“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“After Yatki, chiefs everywhere clamored for your services. Why did you disappear? No one saw you, which means no one could describe you. If you’d accepted even half of the summons, you would be a very wealthy man by now. You could have retreated to some obscure village in the barbarian north and lived happily forever.”
His mouth pulls tight. “I’ll give you another one hundred heartbeats to explain your proposition.”
I smile. Maicoh hunts down killers, but not ordinary killers. He sniffs out those responsible for bizarre murders that stink of supernatural rage. And he does it by changing into animals. Or so the wild tales say.
“Maicoh, I’ve spent many summers studying you. I’m particularly fond of the way you tear out throats, or rip hearts from chests—”
“Why on earth would you study such horrible things?”
“Why, to navigate the soul, of course. You see, my father was once a war chief. A very good one. Father said I needed to examine every dark desire that occurred to me, because repressing the soul’s desires would turn me into a monster.”
He stares for long moments. “You are a monster.”
I smile. “Aren’t we all?”
Turning, he strides for the door. “I’m leaving. Stay as long as you wish.”
“I was there, you know? Two moons ago in Watovi. I saw you standing over the dying man. You fled before I could speak with you.”
He stops in the large cave with his back to me. “I’ve never been to the village of Watovi.” His deep voice has turned cultured and silken. Soothing in a terrifying way.
“The witch’s name was Hazhoni. He was a very powerful and dangerous person. He’d managed to terrorize the entire region. Yet you managed to kill him.”
The flames are guttering out, and the cave turns immensely darker. I can barely see him now, just a black silhouette in the other cave.
Almost too low for me to hear, he says, “What does the Blessed Sun want?”
He’s changing before my eyes, growing taller as he subtly squares his shoulders and draws his emaciated body perfectly straight.
“They say Hazhoni was very handsome. I wouldn’t know. I only saw his ghastly corpse.”
Slowly, he exhales the words. “You have only a few heartbeats now.”
“It isn’t the kill that thrills you, is it? It’s what comes after. I must say, in that regard, you’ve been very smart. I particularly admire the way you strangle them first so their hearts stop beating, which means there’s very little blood when you slit their throats and cut them open. Keeps you clean and tidy. That way you can just stroll by the villagers, smiling. Unless, of course, you actually do turn into a wolf and eat them all up. As the whispered stories claim.”
He might be carved of a gigantic lump of coal. I can’t even see him breathing.
Abruptly he turns and walks back to stand across the fire from me.
Ecstasy—very similar to the instant before sexual release—prickles through me. He is quiet for several heartbeats, as if considering what to say, then he lifts his head. It’s an almost weightless movement, as spine-chilling as the passing of a disembodied shadow. His stillness is unnatural; it lasts too long.
“What does the Blessed Sun want?”
“A simple item. An old black pot about the size of a man’s fist.”
His expression does not change, but I sense he’s engaged in some inner debate, though it never touches his unnatural calm. It’s a full ten heartbeats before he nods and says, “Nightshade’s Wellpot. The pot that contains her breath-heart soul.”
“Do you know where it is? The reward is extraordinary.”
“No one does. People have been searching for it for many summers. I’m not even sure it’s real.”
“According to the legends, Nightshade gave her pack—which contained her sacred Wellpot from Cahokia—to Spots, your father, just before she died, and he used the pot to catch her breath-heart soul as it left her body, which was staked to the floor in a room in Flowing Waters Town.” I watch him closely. He’s very calm now. So calm and immobile he seems slightly ethereal.
“My father’s name was Leaffolder. He was born—”
“Did Spots ever tell you that story when you were a child?”
“Everyone for a moon’s walk in any direction knows the story of Spots and Nightshade. To many, they were the greatest heroes in the history of—”
“What did your father do with her soul pot?”
Gracefully, he walks to the opposite side of the cave, and stares at the sandstone. Flames cast his shadow upon the walls, where it dances like a dark giant.
“If I tell you what little I know about the pot, will the Blessed Sun leave me in peace?”
Shrugging, I say, “Tell me, and maybe I can answer that question.”
Black strands of hair drag across his antelope-hide collar as he turns. “My knowledge is minimal. And there are many versions of what happened.”
“What’s your version?”
“I think two versions are possible: Either Spots buried it or he took the Wellpot with her soul back to Cahokia and gave it to a young priestess named Lichen. I have no idea which is true. Probably neither.”
Clasping his hands behind his back, he spreads his feet.
Long accustomed to judging men by the smallest details of their expressions and gestures, I think I see malice flare in his eyes, but it never reaches his face.
“Can you find it? That’s the only way the Blessed Sun will leave you alone.”
He stands resolutely a moment, then walks back into the other cave to stare down at the small moccasins arranged in a neat row along the wall.
His firelit profile is spellbinding. In the leaping shadows, he looks pale and strange, the silver at his temples like polished white shells.
“I asked you a question.”
He blinks. Half-turns. The tears suspended on his eyelashes glitter.
“What’s the reward?”
“A private audience with the Blessed Sun, where you may request one thing and, if it is in his power, he will grant your request.”
Wind must have penetrated the cave, for the fire flares and goes wild. Beneath the sudden roar of flames, I think I hear the faint voices of children echoing around the stone walls.
“A private audience where I may make one request.”
“Yes.”
“I can request anything?”
“Of course.”
Maicoh looks back at the moccasins and places a long forefinger against his lips as though warning them to keep quiet. A single tear trails down his cheek.
Finally he says, “I may be able to find it.”
Four
Tsilu
Tying the bag of tansy mustard seeds to my belt, I start climbing the first ladder to the Sleeping Place, a huge rockshelter that scoops out the canyon wall one hundred hand-lengths above the valley floor. In total, there are five ladders, each anchored to the cliff at a slightly different place, to take advantage of the bumps and cracks in the stone.
As I climb, I gaze out across the magnificent vista of Red Rock Canyon. The morning air is crisp and scented with the fragrances of willows and cottonwoods. The trees have just started to turn, dotting the winding line of the Red River with splashes of bright yellow. All around, in every direction, towering sandstone walls rise into the cerulean sky. Though I’m thirteen, I’ve spent ten summers here with my grandfather, long enough that the canyon’s awesome presence is as much a part of me as my heartbeat. Every ledge and hollow is alive and calling to me.
When I at last step off the ladder and into the big rockshelter, the young shaman, Ahote, doesn’t even look up. Neither of us got much sleep last night. He must be as tired I am, but he continues Singing in a soft melodic voice as he shoves dirt over the face of a dead newborn baby. Ahote has seen nineteen summers pass. His beautiful white shirt is coated with dirt from his labors, and he wears a red downy eagle fea
ther tied to his black forelock.
Quietly, I ask, “Grandfather Tocho hasn’t returned?”
Ahote gives me an annoyed look. “Look around, Tsilu. Do you see him?”
“Please don’t snap at me. I was just asking. He could have come and gone while I was down harvesting mustard seeds.”
Ahote bows his head and shakes it. “I’m sorry. I’m tired. I had to perform the entire ritual by myself, without even an assistant—meaning you—to help me.”
“I did help you. Before I left, I bathed the dead baby, rubbed him with red ochre, and sprinkled his body with sacred cornmeal.”
Ahote is always somber and irritable, so unlike Grandfather’s other young apprentice, Kwinsi, but Kwinsi spent the night helping Grandfather with the burial of the dead priestess in OwlClaw Village. Kwinsi is studying to become a sacred clown and has a true gift for making people laugh in the worst of times.
Ahote inhales a deep breath and lets it out slowly, as though to calm himself. “Yes, you did. Forgive me. I didn’t mean to sound so sharp. It’s just … I’m eager to go home to my family.”
“I know that, Ahote. I also know you’re heartbroken because the baby can’t go on to the afterlife.”
He hangs his head and nods. “Yes, I am.”
The Canyon People believe that each adult has two souls. The body-soul remains with the bones forever, while the breath-heart soul travels to the Land of the Dead in the sky world. When I look up at night, I see the footprints of the dead shining across the blackness like points of light along the sacred Star Road. However, babies are only born with a body-soul. A breath-heart soul does not come to a child until it’s seen three or four summers. Which means this little boy cannot travel to the afterlife. It’s wrenching for everyone.
As I walk forward I say, “I’m sure Grandfather didn’t mean for you to have to Sing all the death Songs by yourself. The woman’s burial must have taken longer than he expected.”
“I’m sure it did. I suspect that after he buried the boy’s mother, Chief Seff must have asked Tocho to ritually cleanse the pithouse where she was staying. It’s probably still burning. That’s why it’s taking so long.”
A shiver climbs up my arms. I’m afraid of burning houses. Even the smell brings me unspeakable terror. I’m grateful that Grandfather did not ask me to assist him in the cleansing.
Ahote uses both hands to shove his long black hair behind his ears. His face is perfect in every way; it always makes me stare. How can anyone have such strong features? He has a squarish face with a hard block of chin and a straight nose that looks like it was sculpted by a master stoneworker. Only his wounded brown eyes belie the strength of his face.
I walk to the fire, squat down, pick up a wooden cup, and dip it into the pot of rabbit broth kept warm at the edge of the flames. My reflection wavers in the thin liquid. I’m so plain and unattractive I’m sure no man will ever wish to court me, let alone marry me. I have a moonish face with a nose too wide and lips too thin. Poorly cut black hair hangs to the shoulders of the tan cotton dress I’m wearing. Grandfather is not an expert at cutting hair, so mine looks like it was hacked off with a stone ax. I don’t mind. No one but Grandfather and his apprentices ever sees me for long. On the rare occasions when Grandfather does take me to the village, we only stay for a day or two.
“Ahote, may I ask you a question?”
The young shaman leans forward to mound more dirt over the newborn’s face. “Of course.”
“Grandfather said the baby was born after his mother was killed. How can a baby be born from a dead mother?”
Ahote closes his eyes for a long moment. “He’s a special child. He must have known his mother was dying, and he had to come into the world or die with her.”
“But he did die.”
“Yes.” The word contains such anguish. “After he was born.”
As though to comfort the little boy, Ahote pats the fresh dirt over the grave, then crosses the shelter and sits down cross-legged on the other side of the fire from me. “The baby was covered with the trash, like his mother. No one knew he was there until the next morning. But I don’t think he ever took a breath. I pray not. That would have been even more cruel.”
My gaze drifts around the rockshelter. This is a magical place. It’s called the Sleeping Place because women come here to sleep upon the graves of dead children, praying that the babies’ souls will climb into their wombs to be born again. Gray pots full of wild roots, seeds, and special clays line the back of the rockshelter. The prospective mothers use the clays to make small figurines, toys for the babies to play with while awaiting rebirth. But a few of the toys have turned into Spirit houses. If they wish to, children can choose not to be reborn. Instead, their souls sleep in their beloved toys forever.
Other wall niches glitter with quartz and topaz crystals, as well as blue feldspar, chunks of white chalk, and nodules of red and yellow ochre. The crystals are used by master shamans, like Grandfather Tocho, to carve the images of the new gods—the thlatsinas—and sacred animals into the sandstone walls. The feldspar, chalks, and ochres make paints. Every bit of the Sleeping Cave, the walls, ceiling, and even the inside of cracks are painted or carved.
I glance up to admire the artistry over my head. Grandfather spent weeks on a ladder with a large quartz crystal in his hand, etching and then painting the string of huge thlatsinas that look down from the ceiling. Each has a triangular body, which is how people know they’re gods. Some have antlers, others buffalo or bighorn sheep horns. All have their knees bent, their arms out at their sides, dancing worlds in and out of creation. For the most important gods, Grandfather used red ochre and white chalk to color in the carved lines, so that the Dancers have red-and-white bodies—the sacred colors of the east and west. I can feel the rhythms of their sacred Dance in my heart.
As Ahote dips a cup into the broth, his dirt-streaked face turns worried.
I say, “When I got to the tansy mustard patch, there were a few women picking beans. They said people are afraid to walk alone today, even to fill a water pot in the river.”
“I hope so. Whoever murdered the boy and his mother is a monster.”
I nod, but say, “I think they’re more afraid of the Blessed Sun sending warriors north to punish us. The women thought she might have been murdered because the priestess wanted to build a kiva here to honor the old gods, and someone took offense.”
Kivas were circular, subterranean ceremonial chambers dedicated to the worship of the old gods of the Straight Path nation, the Blessed Flute Player, Thunderbird, and the Blue God. For many summers now, the Blessed Sun has been sending out priests and priestesses to convert other peoples to the ancient faith. As part of the process, they’ve built great houses, large multistory buildings—basically walled towns—with many kivas in them. The Canyon People to the south have accepted the old gods and begun to worship them. But in this northern region we prefer the new gods, the half-human half-animal thlatsinas. People have seen them everywhere, leaping along the rivers or near springs, and we know they come to help us.
The flickering flames seem to draw Ahote, as some men are drawn to a precipice to look over the edge, and I wonder: Does he see glimpses of the future there—as Grandfather does in water?
I follow Ahote’s gaze but see only the strange iridescence of the rainbow that lives in the heart of the flames.
“Tocho says the priestess was killed because someone thought she was a witch.”
“I know. He told me that, too.”
Witches travel as whirlwinds, or jump through yucca hoops to turn themselves into animals. It’s rumored that the Blessed Sun, the most terrifying witch of all, fills his mouth with cactus needles and shoots them through entries to kill people, or buries enchanted pots along paths leading to villages to give people the coughing sickness. Whole villages have been killed that way. Every village is afraid it will be next. Grandfather says witches like the Blessed Sun have two main sources of Power: ancient pahos�
�prayer feathers—and enchanted pots that imprison the souls of the dead.
The irony is that soul pots are usually good. Relatives use pots to capture the souls of their loved ones who die in the winter. Then, in the spring, they hike to a sacred mountaintop and break the pot to release the soul so it can run the Star Road to the Land of the Dead. Witches, however, never break the pots. They never release the souls. Instead, they tap the rage of the dead to help them perform their evil tasks. Legends say the most horrifying witches possess ancient soul pots that go all the way back to the Beginning Time.
“I know I shouldn’t ask…” I begin, but the sound of the rope ladder rakes against the cliff, and Grandfather Tocho steps into the rockshelter, carrying a cradleboard over his shoulder. Dirt streaks his brow, his fingers, and the front of his threadbare cotton cape. His wrinkled face is coated with soot. He limps over and leans the cradleboard against the wall beside the baby’s fresh grave.
“Grandfather!” Leaping to my feet, I run to hug him around the waist. “I’m glad to see you. We were growing worried. What took you so long?”
He’s seen more than forty summers and has long gray hair. In his youth, he was a tall man, but age and anguish have bent his shoulders and given him a slight limp.
Grandfather pets my hair and kisses the top of my head. “They found a broken bone stiletto in the trash heap and thought it might be the murder weapon.”
“Was it?”
“I don’t think so. There was no sign of blood on the stiletto, but I sensed fear in the weapon.”
“Fear?” Releasing him, I step back.
“Oh, yes, child. Most weapons live in terror. They fear everything when the nightly fires go out, but especially the fist that longs to wield them. Weapons are not by nature evil, but they recognize it in others.”
“So the stiletto may have seen the murderer?” Ahote asks.
“Possibly.” Grandfather bends over to gently pat the dirt over the baby’s heart and whispers, “Soon, little one.” Then he hobbles to the fire and groans as he sits down.
People of the Canyons Page 3