He smiles knowingly. “Of course, daughter of the Blessed Sun.” Pulling it from his belt, he hands it over.
I start sawing at the base of the knot. “How on earth…”
Wasp Moth smirks. “You’d think those leather cords were made of pounded meteorites, wouldn’t you?”
“But they’re not. They’re old as the hills and brittle.”
Every head in the shelter swivels to look at Tocho, who is now snoring softly. His head is leaning back against the red wall, and his mouth hangs open. He’s sound asleep.
“Hey!” I shout.
Tocho jerks awake and stares wide-eyed at me. “What’s wrong?”
“Why can’t we open this bag?”
Through a long yawn, he replies, “It belonged to Nightshade and I think she enchanted it.”
I lift a skeptical eyebrow. “You’re lying.”
“I swear to you that’s the story I heard.”
“Have you ever actually seen what’s inside this bag?”
“No.”
Lifting the bag, I shake it at him. “Are you telling me the pot in here could be an ancient shit pot?”
“I suppose.” He shrugs, closes his eyes, and leans his head back against the sandstone wall. “But it does have a voice, and claims to be Nightshade, so I think it’s her soul pot.”
I squint down at the faded designs on the bag. As the light shifts, the shapes change. Now I see a wolf’s head with four tortoise legs around it. Placing my mouth against the leather, I shout, “Old witch, can you hear me?”
The bag is silent.
The rain outside falls harder, obliterating the view of the canyon entirely, and the earsplitting roar of the river shudders the ground. The raging current must be tearing up more trees and hurling them down the channel.
“There are no voices in there, you withered stick of an old man.”
“No?”
“No!”
Tocho’s nostrils flare with an exhale. “Well, that’s unsettling. I’ve been hearing her for many summers.”
“You’re a thousand summers old. You probably hear voices in every grain of sand.”
The old man leans forward with a quizzical look on his ancient face and whispers, “Are you saying grains of sand don’t have voices?”
Heedless of the fragile pot that might be inside, I hurl the bag to the ground near the fire pit, where it lands silent as a feather.
Wasp Moth and FishTrap glance at the enchanted bag, then at Tocho, and keep their mouths shut.
Glaring at Wasp Moth, I ask, “Did you hear a voice?”
Wasp Moth sits up straight. “I … well … I thought I heard … something.”
“What?”
“Might have been a woman’s laughter, but it was so faint it could have been anything. Maybe just the rain beating down. Or even the fire hissing.”
In the rear of the shelter, Tocho still has his eyes closed, but I see a small smile turn his lips.
I kick the bag with my sandaled foot. “You don’t scare me, old witch. I’m the daughter of the Blessed Sun. I can call down the entire might of the Straight Path nation on you.”
Both Wasp Moth and FishTrap shift nervously.
“What’s the matter? Did she speak to you?”
Wasp Moth quickly shakes his head. “No.”
“What about you?” I turn to FishTrap.
The warrior seems to have lost his senses. He looks like a bug with gigantic brown eyes.
Snatching up the bag, I hold it to my ear again. I hear absolutely nothing, but across the fire Wasp Moth’s face slackens and goes pale. The black moth wings on his face stand out sharply against the ashen background. I swear, he looks like he might faint.
“What’s wrong?”
“The voice … sh-she told me…”
“What?”
“Nothing. I’m sure I just imagined it. With the heavy rain and the trees battering their way down the river, there’s so much noise tonight, I must be weaving words out of the wind and water. That’s all.”
FishTrap’s gaze slides to Wasp Moth and he stares at him in abject terror.
“Did you hear something, Deputy?”
When FishTrap shakes his head it looks like a muscle spasm. “No!”
“Blessed Spirits! Tell me what you heard.”
FishTrap shifts uncomfortably. “Well … I just … I may have heard … a few words.”
“What were they?”
FishTrap swallows hard. “She might have said … ‘you’re all dead.’”
Wasp Moth nods.
“You imbeciles. You’re imagining it. I didn’t hear a thing!” I slam the bag to the ground, and whirl around when Tocho chuckles.
“Did you hear her, old man?”
He tilts his head to the rainy darkness outside. “As of this instant, you have far more important things to worry about. He’s coming.”
“Who?” Fear tickles the base of my throat. I don’t like any of this. Enchanted bags, and people hearing voices that I do not. I believe in the old gods and the Spirits that haunt the land, but I grew up with a legendary witch, so I know that most witchery is a sham, just fakery and clever deceptions. When I was a child, Father used to capture witches and force them to teach him their skills. Father uses sleight-of-hand to make objects seem to appear from nowhere, and positions lamps and polished pyrite mirrors to create otherworldly reflections that resemble ghosts. He can even cast his voice to make it sound like it’s coming from a painted dance stick across the room. People’s imaginations breathe reality into all sorts of monsters and mysteries. That has to be the source of the “voice,” or I’d hear it, too.
On the other hand, I also know that some witchery is frighteningly real. Though I have never witnessed my father do such things, I have personally seen a witch call out and stop the hearts of every bird in the sky. The resulting shower of dead finches thumping down all over Flowing Waters Town was horrifying. I have also seen witches kill with a single word.
To Tocho, I say, “If you’re trying to scare me, old man, you can’t. I know every trick—”
From the darkness beyond the shelter, a man’s voice calls, “War Chief Wasp Moth? May we enter?”
Wasp Moth leaps to his feet as though grateful for the distraction. “Enter, Iron Dog. We’ve been waiting for you!”
Five men walk into the shelter. Four are White Moccasins. I know three of them, Iron Dog, Weevil, and Chick. I know the fourth warrior as well, but can’t recall his name. The fifth man has the hood of his blue cape pulled up. He stands at the edge of the shelter, gazing out across the storm-lashed canyon. At almost the same instant he turns to look at me, lightning flashes. The stunning white light sheathes his magnificent face, turning it faintly azure.
Dear gods, look at those blazing blue eyes.
The White Moccasins come across the floor, bow to me, and slump down around the fire, eager to get warm. They start talking in low voices, speculating on the status of Flowing Waters Town and the fact that they can no longer get messages to my father, the Blessed Sun. Iron Dog says it’s probably because the signal stations on the canyon rim have been obliterated after the attack on OwlClaw Village. Chick agrees that surely the Canyon People must have attacked and destroyed every station they could.
I listen halfheartedly, for my attention is riveted on the stranger. The albino. As he shoves back his hood I see a long white braid tumble over his shoulder. Pure white, not the dull shade of the aged, but the gleaming brilliance of winter snow. Truly, he is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.
When he notices my attention, his head tilts slightly to the left, as though he is evaluating me back.
“Who are you?” I ask.
Iron Dog rushes to say, “Oh, Blessed daughter, forgive me. I thought you knew. Your father sent a signal several days ago, telling us where to meet him. Your father hired him to find the witch’s pot. This is—”
“I am Maicoh, Blessed daughter.” The albino strides forward so gracefully
, he might be walking on air.
“You are not Maicoh.”
Though, I have to admit, Maicoh is a master of disguise. Could this be the hollow-eyed old skeleton I spoke to in the cave in OwlClaw Village? Doesn’t seem possible.
He frowns at the old leather bag, then his eyes narrow, and he extends a hand to it. “You are fools for trying to open that Spirit bundle. Don’t you see the red and white symbols dancing in the air above it? I’m amazed any of you is still alive.”
I glance at the old bag, then back at him. “How do you know we tried to open it?”
“Are you deaf? I could hear her screaming in rage and cursing you from halfway down the canyon!”
Wasp Moth and FishTrap both stiffen at the mention of a curse. All around the fire, warriors exchange unsettled mutters.
The albino kneels beside me, and his blue cape spreads over the floor like a flood of midnight sky. He gestures. “May I hold it?”
“Take it. I’m sick of it.”
In the rear of the shelter, Tocho laughs softly.
Sixteen
Blue Dove
The albino reaches out and lightly places his too-white fingers on the distinctive hump made by the pot, then he closes his eyes and whispers something unintelligible. The warriors around the fire have gone so motionless that the beads of rain on their leather capes reflect the firelight like diamonds.
“What language are you speaking?” I ask.
Very softly, the albino answers, “The language she grew up with. It comes from the Mound Builders who live along the Great River far to the east, where she was a very powerful priestess.”
“How do you know their language?”
“I learned it from an old woman named Orenda.”
“If the soul in that pot grew up with the Mound Builders, then it is not Nightshade. She was born here, among the Straight Path People. My father told me that, so I know it’s true,” I point out smugly.
The albino ignores me and returns to his soft conversation with the disembodied soul in the Spirit bag.
“But, Blessed daughter,” Wasp Moth says as he leans forward, “I heard that Nightshade did grow up far to the east among the Mound—”
“She was born in Straight Path Canyon!” My heart is beating as rapidly as a bird’s, and I have no idea why. “If that soul speaks Mound Builder language, it can’t be Nightshade!”
“All right, but—” Wasp Moth shrugs and looks away.
“But what?”
“Well, it’s just that my grandmother told me the Mountain Witch was born in Talon Town, but she was stolen away by a famous Mound Builder war chief named Badgertail and hauled to a palace far to the east of the Great River, where she—”
“That’s ridiculous. How could you have heard anything that I have not?”
Wasp Moth makes a conciliatory gesture. “I’m sure I’m in error, Blessed daughter.”
Rain gusts beneath the overhang, and the flames hiss and spit out sparks that whirl toward the low roof where tendrils of smoke crawl across the ceiling.
“Yes, of course,” the albino says and nods his head, as though in answer to a voice I do not hear, the same voice that Wasp Moth and FishTrap heard earlier.
“Who are you talking to?”
“Nightshade.” He picks up the bag, cradles it in his arms like a precious child, and walks to the rear of the rockshelter to hand it to Tocho.
The old shaman takes the bag in his bound hands and says, “I thank you.”
“What are you doing?” I yell in astonishment. “I didn’t give you permission to give the bag to the old man!”
When the albino swings around and glares at me, the bravest warriors in the Straight Path nation go as still and quiet as baby rabbits hiding in the brush when an eagle drifts overhead. The short warrior with broken yellow teeth—Weevil—starts shaking like a leaf. The other warriors subtly lower their hands to the weapons on their belts, as though worried they might have to defend themselves from this man.
The albino takes his time walking back to the fire. As he kneels beside me, he looks straight into my eyes. His luminous white face is less than four hand-lengths from mine. For the briefest of instants, his eyes resemble bottomless glacial lakes, too deep and blue to be real.
“I didn’t ask your permission,” he says in a low voice.
Panting as though he’s run for three days straight, Weevil scrambles to his feet and hurries across the shelter to go outside and stand in the pouring rain. I can see him out there, getting drenched.
“What are you doing out there?” I call. “You’re going to be sopping wet.”
“Just watching the river flood, Blessed daughter.”
FishTrap stares at Weavil, clearly wishing he had the courage to get up and go join him. To make matters worse, Iron Dog begins mindlessly pulling his knife half out of its sheath and shoving it back in, creating an irritating rhythmic rasping sound.
I break the spell by half-shouting in the albino’s face, “These fools are apparently scared to death of you, but I don’t think you’re Maicoh at all. Maicoh is supposed to have seen over forty summers, and you can’t be more than—”
“I’m aware of what people say about me.”
“You look twenty-five. Thirty at most.”
“Maybe all the things you’ve heard about me are wrong,” he says in a quiet voice.
“I doubt it. And Maicoh is supposed to have a blue halo of power wavering around him. I see nothing but a pale-skinned charlatan. A fraud in a fine cloak.”
“Charlatan.” The albino’s voice catches briefly on the word, as though he finds it difficult to pronounce. Lifting his hand, he makes a pale elegant motion in the damp air.
The rain stops. Just stops.
Several warriors gasp and stare across the river to the cliffs on the other side. Where instants before they’d barely been able to see anything in front of the shelter, now moonlight streams down through breaks in the clouds and fills the canyon with silver mist.
Weevil’s rapid steps can be heard outside, pounding away.
“That’s a coincidence, you fools! The storm just broke. That’s all.”
The albino clutches his hand into a fist and …
A kind voice comes from the rear of the shelter: “Maicoh?”
The albino hesitates for a long moment, as though deciding, before slowly lowering his fist. “Forgive me. I forget our purpose.”
“Quite all right,” Tocho replies.
“Our purpose?” I give each of them a wary look. “Do you two know each other?”
FishTrap sneaks off into the darkness without a word. I only notice his absence when I hear his sandals grating on the sand outside. Apparently, he’s running after Weevil.
“Wasp Moth, get those warriors back in here!” I order. “Or I will have you flayed alive when we get home.”
“Of course, Blessed daughter.”
Wasp Moth bows and disappears into the moonlit darkness.
“Now,” I say in an authoritative voice, “what is your true name?”
The albino smiles, and when I try to look away from him, I find that I cannot. The longer I gaze into those unearthly blue eyes, the brighter his translucent skin glows, as though it has absorbed the firelight.
“I told you my name,” he says.
“You did not. So I think I’ll call you charlatan, because I’m sure…”
He turns his back to me and walks over to sit down beside Tocho, where he respectfully says, “I’m honored to meet you, Keeper of the Wolf Bundle.”
Tocho places his bound hands on top of the albino’s head, as if blessing him. “I’m glad you’re here, Maicoh. I can use your help.”
The idea that the two shamans might combine their Spirit Power must have been too much for Chick. He scrambles to his feet and lunges out into the night.
“Find Wasp Moth and the others while you’re out there!” I shout.
“Yes, Blessed daughter.”
The last White Moccasin
, maybe sixteen summers, remains sitting before the fire. The fact that he is so young, but has been accepted into the White Moccasins, means he’s shown extraordinary bravery and skill in battle. Hard to believe, for right now he looks like a frightened bird. He has a beaky face and a mane of limp black hair that brushes his shoulders.
“What’s your name?”
“Roost, Blessed daughter.”
His right hand grips the war club hanging from his belt, his eyes trained vigilantly on the two shamans in the rear of the shelter.
Turning, I say, “If you’re Maicoh, you’re Powerful enough to open that old bag.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Then do it. I want to see the soul pot.”
“No.”
Suddenly he frowns at the ceiling, as though he sees something descending from the sky beyond the soot-coated sandstone.
It’s so unnerving, Roost leans sideways to look up at the night sky outside, searching for whatever the albino sees. As clouds blow by, moonlight wavers across the canyon, and the dark shapes of owls swoop over the rushing river.
“What happened to Wasp Moth and the others?” I ask.
“Want me to go look for them?” Roost inquires hopefully.
“No, I do not. I’m sure the greatest warriors of the Straight Path nation are out there soaked to the bone, hiding from one unarmed albino and a tied-up old man. What a bunch of miserable cowards!”
When Roost’s gaze suddenly shoots to the rear of the shelter, I spin around.
The albino has both hands over his head, as though holding up the weight of the roof about to fall on top of them. I can’t help but search for cracks in the ceiling.
Finally he lowers his hands and turns to Tocho. “They’re on their way.”
Tocho squeezes his eyes closed. “I’m sorry. Truly I am.”
“Necessary.”
Tocho nods and heaves a tired breath. “Nonetheless.”
Seventeen
The Blessed Sun
People of the Canyons Page 11