People of the Silence (8 page)

The passing of time vanished until he might have sat there forever, but he jerked when fingers touched his eyes and gently pulled up his lids.

Buckthorn blinked lazily.

The flute joined the drum …

His balance fled. He fell forward, bracing his hands on either side of the tunnel to the underworld, looking straight into the
sipapu.
The darkness wavered. Ripples flowed out like windblown waves journeying across a lake without a shore. In the heart of that blackness, a crystal pillar took shape, rising, growing, shimmering like a thousand diamonds as it rushed upward, building crystal upon crystal.

Fear, bright and glowing, shot through Buckthorn. “It … it’s coming too fast. It’s going to lance right through me!”

The darkness around the crystal pillar changed from pitch black to deep blue. Then, as if the tunnel had been pierced by an unseen shaft of light, the blue turned a magnificent shade of turquoise, and a blue-green cave took shape. Light flashed. Thousands of falling stars cascaded down like points of white fire. In the heart of the cave, flame sparked, and the crystal pillar caught fire. The blaze roared out of control, devouring the cave, and in the midst of it he saw a young woman’s face, beautiful, crying, with long black hair falling about her shoulders … and a jagged mountain peak sheathed in starlight.

“Ah!” Buckthorn cried out. “Help me! I—I’m falling! I’m falling in!”

A soft voice said,
You are going where the world is born, Buckthorn. Just let yourself go. Let go.

The golden ceremonial chamber spun, and Buckthorn dove headfirst through breathtaking flame-colored skies, falling, falling …

*   *   *

Black Mesa stood beside Snow Mountain, watching Buckthorn, who sat in the middle of the plaza, making a drum. The snow had melted in the rain that had fallen for two days, leaving the sand clean and sparkling. Pools of water shone on the terraced fields stretching out from the base of the sandstone cliffs. Scruffy patches of saltbush and grass edged the fields with dull colors. Rivulets had incised the plaster covering the village’s stone walls, giving them an aged look. They would have to be replastered.

Scattered around Buckthorn lay pieces of leather, stone tools, strips of sinew and rawhide, and a single perfect turkey feather.

The youth hadn’t said a word in three days. Not since he had emerged from the kiva.

People moved around the plaza, enjoying the warm sun, weaving blankets on large looms, grinding corn, and attending to mending. They patted Buckthorn’s head or shoulder and spoke to him in gentle tones as they passed.

Buckthorn only smiled in return. Silent. His narrow face glowing as if from an inner radiance. No one pushed him. Everyone knew he must return to them in his own time, that part of his soul still hovered in the First Underworld, walking among the ancestors, studying the strange plants and animals that lived there.

Black Mesa folded his aged arms across his breast. His black shirt hung to his knees and looked huge on his frail body. Over the long passing of the seasons, his muscles had evaporated to stringy masses, leaving a rickety bag of bones behind. He’d left his long gray hair loose today, and it fluttered around his wrinkled face.

Snow Mountain murmured, “He’ll be all right, won’t he?”

“Of course.”

Worry shone in her dark eyes. At the age of thirty-five summers, silver had just begun to streak her black hair and lines to etch her forehead. Her short pointed nose rode over thin lips. She wore a red and black dress today. “Did he tell you?” she asked anxiously. “Did he tell you what he saw in the First Underworld?”

“It won’t make much sense to you.”

“But I wish to know. If you can tell me, perhaps it will help me to understand him better. He has always been a … a mystery to me. And my greatest joy. I’m worried about him, Black Mesa.”

Black Mesa’s gaze drifted to the twin knobs that loomed over the valley—the stone bodies of gods, eternally watching. He had long wondered what their souls did in the skyworlds. Did they make bows and recount their exploits? Did they hunt? Or just Dance continually to keep the world vibrantly alive? The blue-gray thunderheads that had been gathering all day had crumbled to ruins in the sky. Shreds of their glory drifted northward, tinged with the palest of blues.

Black Mesa looked down into Snow Mountain’s worried face. “He saw his father,” he answered.

Snow Mountain’s taut expression slackened. “H-his real father?”

“Yes. His body was mumbling, telling what his soul saw as it passed through the worlds. He called the man ‘father,’ but I don’t know if he truly realizes the man’s identity in this world.”

“He can’t know, Black Mesa. I never told him anything! He has asked many times, but—”

“Snow Mountain,” Black Mesa gently interrupted, “you must understand. Everything that leaves, returns. Everything that dies is reborn. Everything that is hidden is revealed. We humans live in an immense and naked universe, a universe we barely understand.”

Life “moved,” Black Mesa knew, as inconstant and fickle as Wind Baby, frolicking, sleeping, but never truly still, never solid, or finished. Seed and fruit, rain and drought, belief and reality, everything traveled in a gigantic circle, an eternal process of becoming something else.

Snow Mountain’s gaze focused on her son. Buckthorn had finished hollowing out his two-hands-tall section of cottonwood log and had begun constructing the “heart” of the drum. He stretched a piece of sinew through the middle, tied it off, and attached the turkey feather to the taut strand. Black Mesa nodded when the youth bent forward and growled into the drum in the deepest voice he could muster, to give the drum a rumbling bass voice.

Without taking her eyes from Buckthorn, Snow Mountain asked, “What else happened to him in the Soot World?”

“His father taught him a Song. They Sang it together. While they were Singing, the earth began to tremble, and then rivers of fire consumed the earth. To escape, Buckthorn climbed into the sky, using the clouds as stepping stones.”

“I don’t understand.”

Black Mesa shrugged. “The vision was not given to you.”

“Did Buckthorn understand?”

He watched Buckthorn place two pieces of deerhide over the top and bottom, then lace them together by pulling strips of rawhide through holes he had punched around the edges. “No,” Black Mesa said through a tired exhalation. “But he will. Someday.”

“You will teach him?”

“I cannot. I have promised Buckthorn that the holy Derelict will teach him.”

Snow Mountain’s lips parted as she lifted a hand to her heart. Her eyes seemed to enlarge. “Dune? But I thought Dune never wished to see him again? That’s what you
told
me!”

Black Mesa lowered his gaze, searching for the right words. “The Great Circle has shifted. There are many things Buckthorn must know. Perhaps even the identity of his real father.”

“Should I be the one—”

“No.” He reached out, placing a hand on her shoulder to emphasize his words. “There is great danger in this revelation. If he must know, Dune will tell him. It is, after all, Dune’s right to decide if and when he is told.”

Buckthorn tentatively beat his drum with his forefinger to test the resonance. Black Mesa glanced at him, a great weariness settling on his heart. A soft smile came to the youth’s face. He looked up eagerly to see if anyone else in the village had heard the beautiful tone. Black Mesa gave him an approving nod, and Buckthorn’s smile widened. He tapped the drum again. “You must trust me, Snow Mountain. Dune will teach Buckthorn.”

Snow Mountain seemed to be digesting this news. “And does this mean my son will be a great Singer?”

“I can say only that he will be needed.” He peered at Snow Mountain. “Which of us dares ask for more than that?”

Three

As the flames of sunset dwindled, the drifting clouds turned a somber gray, smudging the heavens like oily smoke. The shadows of the canyon lengthened until they blended with the night. Owls sailed over the sage, their calls echoing. The evening fires from fourteen large towns and over two hundred small villages gave the canyon an eerie glow and a pungent smell. The massive cliffs seemed to flutter and dance.

Ironwood, War Chief of Talon Town, paced back and forth within the confines of the rock shelter. A deep hollow in the sheer-walled sandstone cliff, the smooth buff-colored overhang rose barely a hand’s width above his head. On the rear wall, the carved images of the Spiral, Evening People, and various gods watched him. This rock shelter lay midway between Talon Town and Kettle Town. When Ironwood looked to the east, he could just see the hanging porch that ran high along Kettle Town’s second story. This late in winter, with the chill in the air, no one stood there.

A fragrant whisper of wind blew through the stubble of last summer’s cornfields, across the cold dirt, and flicked the hem of his red warrior’s shirt. Ironwood shivered. A muscular man, he had an oval face and flat nose. Unlike most of the Bear Clan, his eyebrows did not arch neatly over his eyes, but slanted upward as if with mischievous intent. He had lived forty-five summers, and gray had overpowered his once jet-black hair. He wore it in a single thick braid that fell to the middle of his back.

Ironwood glanced at Sternlight, who leaned on a chunk of fallen roof back in the shadows. Dust puffed from beneath Sternlight’s restless sandals and coated his long white ritual shirt. His brown eyes held a strange light, as though Father Sun breathed inside his tall, lean frame. Ironwood’s backbone prickled. Yet he trusted this man. Trusted him like no other.

“The Blessed Sun, Chief Crow Beard, is dying,” Ironwood said.

Sternlight’s beautiful lips pressed into a bloodless line. “Maybe. None of us can say for certain. He—”

“You know it.”

“No,” Sternlight corrected. “I
believe
he’s dying. But he has fooled us so often in the past, I hesitate for fear he will prove us wrong again.”

“I hesitate, too, my friend.” Ironwood glanced uneasily at the carved gods behind Sternlight. They seemed to be watching them. “But if he is dying, we must act quickly.”

Sternlight steepled his fingers over his lips. “This is not a decision I can make, Ironwood.
You
must make it.”

“I know that, old friend. It is just as much my responsibility today as it was almost sixteen summers ago.”

Sternlight glanced up, pinning Ironwood with sober eyes. Against the darkening sandstone, his pale face and white shirt seemed to blaze. “You truly believe the child is in danger?”

“Yes.”

“Does this mean you suspect treachery?”

Ironwood needed to phrase his next words carefully. “No. But if the Blessed Sun dies, there is no longer a reason to hide the child. And Talon Town with its massive defensive walls and trained warriors is certainly safer than a little village.”

“You just want the child close to you, is that it?”

“Sternlight, I—”

“That was not a reprimand, Ironwood. Just a question. If you truly mean to do this, be smart. I don’t think it’s wise to go and drag the child away from the only family—”

“I wouldn’t do that.” Though that was precisely what he longed to do. Ironwood folded muscular arms over his aching chest, as if he could protect his heart. “I was thinking about sending Wraps-His-Tail, my deputy, to the village with some story about how much I need Beargrass to return to Talon Town.”

“And hope he brings the child with him?”

“Yes, and I think he will. If I tell him that the Mogollon are raiding and I fear for his family’s safety, he’ll come.” Ironwood resumed his pacing, his yucca sandals soundless in the rock shelter’s powdery soil. Far out in the desert a pack of coyotes yipped, then broke into a beautiful lilting chorus.

“But, Ironwood, the Fire Dogs have been raiding for many sun cycles.” Sternlight used his fingertips to massage his temples, as though a headache had just started behind his dark eyes. “Why would such a message make him come?”

“I’ll add that the northern barbarians, the Tower Builders, are slinking about like wildcats, just waiting for a chance to slip into Straight Path country and kill us all.” Ironwood caught Sternlight’s sidelong look. “It’s true, you know. If Chief Crow Beard dies, the Tower Builders will look upon it as an opportunity to sweep down and steal whatever they can lay their dirty hands on.”

“I suppose so.”

“And they may be able to take advantage of our confusion. After all, Snake Head will become the new Blessed Sun when his father is gone. People are certain to feel despondent for a time.”

Sternlight nodded. “I certainly will.”

“It is a burden we must bear—at least for a time.”

“Night Sun—”

“Snake Head’s mother is not here,” Ironwood pointed out. “She is off on one of her Healing trips, caring for the people in the neighboring villages. Cloud Playing, her daughter, is with her. Snake Head has no other relatives who will stand up for him. He is hated by everyone.”

Sternlight looked up. The crow’s feet around his eyes pulled tight. “We play a dangerous game, you and I. I fear we may tangle ourselves in our own complicated web of deception and forget why we’re doing this.”

“
I
will never forget.”

Sternlight fell silent.

Ironwood lifted his gaze to the canyon.

Across the wash, hundreds of fires sparkled to life, sprinkling the flats like tangled necklaces of copper beads. Most gleamed around Sunset Town, which sat at the base of the western canyon wall, but many lit small villages where those of low status lived, enjoying their closeness to the elite First People of Straight Path canyon.

Several fires glowed on the mesas, including one on the summit of Spider Woman’s Butte.

Ironwood studied it while he thought. Must be a priest. No one else would dare visit such a strong Power place.

On top of Spider Woman’s Butte stood the Sun Stone. Etched with spirals, it allowed Sternlight to measure the exact cycles of the sun. When the summer solstice arrived, a dagger of sunlight lanced between two upright stones and split the spiral down the middle, enabling Sternlight to count the exact number of days until they could harvest the rice grass, corn, beans, and squash, and organize the communal hunts for deer and rabbits. Spider Woman herself guarded the Sun Stone.