth. Then, as though exhausted, Dune braced a hand on the foot drum and heaved a sigh. “There. That is all for Crow Beard today. Tomorrow morning, before dawn, we will finish the burial preparations. Now, we must care for ourselves. Take off your clothing.”

Poor Singer slipped his shirt over his head. He knew that those who attended the dead had to take ritual baths afterward to cleanse themselves. Dune removed his shirt and laid it on the yellow bench, then led the way to the rectangular firebox. He looked like a walking skeleton. The large freckles visible beneath his thin hair looked black in the dim light.

Fresh clothing, blankets, and several pots rested near the fire.

Dune bent down with a grunt and picked up two small bowls. He handed one to Poor Singer. “Juniper needles were boiled in this water. There’s a cloth soaking in the bottom. Squeeze it out and wash thoroughly.”

Poor Singer wrung out the tan cloth and washed his arms and legs, then dipped and wrung it again to purify his chest and the rest of his body. The pungent fragrance of juniper encircled him. When he’d finished, he placed the cloth back in the pot and started to set it on the floor near the fire.

Dune thrust out a hand. “No, don’t set it down. Hold it until I’m finished.”

Poor Singer nodded while Dune rubbed his own juniper scented cloth over his face and neck. “Now, watch what I do.” Dune raised the bowl high—and slammed it down to shatter on the hard floor. He turned to Poor Singer. “Break yours, too. These pots are tainted with corruption. No one may ever use them again.”

Poor Singer raised his pot and smashed it. Angular sherds clattered across the floor.

“We have one final cleansing to undergo today.” Dune picked up a blanket and handed it to Poor Singer, then crouched before a small pot to the right of the fire. He removed several crystallized globs of piñon pine sap and placed them on the glowing coals at the edge of the fire. As the sap sizzled and popped, it produced a haze of blue smoke.

“Place your blanket over your head”—Dune illustrated with his own blanket—“and lean over the smoke. Make sure it passes over your whole body. Smoke is a cousin to the Cloud People, who bring us rain and life. It will drive away any evil spirits who might have been clinging to the dead.”

Poor Singer did as he was told, letting the sweet pine-scented smoke bathe him. It felt warm on his skin.

Dune walked a short distance away and returned with two new shirts. He shook out one with red and gold diamonds and handed it to Poor Singer. “This is yours.”

Poor Singer gaped at the garment. “It’s beautiful!”

Dune gave him a disgusted look. “You like that, eh?”

“Of course! Who wouldn’t want such a—”

“I’ll find you another shirt like your old one as soon as I can. Then you can give that one away.”

“But why can’t I keep this one?”

“Boy, if I could beat that pride out of you with a stick, I’d do it.”

Poor Singer bit his lip, dropped his blanket on the floor, and slipped the new shirt over his head. The fine tight weave hugged his body. He smoothed it down over his narrow hips. “What will happen to my old shirt?”

“It will be burned, along with mine.” Dune put on a blue-and-black shirt. It fit perfectly, as if it had been made specifically for him. “You must go straight back to your chamber now, Poor Singer. And maintain sexual abstinence for four days.”

Poor Singer blushed. “I’ve never—been—with Silk, Dune. We are just good friends.”

“Make sure that’s
all
you are for four more days.” Dune picked up the pine sap bowl again. He poured the remaining globules onto the fire. Orange flames leaped, and sparks whirled upward toward the hole in the roof. Dune stood and lifted the pot, letting it smash on the floor near the sherds of the other two.

Curious, Poor Singer narrowed his eyes at the little holy man. “What would happen if I weren’t? If I broke the prohibition against abstinence?”

A toothless grin lit Dune’s wrinkled face. “We maintain abstinence as a final precaution against roaming evil. If you break the prohibition, and some malingering spirit sees you coupling, it might just take that opportunity to crawl into your penis and live there. And then…” Dune lifted a finger and shook it.

Abruptly he walked past Poor Singer, heading for the stairs.

“And then … what?” Poor Singer trotted along behind.

They stepped out of the altar room into the pale lavender veil of twilight. The cliff had shaded purple; the sky had turned a luminescent slate blue. Bats flitted over the town, twittering and diving, and the reddish gleams from warming bowls inside the town’s chambers flowed out to splotch the white walls with rosy glows. Conversations created a soft hum.

Dune took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the clean air. “You did well, my boy. I’m proud of you. Meet me here before dawn.”

“I will. Thank you, Dune. I learned a great deal, but I wish you’d tell me—”

“Sleep well, Poor Singer.” Dune grinned. “I’ll see you at first light.”

He hobbled off toward his chamber, and Poor Singer watched his back. Dune climbed the ladder, one rung at a time, and walked across the first-story roof. His white hair had a pale orchid glow. Poor Singer watched him until he stepped onto the ladder that led down into his chamber, and vanished.

Poor Singer turned in the direction of his own chamber, whispering,
“And then … what?”

Sixth Day

I crouch on a narrow ledge overlooking a waterfall. It is fed by snowmelt. The water is icy cold as it cascades down the rocks, gurgling and growling its way to the small pool a hundred hands below. A meadow rings the pool. Two boys stand on either side, fishing spears in their hands. They must be around nine or ten summers. I’ve been listening to them laugh as they fish and leap from rock to rock. Tall pine trees dot the meadow. A red-tailed hawk sails just above the wind-blown branches. Her shadow flits across the pool and the boys’ joyous faces.

Predators. We are all so much alike, perhaps because our food consists entirely of souls.

We kill animals. We pull up plants. All of these creatures that we strike down have souls, just like ours, souls that do not die when their bodies die.

One of the boys has speared a fish. He laughs at the big trout. It wriggles on the end of his spear as he pulls it out of the crystalline water.

And I wonder …

How many souls live inside my body? Hundreds? Thousands.

No one has ever told me much about these souls. What do they do inside me? Are they all asleep? Like eggs resting in a warm nest? Or have they woven themselves into the very fabric of my muscles and bones?

Three deer catch my attention. They prance across the south end of the meadow. They are quiet and placid until they spy the boys, then they bound forward like the wind. Deadfall cracks in their wake. The boys whirl to look.

And I blink thoughtfully.

When blood suddenly rushes in my veins is it the deer running?

Perhaps my growling belly is really Badger at play, and my fluttering heart a flurry of grouse wings?

I look down and gently touch my chest. I have become the guardian of a thousand souls. Creatures who gave their lives so that I might live.

The boys are shouting to each other across the pond, gathering up their catches and packs, preparing to go home for supper.

I watch them trot merrily across the grassy meadow. They take the same game trail the deer did and meld with the forest shadows.

I dip my hand into the waterfall and drink. When the liquid reaches my belly, Badger runs around, perhaps shaking off the icy droplets.

I pat my stomach and reverently close my eyes.

Thirty-Six

Webworm sat on soft deerhides in his mother’s chamber and ate a bowl of thick soup. Roasted chunks of squash simmered with dried currants, sunflower seeds, and beeweed made a delicious meal. The soup pot hung from a tripod over the bowl of coals, and beside it sat a warm pot of dried yucca petal tea. The gentle glow of the warming bowl dyed the walls and lit the gaudy faces of the Dancing thlatsinas.

On the opposite side of the chamber, Featherstone lay rolled in a red blanket, snoring softly. In her partly open mouth, Webworm could see the gap of her missing front teeth. Dark gray hair spread across her sleeping mats. She looked very peaceful, and the sight comforted him.

Creeper sat cross-legged near Featherstone, finishing his soup. The short fat man had a curious expression on his round face, as if he floated over a terrible battle, watching it unfold, unable to stop the slaughter. He wore a green shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing the thick black hair on his arms. Creeper spooned more soup into his mouth and chewed slowly.

Webworm used a corncake to sop up the rest of his soup and set his bowl aside. “What’s wrong, Creeper?” he asked as he bit into the sweet corncake.

Creeper looked up as though the question had startled him from a dream. “Oh, nothing.” He frowned down into his soup. “I saw Snake Head speaking with you this afternoon. What did he want?”

“To give me orders. He’s such a fool.” Webworm grimaced at his corncake. “He wants only five warriors to accompany the burial party on the sacred road to the Humpback Butte.”