People of the Sky

by Clare Bell

  Ahead she heard a strange noise, a rhythmic clack-clack and thump. A low guttering light shone in an adobe doorway in a part of the pueblo she knew as Chamois. Gratefully she approached it, hoping for refuge against the night and its visions. As she paused before the doorflap and clicked off her light, the clack-clack and thump paused. She heard the soft scraping of sandals, smelled the scent of an oil lamp as a hand drew back the hanging. Eyes opened wide at the sight of the stranger.

  “Please,” said Kesbe softly as the woman retreated in front of her. Chamol dipped her head, her butterfly-wing headdress throwing strange shadows on the floor. Wordlessly she gestured Kesbe inside, twisting her hand nervously in the fabric of her blanket-dress. The Pai woman’s face was set, her eyes bright with angry tears. To one side of the chamber was a wooden frame holding a partially woven blanket.

  “You must not be here,” Chamol began. “If the shaman comes…”

  “I’ve met Sahacat and seen some of her tricks. She’s not going to stop me from finding Imiya.”

  “You are a warrior, Kesbe-Rohoni, but it is of no use. My brother can not come back to us.”

  “Have you searched? Has anyone?”

  “No, we are forbidden.” Chamois eyes closed in grief. She turned to the wooden frame, which Kesbe now recognized as a loom. “I weave the burial blanket for my brother. The council said I should not weave it, for in their eyes Imiya has perished not as a man but as a boy. My brother was a man,” she finished angrily, “and in this family he shall be honored as a man.”

  Kesbe sensed a possible ally in Chamol. “If Imiya could be found, would you take him back into your house?”

  Chamol lifted her head, her eyes flashing. “Yes. He has done no wrong. He did not turn away from the ceremony of adulthood out of evil intent as the council and Sahacat say. If he departed, he must have had a purpose and he would have come back if he could. It is wrong to dishonor him.”

  Kesbe stooped near the loom, studying the diamond weave of the burial blanket. She guessed it was an unusual and difficult pattern, reserved only for this purpose. She watched the Pai woman run her fingers across the warp threads of her work, her grief more eloquent in her hands than in her high-boned face.

  “Are there others who would join a search?” Kesbe asked.

  “Yes. Imiya has many friends among the child-warriors.”

  “Listen then. I think Imiya may have tried to follow me when I left your village. If so, I can retrace his path and if luck is with us, I might be able to find him.”

  Chamol eyed her. “Do you think your power is so great, Kesbe-Rohoni, that you can save my brother from the Mother Canyon?”

  “I don’t have any shaman’s magic. Just my Gooney Berg. It may be enough, especially if you can get me some searchers with aronans.”

  “This night is not friendly. There are soyoko dancing outside. Ogre kachinas.”

  “Men in masks,” Kesbe said in a hard, flat voice. “That is all you need to know.”

  The look on the Pai woman’s face went from astonishment to determination. “Kesbe-Rohoni, you mock the spirits as only a powerful warrior can. If you will save Imiya, I will gather the searchers you need.”

  “Have them come to the mesa-top before dawn.”

  Chamol was already pulling a shawl from a peg near the door. “You stay here until I come for you.” she said. “Go to the inner rooms where you will not be seen.”

  “Wait,” Kesbe said. “Are you coming with me on the search?”

  “Yes.” Chamol’s answer was fierce.

  “What about your baby son, Jolo?”

  “My sister offered to care for him while I wove the burial blanket for Imiya.”

  Kesbe wondered but did not ask what would happen to Jolo if Chamol did not return. With a flap of the door hanging, the Pai woman was gone.

  Kesbe picked up the oil lamp, holding it steady so as not to flood the wick or spill the contents. She ducked into the next room, lifting the light high to see her way. Beyond that was another chamber. She let the doorflap fall behind her and was about to take another step when she checked herself.

  On the floor was laid a design in the shape of a thin human figure, with legs straight and hands clasped on its breast. Some of it was woven from dyed rushes, with hands, feet and face fashioned from wuwuchpi hide. Its hair was combed cornsilk. The features were painted carefully and lovingly to resemble those of Chamois lost brother. Beside the figure’s head stood a gourd bowl filled with what looked like soapy water. Kesbe stooped to smell, catching a scent that reminded her of yucca. The cornsilk hair was damp, as if it had just been washed.

  Next to the nearly life-size representation was another. Rushes and hide were used to form an aronan body and head, but the two wings that spread on either side were done with sand-painting. Kesbe crouched near, scarcely daring to breathe for fear of disturbing carefully laid patterns. Obsidian pebbles and a greenstone powder as rich as emerald formed the pattern of aronan wings. Haewi Namij and its rider lay together in images on the adobe floor.

  Had Chamol done it? Or perhaps Nabamida? And why had they hidden it away in a darkened chamber? The work had been done with such artistry and love that Kesbe felt her eyes begin to sting and she had to retreat for fear she would inadvertently let a tear fall onto the sand-painting.

  As she moved away, something else caught her eye. Lying on the rush and hide figure of the boy was a dried twist of flesh. The object was too strange in color to be meat or leather and Kesbe puzzled over it for some time before an old memory given to her by her grandfather made her certain. She peered at the gnarled twirl that seemed to sprout a withered mushroom from one end. She recognized it as the boy’s navel-string and placenta, probably dried at his birth and preserved for a ceremonial such as this.

  Another withered birthstring lay on the figure of the aronan. It was slightly different in color and shape and in the attachment at its end, but it was the same thing as far as Kesbe could tell. She crouched near it, staring. Why had this been included in Haewi’s image? Aronans didn’t have umbilicals or placentas. They were arthropods. They came from eggs…didn’t they?

  By the light of the oil lamp, she glanced at her wrist chronometer. She hadn’t the time to puzzle over this new mystery. She had preparations to make before the morning’s flight and she had to get some sleep if possible. She backed out of the room and its strange funerary contents, but the images stayed in her mind.

  She found the room that had served her during her convalescence and flopped down on the pallet of pine branches that was still there. Only moments later it seemed that Chamol was shaking her shoulder and bidding her to come. By the light of the guttering oil lamp, her chronometer read two hours before dawn.

  She shoved her feet into her boots and shouldered into her flight jacket. The cold inside the pueblo room was dank and penetrating. She gladly accepted Chamois offer of a blanket, for the wind outside had the edge of an obsidian blade. Together they left the house, running through the ghost-white dust that swirled through the streets.

  On the trail, Kesbe looked back to see the shape of Aronan House outlined against starlit clouds. She thought she saw a figure swoop from the upper level, followed by another. She wondered if Imiya had left in that way, diving with Haewi Namij into the unknown night. Why had he left? Was it because she had taken him aboard Gooney Berg and spoken to him of the world beyond the Mother Canyon? Had she planted betrayal when she told him of a place where his partnership with his flier might continue without the ending that Pai tradition demanded?

  No. She drove her fist into her palm. It had to be something else, something that happened after he returned to Tuwayhoima.

  “Hurry,” Chamol urged, tugging at Kesbe’s arm. “The soyoko…”

  Kesbe played the beam of her light ahead on the path, catching only rocks and small scuttling things. Then the two women were at the trailhead and running out onto the mesa where Gooney Berg waited. The plane looked big, solid and reassuring after a
night of shadows and spirits. As Kesbe dug in her pocket for the keys, an aronan swept between streaks of low-hanging cloud and landed near the aircraft.

  Once inside, she flicked on the lights and surveyed the cargo bay, wondering how many searchers and their mounts she could squeeze in alongside her load of spare parts. She shoved a crate or two aside, clearing space on one side of the aircraft. She paused, knowing she hadn’t given much thought as to how she was going to coax the child-warriors and their fliers into something that looked to them like a monstrous giant.

  “Hai, I have no fear. I will go into the belly of Grandmother Aronan,” a voice piped up. Pesquit. Kesbe glanced around to see the wiry young girl already crouched on the floor-boards, coaxing her aronan, Dancing Water, over the threshold of the cargo door. She was clad only in a short kilt and sash, her upper body bare except for the strap of an arrow quiver across her chest.

  Chamol laid her hand on the child’s shoulder as the girl gentled her flier and led it into the plane.

  “I lead the child-warriors,” said Pesquit proudly. “Now that the older ones take the way of kekelt, I am the best remaining among the younger ones.”

  Kesbe couldn’t help a twinge of dismay. Pesquit looked no older than fourteen and the other child-warriors climbing aboard with their mounts appeared even younger. How was she going to conduct the search with a handful of children?

  Soon the C-47 was filled with the strangest cargo it had ever carried, a load of brown-skinned Pai child-warriors and their winged mounts. The child-warriors looked frightened and Kesbe couldn’t blame them, for they were disobeying the words of their elders in order to search for Imiya. The aronans settled themselves on the floorboards, fluttering jeweled wings. As Kesbe moved from one pair to another, checking that they were secure, she felt as if she had moved somehow into a dream filled with clouds of huge butterflies.

  “Chamol,” she said nervously, “aren’t there any other adults who would be willing to help us?”

  The Pai woman looked up in surprise. “Only the child-warriors have aronans, Kesbe-Rohoni. Even if there were other men or women who were willing, what good would they do?”

  Kesbe didn’t have an answer to that. “I don’t know. I just feel uneasy taking off with a bunch of children whose parents haven’t given me permission. What if I crash?”

  “Permission?” Chamol was puzzled. “These are child-warriors, not infants. If you think there is danger, explain to them and let them make the choice.”

  When all the wings were folded and the children’s chatter had died down, Kesbe spoke to the group, telling them exactly what she intended to do and what the danger would be. The youngsters listened seriously, the looks on their faces telling her that they were weighing the risks as an adult would. It brought home again to her that these small beings that looked like children were indeed accomplished hunters and warriors with responsibility for their own lives. Still…

  “Will you come with us?” she asked Chamol. “I know these kids can take care of themselves, but one of them might get queasy or frightened. Gooney Berg makes a lot of noise…” she finished lamely.

  Chamol nodded. “In some ways they are still children,” she said and added, “In some ways my brother was still a child.”

  “Is,” Kesbe said, clapping her on the shoulder. “He’s alive and we’ll find him.” A thought struck her. “Once all the kids are in the air, how are we going to direct them?”

  “Pesquit?” Chamol looked toward the girl.

  Pesquit straightened her shoulders. “We are prepared. We have carrying-slings and signal banners.” Another child handed her one and she displayed it. It was actually a flag-sized blanket, woven in a bold pattern that could be seen from a distance. “We use banners to relay messages across canyons or to those who are in the air.”

  The girl’s quiet competence soothed Kesbe’s misgivings. “All right,” she said, and began explaining the search method to Pesquit while the other child-warriors crowded around and peeked over her shoulder while she drew diagrams on the back of a map.

  “If and when we find Imiya, the most difficult part will be transferring him from your aronan-carried slings into Gooney Berg,” she finished. “You’ll have to approach from above while I fly as slow as I can. Stay away from the propellers—those whirling teeth on the front of the wing. If you get too close, you and your mount will be sucked in and shredded. Instantly.” She paused. “Is there anyone who doesn’t want to go with me?”

  The child-warriors gathered and spoke quietly for several minutes before Pesquit turned back to her “Imiya is one of us. If he lives, we will find him. If he is dead, we will honor his spirit. We are not afraid.”

  “All right,” Kesbe answered. She showed them a light to the right side of the cargo door During the C-47’s military life, it had been used to signal paratroop jumps She was glad she’d made sure the system still worked. “I can turn this light on from the cockpit. When it flashes red, it means ‘stand to the door’, or get ready. A green light means go. Pesquit, you make sure everyone gets out safely. Any questions? No? Let’s go, then.”

  The answer came back in a chorus of affirmative yells. Kesbe thought she might have heard some aronan chirps among them. She ducked away and strode to the flight deck.

  All right, Grandmother Aronan, as Pesquit called you, give me everything you’ve got for this mission. We’ve got precious cargo aboard and a tough task ahead.

  The Pratt and Whitneys answered without the usual sputters and backfires. With both props slicing air, and both radials snarling behind her, Kesbe pushed twin throttles forward. She felt the tailwheel lift and then came that wonderful push from below that boosted her into the sky as if she were riding an elevator. A quick throw and latch of the landing gear lever brought the main wheels up with a satisfying double thump as the C-47 rose away from the Pai mesa.

  Kesbe looked back over her shoulder as someone came into the cockpit. The outline of a butterfly-wing headdress showed against the dimly lit bulkhead.

  “Welcome to Gooney’s flight deck,” Kesbe said in English, then greeted Chamol in Pai. “Is everyone all right in back?”

  “The child-warriors said it was like being lifted by a strong wind. They laughed with delight.” Chamol peered ahead into the gray dawn that filtered through the cockpit windows. “For me, it was as if I could ride an aronan once again.”

  “You were a child-warrior?” Kesbe’s attention left her instruments and the sky ahead to stare at Chamol.

  “Not a leader, like Pesquit,” the woman added hastily, “but I did ride.”

  “What happened to your aronan? Did it die?” Kesbe found it increasingly difficult to keep her attention on piloting the plane.

  “It took its own Road of Life as I took mine.”

  Kesbe made a course correction. “Imiya told me he was afraid of what would happen to Haewi.”

  “He also confided in me,” said Chamol. “I could tell him only that if he stayed in the kiva and trusted his teachers, he would see that the Pai way was right.”

  “Chamol, what does happen? In the ceremony of adulthood, I mean.”

  The unexpected silence was filled by the sound of Gooney’s engines. Kesbe turned toward the Pai woman, who was facing away with a set expression, “I didn’t mean to offend you, but I thought…” she trailed off.

  Chamol recovered her voice. “I do not take offense. It is just that our ceremonies are sacred. The gods would be displeased if they were to be known by one from…outside.”

  Kesbe let herself be absorbed by the task of flying. When she glanced up again Chamol was still there. For a moment the silence between the two of them was awkward. Chamol leaned on the back of the copilot’s seat.

  “I like your Grandmother Aronan,” she said with a shy smile. “She sings a strong deep song.”

  “I thought you’d find it strange. Perhaps even frightening.”

  “Strange, but strange in a good way,” Chamol answered. “Not frightening.” />
  Kesbe checked her airspeed. “Are the child-warriors ready to start the search? We’re nearly there.”

  Chamol went to get Pesquit, who stood solemnly in the center aisle while Kesbe told her how the child-warriors should depart the plane aboard their aronans. “I’ll slow Gooney down and you jump out one at a time. Let yourselves drop straight down to clear her tail. Remember, stay away from those propellers.”

  The girl nodded once and left. Kesbe turned to Imiya’s sister. “Chamol, do you know how to use the signal-banners? Good. Go back to the cargo bay with Pesquit and make sure the child-warriors space themselves. When they’re all out of the aircraft, come back up here. I’ll need you to relay directions to the searchers.”

  Gooney Berg’s engines changed their song as Kesbe throttled back power. She added flaps a few degrees at a time, using the trim tab wheel to fly tail-low. She flicked the remote switch for the jump light to red, waited until she was holding constant airspeed and altitude, and gave a green.

  She stifled an impulse to glance out her side window, knowing she couldn’t see the child-warriors as they bailed out of the cargo door in the half-light before dawn. She could only trust to their training and Pesquit’s leadership. Her job was to keep the plane straight and level, avoiding any abrupt corrections that might send an aronan and rider tumbling out before they were ready.

  She eased her grip on the wheel, knowing the old bird would do a good job of flying itself if given a chance. From the corner of her eye, she saw a tiny dot fall away from the aircraft. Another followed, then a third. They plummeted like rocks as Imiya had done, then sprouted wings and swooped away from the plane.

  Kesbe didn’t relax her concentration until Chamol came to the flight deck with the report that all the searchers had been safely launched. She could see three of them now, spread out in a wing formation on the right side of the aircraft. Even the closest one, Pesquit, was difficult to see against the sky, and the farthest a mere dot easily lost against the shadowed blues and purples of the Barranca at dawn.