Hesitantly, Kwinsi reaches out and clasps the unknown man’s hand in a tight grip, as though greeting a long-lost friend. “How good of you to come. It’s been, oh, thirty-five or more summers since I last saw you. You were just a boy. I’m sure you don’t remember me.”
Since Kwinsi has seen only fifteen summers, people roar with laughter. They seem to think this is part of his clown performance, but I’m not so sure. There’s something odd going on here. I’ve never seen Kwinsi like this. His personality is entirely different.
Despite the hilarity in the pithouse, the black-cloaked man does not laugh. Instead, his face slackens. As though he suddenly recognizes Kwinsi, he clutches Kwinsi’s hand warmly and says, “Of course, I remember you. I’m pleased to see you again.”
Kwinsi jerks his hand from the stranger’s grip. Breathing hard, he staggers backward a couple of steps. “Why have you come?”
“To find you. I need your help.”
The bejeweled Straight Path woman gives Kwinsi a more serious appraisal, as if suspecting that the young fool must be far more interesting and dangerous than he appears.
Kwinsi abruptly lets out a loud ragged scream, runs to the fire, and starts dragging roasting squashes from the ashes to pelt the audience. They must be searing hot, but he doesn’t seem to feel any pain. The hollow thunks of squashes bursting against people’s lifted arms, hands, and chests fill the house. A few people dive for cover, and a few more run for the ladder. Still shrieking like a madman, Kwinsi races across the house and scampers up the ladder into the sunlight.
The crowd breaks out in laughter, suspecting this is all part of the show. People stamp their feet in approval and clap.
We hear Kwinsi’s feet pound across the roof, and a commotion erupts outside, probably as he plows through the waiting crowd.
Chief Seff holds up his hands to get people’s attention. “The sacred clown has cleansed our thoughts. Let us turn to the reason for this meeting. A woman was murdered last night, her corpse and the body of her dead child stuffed into a trash heap. We must decide how to proceed.”
Grandfather leans sideways and whispers, “Tsilu, please go and check on Kwinsi. Make sure he’s all right. I lent him a few sacred Power objects, and I fear he may be having trouble with them. I’ll meet you at his lean-to at sundown.”
“Yes, Grandfather.”
Working my way through the crowd, I finally get to the ladder. When I step off onto the roof, I see Kwinsi in the distance, charging along the edge of the river with his arms flailing. Flocks of waterbirds burst up all along his path.
“Kwinsi!” I yell. “Wait!”
Nine
Blue Dove
Impatient, I stand on the roof of the council pithouse, watching people climb out and wander away across the village. The meeting ended over one half-hand of time ago. Where is Crane? Neither he nor the man known as Tocho has appeared, which I find infuriating. They must be talking or perhaps just listening to the final tidbits of council discussion, but Crane is keeping me waiting. Doesn’t he realize that?
For me, with the exception of the curious clown, it has been an entirely loathsome day. Lots of tears were shed and promises given to hunt down the murderer, but Chief Seff explained to the gathering that the killer was probably a witch, and had likely turned himself into a great horned owl or nighthawk and flown away never to be seen again.
These people are such simpletons.
Expelling an annoyed breath, I search the towering canyon walls. High up on the cliff, four granaries—small structures made of stacked stones, sealed with mud, and filled with corn or seed—perch on seemingly unreachable ledges. Must have taken a great deal of effort to haul up the stones and clay, the water for mortar, and then baskets of food. Reaching them to retrieve the food will be equally as difficult.
When the Straight Path nation split into two factions thirty summers ago, most of the old nobles, the First People, escaped southward along the Solstice Meridian: an arrow-straight trail that leads to the barren deserts beyond the distant Big River. The handful of First People who remained behind in Flowing Waters Town are the last holdouts of a once great kingdom. Though a few of the larger towns are still ruled by lesser nobles, and defer to the Blessed Sun, they are few and far between. Each noble has carved out his own small kingdom and maintains a fragile hold on existence against the inferior Made People, the commoners, who outnumber the First People ten to one. This instant, vast numbers of Made People are out there fighting over the best abandoned towns, farms, and stone quarries. Refugees fill the trails. Even here among the Canyon People I see several former slaves with tattoos that mark them as the property of long-gone masters from the white palaces of Talon Town, or from Flowing Waters Town along the Spirit River, currently inhabited by the last true king—and one of the First People—Blessed Sun Leather Hand. My father.
But even he admits that the First People are losing this war. The end is near.
If that doesn’t change, when he’s gone, I will rule over ruins. But at least I will rule.
People in grubby hides walk by. They stare for too long at my expensive jewelry and clothing. Back home, I’d order them flayed alive for their ogling.
But, after all, these are Canyon People. They probably don’t know any better. They’re a curious lot. They welcome anyone. Former slaves are just one example. As I look out across the OwlClaw Village plaza, I see barbaric Sheep Eaters from the west talking with shabby Buffalo People from the far north. What an unnatural conglomeration. Because they take in all sorts of human flotsam, the Canyon People seem to have no distinct culture. They speak a dozen different languages. Their houses are so varied they have no identity. Some live in pithouses, others in above-ground masonry structures, or in houses made of mud bricks, even in caves and rockshelters. Sometimes they farm, but in the case of drought, they will abandon their fields and villages altogether and become wandering hunter-gatherers. The only thing that seems to distinguish them is their ugly gray pots, and the fact that they don’t wear beautifully woven yucca sandals like people in the Straight Path nation do. Instead, Canyon People construct tawdry moccasins made from the hock of a deer or a bighorn sheep. Yes, that’s what distinguishes them. Ugly gray pots and tawdry moccasins. What a morose legacy.
I long to go home to the luxurious painted chambers of Flowing Waters Town where I was born and raised. But there are things I must do first. Things that will establish my legacy.
When I glimpse Crane climbing out of the pithouse, I walk to meet him.
We do not speak, but stand gazing down into the large crowd that mills around the council pithouse, talking and arguing.
“Where’s Tocho?”
“The council is asking his advice. He’ll be a while, I suspect.”
“Shall we wait for him? Capture him when he appears?”
Crane may have shaken his head, but it was such a slight gesture, I’m not sure.
“No,” he replies softly. “There are too many people here. We need to find him when he’s alone, or nearly alone. I heard him tell the chief that he and his granddaughter will spend the night in the village. He’ll be around.”
Crane starts to walk away, but I grab his sleeve. “The old man wears a leather bag tied to his belt. Is that where he keeps Nightshade’s soul pot?”
“I didn’t say he owned the pot. I said he might know where it’s buried. Even if he does, you’re not going to just walk up and take it from him.”
“Why not? He looks as brittle as an old stick.”
For a moment, I study Crane’s emaciated profile and the silver at his temples. The bones of his face are covered with the thinnest layer of age-spotted skin.
“He’s a master shaman. That bag is a Spirit bundle and it’s wreathed in protective spells. I’m surprised you didn’t see them. Red and white images dance in the air just above the hide.”
I make a deep-throated sound of disbelief. “You’re lying. I saw an old worn-out leather bag. Nothing more.”
<
br /> Crane pulls his sleeve from my grip and steps away from me. “Your father is supposed to be the greatest witch alive. Didn’t he teach his only daughter to recognize such things? It would seem prudent, given that half the world probably wants to kill you to get back at him. A thought that has crossed my mind more than once.”
“Has it?” I ask sweetly.
His black eyes are depthless. The longer I gaze at him, the more I feel like I am falling, tumbling into that vast well where he truly lives. These are the moments I yearn for. My pulse speeds up. If I can just find him in there, I …
As though he knows exactly what I’m thinking, he softly says, “I’ve heard that your father once tried to capture Maicoh’s soul. In the process, he killed Maicoh’s family and burned down his home. Do you know the stories of how Maicoh repaid him?”
“Oh, yes,” I reply, delighted. “Maicoh trotted twelve of Father’s best warriors like a dog pack through the hills, and when he reached the gate of Flowing Waters Town, he drew a black feather from his cape and used it to cut them apart. Then he cast the pieces over the walls into the plaza beyond. Well, except for the one man you left alive to tell the tale.”
He watches me for ten or fifteen heartbeats, patiently as if this noisy rooftop is his private domain, and everything up here occurs at his convenience.
“Where are the guards you claim to have?” His voice is silken. “I’d think your father would have assigned at least a dozen to defend you while you pursued your mission.”
“Why? A dozen clearly wouldn’t stop Maicoh.”
Crane smiles, but like every other facial expression, it’s an odd barely there brushstroke across his lips that hints of long-vanished amusement, a mere shadow of what had once been. “Or perhaps your father couldn’t care less if you’re killed. All he wants is the pot. Does he hate you so much?”
His question cuts like a knife. Very astute. Trying to whittle me down to find out who and what I truly am.
I cock my head. “You really are fascinating.”
Ten
Tsilu
Kwinsi’s bare feet left distinct impressions in the damp sand along the river, but it’s a long time before I finally see him sitting beneath a cottonwood at the edge of the water. Windblown leaf shadows mottle his face.
“There you are,” I call from twenty paces away. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“I’ve been right here.”
He draws up his knees, hugs them against his chest, and props his chin atop them to grimace at the green water. This pool in the river is so still, reflections of the canyon walls flicker in the depths.
“What are you doing? Come back to the village.”
“Can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I’m afraid to go back.”
I trudge onward. On a sandbar in the middle of the river, reeds sway in the cool autumn breeze. They appear startlingly green against the towering red cliff across the roiling water. The air here smells of mud and damp sweetness.
When Kwinsi lifts his head to look at me, his disconcerting brown eyes flare a little wider. “Is there something I can do for you? Or do you expect trivial conversation? I’m not very good at the latter.”
Sunlight glinting off the water sprinkles his strange, expressive face with a veil of shifting golden diamonds. But I see his arms shake where they wrap around his drawn-up knees.
I sit on the sand beside him and gently say, “Don’t be afraid. We all love you. Why are you afraid?”
His mouth purses, as though to speak, but he hesitates, before saying, “The voice in the flame. She’s too strong for me. I—I never knew I was this weak, Tsilu.”
I put a hand on his elbow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You were strong today. You helped people. The air in the pithouse was vibrating like a bow strung too tight until you came in. Laughing relieved the tension. I’m sure people will be able to think straighter now.”
The fear drains from his expression and his whole heart shines in his eyes. “You’re very pretty.”
“I am not.” I laugh. “My face is moonish. My nose is too wide, and my hair is as limp as boiled knotweed stems. But thanks. I appreciate hearing you say that.”
His serious gaze goes over me. “You’ve obviously been looking at your reflection in water. You should look for it in the eyes of others.” Kwinsi reaches out and tugs a lock of my black hair. “Looks different.”
Playfully, I swat his hand away. “New subject. I don’t want to talk about me. Who was that strange man today?”
Kwinsi’s head jerks up and he regards me like a startled child. “What man?”
“The man who sent you screaming from the council meeting. You said you knew him.”
Kwinsi peers thoughtfully at the river where minnows flit beneath the green surface. “Oh, I shouldn’t think so. He was born in the Straight Path nation. I could tell from his accent. I’ve never been there.”
“But you said you’d seen him thirty-five summers ago.”
“Really?” His gaze drifts upward, toward the rim of the red cliff on the far shore. Hawk and eagle nests, made of sticks, fill many of the niches. “That’s a long time. It was a different world, I imagine. Priestess Nightshade was still alive, walking the earth, trailing Spirit Power everywhere she went. She was at her greatest strength back then, you know? If she breathed in her hand and touched you, she could turn you into a slug or send your soul flying to the Star Road.”
Tipping his head far back, he stares hard at the afternoon sky, as though seeing dozens of souls darting around up there.
After a good interval, I say, “Grandfather talks about her on occasion, but I didn’t know that.”
“Oh, yes, she was quite remarkable. Even after Leather Hand locked her in a bear cage, and people came to cast feces and rocks at her, she could…”
“She could what?”
“What?”
“You didn’t finish the sentence. You said Nightshade could … Something. What did you mean?”
Kwinsi leans toward me to peer deeply into my eyes, as though searching for something. “I’m intrigued that you saw him.”
“Who?” I ask in confusion.
“The man with the dead face.”
Kwinsi extends one finger and draws strange geometric shapes in the sand. They remind me of the designs on a serpent’s back. Carefully, as though it matters a great deal, he connects all the shapes into a long pattern, a poisonous snake slithering across the ground, coming toward me.
“Of course I saw him. He was sitting less than four paces from me. How could I have missed him?”
Only Kwinsi’s eyes lift. He stares at me with unnerving intensity. “Well, that is very curious. He’s a legend on the Star Road, but I thought he was invisible here on earth.”
“So you do know him?”
“No. Not at all. But I’ve seen him tracking the shining footprints of the dead across the sky.”
“He tracks the dead?” I whisper.
“And the living, too, as I understand it.”
“The man said he’d come looking for you.”
Kwinsi nods soberly as though now we’re discussing a matter of great importance. “Yes, very likely. When the Blessed Sun’s warriors burned his house down and nothing was left but a pile of ashes, the warriors discovered several tiny clay figurines. They were jumping around like people. He probably wants them back.”
“Well, why would he come looking for you? Do you know where they are?”
Kwinsi suddenly looks vulnerable and very frightened.
As though fearing eavesdroppers, he looks around, then leans so close that our noses almost touch. “Tsilu, please listen to me. You must never ask that question aloud again, it’s too dangerous.”
“But, I want to know…”
Kwinsi leaps to his feet and dusts sand off his bare legs. “Well, thank you for sitting by the river with me, but I must return to the Star Road. I’m very, very busy.”
Wi
th frenzied urgency, he erases all the scribbles in the sand, smooths out the grains, and stacks rocks on top of the spot. “Tsilu, why don’t you ask Ahote to paint a slate pendant for you? He’s very good at painting. One of his few gifts. I’ve always admired—”
Frustrated, I say, “Kwinsi, why are you so odd today? Grandfather said he lent you a few Power objects—”
“Yes.” He draws in a sudden breath. As though coming back to this world, he frowns at the yellow cottonwoods across the river, and the lunacy fades from his eyes. After a long hesitation he says, “Please, ask your grandfather about what happened. He knows far more than I do.”
In the sudden stillness, the melodic rattle of the wind in the autumn leaves sounds loud.
“All right, I will.”
Nervously, he licks his lips. “You’re welcome to stay in my lean-to tonight. I’ve laid out blankets for you, but really, honestly, you should return to the Sleeping Place. There’s Power loose on the sunlight. It’ll get worse with the darkness. You won’t be safe in the village.”
“Grandfather will protect us. Don’t worry.”
Kwinsi tucks his hands into his armpits to hide their trembling. “I don’t think anyone can protect me, Tsilu, except maybe the dead. But I’m not even sure of that. I’ve seen my death. She showed me today.”
“Who?”
“The voice in the flame.”
Kwinsi backs away, then breaks into a run, heading north along the river—back to the Star Road, I guess.
Sighing, I watch him go until he’s out of sight.
As I follow my own steps back along the river, I wonder about him. Grandfather says he’s a very gifted young shaman. Like me, Kwinsi is an orphan. Grandfather found him fourteen summers ago. He’d been left in the crook of a branch as an offering to some god, or maybe to an earth Spirit. Grandfather carried him back to OwlClaw Village and gave him to a good family to raise as their son. Kwinsi isn’t the only orphan Grandfather has found over the long summers of warfare and given to people to be loved. I have often wondered why he decided to keep me. And I thank the gods every day that he did. No one could have been a better father to me than he has.
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