People of the Canyons

by Kathleen O'Neal Gear

  “Oh, yes, I’m sorry. I’m surprised our voices haven’t already woken him.”

  When I rise and start working my way through the brush and rocks that hide in the darkness, an owl hoo-hoos, and I see it flapping through the faint starlight over my head. It’s a big owl. A great horned owl. Its flight is elegant and effortless.

  “Kwinsi?” I call as I walk. “Time to wake up.”

  As I curve around the dead fire, a tornado of ash suddenly springs from the firepit, blasts into me, and careens through camp.

  “What…!” Throwing up my arms to protect my face, I gasp, “What was that?”

  When I turn to Crane, I see him staring hard at the black tornado flying away through the sky. “I don’t … know.”

  I continue toward Kwinsi. As I kneel at his side, I say, “Kwinsi, I’m sorry to wake you, but we need to go.”

  He doesn’t move. He’s sleeping very soundly. Reaching out, I gently shake his shoulder. “Kwinsi? It’s Tsilu. Everything’s all right, we just need to be on our way.”

  My gaze moves over his body. He’s lying on his back with his cape tucked around him. “Time to wake up.” I shake his shoulder harder. “Kwinsi?”

  Leaning closer to him, I pull his hood back to see his face.

  At first I think he’s awake, and smile at him. His soft brown eyes are wide open, staring up at me. Then horror begins to tighten my shoulder muscles and filter through my veins.

  “Kwinsi!” I scream and shake him with all my strength. “Kwinsi! Wake up!”

  Crane rushes toward me with his black cape flying behind him. “Move, Tsilu! Let me see him.”

  Falling backward, I scramble away on my hands and knees, panting for air.

  Crane places two fingers against Kwinsi’s throat, then crouches and touches his eyeball. No response. When he bows his head, his shoulders heave with silent sobs. “Gods, no.”

  “Is he…” I can’t say the words. “He can’t be! What happened? He was fine last night. He—he—”

  Crane rises to his feet and turns to look back at the cliff, searching for a specific place in the darkness. As though speaking to himself, he whispers, “You fool.”

  “What?”

  An odd calm descends upon him. The pain and grief drain from his smooth face as his breathing slows down. It’s eerie. The air seems to shiver with certainty and purpose. He reaches down and picks up Kwinsi’s bow and quiver.

  “Stay here,” he orders and points a stern finger at me. “Do not move from this spot until noon. If I’m not back by then, run away. Run as hard as you can. Do you understand? It means I’m not coming back, and you are in great danger. You must flee for your life.”

  He slings the bow and quiver over his left shoulder, then unties his belt bag and hands it to me. “Strap it around your waist. Don’t let it out of your sight.” He stalks away through the darkness.

  I can’t speak until he is too far away to hear me, then I shout, “Please, don’t leave me alone!”

  Already he has merged with the twilight of dawn. I can’t see him any longer, though occasionally I glimpse movement among the junipers and think it’s him.

  I strap his belt bag around my waist and go to Kwinsi, where I stretch out on the ground and lay my head on his chest, hoping to hear a heartbeat or feel him breathing. Anything to convince me Crane is wrong. He’s alive. Because he can’t be dead. He can’t be.

  “Kwinsi,” I quietly sob. “Please come back.”

  Twenty-six

  The Blessed Sun

  Pulling a deep breath into his old lungs, Leather Hand could smell the sweet nutty fragrance of giant rye-seed bread drifting over the rooftops of Flowing Waters Town.

  “Who’s frying that delicious-smelling bread?”

  Sunwatcher Cub, who has been plodding along behind him, catching his arm when he tottered, said, “I think that’s coming from Junco’s fire.”

  “When it’s finished cooking, bring me some. I want it warm and soft. Not crispy around the edges.”

  “Yes, Blessed Sun.”

  Leaning on his walking stick, Leather Hand took another two steps before he had to stop and breathe. Then another two.

  What a lovely autumn day! Sunlight had warmed the white plastered walls of Flowing Waters Town enough to drive away the morning chill, and people sat on rooftops weaving fabrics and grinding cornmeal in trough-like mealing bins. Warriors gathered in small groups along the walls, talking in low ominous tones. As Leather Hand passed by, he gave each man a grisly toothless smile, and they went utterly silent, always afraid he might take offense at some small thing they said or did.

  When he reached the edge of the highest wall in town, he gazed out across the ridges and rolling hills to the far horizon. The camps were abandoned now, the dead bodies of his enemies stacked in orderly rows. Ghosts meandered through the ruins, picking things up, laying them down. Most wept, but a few shouted angrily. How strange. He remembered a time, long ago, when he could not see the dead. Now they were as real to him as the living.

  The black haze that covered the stacked bodies drew his attention. When he squinted at it, it resolved into a big flock of well-fed ravens.

  He’d been magnanimous this time, generous to a fault, and granted freedom to those slaves brave enough to clean up the rotting bodies. His only requirement was that, after they’d completed their tasks, they go home to their own people. By now, he supposed, the slaves had either perished on the long walk home or they’d carried the fever to new enemy villages. Which would be a great boon.

  Or would it?

  He scratched his wrinkled throat as he considered the matter, and had the vague sense that he’d thought of all this before. Maybe even discussed it with his advisers and suffered through their rants of disagreement. But, if so, he could not recall the discussions.

  The rhythmic cracks of antler-tine hammers striking chert and obsidian cores carried across town. Down in the plaza, he saw men knapping arrow points, knives, fleshers, and other tools.

  “What about the signal stations?”

  The Sunwatcher glanced at Leather Hand. “As you instructed, we dispatched teams to repair them. Two warriors will remain at each station to keep them secure and make certain messages get through.”

  “How long ago were they dispatched?”

  “Two days ago, Blessed Sun. I told you the instant they were dispatched.”

  Cub glanced uneasily at Leather Hand, which made him grimace in return. All his advisers believed he was senile. The traitors.

  “Then, by now, they have repaired the closest stations.”

  “Yes,” Cub said with a nod, “but it will take at least one-half moon to repair them all the way to the lands of the Canyon People.”

  Leather Hand grunted in disapproval. “That’s too long. Tell High War Chief Stinger I said so.”

  “Of course.”

  A gust of wind tore through the cottonwoods down along the river and veils of yellow leaves whipped across the hills. “No word from my daughter or Maicoh?”

  “No, Blessed Sun. You ordered me to update you every morning over breakfast, which I faithfully do. I’m sure they are still many days away and traveling a route where there are no operating signal stations.”

  Leather Hand clutched the knob of his walking stick and leaned onto it. Despite the bitter concoctions brewed by his Healers, his hips and knees ached constantly.

  “Where’s my fetish? Have you found it yet?”

  Cub looked like a twenty-three-summers-old child. His shoulders hunched forward, and he nervously licked his lips. It especially annoyed Leather Hand because there was a hint of guilt to it.

  “Your priests and priestesses have searched every chamber, Blessed Sun, but to no avail.”

  “You must find it!”

  “I’ll make sure they understand your urgency, Blessed Sun.”

  A dire possibility occurred to him. “Dear gods! Do you think someone stole it?”

  “Who would be brave enough? You’
d eat them if they were discovered, and they know it.”

  If he had not simply misplaced it, then someone must have stolen it. And it must have been a man or woman of high rank, for no ordinary slave would dare such a thing. Leather Hand’s problem was that there were too many possibilities to narrow it down.

  “What about that dead priestess, the one killed in OwlClaw Village? What was her name?”

  Cub looked shocked. “Priestess BoneDust. Why would you think of her? She was utterly loyal. She cannot be the culprit.”

  “Are you sure? Didn’t I threaten to kill her? Maybe it was revenge.”

  “You did threaten her, but she was still utterly devoted to you and the old gods. I would wager my life on it.”

  Leather Hand fixed him with a slit-eyed glare. “Your life, eh?”

  Cub paled. Squaring his shoulders, he said, “The dead priestess could not have taken it.”

  Leather Hand’s knees started to quake. “Why are you defending her so fiercely? You didn’t collude with her, did you? Maybe you took it and gave it to her?”

  “Of course not! I am innocent. I’m sure you just misplaced it, and we will find it.”

  Leather Hand spread his feet to brace himself and gripped his walking stick harder. “I’m growing weaker. Can you feel it? Without my breath-heart soul close at hand, my strength is failing. My memory is failing. When I lie down at night, I feel like a weight has dropped on my chest. My lungs can’t find enough air to breathe.”

  “We will find it, Blessed Sun.”

  “For your sake, I hope so. Without that fetish, Nightshade’s soul pot is irrelevant. Find it.”

  “We will. I g-give you my oath,” Cub stammered. His breathing had gone shallow.

  Leather Hand turned away. In the middle of the ridge to the south, across the Spirit River valley, a rumpled band of flowering rabbitbrush formed a yellow sash, but he saw nothing moving out there. Except birds. Flapping birds. Cawing birds. Eating dead bodies.

  When the wind changed direction, it brought with it the stench of rotting human flesh. He lifted his sleeve over his nose.

  “When will those bodies be buried?”

  Cub straightened his back. “You freed all our slaves, Blessed Sun. Except for your personal slaves, they are all gone. As soon as we acquire more, we will—”

  “What about some of our surplus potters or weavers? Surely we can spare a handful.”

  Cub’s gaze slid sideways to meet Leather Hand’s hard eyes. “If we order the citizens within our own walls to go out there to perform the duties of slaves, they will consider it a betrayal. They’ll tear us all to pieces, and no number of warriors will be able to stop them.” He paused to take a breath. “Besides, we have no surplus. Our women are making pots as quickly as they can. And the men are weaving fabrics and making arrow points in every spare moment—”

  “You’re right. Never mind. That was a bad idea,” Leather Hand admitted. He really was becoming a dull-wit; it worried him. If he started sacrificing his own people on menial tasks, eventually not even his legendary White Moccasins would be able to protect him. To comfort himself, he looked around the plaza and walls, noting where each of his elite warriors stood. They were distinctive with their knee-high snowy moccasins and arrogant walks.

  Cocking his head to look up at Cub, Leather Hand said, “You are one of my few advisers brave enough to tell me the truth. I’m lucky to have you advising me, Sunwatcher.”

  Cub relaxed a little. “I try to provide wise counsel, Blessed Sun.”

  Leather Hand reached out and placed bony fingers on the man’s forearm, making Cub flinch. “Tell High War Chief Stinger to send a small detachment up the trails to find Maicoh and escort him here safely.”

  Cub bowed. “Of course, Blessed Sun.”

  Twenty-seven

  Tsilu

  Dipping my cloth in the pot of warm water, I cry as I wring it out and finish gently washing Kwinsi’s stiff arms. As the day warms up, he grows more rigid. I’m caring for him as best I can, but I’m running out of time.

  Father Sun has climbed to his highest point in the midday sky.

  “It’s noon. Crane isn’t coming back. What am I going to do?”

  Though his ears may no longer hear me, I know Kwinsi’s breath-heart soul is listening. Every time I start to sob, I feel him tenderly touch me. Spirit hands are like butterfly wings. They flutter against my face to wipe my tears.

  Laying the wet cloth on the warm hearthstones to dry, I rise and carry the pot a short distance away to empty it onto a tiny pine tree. Winter is a heartbeat away. The tree will need to store every drop in its roots.

  A flock of finches moves like a dark wave through the sky above me, heading south, and my eyes play tricks on me. Sometimes the birds seem far away and tiny and their chirps are faint. The next instant, they loom large, rushing at me with lightning speed, their calls so loud I must cover my ears. I’m tired. Bone tired.

  Where’s Grandfather? I need him. I need to go to him and rest my head in his lap, and … If he’s alive. No, I won’t think of that. I can’t think of it now.

  Letting out a shuddering breath, I walk back to Kwinsi.

  “I miss you,” I say. “I don’t know what happened.”

  Lovingly, I wrap his body in his cape, then I grab the hem and drag him to the hole I dug in the sand just after dawn. My bowl, which I used to scoop out the sand, still rests on the lip of the hole, awaiting my return. His body makes a soft thud when I pull him into the grave.

  “I love you.” I weep. “You were my only true friend. I love you with all my heart.”

  Butterfly wings again, on my cheeks.

  Straightening up, I spread my arms to the heavens and lift my voice in the death Song, praying his breath-heart soul to the Star Road, where he will walk to the Land of the Dead and be greeted by all his ancestors who have gone before. They will rejoice tonight around the campfires of the dead. For they will have Kwinsi’s gentle soul among them.

  And I will be alone.

  “Oh, Kwinsi, I’m so sorry.”

  Falling to my knees beside the grave, I use my bowl to pull the sand over the top of him. With every bowlful, more of my strength seeps away, until I feel weak and empty.

  It takes another quarter-hand of time to finish burying my friend.

  When I’m done, I lie down on top of the grave and cry.

  Something has broken open inside me. Perhaps every person knows this rupture. One moment you are a child, the next you are not. Something frail and pure drops away. In its place is born the stony frightened heart of an adult. Mine must be made of volcanic glass, for the pain of loss cuts and slices.

  “What do I do now?”

  The only person I have left in the world is Grandfather. Can I rescue him by myself?

  I must try. That’s all I know.

  Staggering to my feet, I wander back to the fire and pick up Crane’s belt bag. As I tie it to my belt beneath my cape, I glance at Kwinsi’s pack. I can’t force myself to reach for it. I should have buried it with him. What’s the matter with me? It contains things he will need on the journey to the afterlife … his chert knife, his canteen. How could I have forgotten that? I have condemned him to a long, thirsty walk.

  Finally I lift his pack, close my eyes, and hug it to my chest. I can still feel him, feel his love, surrounding me.

  “I’m going after Grandfather,” I tell him.

  Opening my eyes, I force myself to shrug into Kwinsi’s pack and start kicking dirt over the fire. A cloud of dust rises.

  Only slowly do I become aware of the sound. Feet swishing through grass. Not constant, but now and then.

  When the fire is smothered, I turn around and look toward the red cliff, the place where Crane was headed just before dawn. Junipers fill this valley bottom, along with head-high sagebrush, sandstone boulders, and …

  There’s a man.

  Walking toward me.

  But it isn’t Crane.

  This man is short and
bald. An old buffalo hide with half the hair missing drapes his aged shoulders.

  Twenty-eight

  Tsilu

  As he comes closer, the elder gives me a strange gloating smile.

  “Oh yes,” he calls. “Now I see the resemblance. It’s all in the eyes. I always thought you were a boy.”

  Shifting Kwinsi’s pack on my shoulders, I say, “Forgive me, elder, but who are you?”

  He shakes a knobby finger at me. “I remember when Maicoh carried you to the Sleeping Place. That was ten summers ago. It was a hot summer. War raged everywhere in Straight Path country.”

  I don’t know what to say to this. “You must have me confused with someone else. I don’t know Mai—”

  He chuckles. “I do not have you confused with someone else, child. He was desperate to save you.”

  “Who?”

  “I suppose he thought Tocho was the only one powerful enough to do it. After all, you’d been dead for two days. I could have done it, of course, with a wave of my hand.” He makes an airy gesture, as though to demonstrate.

  Hobbling forward, he sits down near the smothered fire and pulls the hide tightly around his shoulders. A tendril of smoke spirals upward and the aroma of smoldering juniper reaches me. A terrible bubble of suspicion is swelling in my chest. He resembles a helpless old man, but I’m sure that is an illusion. Crosswind has killed more people in his long life than I will ever know. And he must be Crosswind.

  “What is the name you go by, child?”

  It takes a few instants before I find my voice. “Tola. I am of the Bear Clan.”

  “Do you remember anything of the terrible night when you died?”

  “I’m alive, elder. I’m not dead.”

  He gives me a paternal smile. “Someday, it will all come back. The worst memories live deep in the body-soul, locked in your muscles and bones, unforgettable no matter how hard we try. Yours are dangerous, waiting to crawl up through the darkness and eat you alive.” He rubs his right knee and winces. “I’m curious. What story did they tell you?”

  “Story?”