People of the Canyons

by Kathleen O'Neal Gear

  He enjoyed hearing the tales told by the dead. They always filled him with wonder.

  The Spirit flailed his arms in rage and shouted—though tonight the man’s voice was as small as a baby bird chirping.

  “You fool, you can’t hurt me. I am the Blessed Sun. Besides, all of that happened long ago. Get over it.”

  Loud voices rang in the plaza outside, followed by a woman’s screams, but they were quickly muffled. Cub had probably ordered that the slave be gagged so as not to disturb people in Flowing Waters Town. Or, more likely, not to disturb Leather Hand. Despite the raiding parties he routinely dispatched to steal slaves, his priests and priestesses constantly complained that they never had enough. He supposed he’d have to endure another bout of complaints later today.

  Leather Hand blinked as he watched the hunter melt away like beeswax exposed to fire. The colors the man had been wearing puddled on the floor in a swirl of red, blue, and black, before vanishing completely.

  “You’re an odd one,” Leather Hand said as he leaned over the puddle. “What’s the matter with you? You should be grateful to me. I gave you a quick death. Your family, too. What was your name? Let me see … Spotted? Spots? Claimed you’d known Nightshade personally. Carried her sacred Tortoise bundle back across the Great River to the Mound Builders, where it was cleansed and sanctified by some priestess named Lichen. If you’d been more cooperative, I might have—”

  Hurried steps pounded on the roof outside, then Cub softly called, “Blessed Sun, are you awake?”

  “Of course I’m awake. What do you want?”

  “We’ve brought your lunch.”

  “Bring it in. I’m famished.”

  Cub ducked beneath the leather door hanging and held it aside for the beautiful young slave woman carrying the wooden platter with his lunch.

  The woman, perhaps fourteen or fifteen, came across the floor and set the platter before Leather Hand. Then she rose and folded her hands in front of her, waiting to be dismissed.

  As was his custom, Leather Hand examined the platter first. A small bowl of mustard-seed sauce rested beside the chunk of liver, and a cup of pine-needle tea sat to the right. Lifting the finely flaked chert knife, he began slicing the liver into long thin strips, then he lifted a strip in greasy fingers, dipped it into the mustard sauce, and began gumming it to mush with his toothless jaws, while Cub and the slave woman stood sweating.

  “Delicious,” he said, smiling as both servants sagged in relief. “It’s as soft as pudding, and I’ve never tasted better mustard sauce. What’s your name, woman?”

  The woman turned to look questioningly at Cub with wide eyes. Cub said, “She is one of the Fire Dogs, Blessed Sun. Captured in a recent raid. She doesn’t speak our language, but her name is Amber Ant.”

  Leather Hand wiped his greasy mouth on his sleeve and gave her a huge toothless grin. “I’m going to take a nap, but send her back to me in two hands of time. My shaft hasn’t had a good milking in moons.”

  He’d killed the last two slaves who’d unsuccessfully attempted the feat.

  Cub bowed. “Yes, Blessed Sun.”

  “Now leave. I want to eat in peace.”

  Cub hurriedly ushered the slave woman outside and exited himself. Leather Hand watched the door hanging sway for a few moments, then he returned to the slave’s delicious liver.

  Eight

  Tsilu

  As I round the big curve of Red River, heading for the council meeting with Grandfather, ducks burst from the cover of willows and flap away quacking. They circle over the river, then sail down and splash into the green water a hundred paces downstream, near where women harvest the last squash from one of the many clan fields that dot the river terraces. They look tiny bobbing in the water. But in the shadows of the soaring red canyon walls, all things seem pathetically small and insignificant. When I tilt my head far back to look up at the jagged rim looming high above us, I am filled with awe and a sense of wonder. The canyon has an old, old soul. Most of the time it’s unconcerned with the activities of humans, but sometimes, when it’s angry, it roars and casts gigantic boulders down into the canyon bottom to crush people. To placate the canyon, we leave offerings in the crevices of stone, things like polished beads, or pretty feathers.

  The ducks quack.

  “Wish I had my bow,” I say. “Two of those ducks would make a wonderful dinner.”

  “Yes, but we’d look odd carrying their bleeding carcasses into the council meeting.”

  “We would, wouldn’t we?” I smile up at him.

  In the distance, black smoke billows into the sky. I study it for a few moments. “Is that the pithouse you burned last night?”

  “Yes,” Grandfather answers sadly. He’s tied his hair back with a red headband, but gray wisps flutter around his wrinkled face. The day has warmed up, and perspiration beads his long nose. “It will smolder for many days, I suspect.”

  When we approach the group of women gathering the last of the immature squash from their clan field along the river, Grandfather lifts a hand and calls, “Pleasant afternoon to you.”

  The women glance at Grandfather’s sky blue shirt with the red stair-steps and seem to freeze in place. After a few heartbeats, they make the sign against evil and cover their faces until he’s passed.

  “I hate it when they do that,” I whisper.

  “Canyon People have good reason to fear Powerful shamans. I had seen eleven summers when Nightshade came to our village. She touched me and half-invisible Spirits Danced to life around me. The entire village saw them, and saw the giant dragonfly that spiraled down, picked me up, and carried me to Moon Mother on her back. When I returned, I was worshipped as a Power child, but I was feared, too. That’s never gone away.”

  I’ve heard this story often, but it still moves me. “These days, I think you’re far more feared.”

  “True. I regret that.”

  “But you’re the kindest, most gentle man in the world, Grandfather. You help everyone. Can’t they see that you are not evil?”

  “Ah, my sweet girl, do you know how to tell evil from good?”

  “How?”

  “Evil casts a shadow.” Grandfather reaches down to affectionately rub the back of his hand over my cheek. “The greatest good is terrifying and brilliant. No shadows fall in that realm.”

  “But you have a shadow.”

  “Yes,” he said sadly. “We all do.”

  I watch the ground for a time while I consider this. My shadow moves along with me, my most faithful companion; she is always there. For me, the world of sleep—of shadows and darkness—is the world of soul travels, of gods, and talking animals. It is the realm of great heroes. How can that be evil?

  “Were there shadows when Dragonfly carried you to see Moon Mother?”

  He looks down and smiles at me. “In Moon Mother’s full white light, I stopped casting a shadow. So did Dragonfly.”

  I stare at his face and wonder what it is in me that casts a shadow. It’s alive. That much I know, for there are times when I see my shadow breathe. She takes a deep breath and holds it until I look away. Is she afraid of me?

  “Grandfather, is evil ever afraid?”

  He frowns at the trail ahead. “There are times when you surprise me, Tsilu. Yes, evil is always afraid. In fact, fear is the soul of evil.”

  I don’t want this to be true, because so often in my childhood, I have played with my shadow, laughed with her, and carried on long conversations. Grandfather and I have never lived in a village. Silence and isolation are necessary for him to hear the voices of the Spirits that walk the world around us. Which means I have often been lonely. Especially lonely for other children. In the worst of times, my shadow has been my only friend. But I know that, above all, she is afraid of the dark. I feel her step inside me on black stormy nights to take refuge, perhaps because she realizes that true darkness will erase her from the world. I fear that, too.

  Grandfather veers away from the river and onto the
well-trodden trail that curves around the base of the enormous cliff.

  “Will we stay at Ahote’s pithouse tonight?”

  Grandfather tilts his head uncertainly. “Only if he invites us. His wife doesn’t really like us. And Kwinsi has already offered to let us sleep in his lean-to.”

  My nose wrinkles. Ahote has a beautiful warm pithouse, while Kwinsi’s lean-to is, well, a lean-to: a bunch of poles leaned at an angle against the canyon wall and covered with brush and mud. When we stay with Kwinsi, I always wake shivering.

  But I say, “That’s kind of him.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Wind stirs the river willows, bringing me the scents of cottonwood and juniper fires, but the acrid smell from the smoldering pithouse also rides the shifting air. “Did you ever see Dragonfly again?”

  “Oh, yes.” He nods. “She came to me often as a child, but when the open door in the top of my head closed, I never saw her again. When I realized that fact at the age of twelve summers, it was the saddest day of my life. I just pray that when the hole reopens to let my soul go at death, I will see Dragonfly sailing down from the sky.”

  I try to imagine this—a giant dragonfly lightly flitting on the air currents as she descends to earth with her translucent wings glistening in the sunlight. I reach up to touch the door in the top of my head. All children are born with a soft spot at the crown of their heads—the open door—through which they communicate with the Creator, but it closes when they are young and remains closed until death. Though Grandfather has told me that some people can keep it open if they try. Mine is still open. Grandfather says I have a big hole, much bigger than any other child he’s ever seen, and that’s why I hear ghost voices. I run my fingers around the rim of the depression in my skull. I’m relieved it’s there, even though I have dark memories of how it got there.

  Once, a long time ago, I asked Grandfather if I’d been clubbed in the head as a baby. He said he thought it was possible.

  “Let’s not talk about your death, Grandfather. It scares me.”

  “Truth be told, it scares me, too. It’s sneaking up on me fast now.”

  Grabbing his hand, I squeeze it. “No, it isn’t. You’re going to live to see one hundred summers.”

  Grandfather gently squeezes my hand back. “Only the most powerful shamans can keep death at bay for that long, and I’m not one of them.”

  As we follow the trail around the bulge in the canyon wall, rock carvings appear. Five bighorn sheep spring across the red sandstone, chased by four running bow hunters. These are old, far older than the Canyon People. Time has worn them almost smooth.

  “Witches can live that long,” I note.

  “Yes, but they extend their lives by using a spindle to twist out the hearts of young people, which they place in their own chests. Life does not mean that much to me.”

  “Even if it did, you couldn’t hurt a gnat, Grandfather.”

  He smiles, but it is a sad smile, as though he doubts the truth of that. When the wind changes direction, voices carry from the village, and Grandfather cocks an ear to listen.

  “Sounds like a crowd has come for the council meeting.”

  When we round the bend in the trail, we see the council pithouse, which resembles a small hill alongside the river. Thirty or forty men and women mill around outside, which means the inside must be packed with people waiting to hear the details of the murder. It will be a somber meeting, probably filled with fear and weeping.

  As we walk down into the crowd, people shove each other to open a path for us, then reverently watch Grandfather pass by. A few make the sign against evil. Bone stilettos, obsidian knives, and war clubs hang from belts. Bows and quivers are slung over shoulders.

  Softly I say, “Why are people so heavily armed?”

  “They’re frightened. They should be. The murderer is still out there. I feel him stalking the crowd right now.”

  We climb the slope of the pithouse roof, and head for the ladder that sticks from the entry. Just as we reach the ladder, Ahote stands up from where he’s been crouching on the other side of the roof overlooking the river. For the council meeting, he’s worn a tan cotton shirt with red designs woven across the chest and down the sleeves. Pretty—and a striking contrast to the faded green shift that I wear.

  Ahote calls, “Chief Seff has been waiting for you, elder.”

  “Where’s Kwinsi?” I always look forward to seeing Kwinsi. He’s closer to my age, fifteen, and I enjoy his unusual company.

  Ahote gives me a disgusted look. “How would I know? He’s even more demented today than usual. He probably wandered off chasing some moth that fluttered before his eyes.”

  Annoyed, I respond, “Please don’t call him demented. Don’t you ever listen to my grandfather? He says a man should only judge himself, for if he doesn’t, then all things judge him, and all things become the messengers of the gods.”

  Grandfather smothers a smile, steps onto the ladder, and climbs down into the council pithouse.

  Once he’s gone, Ahote snaps, “I know that.”

  “Why are you nipping at me?”

  “I’ve been waiting for Kwinsi for over two hands of time—”

  “Well, I’m not the one who’s kept you waiting.”

  Ahote grinds his teeth while he watches the oddly shaped cloud shadows floating across the canyon bottom. They look like hungry ghosts hunting the massive cliffs for birds and mice hidden in the hollows. “You’re right. Forgive me. Come along. I’m sure Kwinsi will be here eventually, and Tocho may need us.”

  Ahote tramps past me and climbs down the ladder. When I step onto the top rung, willow smoke, rising from the fire inside, envelops me, and I smell the fragrances of roasting corn and squash. Taking the rungs down two at a time, I jump off onto the twined reed mats that cover the floor.

  Four upright juniper logs support the large, circular roof. The fire burns in the center of the logs, casting a flickering light over the faces of the people sitting on the floor, crammed shoulder to shoulder around the perimeter. Chief Seff and the four council members sit before the fire.

  My gaze fixes on the strange doll resting on the pedestal at the chief’s side. It has two faces, and each has been meticulously painted to make the doll appear very lifelike. Creepy.

  A heavy sense of dread hangs over the gathering. Many people have frightened eyes. Others look enraged, on the verge of bursting at the seams. Here and there, scattered around the council house, people smoke pipes. The mixture of bearberry leaves and cornsilk smells sweet and earthy.

  I walk around people as I make my way toward Grandfather and Ahote, who stand to the side of the central fire. Grandfather seems to be staring at the ears of corn and whole squash that roast in the ashes at the edges of the flames, while Ahote looks at the stew pot kept warm dangling from a tripod beside the fire. When the meeting is over, people will eat and talk. Grandfather says full bellies keep fights down.

  When I stand beside Grandfather, he puts a warm arm around my shoulders.

  Elder Nampeo rises and lifts his deep voice in a prayer to the Powerful storm gods who rule our world.

  From the Middle Place

  All the way to the Dawn Land

  Rainmakers soak the earth with life

  Making lightning, thundering, coming, coming

  Today we beg that you Rainmakers carry our voices into the sky world

  Thundering.

  I, the asker, beg you to guide us …

  Before he can finish the sacred song, voices rise in indignation outside, and then running steps thump across the roof. Every gaze in the pithouse jerks upward, just in time to see Kwinsi leap onto the ladder and hurry down carrying a pot in one hand. Half-naked, he’s barefoot, and wears only a breechclout, black leggings, and a necklace strung with large quartz crystals. Bucktoothed, with big ears that stick out through his long black hair, he always reminds me of a wild-eyed jackrabbit.

  “Rejoice! Rejoice!” Kwinsi shouts as he races arou
nd the house hurling handfuls of cornmeal into people’s faces. Coughing and cursing erupts, as well as peals of laughter. A few guests from other nations leap to their feet and hurry to the ladder to get away while Kwinsi skips around the pithouse, laughing and dousing them with more cornmeal, until he suddenly sees the food around the fire.

  “Dinner!” He hurls his pot across the room. It barely misses a woman’s head before shattering against the wall. He shoves aside the most respected council member present, Elder Pahana, so he can dive for the pot of venison stew. Tipping up the pot, he downs several huge gulps, tosses the pot aside, and starts grabbing ears of roasting corn from the ashes. Accompanied by shouts of dismay, he manically chews off some of the kernels, then throws the gooey cobs at the elders, farts loudly, and whirls around to the chief.

  “Chief Seff!” Passing between Grandfather and Ahote, he grabs the chief by the shoulders and hugs him in true delight. “I’m so grateful you invited me to the meeting. How are your pustules? Did you use the cocklebur ointment I made? They were in such a delicate place, I feared—”

  “I’m fine!” The chief shoves Kwinsi away and glances around in embarrassment. “The council thanks you for sanctifying this gathering with your clownish antics. Now, please sit down somewhere. We need to begin the meeting.”

  Kwinsi peers wide-eyed at the packed pithouse, but swings around to Grandfather. “Tocho! I’m so glad you finally arrived, and you, too, Ahote. You’re late!”

  Ahote rolls his eyes in irritation.

  Kwinsi strides forward, apparently to hug Grandfather, but stops with one foot suspended in midair, looking very much like a stork in a pool of shallow water.

  I turn to see what he’s looking at.

  Kwinsi’s gaze has fixed upon a black-cloaked man sitting next to a pretty Straight Path woman. She wears enough turquoise and coral around her throat to stick out like a sore toe. As though afraid to make a sound, Kwinsi slowly lowers his bare foot and tiptoes forward to gaze hard into the man’s sunken black eyes. The man does not even blink. He sits so still his ashen face seems carved of gray limestone.