The Next Skywatcher: Prequel to The Last Skywatcher Triple Trilogy Series (The Last Skywatcher, Anasazi Historical Thrillers with a Hint of Romance Book 1)

by Jeff Posey

  Guardsmen began to stream past him in retreat, running back out the mouth of the side canyon. They gave him frightened glances as they went by. He merely watched. Wounded guardsmen began to struggle by, some not even noticing Pók they were so dazed. When no more came, Pók climbed back onto his boulder and looked up, poised to jump aside. The stone-throwing boy seemed to be gone. And all the children archers had disappeared. But at the top of the rim, he saw the red-hat man looking at him, and the flute player danced and played his endless tunes. Down the slope below the red-hat man, Pók saw the scattered bodies of his guard. Some moved, a few groans and sobs rose from among the rocks, but most lay still. Pók estimated half the guardsmen who had stormed the canyon were now gone. About eighteen men. Unbelievable.

  He staggered out onto the canyon floor where his remaining men gathered in ragged defeat. They cringed from him, expecting the worst of his wrath. But instead of anger, he felt nothing. He instructed them to make camp on a low rise on the canyon floor, a place where they could easily see anyone approach.

  Pók forced himself to drink and nibble parched corn, then lay on his back, the pain in his hand beating with his heart. First Black Stone Town. Then the red-hat man and his army of children fighters followed and killed his runner before he could make his report. Then they came into the Canyon of Last Trees. Now they would go where? To the palace! Of course that would be their destination.

  He imagined what he would do if he were a trader. With a fearless band of young warriors and wearing a red hat. He’d find the Fat Man. Pók nodded. That’s it. The Fat Man would attract the trader. And he would hide them, at least for a while. He might even join them in trying to topple The Builder and take the bluestone riches. For a share of that, the Fat Man would be willing to do almost anything.

  Pók chewed his lip and tried to ignore the agony of his lost thumb. Later, after a day of rest for his men, he would march to the palace. He knew The Builder would demand to see him, but he would ignore it. Instead, he would do nothing until he talked to the Fat Man.

  Package of Wooti

  Nuva’s plan to sneak out a warning to the children of the canyon failed. Once the two girls showed themselves, the warrior regulars trapped the girls in a room with an outer door at which a constantly long line of men waited their turn.

  Nuva pulled two handfuls of white hair out of her head and sat on her sleeping mat facing the wall, her mind racing. Her watery eyes scanned back and forth, looking for a way, another option, an opportunity, a solution. She didn’t notice Chumana rubbing her back until she spoke.

  “The usual guardsmen would have let them go back to the Fat Man,” said Chumana. “The regulars have never guarded this place before. We couldn’t have guessed they would behave any differently.”

  “No, I should have known,” said Nuva. “We knew the regulars were less well-trained. We should have thought of another way.”

  “We still can. Cook says supplies are starting to come in again already, in spite of Pók’s orders. We can send a message out with one of the burden women.”

  “Yes. We can.” She forced herself to focus on something positive.

  At that moment, she heard a cough in the hall. Nuva and Chumana looked toward the door, and Cook stood there holding a heavy cotton-wrapped bundle in her arms.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I must come in.” She glanced behind her, and then hurried to the corner and lay the bundle gently on the ground. “You-know-who from the Top-Left House brought this.”

  “How did it get through?” asked Nuva.

  “The regulars aren’t very disciplined,” said Cook. “The woman just showed up with this and left. Nobody challenged her. But it’s not the kind of delivery we’re used to, I’m afraid, even from her.” She gave an alarmed look at both Nuva and Chumana, shook her head wildly and raised her hands, and then rushed from the room.

  “Cook’s losing her nerve,” said Chumana.

  “Open it,” Nuva said, wondering what else could go wrong. The crazy woman from the Top-Left House sent the most unusual and useless things. Once she sent a mummified coyote head. Another time a stick like an arrow, with a flake-stone blade snug in one end, but shorter and much fatter, as smoothly polished as the skin of a baby. Nuva liked that gift and kept it handy. For close self-defense, it could be lethal, the ultimate sharp stick.

  Chumana unwrapped the package, and gasped.

  “What?” asked Nuva, getting to her feet. She looked over Chumana’s shoulder and saw a stick-thin girl whose eyes were enormous. Nuva pushed Chumana aside and scooped the girl into her arms. She examined the end of her fingers, saw the three dots, and then hugged the girl to her chest. “It’s okay, my dear. It’s all okay now. Chumana. Warm soup for the girl. And douse the lamp.” Not many people walked past, but occasionally The Builder himself would stand in the door and look in, or one of the sentries or an Owl Man would creep by.

  Chumana began blowing on the coals of the fire, while Nuva rocked the girl in her lap. She was so thin she felt like a bundle of bones. After they got most of a bowl of hot soup inside of her, Nuva cradled her on the sleeping mat. “You’re safe here, little one,” she cooed. “We will take care of you. Everything is going to be fine now.”

  The girl licked her lips and looked at Nuva with eyes welled with tears.

  “What do you want to tell me, my dear?” Nuva asked.

  The girl shook her head.

  “You can tell me.” Nuva showed the girl the tattooed tips of her three fingers. “One each for Mother Earth, Father Sun, Sister Moon. Find fingers like these and you will find a friend. We have the same spirit. We are women of great power. You have been sent to me with a message, haven’t you?”

  The girl nodded.

  “There. That’s good. But you’ve had a frightful journey, haven’t you?”

  The girl nodded again, not taking her wide eyes from Nuva’s face. Chumana sat on her sleeping mat, her hands clenched, waiting.

  “You can tell me now.”

  The girl shook her head and pointed at her throat.

  Nuva wrinkled her brow. “Your throat hurts?”

  The girl shook her head. She touched her mouth and signed no with her other hand.

  “You can’t speak?”

  The girl nodded.

  Nuva felt her eyes widen in a moment of panic. “But you must, my dear. You must. Too much depends on it. Please try. Try to speak.”

  The girl looked as if she would burst into tears. She worked her mouth and made a sound like “Mah.”

  “Mother?”

  “Mah,” said the girl.

  “Yes, mother,” said Nuva, nodding to encourage her to keep trying.

  “Mah-ther,” the girl said. She seemed surprise that the word escaped her lips.

  “Very good!” said Nuva. “What about mother?”

  “Grah,” the girl said. “Grah mah-ther.”

  “Grandmother!” Nuva said, looking at Chumana with a smile.

  The girl began to sob, and Nuva rocked her again, patting her back. Finally the girl stopped and sat up straight. “Mah-ther,” she said. “My mah-ther.” She looked at Chumana, then back to Nuva. “My mother. My mother killed.”

  Nuva pulled the girl into her chest again. “I’m so sorry, my baby. I’m so sorry. It’s awful to lose your mother. I’m so sorry.”

  After a while the girl sat up again. “I not speak since.”

  Nuva nodded. “I didn’t speak for many moons after my mother died.”

  “I not think I could anymore,” whispered the girl.

  Nuva smoothed her hair. “You speak just fine. What is your name?”

  “Wooti.”

  “Ah,” said Nuva. “Wooti. That means ‘to get old.’ You have a very long life ahead of you, Wooti.”

  The girl clenched her hands together. “Grandmother Haki, Haki-don-muya.” She struggled to speak.

  “Yes, I know Haki. Do you know Haki? Did she send you?”

  Wooti nodded. “She gave wor
ds for to say.”

  Nuva smiled. “I would love to hear those words.”

  Wooti relaxed a bit. “I try.” She closed her eyes and in halting words, as if speech came to her with the utmost difficulty, she said, “To Nuva, albino woman, great grandmother of all wise women, from Hakidonmuya of Three Waters. I remember your sweet breath. I am in Black Stone Town where a miracle of the gods has occurred. The grandson of Grandfather Skywatcher is here, Tuwa, from your home village, from your own house at the Twins. He has returned to set things right for our people. With him are Choovio and Sowi and Kopavi, and a man wearing a red hat called The Pochtéca, and a dozen orphan children who fight like warriors. I can tell you no more. Ihu and his men are coming. Please take care of this lovely girl. She is to me as a granddaughter.”

  The girl opened her eyes.

  Nuva sat with her hands clasped to her throat. Chumana’s hands covered her mouth and tears filled her eyes.

  “Do you want me to speak it again?” asked Wooti.

  Nuva barely nodded her head. Wooti closed her eyes once more and repeated the words, a little more smoothly this time.

  What the Fat Man is Made of

  Lying at the rim of the canyon wall overlooking Pók’s camp, Tootsa assured Tuwa that the man with the bloody bandage on his right hand was indeed Pók, the top warrior in Center Place Canyon. The small, wiry man who had murdered Grandfather. Who had tried to murder Tuwa by tossing him into a trash pile. If Nuva hadn’t saved him, he would not be here.

  Tuwa watched the beaten and demoralized warriors make camp on a small rise in the canyon floor as if night approached, even though the sun had climbed only two hands high.

  They had been lucky to withstand the attack of Pók’s men. Sharp-eyed Natwani had noticed a commotion at first light near where the bean kids had been murdered and began shouting, “Warriors all over the beans!”

  The Wild Boys scattered and disappeared as if by magic, and the Pochtécans hid just beneath the rim, below where Peelay stood looking down, dancing and playing his flute. The Pochtéca watched from near Peelay.

  It had been truly remarkable. Tuwa still had trouble believing it had happened. The most well-trained warriors in the canyon, at least so said Tootsa and Lightfoot, climbed up the stepped canyon wall with their fingers in their ears as long as Peelay kept a tune going. It had been easier than shooting the new recruits in the narrow canyon. Some of the younger Pochtécans got excited and wasted their arrows by shooting too high, but Sowi and Kopavi took down a warrior with each shot.

  When Tuwa looked over the side and saw a man with a bandaged hand, he thought it looked like Pók, but the wounded hand didn’t seem right. Tuwa lobbed stones and very nearly got him. He wished he had.

  Even the skittish Wild Boys reappeared to watch. They emerged before Pók retreated, and stood behind Peelay with looks of awe on their faces. Peelay danced and played without pause while the Pochtecans settled to watch and wait, and Pók and his warriors made day camp.

  Tuwa lay beside The Pochtéca on the gritty sandstone rim rock and watched Pók’s camp. The Pochtéca had stuffed his red hat into his shirt so he wouldn’t be so easy to see.

  “How many did we…?” asked The Pochtéca.

  “Why did they do that?” interrupted Tuwa. “Why did they put their fingers in their ears? It’s like they wanted to die.”

  Lightfoot ran around to stay out of sight from below, and crawled on all fours beside Tuwa. “I’ve never seen anything like that before,” he said. “You guys are like real warriors.”

  Tuwa smiled at that. It felt good to be held in awe.

  “Tell us why they attacked like that, with their fingers in their ears,” said The Pochtéca.

  Lightfoot looked at Tuwa as if The Pochtéca had asked a stupid question. “Because of the flute music.” He looked from The Pochtéca to Tuwa, who raised his eyebrows to emphasize that he, too, wanted to know. Lightfoot shrugged. “The flute music protects us.”

  “Except against the raw recruits,” Tuwa said.

  “Yeah. It’s no good against them.”

  “So why do their trained warriors fear flute music so much?”

  Lightfoot sighed. “Because the Bluestone Lady gave a prophecy that said flute music puts a witch spell on you, so they plug their ears, but she doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

  “Why did she do that?” Tuwa asked, wondering if the Bluestone Lady could be Chumana. Did she do that on purpose to help? Did she somehow know he was here?

  “I don’t know. Maybe she wanted to protect the last trees. Or make people scared of Peelay.”

  “When was this prophecy?”

  “After the Day Star faded, but you could still see it at night.”

  “Why did that make the warriors afraid of flute music?” asked Tuwa. The Pochtéca listened with great attention.

  “Sometimes they camp where they are now, just a few of them,” said Lightfoot. “And if they hear anybody inside the canyon and Peelay is asleep or something, they’ll run in and grab anyone in here. They cook them and eat them. Sometimes they’ll stay there for an entire moon cycle trying to catch us. But they never go into the canyon when Peelay protects it with flute music.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of what the Bluestone Lady said.”

  “She has that much power?” Tuwa still couldn’t understand. But if it really were Chumana, what a wonderful thing. If she could do that, she could help them if he could get a message to her.

  “How many of your Wild Boys did they get?” Tuwa asked.

  “Too many.”

  No wonder they hid so well and so quickly. Tuwa looked back at Peelay, still twirling and playing his flute. “He’s going to wear himself out.”

  “He’ll stop and sleep soon,” said Lightfoot. Tootsa ran up and lizard-walked toward them.

  “What else has the Bluestone Lady told these warriors to do?” asked The Pochtéca. “And how much bluestone does….”

  “Seventeen,” said Tootsa, interrupting.

  “Seventeen bluestones?” asked The Pochtéca.

  “Seventeen dead warriors. Can I get their teeth?”

  The Pochtéca shook his head no and then shrugged. “Sure. Why not. Somebody should get some treasure from all this.”

  “Look at me,” said Tuwa. Tootsa faced him. “When we leave, we’re not going to wait on you, so pay attention. Don’t get too far away that you can’t see and hear us.”

  Tootsa nodded. “I’m not stupid like most people.”

  Lightfoot scooted away with Tootsa and they ran off.

  Tuwa stared at Pók and his men. They rested without much movement. Even their sentries didn’t range far.

  “What do you think?” asked The Pochtéca.

  “We could run in right now and kill every one,” said Tuwa. He imagined the surprise on Pók’s face. Telling him who he is. Slicing him with his best knife, cutting off a piece at a time. Making him die slowly. Make him know why.

  “Victory has made you bold,” said The Pochtéca.

  “If we sneak as close as we can and Peelay starts playing at the right moment, and Kopavi and Sowi have all the arrows they need, we could get rid of them.”

  “You might lose some of your younger ones. They’re trained warriors. They won’t go down easily.”

  “We’ll leave the young ones here.” Tuwa stared at The Pochtéca in challenge, but The Pochtéca looked away and didn’t take it.

  “Just you and the older ones, then. With Peelay.” The Pochtéca looked quietly over the canyon floor while the wind stirred. He nodded. “You might have a chance. They’re still warriors, though. Some will put up a strong fight. Are you willing to lose one or two?”

  “I would give my life to kill Pók.”

  The Pochtéca eyed Tuwa. “You’ll get that chance, I think. Maybe more than once. And you are young and impulsive. Think about Nuva. And the girl Chumana. Yes, I’ve heard you say her name. I know what she means to you. And never forget the power
of patience. And negotiation. And trade.”

  Tuwa felt surprise that The Pochtéca knew of Chumana. When had said her name out loud? Did Choovio tell him about her? “What is there to negotiate?”

  “That’s just it, Tuwa. There is always something to negotiate. Everyone is willing to make some kind of bargain. You just have to make them see the wisdom of what you want them to do.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  “You always have an escape plan.”

  “You have an idea, don’t you?”

  “Tootsa and Lightfoot have been telling me about the Fat Man. He runs the house of pleasure in the canyon. If Tootsa and the Wild Boys can get me in to see him. And if my loyal orphans can keep a back door open for me. And if the Fat Man wants to get rich like I think he will. Then maybe I have an idea.”

  “You have very many ifs. Sounds as risky as rushing Pók’s camp.”

  “Yes. Probably so. But instead of just getting Pók, we’ll turn this entire canyon upside down.”

  Tuwa looked at The Pochtéca in the same way Lightfoot had looked at Tuwa earlier. Surprise with a little awe. Tuwa had become so focused on Pók, he forgot about any larger mission. The Pochtéca didn’t seem like a man who only wanted to trade for bluestone. Something had changed in him.

  “How will you find out about all the ifs? How are we going to know it might work?”

  “We have to get down to the palace. And blend in. And watch. Somehow.” The Pochtéca looked up at the sun, his eye then going to the horizon. “We need a place to hide tonight. Somewhere closer to the Fat Man.”

  Tuwa felt torn. He wanted to kill Pók, but at the thought of getting close to the palace and to Chumana and Nuva, he realized he wanted that even more. He glanced at Pók’s camp, and nodded. “It’s worth a try. But I hate letting him go when he’s weak.”

  The Pochtéca smiled. “Your grandfather would be proud of you.”