“You look like you’ve just seen your own death,” I note.
“Every day. Every instant. Death is my best friend, Blue Dove. My only friend. It is the one true justice in the world. Tell me how your father makes the dolls.”
I think about it, and conclude that it can’t possibly hurt. After all, Father will certainly kill this man after he has the witch’s pot in his hands. Provided, of course, that it can ever be removed from the old pack.
Another gust of foul-smelling wind blows over us.
“Simple, really. He orders slaves to strip the bodies of people who’ve died from terrible fevers or the coughing sickness, then they rip the clothing into rags and stuff them inside unbaked clay dolls that are still open at the heads. Father takes the dolls, adds bits of food to sustain the evil Spirits, and seals the openings in the doll heads with more clay. Finally, he casts a spell upon them.”
“What happens to the slaves who stripped the corpses? Surely, the evil Spirits in the rags—”
“Are you so dull-witted that I have to answer that question?” I give him a disdainful look.
“No.”
He puts his head down, blinks at the ground for several moments, then walks away with his white hair blowing like streamers of ice around his hood.
Twenty-four
The Serpent in the Egg
Night seeps through the air like cold gray mist.
I watch it twine around the dark smears of clouds that blight the heavens, and slowly, inexorably, swallow the shapes of the trees and brush until all that remains is the jagged outline of the canyon rim set against the glittering footprints of the dead. There are so many tonight. Is the entire world marching toward the Land of the Dead? After passing through WhiteBark Village, I fear the answer is yes.
Wind breathes the slightest hint of an answer. The whiff of carrion. It meanders down the valley and filters through my hair. Fills my nostrils. Truth whispers.
Turning, I lean against the sandstone wall, praying it will support me for long enough that I can make it to the firelit cave tucked into the canyon wall thirty steps away. I’m following a tiny ledge, no more than a hand-length wide. From up here, clinging to the side of the cliff, the view of the valley is stunning. A chalice for the lilting cries of wolves and whimpers of breeze through dark trees.
Our camp sits far below me. The bodies of my companions, rolled in their capes, have melted into the night.
I force my feet to edge along toward the firelight ahead. From any other vantage, it would be invisible. But I have been here before. This hole that spirals down into blackness. This faithless womb that gives birth to corpses.
Long before I arrive, I hear faint chanting.
I dare not allow him to distract me. The ledge has grown so narrow that the toes of my moccasins have to search for it while my fingers clutch for tiny irregularities in the wall that I can barely feel.
At last, my feet find the lip of the cave, and I step inside.
A dark form hunches before the flames in the rear of the cave. His back to me, he resembles a lump wrapped in an ancient buffalo hide. His bald head, threaded with wispy gray hairs, seems disembodied, floating above the hide. Every hollow carved into the stone walls contains a soul pot. His most prized possessions. The souls that do his bidding. It’s only when he turns his gaze upon me that I know for certain Crosswind is alive. His black eyes blaze.
“Come,” he says in a voice just above a whisper. “I will answer your questions.”
It occurs to me that I’m counting heartbeats. Four, five, six …
The paralysis trickles downward into my lungs.
Like fingers slipping loose, life lets go of me. My breathing dies. My heartbeat ceases. Moments stretch. I know how this goes. I wait for the aftershock to quake through me. Every time I come here, it costs me something precious. What price will I pay tonight?
The old man totters to his feet and trundles across the dirt floor to lean very close to me, peering deeply into my eyes. Our noses almost touch. I can smell the willow bark tea he’s been drinking.
“Ah,” he says softly. “There you are. Climb back now. You have nothing to fear from me. Not yet anyway.”
When he turns to hobble back to his fire, leading the way, my lungs gasp air. Like a curious statue tilted too far, I fall forward, my right foot landing hard, but I manage to follow him to the fire, where I sit upon the floor.
“Now,” Crosswind says as he pulls his buffalo hide more closely around his shoulders. “What is so important that you would risk coming to me?”
From my belt bag, I draw out the small jet carving and hold it up to the firelight. The beast shimmers. “This.”
His eyes widen with wonder. He reaches for it and turns it over in bony fingers, examining every fine detail. The jet serpent’s single coral eye appears to be watching him back.
Is that the fire hissing? Or …
“Yessss,” he answers in the same voice.
“What is it? Do you know?”
“Of course. I’m surprised that you do not.” Crosswind lifts the fetish and squints at it with one eye, as though peering deeply into the malignant thing’s soul. “Your enemy.”
“My enemy?”
He uses a crooked knobby finger to tap the charm. “Yes. Leather Hand’s breath-heart soul runs deep and cold through the stone.”
Having him confirm the legend feels like a slap.
The old witch’s teeth are worn down almost to the gums. When he looks up, the brown pegs curl into a smile. “Where did you get this?”
“A woman brought it to me from Flowing Waters Town. She was hoping I could destroy it.”
Shock rearranges the lines of his ancient face. “That, my friend, is the last thing you wish to do.”
“Why?”
He hands the fetish back to me and rubs his hands on the buffalo hide, working to rid them of the taint. “The instant this jet fetish is crushed, the evil soul inside will slither into another victim. You, I suppose, since you possess it now.”
Drawing up my knees, I prop my elbows atop them and study the tiny serpent. “BoneDust did not tell me that.”
Only the old man’s eyes move. They lift to stare fixedly at me. “High Priestess BoneDust, the favored of Leather Hand?”
“Yes.”
“How would she get this? Leather Hand must guard it with his life.”
Shrugging, I say, “I’m sure she took it from his personal chamber.”
“She stole it?”
“Certainly.”
Admiration curls his lips. “Did you hire her to do that?”
I shake my head. “After she stole it, she contacted me. We arranged a meeting place far from Flowing Waters Town. She was murdered shortly after she gave it to me.”
“Of course she was. We must be thorough, mustn’t we?”
The black serpent in the cock’s egg feels like it’s moving in my hand, just waking and starting to uncoil.
“Do you realize what Leather Hand would pay for its return? Or what could be extorted from him in exchange for promising to keep it safe?” Crosswind asks. “You could be a wealthy man.”
“Wealth doesn’t interest me.”
Crosswind pauses, then flicks a hand at the fetish. “Put it away now. I’m afraid he’s watching us through its red eye.”
Swiftly, I stuff the charm back into my belt bag.
Crosswind stares at me. I stare back. I always pay him well. But that does not change the fact that if he senses an opportunity to kill me and take the fetish, he will. I am one of the most wanted men alive. Not only would he be rich beyond his dreams, the man or woman who kills me will be a hero among the ranks of the malevolent.
“I heard a story of this. Long, long ago,” he says calmly. “But did not believe it.”
“What story?”
Steepling his fingers before his wrinkled mouth, Crosswind frowns at the far wall of the cave, as though deciding whether or not to tell me. When he cants his head, the firelight casts his s
hadow upon the wall behind him, where it appears to be a flurry of wings.
“You should know this story. Your father should have told you. How is it possible that he did not?”
“Perhaps he did not know it.”
“Doubtful. He lived it. Or much of it.”
“What do you mean?”
He reaches down to rub his knee, winces slightly, as though it hurts. “This story was given to me by a white-haired old hag named Orenda. She said the fetish could never be destroyed, because it had been cursed by the greatest and most powerful priestess who has ever lived.”
“The Blessed Nightshade.”
He gives me a wary look, as though he suspects I know more than I’m letting on. “Yes. Apparently, Nightshade cast a curse upon the fetish to lock Leather Hand’s breath-heart soul in the stone for all eternity. He can never escape unless she releases him. And since Nightshade died thirty summers ago, her soul would have to return from the Land of the Dead to do that, which seems unlikely.”
All I see behind my eyes is a shiny black pot about the size of a fist. For the first time, I understand.
“Yes. It does,” I say with a small smile. “Does that mean that Leather Hand can never travel to the Land of the Dead?”
He nods. “And I suspect that, at his age, it’s begun to worry him.”
A log breaks in the fire, and the astringent smell of boiling pine sap rises. I pause to watch the sap bubble from the crack in the wood. Green flames leap around.
“Do you believe the story? That it can’t be destroyed?”
A soft laugh shakes him. “Anything can be destroyed, my friend. The question is how.”
“Can you destroy it?”
He laughs again. “No. And I wouldn’t even if I could. It’s too valuable.”
The high-pitched cry of a coyote penetrates the cave, then the entire pack breaks into song, serenading the world with yips and howls. Another pack, much farther away, answers. For a few precious instants, the firelight is filled with perfect beauty.
Crosswind points a skeletal finger at my belt bag. When he finally speaks, his voice is a hoarse whisper: “I can hear it in there, like a leech slithering in mud. It wants out. Someday, I believe a tiny crack will emerge in the stone. You do not wish to be anywhere close when it is born into this world again.”
The wind must have picked up outside, for a faint current, a cold tendril of a draft, stirs his few gray hairs.
“Do you understand?”
“I do. Yes.”
“Good. Now, get out, before I reconsider and decide to kill you.”
Shoving to my feet, I draw a sack of jewels from my belt bag: quartz crystals, jade, coral, and chunks of turquoise. A considerable treasure. As I hand it to him, I say, “I thank you.”
He takes it, looks inside the bag to evaluate its contents, and says, “You owe me more than this. Why don’t you leave me the fetish instead? It’s too Powerful for you. I’m the only one who knows how to use it.”
My gaze moves over the soul pots in the wall niches, and I wonder who they are and how they came to be his prisoners. “The amount is more than fair. Besides, you have plenty of Power objects. One more won’t make much of a difference.”
“That one might.” His toothless smile is hideous. “You will wish you’d given it to me.”
“Threatening me is not good for your health.”
Eager to leave this womb of evil, I boldly turn my back on him and walk away.
He waits until I reach the mouth of the cave before he says softly, “The two people traveling with you … one is your child, yes? Or grandchild? Which one?”
Fear washes through me. I spin around. “That would be a grave error on your part. One I could not overlook.”
His eyes are downcast, peering into the bag while he uses one crooked finger to sort through the jewels. “I was there in the village that day. When you carried the child to the Sleeping Place. I followed you.”
“You followed me, and I didn’t know it? And I’m still alive? That’s hard to believe.”
He chuckles. “Didn’t have an opportunity. You’re canny. Usually.”
Afraid to take my eyes off him, I back toward the cave entrance. He watches me every step of the way. His unblinking eyes are black holes in the fabric of the universe. Through them, I see the end of all things, of all life, of the world itself.
Outside the cave, I lean against the cliff face for a full one hundred heartbeats, fighting to control my nausea. Being close to him feels like a physical assault.
After a long while, when the foul taste in my mouth subsides, I use my sleeve to wipe the sweat from my face and begin the slow slide back across the ledge, heading for camp.
Twenty-five
Tsilu
Crane tenderly picks up a pair of small moccasins. The predawn sky is shading from black to blue, but the footprints of the dead still sparkle across the vast bowl of the heavens. He places each moccasin against his lips, speaks to it, then carefully tucks it in his pack. Since he returned one half-hand of time ago, he’s been quietly moving around camp, packing up, and I wonder if he plans to sneak away and leave us. Perhaps he thinks we’re slowing him down and he wishes to go off to rescue Grandfather on his own. Or maybe he’s decided to abandon the mission altogether.
Kwinsi lies flat on his back on the opposite side of the dead fire. His bow and quiver rest beside him, at hand in case he needs them. When he lay down to sleep, he pulled his hood around his face for warmth, so all I can see is his long nose sticking out.
Very softly I say, “You were gone a long time, elder.”
Crane’s black cape swirls as he turns to look at me. Rolled in my cape, I’m sure he barely sees me. “Was I?”
“Almost three hands of time.” Only one pair of moccasins remains on the ground. It’s the tiny pair that he places over his head every night. The toes always point west. “Are you going to leave us?”
Surprised, Crane hesitates. “No, child. I’ll never do that. Not until we’ve rescued Tocho.”
“But you’ve been packing since you returned.”
The silver hair at his temples flashes as he shifts his weight to his other foot. “I guess I have, haven’t I? It’s not because I’m leaving you. I’m just anxious to leave this place.”
Mulling everything he’s told us in the last few days, I say, “Did you go to see your old enemy?”
“Yes. That’s why I’m anxious to leave. Crosswind is … unpredictable.”
“Crosswind?” Startled, I stare at him with my mouth open. “Grandfather says Crosswind is one of the most powerful witches in the land. Why would you go see a witch?”
“Because he’s very knowledgeable.”
“But he’s a witch. He’s evil.” My words become white clouds and trail away in the slight morning breeze.
“Very. But witches collect every rumor, story, or legend that speaks of a Power object. Mostly because they wish to steal them and use them for their own purposes.” Crane bends over to pick up the tiny moccasins, and holds them against his heart for a long time before he adds, “I needed to ask him about the jet fetish.”
“The serpent coiled in the cock’s egg? What did he tell you?”
Crane tucks the tiny moccasins inside his pack and pulls the laces tight, then he walks over and crouches in front of me. His face is dark and inscrutable. Down the valley behind him, the sky is shading bluer, shedding its cape of night. “He said the black serpent imprisons Leather Hand’s breath-heart soul, which means the Blessed Sun can’t travel to the Land of the Dead, unless the witch who imprisoned his soul releases him.”
“Who imprisoned him?”
Gazing at the night sky, he seems to be searching for something up there in the Land of the Dead. “The legendary Nightshade.”
“But she’s been dead for years.”
Crane looks back at me, silently gazing into my eyes, as though waiting for me to make the obvious connection for myself. Wind waffles his hood around h
is face.
As understanding seeps through me, I lower my voice even more, afraid old Crosswind might overhear our conversation. “Is that why Leather Hand wants her soul pot? He thinks he can convince Nightshade’s soul to remove the curse?”
“I think so.”
Behind my eyes, thoughts tumble over one another. “When you said we needed to know how to kill the Blessed Sun’s soul, did you mean the soul imprisoned in the fetish?”
He nods in the darkness. “Yes.”
“So you knew it held his breath-heart soul?”
“Not for certain.” His hand drops to his belt bag, as if the hidden serpent is calling him. “The woman who gave me the fetish could have been lying, though I could find no reason why she would.”
“Who gave you the fetish?”
He opens his mouth to answer, but instead rises to his feet and props his hands on his hips, debating with himself. “It would be dangerous for you if I answered that question, Tsilu. And the gods know I’ve lied to you enough.”
“You’ve lied to me?” My voice sounds small and weak, even to me. “Why?”
“To protect you. At least that’s what I tell myself. Someday, I’ll give you the whole truth and hope you forgive me.”
His expression is tormented, and there’s something in it that hurts me, and I don’t know why. “Grandfather says that forgiveness is like water. It can’t run uphill. You have to walk down to it.”
Crane smiles and, for a heartbeat, closes his eyes. “He’s right of course.”
As dawn approaches, the footprints of the dead begin to wink out, and a faint pink glow paints the drifting clouds. The scents of morning always seem stronger, the pines sweeter, the sagebrush more pungent.
“Did Crosswind tell you how to kill it?”
“No. He doesn’t know how.”
“I’m sorry, elder.”
“So am I.”
Crane looks around camp. “We need to be going, Tsilu. The farther we are from Crosswind the safer we are.”
“I’ll start breakfa—”
“No, let’s just leave. At noon, wherever we are, we’ll stop and eat. I promise. Why don’t you wake Kwinsi?”
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