As more people run across the village toward the trash heap, I take the trail that leads to where the trading blankets are spread out at the edge of the rectangular plaza. With twilight upon them, the owners are in the process of closing for the day, repacking their goods in baskets they will carry back to their camps for the night. Only a few colorful blankets are still out. I pass crude pottery beakers from the south, tanned bighorn sheep hides, buffalo jerky from the north, heaping baskets of ricegrass seeds, tobacco leaves, squash, beans, and freshly picked corn, as well as a vast array of beautifully crafted stone beads. Men in bright headbands hurry by me.
I dally, wasting time, picking things up and putting them down. No point in rushing. His habits are as familiar to me as my own. Maicoh will not dare emerge from his cave until full dark.
At the bead maker’s blanket, I admire tiny shale beads from the Green Mesa Villages. Simply exquisite. The tiny hole in the center must have been drilled using cactus spines and fine sand as an abrasive. In the rear, lying near the seated maker, a necklace at least fifty hand-lengths long lies coiled. Made of blue and red stone beads, alternating with dried juniper berries, it’s actually quite ordinary. Any other day I wouldn’t look twice at it, but today the necklace sparkles as though crusted with frost.
“Will you trade that necklace—” I point—“for this bracelet?”
Removing the simple jet band with the turquoise centerpiece, I hand it to the woman. The bracelet is worth twenty times what the necklace is, but I’ve tired of it. I have so many bracelets; it has become hard to choose which to wear.
The bead maker’s eyes widen as she turns it over in her hands. She’s seen at least forty summers. Deep lines carve her tanned forehead. A red-and-black sash serves as her belt. “Happy to.”
The woman takes my bracelet and gives me the juniper berry necklace, which I drape around my neck.
“What’s happening over there?” The woman tips her chin toward the commotion.
“Man found a dead body. One of the Blessed Sun’s priestesses, I heard. Guess she traveled here on the king’s orders to ask the village council if she could build a kiva. You know, one of the subterranean ceremonial chambers down south where they worship the Flute Player, Thunderbird, and the Blue God?”
“Just now? They just found her?”
“Little while ago. Apparently, the killer shoved her body in the trash heap and covered it up. Somebody smelled it and started digging.”
Swallowing hard, the bead maker asks, “Do they know who did it?”
“No, but a man from Sage Village was roughing up some of the Bitter Water clan women last night. They’re searching for him.”
The bead maker looks frightened. “Soon as the king hears, there’ll be a war party headed in this direction. Someone’s going to pay for this.”
“They certainly will.”
The woman whispers, “Do you think the news has already been received in Flowing Waters Town?”
Instinctively, I lift my gaze to the high point on the canyon rim where the signal station stands. Made of stacked red sandstone, it is a small fortress, two stories tall. During the day, messengers use polished pyrite mirrors to flash the news to other high signal stations across the canyon country. At night, they send fire signals. It takes less than one hundred heartbeats for messages to reach from here to Flowing Waters Town—and I dispatched the fire signal myself at midnight.
“I’m sure it has.” I smile, and the woman shrinks back like a packrat suddenly glimpsing a bobcat hidden in the brush.
Must be my eyes. On cool autumn evenings like this, my heightened senses are difficult to control. Colors are too brilliant, tastes too intense. Each new scent on the wind feels like a physical blow. Even the touch of the breeze on my skin is almost unbearably pleasurable. I know that my brown eyes have a bizarre feral glitter to them now.
A crowd of men in drab turkey-feather cloaks nod as they pass. One man turns all the way around to smile at me.
I walk away.
Three hundred and four paces. I count each one and halt.
There, like a solitary red eye in the canyon wall, stands the door to his cave, the cave he’s rented for the harvest festivities. People here rent out anything—their houses, caves, rockshelters, or old storage rooms, for which they charge exorbitant fees. The door is made of juniper poles knotted together with cotton cordage and painted the color of blood. A small window, draped with tan-and-white packrat hide, has been cut in the door at eye level.
I hear the faint tinkling of shell bells, but all my attention is focused on the red door. Is Maicoh in there? Or out about town wearing a disguise? It’s dark enough now. He may be gone. He takes no chances when it comes to his identity. Fewer than a handful of people know anything about his past or what he looks like. But I have spies everywhere. I’ve made a study of the legendary witch hunter. He’s tall, slender to the point of being frail, in his late forties, with black eyes that can burn a hole straight through you. The more interesting tales claim that a blue cocoon of Spirit Power surrounds and protects him. Even more intriguing, he’s often seen in two or three places at once, as though he can simply cease to exist in one place and be reborn in another in an instant.
Turning onto the narrow dirt path that leads to his door, I fight to calm myself. Wait. Wait.
Dead flowers, like frosty sticks, create a spiked hedgerow on either side of the door. Breathing deeply, I mount the stone steps cut into the rock and tap lightly on the wood. The hide curtain in the small window sways. My spies tell me he has a weakness for women in distress, so that is the role I will play to gain entry.
Soft sounds inside. Hide boots scuff a stone floor. A male voice asks a question. Another man answers.
The door stays closed.
I shiver and watch my breath frost in the night air.
Down in the village, halos of firelight play on pithouse roofs, giving the darkening town a soft yellow glow.
I tap at the door again.
Still no answer.
Frustrated, I pound on the door and keep up the constant annoying racket for several hundred heartbeats.
By the time the hide curtain is pulled aside from the small window, I’m so excited I’m having trouble breathing.
“Go away.” He has a deep resonant voice.
“Please, it is urgent that I speak with you.”
The curtain slit grows wider, and I see one side of his face. Yes, forties with silver temples and a smooth pale face. His sunken eyes are puffy from lack of sleep. Bone rings grace the fingers that hold the curtain aside. He is, perhaps, the most feared man on earth. Certainly the most sought after.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Blue Dove. I apologize for not sending a messenger to tell you I was coming. But I must speak with you.”
His one eye scans my clothing. “You’re from the Straight Path nation.”
“Yes.”
“Why are you here?”
“I came to find you.”
His black eye is obsidian-hard. I catch a glimpse of a hooded man a few paces behind him. He quickly steps out of view. His son? The rest of his family was murdered long ago.
“Have we met before?” He squints as though searching his memory.
“No, but I—”
“Then I’m sorry, but I’m leaving for the evening. Perhaps tomorrow—”
“I’m ashamed to say that I’ve had spies follow you several times, in many different villages. Forgive me for that.”
The dark eye holds mine. “For what purpose?”
“I could not come to you when you last visited Straight Path Canyon. My husband would kill me if he knew I was speaking with you.” I have no husband. Not any longer. I took care of that unpleasant problem within two moons.
“I’ve never been to Straight Path Canyon, and I don’t know why you think I can help you, but—”
“Maicoh, please don’t force me to scream your name. You don’t need the attention, not in this
village where no one knows who you truly are.” I pause. “Especially not with a murdered priestess on your hands.”
With sudden ferocity, he says, “You have mistaken me for another man. My name is Crane. I’m just a simple Healer. If you need a love potion or a charm, any of the village Heal—”
“I beg you to give me just a few moments.” My voice quavers as I spin around to search the darkness. “Please. My husband is occupied gambling down by the river, but if you do not help me, I’ll be dead by tomorrow.”
He lets the curtain fall closed and says something soft, presumably to the hidden man. Finally, the curtain pulls aside again. “Very well. I’ll see you for a moment. I apologize for being rude. Please, come in.”
“You are very kind.”
He pushes open the red door.
Stepping across the threshold is like entering a god’s bedchamber. A thrill surges through me. The cave smells of cottonwood smoke and leather. Only a few items are visible, a woven grass pot-rest where he places hot pots to cool, a neat line of children’s moccasins arranged along the far wall, a lovely human skull that has been polished to a high luster, the eye sockets stuffed with sacred sage. An elegant staff leans beside the moccasins, as though watching over them. A fox skin and a bunch of hummingbird feathers dangle from the top of the staff. Looks old, old as the world itself.
Somewhere to my left, a door has been opened, because a breeze blows through the cave. Of course, there’s another exit. He is rightly worried about being trapped.
“Let’s talk in the adjacent chamber,” he says. “We’ll be more comfortable by my fire.”
It’s barely noticeable, the way he lengthens the o in more and the stress on the second syllable in comfortable, rather than the first. He speaks the Canyon People’s language fluently, as I do, but traces of his true heritage linger. Maicoh is one of the Straight Path People. Or his parents, who taught him the language, were born there.
“I thank you.”
He leads the way into a smaller cave with a crack in the roof where the smoke from his fire escapes. Bighorn sheep hides cushion the floor around the fire, and a beautiful black pot, decorated with white diamonds, rests in the coals at the edge of the flames, keeping its contents warm. The pungent fragrance of juniper berry tea fills the air. When the flames flicker, a surreal gleam dances over the niches cut into the walls. Each niche holds a special offering: macaw feathers, nodules of turquoise, chunks of jet, bundles of Spirit plants, bowls filled with spiky datura seedpods.
He politely extends a hand to one of the sheep hides. “Please, sit. May I dip you a cup of tea?”
“No, thank you.”
Artfully, I remove my rabbit-fur shawl and preen before him, turning so that the firelight shimmers across my heavily beaded dress, before I sit down.
He looks so common—just a man in a drab antelope-hide cloak, not particularly special or dangerous. He’s little more than a walking skeleton. His cheekbones jut out, and his black eyes sink into their sockets like those of a dead man. Oddly, his shoulder-length black hair and silver temples are his only attractive feature.
I’m disappointed. After all, I know him in a way no one else does. I’ve memorized his disguises and the seedy villages where he hides, the men and women he routinely calls upon, every piece of jewelry he owns, and the minutest details of his two good cloaks. In my mind’s eye, I watch him use his ancient painted staff like a sword, thrusting it forward, playfully swinging it around his head. On such occasions, he has long white hair, stands one hand-length taller, and marches like a warrior in his spider mask and gray deerhide cape. That particular routine never varies. Staff. Spider mask. Gray deerhide cape. At other times, he appears as an elderly gray-haired beggar, a full hand-length shorter, wandering villages while mumbling to himself. He’s a genius at disguise. His work, after all, is delicate and dangerous.
“How may I help you?”
He sits down across the fire and dips himself a cup of tea. Left-handed. Thick scars on the wrist. At some time in the past, he must have tried to kill himself. Or perhaps he was captured and tortured by the barbarians to the north? I’ve heard that they bleed people to death. Slowly.
“I’ll be brief. I don’t wish to interfere with your evening plans. Will it be the slaves’ gathering at Ground Stone Creek tonight? Or are you meeting Elder Boll at Ten Bears Ridge?”
He doesn’t blink. Just stares fixedly at me. “Do you follow your husband as well? No wonder he wants to kill you.”
“My husband doesn’t interest me. You’re the only man who interests me.”
There’s no expression on his face, only an eerie confidence centuries deep. “I assumed you needed a Healer for some injuries caused by your husband. If that is not true, then please leave. I have other duties—”
“I know who you are and what you do, Maicoh, orphaned son of the legendary villains Spots and Cactus Flower.”
His black eyes might be polished jet beads. He sits so still they catch the firelight and hold it like mirrors. “Were you paid to find Maicoh? If so, I can’t help you. I know nothing about him, except what everyone knows. He kills witches, which is why he is so feared, especially by those who are witches.”
“I wasn’t paid.”
“Just a curiosity seeker, then?”
“Of course not. I’m a messenger.”
Offhandedly, as though completely indifferent, he asks, “And what message do you carry for Maicoh?”
My gaze drifts around the cave, taking in the details, before I say, “Your father was the last person to see the Mountain Witch alive. That was thirty summers ago, wasn’t it?”
“I’ve told you, I am not—”
“Stop the charade. I have a proposition for you.”
“Not interested.” He starts to rise.
“You haven’t heard the proposition.”
“Won’t make any difference, so you can leave now. I really am in a hurry.”
When I make no move to rise and obey, he gets to his feet, grabs my arm in a rough grip, and drags me toward the door, where he shoves me out into the cold.
Three
Blue Dove
Light fog glows in the firelight streaming from the pithouses. A man with a young woman on his arm walks by.
Before Maicoh can completely close the door, I call, “I’m a messenger from the Blessed Sun Leather Hand, king of the Straight Path nation.”
The door stops a heartbeat from closing, and his fingers on the juniper poles go white and bloodless. He pushes the door open slightly wider. His face is a cold mask. I’m impressed, but not very. Of course, he’s a master of control. If he wasn’t, he’d be dead.
“Makes no difference to me.”
The door pulls shut.
“Would you really rather have warriors standing at this door? If that’s your wish, I’ll see to it immediately. The Blessed Sun has one hundred warriors camped near Finger Rock Village, less than a day’s run to the south.”
A few heartbeats, then the door slides open, leaving a narrow gap. Through it, I see the corner of his mouth twitch.
“My name is Crane. But tell me why the Blessed Sun, who controls the most powerful priests and priestesses in the world, would need Maicoh?”
Fiercely I rub my freezing arms. “It will take time to explain. Do you plan to keep me out here in the cold? You dragged me out so quickly, I left my rabbit-fur shawl by your fire. I’m turning to ice out here.”
The door slams shut.
Despite everything I know about him, everything I’ve witnessed in the dark villages he haunts, it occurs to me that I may have the wrong man. Maybe he is just an ordinary wandering Healer. If so, I can turn around and walk away. A strange relief leaves me feeling lightheaded. Walk away … Do it now.
Instead, I place my ear against the red-painted poles.
He’s talking with someone in a deep, foreboding voice. Or perhaps he’s arguing with himself?
Mesmerized, I can’t move away from the door. The
fragrance of burning cottonwood seeps around the poles. I breathe it in while I scan OwlClaw Village. Fog blurs the firelight rising from the rooftops, creating thirty fuzzy yellow halos.
The door opens so suddenly, I stumble backward and throw a hand to my heart.
“Come in out of the cold while I get your shawl.”
“I can retrieve it myself.” I stride past him.
I want a better look at his cave. A man’s home reveals the inner workings of his soul. How does he paint his walls? Are they covered with exceedingly perfect geometric lines or paintings of animals and ancestor Spirits? Does he own a dog or a pet mouse? Some of the most terrifying witch hunters collect small unbaked clay figurines with the faces of their victims.
Four. Four small pairs of moccasins lined up along the wall, as though he expects the children to run into the room at any moment and slip them on.
Other than that, the cave contains nothing that, if examined by his enemies, will give away his identity or occupation. Just wall niches filled with offerings anyone might leave.
His footsteps pad less than a pace behind me, walking close enough that, if he’d wished to, he could slit my throat before I could scream. Quite frightening. Of course, he will not do that. That would be impulsive. And he is never impulsive. Nonetheless, my heart rate speeds up.
When I enter the small cave, the flames waver, and shadows like giant wings flap over the red sandstone walls and ceiling. Snatching up my shawl, I turn and find him less than two hand-lengths away, standing with his fists clenched at his sides.
“You’re so close! I didn’t realize—”
“Why are you here?” His dark eyes bore into me.
Swinging my shawl around my shoulders, I stumble backward and sit down hard on the thick sheep hide. “I’m here to hire you, Maicoh.”
“Crane,” he corrected. “I’m a simple traveling Healer. I work for myself, not others.”
I give him time to calm down before I say, “At the village of Yatki, did you really turn into a white wolf that blazed like the moonlight to hunt down the witches?”
People of the Canyons Page 2