As his gaze moves around the room, the flickering torchlight seems more intense, more alive. “They do.”
His oddly blank face reminds me of a story Grandfather told me many summers ago, a story about the Undead. I’d been having nightmares about ghosts sneaking beneath my hides, and Grandfather told me I had nothing to fear from the souls of the dead; it was the Undead I had to worry about. The Undead were human husks who appeared to be alive, walking among us, but were hollow inside, and therefore capable of terrible acts of madness. Grandfather said the Undead were the only nightmares I should fear, because they seemed to be human, but were not.
As I chew my jerky, I glance sidelong at Crane, wondering if he is one of the Undead.
“Are you sure Tocho camped here last night?” Kwinsi asks.
Crane nods. “They would have reached here about dark, though they may not have stayed in this room. They could have made camp in one of the rockshelters along the cliff face outside.”
Kwinsi straightens and the quartz crystals he wears around his neck catch the torchlight like droplets of honey. “Then they’re not that far ahead of us. We may see them tomorrow.”
“I think we will,” Crane says. “There’s a place where this narrow trail crosses the main road into the Straight Path nation. It runs straight as an arrow—”
“Into the jaws of the monster,” I say. “The three of us are going to be walking into a land filled with hundreds of warriors who will either kill us on sight or take us as slaves.”
“Probably the latter,” Crane agrees. “I’ve heard the Blessed Sun has been sending raiding parties all the way to the southern Fire Dogs to capture slaves and herd them home to Flowing Waters Town.”
“So taking us as slaves would be a lot more convenient,” Kwinsi notes. “And less costly.”
“A very practical assessment, I’m afraid.”
I look around the storage room, hoping to see some sign of Grandfather. If he stayed here last night, wouldn’t he have left something, a bead or a mark on the walls, to tell me he’d been here? Surely he knows that Kwinsi and I are coming after him to rescue him. Tears blur my eyes. I miss him so much, it’s like a knife constantly twisting in my belly.
Crane leans back against the wall. “Personally, I’d prefer death to being a slave in Flowing Waters Town.”
“I would, too,” I say.
Kwinsi nods. “Even if only half the stories told by Traders are true, they leave me trembling in my moccasins. Old HornTooth told a story last time he passed through OwlClaw Village. I doubt it’s true, but—”
“The one about the captured war chief?” I ask.
“Yes. You remember, too.”
“Who could forget that story? I still have nightmares about it.”
Crane looks back and forth between us. “Must be a good story. I don’t think I’ve heard it.”
Still chewing a mouthful of jerky, Kwinsi says, “Well, according to HornTooth, a few summers back the Blessed Sun captured an enemy war party. He had the men brought to the central plaza to be questioned, but he didn’t ask them a single question. Instead, he ordered that the enemy war chief’s hands be shoved into a blazing fire and held there until they’d cooked through. Afterward, he told his priests to hack off the man’s arms at the elbows, then he chewed the cooked flesh from the fingers while the dying war chief watched him. Over several days, he did the same thing to every member of the war party, except for the last man, whom he turned loose to tell the tale.”
Crane does not comment for a time, then says, “Cannibalism is a tool of terror that Leather Hand has employed since he was a young war chief, and now wields with great expertise. I’ve seen him do things I wish I had not. Those memories will never leave me.”
Grandfather’s elderly face smiles at me from behind my eyes, and a sob rises in my throat. Leather Hand wouldn’t do that to Grandfather, would he? Maybe the Blessed Sun’s warriors were already torturing …
Kwinsi leans sideways to press his shoulder against mine. “Don’t worry. He’s all right. If he weren’t, I’d know it.”
I blink back tears. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I am.” He reaches down for the ceramic canteen on his belt and pulls out the wooden stopper. “That jerky was dry. Want some water?”
“Yes, I’m thirsty.”
Kwinsi lifts his canteen and looks apologetic. “I forgot. I drank it. I need to fill my canteen from the river. Want to come with me?”
“Yes, I can fill mine at the same time. Elder, may I fill your canteen as well?”
“Oh, yes, thank you.”
Crane hands me his canteen, and I follow Kwinsi up the damp tunnel and out into the rain.
We are both quiet as we walk to the muddy river.
When Kwinsi crouches at the edge of the water and starts to fill his canteen, I glance back at the ruins. The surrounding walls are hidden below the low hills. Only the tallest wall is visible from here, poised like a dark fang ready to rip out the stormy belly of Brother Sky.
“Hand me the other canteens so I can fill them, Tsilu?”
As I hand them over and watch him dip them into the rushing river, I say, “I’ve been wondering about something.”
“What?”
“How did the Blessed Sun’s daughter know that Grandfather had Nightshade’s soul pot?”
Kwinsi hesitates for a long time. “I shouldn’t think he told her.”
“Well, of course he didn’t tell her. She must have found out from someone else. Who?”
Water gurgles as it flows into the canteen he holds beneath the surface of the river. When he pulls it out and shoves the wooden stopper back in the top, he says, “Do you think Tocho told Ahote?”
“Grandfather didn’t even tell me it was Nightshade’s soul. He would not have told Ahote. Besides, I don’t recall him ever loaning Ahote the pot, or even showing it to him.”
As Kwinsi dips the next canteen into the river, he says, “Tocho told me he’d never loaned it to anyone before me. He was trying to help me understand the path of the sacred clown.”
“He cared about you.”
“I know.”
Kwinsi stoppers the last canteen and places it on the bank beside the other two, then he stands up and frowns out at the river. The trees that grow along the channel are half beneath water.
For several heartbeats, I am conscious of every sound. The roar of the river, the patter of raindrops, the distant yipping of coyotes.
“Then, so far as we know,” Kwinsi says, “only three people knew it was Nightshade’s soul pot. Tocho, me, and Crane.”
I spin around suddenly. I have an eerie feeling that someone is watching us. As though eyes drift somewhere overhead, looking down upon us. A cold sensation filters through me. “Yes.”
“Crane sat beside the Blessed Sun’s daughter at the council meeting. Anyone could tell they were together, so Crane must have been the one who told her Grandfather had the pot. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
“But why would he do that?”
Kwinsi props his hands on his hips. “That’s the first question we need to answer. The second question is: Why is he here with us, rather than with her?”
“Think we should go ask him?”
“Scary proposition.” Kwinsi reaches down, picks up his canteen, and ties it to his belt. “But I guess if he kills us, we won’t have to worry about watching our hands roast before our eyes.”
I collect the other two canteens. “Come on. Let’s get it over with.”
As we walk side-by-side back up the trail and into the midst of the toppled walls, I hear mice scurry through the fallen bricks. Occasionally, I glimpse tiny eyes flash.
At the mouth of the tunnel to the storage room, Kwinsi whispers, “Stay behind me, Tsilu. I’m not much good in a fight, but at least I’m bigger than you.”
He leads the way down into the torchlit storage chamber, where Crane sits in exactly the same place we left him. The only difference is that h
e has spread out his blanket and encircled it with tiny pairs of moccasins. Children’s moccasins. A pair rests at each cardinal direction. When we enter, Crane’s unblinking black eyes focus on us as though nothing else exists in the entire world.
It’s a sobering, breathless moment, where I have the uncomfortable feeling that he heard every word we said down by the river.
Carrying the canteens across the floor, I hand Crane’s back to him, then back away to stand slightly behind Kwinsi. “The river is muddy, elder. I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right. Thank you for filling it for me.”
Nervously, Kwinsi wets his lips before he says, “Elder, we’re a little confused, and are hoping you can help us to understand some things.”
The faintest trace of a smile touches Crane’s face. “Let me think. What could possibly be troubling you?” He removes the stopper from his canteen and takes a long drink, then lowers it to his lap. “You saw me with the Blessed Sun’s daughter at the council meeting, so you’ve convinced yourselves that I told her Tocho had the pot. In essence, you think I betrayed my dearest friend in the world.”
Kwinsi blurts, “How did you know we—”
“You’re the only possibility, elder,” I interrupt.
“Am I?” Crane lets out a breath. “Then, in your estimation, why am I leading you on this journey?”
“Maybe you want the pot back.”
“Believe me, that is the last thing I want. And, by the way, it’s the last thing Nightshade wants.”
“Nightshade?” Kwinsi walks over and stands in the doorway. “How do you know what a long-dead priestess wants?”
“Do you really believe you are the only person she’s ever spoken to?”
Crane gets to his feet, walks wide around me, and goes over to pick up Kwinsi’s pack. “She’s speaking right now. Don’t you hear her? She’s calling to you.”
Kwinsi cries, “I don’t have it. I’m telling the truth!”
It might be my imagination, but as the tension in the room ratchets up, I do hear faint high-pitched voices drifting through the darkness. Whether they come from something in Kwinsi’s pack or the Spirits in the walls, I can’t be certain, but …
“Kwinsi, please open your pack,” I say. “If the pot is in there, I need to see it.”
A peculiar smell invades the torchlit chamber. The coppery tang of blood. Where is it coming from?
Suddenly, the shadows in the room spin and coalesce. Has to be a trick of the fluttering torchlight, but they appear to twine up around Crane’s emaciated body like dark arms tightening around a man beloved.
A few shadows snake across the cold floor toward me, coming close. Terrifyingly close. Longing to touch me.
Crane whispers, “Shh. It’s all right. They mean well. You know they do.”
As he walks across the room with his black cape flaring behind him, the murky arms melt to simple flame shadows and dissolve into the torchlit air. The room goes profoundly quiet.
Crane hands the pack back to Kwinsi and says, “I believe you, Grandson. Of course you’re telling the truth. You don’t have it.”
Nineteen
Tsilu
My dreams are empty. Grandfather is dead. Everything I love is gone, and I’m alone, running through a hazy country I can barely see. Did we pass through the red canyon country and into the vast desert beyond? The darkness is filled with monstrous rock formations that whisper.
Barely aware, I feel myself roll onto my back, and I weep.
I begin to drop back into the hopeless darkness …
A hand comfortingly strokes my arm. I open my eyes and blink at the predawn sky where charcoal clouds drift across a slate blue background. The brightest footprints of the dead continue to glitter on the horizon.
“You all right?” Kwinsi asks, still gently stroking my arm.
“Thank you for waking me.”
“You were crying in your sleep.”
I turn over to face him and find him watching me with kind eyes, then I remember that we decided not to sleep in the old storage room with the mysterious Crane, but on the ground outside, where we could run if necessary.
“Bad nightmare.”
Kwinsi gives me a sympathetic look. “What did you dream?”
“My soul was wandering through a dark, haunted country. I could barely see anything around me, and I was alone.”
Kwinsi gently pats my hair. “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m right here. I’m not leaving you.”
“Promise?”
Smiling, he says, “Promise.”
To the east, a few clouds begin to shade pink. I watch them while I try to escape the despair I feel in the dream’s wake. The ruins of GoingBuck Village appear bleak. The wind whimpers through the broken, black walls, and it sounds like crying children.
“At some point during the night, it occurred to me that there would be no women coming to sleep atop the grave of the baby boy we buried in the Sleeping Place. It broke my heart, Kwinsi.”
“Don’t give up hope. The Sleeping Place is known far and wide. Women from other villages may still come. In fact, I’m sure they will.”
Sitting up, I run my fingers through my tangled hair. The tunnel to the storage room where Crane sleeps is a dark hole that radiates horror, as though nothing, neither time nor endless rainstorms, will ever wash away the last moments of terror contained within.
“I’ll be back,” I say and get to my feet.
The eastern canyon wall, still in darkness, breathes cold down upon me as I walk away from the destroyed town and toward a mound of fallen boulders at the base of the cliff. Scents of rain-soaked rabbitbrush, juniper, and pinon pine lie heavy on the morning breeze.
When I reach the boulders, I walk around behind them and squat to empty my night water. Nearby, a lizard perches on top of a rock, watching me with bright eyes. His camouflage is almost perfect. He blends so well with the stone, he’s almost invisible. He must be hoping that if he just stays still, I won’t see him.
As I stand up, the lizard darts into the boulders and disappears.
“Sorry I disturbed you, brother.”
Stepping wide around the rocks, I study the clumps of tan grass that cling to the shadows at the bases of the boulders. Down the slope to my left, the muddy river overflows its banks. All I can see of the cattails that grow in the shallows are the seed heads.
Yesterday was a long day. I’m still stiff and footsore, and today will be another long day. When we hit the main road to Straight Path Canyon, the travel will be easier.
Faintly, I hear Kwinsi and Crane speaking in low somber voices, and start back for the village. When I veer around the toppled walls, I see them standing together before a juniper fire. Three packrats, skewered on sticks, roast over the flames.
“When did you have time to hunt?” I call.
Kwinsi gives me a strange look. “Apparently Crane rose long before we did. He’s been hunting the rocks for over a hand of time.”
The fact that Crane climbed out of the tunnel while we slept is unnerving. If he’d wanted to kill us, he could have done it with little effort.
Crane warms his long skeletal hands over the fire. He’s so pale. A corpse in a black cape. Is it really possible that he’s an old and dear friend of Grandfather’s, and I’ve never heard of him? Not once in ten summers? Everyone has secrets, I know that. Perhaps Grandfather had a good reason for never talking about Crane … but it seems unlikely.
And, truly, I don’t understand why the man bothers me so much. He’s made no aggressive moves toward me or Kwinsi. If anything, he’s been overly gracious, guiding us down the trails, sharing his food, answering every question we ask. But I have the gut feeling he’s lying about everything.
When I walk up to stand close to Kwinsi, Crane’s gaze rests on me a little too long, and I wonder if, like the lizard on the rock, he’s praying that his camouflage will be enough to save him.
“Thought you might be getting tired of buffalo jerky,” Cr
ane says and gestures to the roasting packrats.
“You’ve been very kind to share it with us. Thank you for breakfast.”
“Did you sleep well out here in the cold?” His black eyes slide sharply to me, then away.
“No, elder. I didn’t.”
Trying to make conversation, Kwinsi says, “Tsilu had a nightmare. She was alone and running through a dark haunted country.”
Crane blinks at the fire. “Ever had that dream before?”
“No. Though I often have dreams where I’m lost, searching for someone I can’t find.”
Crane remains quiet for a long time. “Your soul is probably sorting fragments of memories.”
“Memories?”
He rubs his cold hands together over the flames. “Yes. Recurring dreams are often broken memories. In your case, I wonder if your dream isn’t bits of memory cobbled together from the terrible moments after the attack where your village was burned and your family killed. Before Tocho found you naked and alone, wandering along the River of Souls.”
Stunned, I say, “How do you know these things about me?”
“I don’t know much. Just what Tocho has told me. You were three, weren’t you?”
“I was, but I don’t remember it at all.”
“Your souls may not remember.” He gestures to the dark tunnel. “But just as mud bricks soak up horror, our bones and muscles remember things our souls refuse to. Things that are too painful. Things we can’t bear to look at in the daylight. That’s why the memories sneak out of our bones and muscles and dance in our dreams at night.”
Even pitched low, for our ears alone, his voice is startlingly deep and beautiful, at odd variance with his frightening appearance. “Why do they sneak out?”
“Oh, I suspect the dreams come to remind you that if you just keep walking through the darkness, you will be saved by someone. And, of course, you will be.”
A deep breath suddenly fills my lungs, and when I exhale, tension drains from my muscles. I feel oddly better, as though my bones and muscles heard him and understood.
“Thank you, elder. For helping me.”
People of the Canyons Page 13