People of the Silence (83 page)

She lifted gray eyebrows. “I think this new grandson, he be able to help you make this decision. We talk afterward, Jay Bird.”

“Very well.” Jay Bird pulled a stick from the wood pile and savagely prodded the low flames. Sparks shot out and smoke billowed toward the soot-coated roof.

Poor Singer shoved his empty cup around with his forefinger. Jay Bird had probably been looking forward to watching all of them die slow deaths in retribution for the deaths of his own people at Straight Path hands.

Jay Bird gave him a measuring sidelong glance. “What were you thinking, Poor Singer?”

Poor Singer looked up. “What will happen to Cornsilk? And Thistle?”

He had gone to see Cornsilk half a hand of time ago and found her curled asleep in red-and-blue blankets, her black hair streaming around her. The run had been especially hard on Cornsilk. With all the bouncing and jostling, she’d gotten little rest. She needed all she could get now. But Poor Singer felt almost desperate to speak with her.

“Downy Girl and I discussed that early this morning while you were out bathing. They may go free, if they wish,” Jay Bird replied. “Though I doubt they will.”

Poor Singer blinked. “Why not?”

Jay Bird made a sweeping gesture with his arm. “By now word of Thistle’s treachery has spread far and wide. She can’t go home. Not ever again. She and Cornsilk are much safer here with us than among the Straight Path dogs. Oh, Thistle might be able to find some outlying village that would take her. But within a few moons, the First People would hear of her presence and they would certainly kill her.”

Poor Singer clutched his cup hard. He hadn’t thought of that. “Yes, I’m sure that’s true.”

Downy Girl glanced at Jay Bird, then at Poor Singer. Her head tilted. “You like Thistle and Cornsilk to stay here, Grandson?”

“I know that this may not please you,” Poor Singer said with trepidation. “You have, perhaps, already been thinking about young Mogollon women who might be suitable for me. But I wish you to know I love Cornsilk. Wherever she is, that’s where I want to be.”

Downy Girl sighed, as if she
had
been thinking about suitable matches, but she forced a smile to her wrinkled face. “Then I hope she choose to stay here with us. And what of other captives, Poor Singer? What you wish done with them?”

Jay Bird prodded the fire again, his jaw stuck out at a hard angle.

Poor Singer said, “G-Grandfather, what do you recommend?”

Just being asked for his advice seemed to soothe Jay Bird’s ire. The dignified, white-haired Chief looked up, and the set of his jaw eased. “The only one I will not give up is Ironwood. I will leave it to you to decide the fate of the others, but—”

“Oh, thank you, Grandfather! I—”

“Wait.”
Jay Bird held up a hand. “I caution you to make your choices wisely. Hear me. I have done you no favor, Poor Singer. Night Sun, as Matron of Talon Town, was involved in every decision to attack us, including the attack where your mother, Young Fawn, was taken slave, where your grandmother was brutally murdered, and where the loved ones of many others in this village died. If you free her after the misery she has caused, it will be very difficult for people here to forgive you.”

Poor Singer thought about that, then nodded. “I understand.”

“And, as Sunwatcher, Sternlight must have known and blessed many, if not all, of those raids. Dune, on the other hand, is our most valuable captive. If we offer to trade him back to the Straight Path nation, we might be able to gain fifty, or even a hundred, of our own people in return. There are many here at Gila Monster Cliffs who would give their very lives to see those family members again.” Jay Bird paused to gauge Poor Singer’s response. Poor Singer just gazed back in misery. “Think wisely, Grandson. The decisions you make will cling to your hands like boiled pine pitch. Provided, of course, that Downy Girl approves them.”

Poor Singer drew up his knees, propped his arms across them, and braced his forehead. He felt empty. If he asked for Night Sun, Dune, and Sternlight to be released, as he must, then he would have no home here. His own cousins, aunts, uncles, perhaps even his grandparents, would despise him for it. In revenge for the loss of their loved ones, a few might consider murdering him.

But he couldn’t go home to his mother, either. Eventually, the truth of his birth would come out, and if the drought went on too long, or the corn withered on the stalks, hateful eyes would turn his way. He might be the death of everyone in Windflower Village, while Thistle would be a hero here at Gila Monster Cliffs, and Cornsilk would be accepted because of Thistle. No haven existed for Poor Singer. No one, anywhere, would take him in. Oh, Dune might, but Poor Singer wouldn’t put Dune in such a dangerous position.

He toyed with the hem of his shirt, creasing it with his fingernails. He desperately needed to speak with Cornsilk.

And with Sternlight. I must confront him about what Mourning Dove said. I don’t believe it, but …

Poor Singer sucked in a breath. “Grandfather, would you tell me about my mother? What she was like? How she died? No one has told me these things. Perhaps if I knew more, I would be able to make decisions more clearly.”

Downy Girl patted Jay Bird on the leg and rose to her feet, her knees crackling, and her face tensing with pain. “You two should speak alone. I be close, in next room, if you need me.” She hobbled through the northern door into a splash of sunlight. Her white hair sparkled, then she vanished from Poor Singer’s view.

Jay Bird leaned forward, dipped his teacup into the pot to fill it and gave Poor Singer a stiff-lipped, almost hurt, look. “Young Fawn was captured when she was six summers old, Poor Singer. All I remember is a bright-eyed little girl with a smile that melted my heart. Her favorite game was hoop-and-stick, and her best friend was named Pollen.”

A frail smile came to his elderly face. He drew an imaginary circle around the room. “They used to chase each other around and around in here. I remember because Young Fawn was prone to breaking things. If she handled something, there was a good chance it would wind up shattered on the floor. If she ran, she frequently tripped and fell. She was awkward for her age, but a very beautiful child. She used to…” His smile faded. “She used to go to sleep at night, cradled in the crook of my left arm while I finished supper.”

Jay Bird closed his mouth and his jaw set again. Hatred filled his eyes. Hatred for a people and nation that Poor Singer loved.

Poor Singer smoothed away a bead of tea that clung to the lip of his cup. “Could you tell me how she died?”

“I heard she was murdered, stabbed twice in the breast, her child—you—cut from her womb. Her body was discovered in a trash mound outside of Talon Town. That’s all I know, Poor Singer. Thistle told me most of those things. Perhaps you should discuss this with her or Mourning Dove. They will certainly know more than I do.”

“Grandfather, who would wish to kill my mother?”

“Any Straight Path dog who knew she was my daughter.” Jay Bird’s brow lined. “Thistle said that War Chief Ironwood hunted for the murderer, but couldn’t find him. It happened so long ago, I doubt anyone knows now.”

Poor Singer laced his fingers around his right knee.
Mourning Dove claims she does, but is this some game I don’t understand?

Jay Bird said, “I tried to rescue Young Fawn, Poor Singer, You must believe me. I tried four times. I just … couldn’t. Ironwood, always Ironwood.” His eyes slitted at those defeats.

“Thank you, Grandfather, for sharing your memories. They mean more to me than I can tell you. All I have of my mother is a vision of her through your eyes. I hope you will not mind me asking you a thousand questions over the next few sun cycles.”

“I suspect I will come to enjoy that very much, Poor Singer.”

Poor Singer shoved his cup across the floor with his thumb. “Grandfather, I would like to speak with my fr—with your prisoners. If that would be all right?”

Jay Bird went still, as if he feared treachery, but when he gazed into Poor Singer’s face, he sighed. “They are your friends. Of course you may speak with them.”

“Thank you. I promise I will—”

“Jay Bird?” Downy Girl called as she ducked through the doorway, her wrinkled face taut. Light reflected oddly from the white film over her eyes. The orbs resembled frozen ponds. She spoke in a rattle of Mogollon.

Poor Singer knew very little Mogollon, but enough to recognize Jay Bird’s question when he asked, “Who?”

“Mourning Dove and her son.”

Poor Singer got to his feet and bowed respectfully to Jay Bird. “I will return later, Grandfather. Thank you, again.”

“I look forward to more discussions, Grandson,” Jay Bird said, and shifted to a cross-legged position, straightening his shirt and sighing, then speaking wearily in Mogollon.

As Poor Singer neared Downy Girl, she placed a hand warmly on his shoulder and gestured for him to duck through the doorway first. He smiled, and did, and saw Mourning Dove standing with Swallowtail. They had the same plump cheeks and brown eyes, though Swallowtail stood three heads taller than his mother. His father must have been a tall man.

“Good morning,” Poor Singer said.

Mourning Dove didn’t answer. She just stared at him. Swallowtail smiled and said, “Good morning, Poor Singer. I hope you are well.”

“Yes, thank you, Swallowtail,” he answered, and stepped out into the sunlight, onto the trail that led in front of the buildings and down the slope to the pen. Poor Singer hurried away.

Mourning Dove’s words last night had left him floundering, unable to sleep. Despite his exhaustion from the long, tortuous run, he’d squirmed in his blankets, trying to convince himself to forget about it, that she must be lying, but he couldn’t find a reason for such dishonesty. What did she have to gain by-telling him that story? Did she just wish to wound his soul?

The sun-speckled trail snaked its way toward the gurgling stream and the pen. Two women with large baskets on their backs passed him, smiling politely but warily. Three children scampered at their heels. They whispered and pointed at Poor Singer with crooked fingers.

Poor Singer took the left fork in the trail just before the stream and carefully used the stones to cross, his arms out for balance. Crystal clear water gurgled and cascaded around his feet. This lush place was so green, with its trees and berry bushes and tumbling water! Thinking back to Windflower Village’s buff sandstone and the brooding Great Warriors, it was like stepping into another world. The scents of water and mud encircled Poor Singer as he walked down.

Four warriors guarded the pen, one on the roof and three around the base. Howler stood in front, his body cloaked by the dappled shadows of a huge cottonwood tree.

The pen, built partly into the side of the stream terrace, had neither windows nor doors. A circular hole in the roof provided entry, but a person needed a ladder to get down into the chamber. Poor Singer looked around and spied the ladder resting against a tree ten paces away.

Howler squinted at Poor Singer, and his ugly facial scars twitched. Poor Singer watched him blandly. He wore a brown shirt with fringes on the hem.

“Good Morning, Howler. My grandfather has given me permission to speak with the prisoners. Please lower the ladder.”

Howler ground his teeth as though doubtful whether he actually had permission, but as he scrutinized Poor Singer he seemed to decide that it didn’t matter.

Isn’t it nice to know that nobody considers me a threat?
The thought made Poor Singer sigh.

Howler nodded to one of the other warriors and issued a sharp command in the Mogollon tongue. The warrior leaped to obey, grabbing the ladder, and tossing it to the man on the roof, who promptly dropped it through the entry. Murmurs rose from inside when it thudded on the ground.

Poor Singer thought he could make out Ironwood’s deep voice, and a tingling pain shot through him:
“The only one I will not give up is Ironwood.”
Poor Singer had seen on the journey how very much Night Sun and Ironwood loved each other, and he wondered what would happen to Night Sun when Ironwood … when he … Poor Singer swallowed hard. If he couldn’t even think it, how could he stand by and watch it happen?

The guard watched Poor Singer through slitted eyes, but Poor Singer ignored him. His damp sandals barely made a sound on the plaster as he headed for the ladder. He stood for a moment, looking down through the hole into the shadowed interior, his heart thumping. The scent of sour sweat rose.

What would he do if Sternlight admitted to killing his mother? How could Poor Singer ask his grandfather to free his daughter’s murderer? How could he find it in himself to want to ask?

Poor Singer gripped the side poles and stepped down to the first rung.

*   *   *

Jay Bird calmly sipped his gooseberry tea as Mourning Dove and her tall skinny son settled on the opposite side of the fire. They both wore fresh tan clothing, simple but clean. They looked rested. Which was more than Jay Bird could say for himself. His eyes had a puffy look, and his muscles trembled when he exerted the slightest effort. Swallowtail’s shoulder-length black hair framed his moonish face and beak nose. Mourning Dove’s plump cheeks shone with perspiration.

“What is it you wish to see me about?” he asked, resting his teacup on his right knee.

Mourning Dove leaned forward. “Great Chief, I came to tell you that my son and I will be going home soon. In a few days.”

“To the northern Tower Builders?”

“Yes, but first, I wished you to know all that we have done these past sun cycles for you and your people.”

Jay Bird sighed. He knew that tone. It meant: “And after I tell you, I expect a reward.” “Go on.”

Mourning Dove placed an arm around the back of her son. The boy’s eyes had an inhuman gleam, like a predator bird about to strike. “Because my mother was born of your people, I have always believed in your prophecies of a savior, a child born and hidden away, a boy who would grow to a man and destroy the Straight Path nation. For many summers, I have been diligently working to make that prophecy come true. I did not know of Poor Singer. I believed the savior to be Web-worm. He—”