“About how you came to be with Tocho.” He’s watching me like an eagle does a baby rabbit. “The stories I’ve heard are so intricate and contradictory they are hard to unravel.”
“I don’t understand.”
Why didn’t I flee the instant I saw him? Crane told me that if he wasn’t back by noon I should run for my life. Why didn’t I?
Smiling, the old man says, “You, dear girl, are a lost soul. A child cut off from the world of light, forced to wander in eternal shadow, because your soul has crossed the Star Road into the Land of the Dead, and you do not know it. That’s why you hear Spirit voices. Your body is here, but your breath-heart soul is not. I find it strange that Maicoh has not told you these things. I’m sure he loves you.”
“I don’t know Maicoh.”
Frowning, he says, “Really? He must be using another name. Not surprising, of course. Why wouldn’t he? He doesn’t want you to know. It would be perilous for you. And for him. What’s the name of the man you are traveling with? The older man.”
“You mean … Crane?”
“Crane,” he repeats as though it is a great illumination.
“Are you saying that Crane is Maicoh?”
“Yes, my dear girl, you’ve been sleeping next to a murderer. A man who has killed more people than I have.” He gestures to the other side of the fire. “Now, sit down and let us talk seriously.”
“No, I—I don’t want to sit down.” I step back from him, and think about turning and running. But the truth is I couldn’t leave now if I wanted to. I’m riveted by what he’s said so far. I must listen to the rest.
He cocks his head and the few wiry gray hairs on his scalp glimmer with sunlight. “There must be times when you see flashes of memory—say, when you are sitting in front of a fire. Doesn’t your heart ever start to race for no reason, or maybe pain seizes you? Even a smell can trigger your bones to recall your worst moments. The scent of a warrior’s sweat, say. Or burning pithouses. That’s because the body-soul recalls, even though the mind does not.”
“I’m afraid of burning houses. How did you know that?”
“I live death, child. I journey to the campfires of the dead and come back with stories that terrify the most powerful shamans. For example, I know there are shadowy men who stalk the canyons of your nightmares, because I’ve met them. I’ve talked with them about you.”
He points to the sky, and suddenly the fear in my chest is like a nest of insects chewing through my ribs.
“Do you want to know what they say about you?”
Before I can answer, I see flames rising and my mother, Golden Quill, lying naked and dead, her clothes torn off. Dark shapes of warriors flit in the rain at the edges of the vision. The shadowy men who haunt the canyons of your nightmares. Someone has my hand. He’s dragging me toward the burning house. I can’t bear to remember what he will do when we get there. I hear a little girl’s voice, screaming. Then blackness. No memory … until I hear a man singing to me. A soft lullaby. And I find my limp body in his arms, being rocked to sleep. His teardrops are warm on my face.
“Ah.” An understanding sigh from the old witch. “The memories are unbearable, aren’t they?”
I feel stripped bare, as though my soul has been sliced open and the evil witch in front of me can see every sinew. “How do you do that? How do you make people remember?”
Crosswind leans back. “Does it matter?”
“I would like to know. Please tell me.”
“One day, perhaps, I will train you as a witch and all your questions will be answered. But just now there’s a more important issue we must discuss.”
His gaze wanders to the pack on my back. Kwinsi’s pack. He stares at it for far too long.
“Is it in there?”
I turn my head to glance at the pack. “What?”
“The black fetish.”
My scalp is tingling. “What fetish?”
An impatient groan from the old witch. “Maicoh did not have his belt bag with him. He may have hidden it out in the sagebrush somewhere, but I suspect he left it here. With you. He’d want you to have it, in case anything unfortunate happened to him.”
“You saw him? You saw Maicoh? Crane?”
He sweeps a hand toward the fresh grave, and his words puncture my heart like bone stilettos: “Do you want your friend to live again? I will make that exchange.”
“Live … I don’t … understand.”
Exaggerated sympathy creases Crosswind’s face. “A simple trade. The fetish for your friend’s life.”
Turning, my gaze lands on the fresh dirt, and grief rends me in two. “He … he’s dead.”
“A temporary inconvenience.” He holds out a gnarled hand. “Give me the fetish, and I will bring him back to life.”
Two steps. Back away from him. “Did you kill him?” I sound as if I’m choking.
The old man shrugs. “It was an accident. I meant to kill you.”
“Me?” I whisper. “Why?”
“Maicoh has become arrogant and vain. He’s killed so many he’s come to believe he has Power over the forces of the dark. He needed a reminder that he is nothing more than an annoying gnat to us.”
I ball my fists with all my strength and will time to stop, to go back, to take me to the beautiful autumn day when Kwinsi was clowning at the council meeting, making people laugh. But that’s impossible, and I know it.
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to kill you now. We need each other. Just give me the fetish and your friend will walk away from here at your side. Don’t you want him to live again?”
Sobs shake my chest. “Yes, I do.”
“I know you do. You’re a good girl.” He extends his hand farther. “Give me the fetish.”
“Bring him back to life first. Then I’ll give it to you.”
“Then you do have it?”
“I do,” I say, even though I am not sure that’s true. Is it in Crane’s belt bag? I have no idea.
His toothless mouth opens in a broad grin. “I thought so.”
“Bring him back to life now. Right now!” My heart is breaking when I turn to look at the grave. I will give anything to see Kwinsi live again.
“That is not wise, child. He will awaken buried by earth and unable to breathe. Just do as I say and give me…”
I blink when the desert transforms into white shafts of light, pouring through the clouds, the junipers. Everything else vanishes … except the blinding light. What’s happening? The air is growing hot. An unnatural shimmer envelops me like a golden halo—
“No!” The hoarse shriek rings through the eerie radiance.
I snap back to this world.
Crosswind sits in the same place, but blood bubbles at his lips. As though curious, he reaches down to finger the arrow shaft that pierces his chest right above the heart, then looks up and gives me a ghastly inhuman smile. His lips move, trying to speak, but his throat is blocked by the blood welling in his lungs. When he tilts backward and collapses to the ground, I run around the fire, breathing hard, trying to figure out …
“Tsilu, get away from him!”
I don’t even think, I whirl and run twenty paces before I look back. My heart is on fire, burning inside me as I pant for air.
Crane emerges from behind a juniper with Kwinsi’s bow in his hands. His black hood has fallen back and his smooth face runs with streaks of red paint. Or is that blood? Cautiously, he moves toward Crosswind, one step at a time, the bow drawn, the next arrow ready to fly.
There’s a flash flood roaring in my veins. Faces, Grandfather’s laugh, counting colorful beads on a mat, the feel of sunlight on my skin, all tumbling through my mind. I remember the taste of venison cooked over oak, the rough texture of a dog’s tongue licking my cheek, the scent of wet willows after a rainstorm.
Warriors talk about this. The point in the battle where you know you’re going to die. That’s when it hits you. Your whole life, everything that has ever been important to you, is rig
ht there. Right behind your eyes, staring you in the face one last time.
Crane veers wide around Crosswind, watches for a time to make sure the old witch is dead, then releases the tension on the bowstring and trots over to where I stand still shaking, breathing hard.
Tenderly, he asks, “Are you all right?”
All I can do is nod.
“Forgive me. I knew he’d come looking for the fetish as soon as he thought I was dead.” He uses his sleeve to wipe the blood from his face, but only manages to smear it further across his cheeks and forehead.
“I was bait?”
“Yes. When I discovered you were still here, I used you as a distraction. Now hurry, we must get away from this place.”
“Are you…” In shock, I can’t feel my hands. They are numb lumps of flesh hanging at my sides. “Are you Maicoh? He said you were Maicoh.”
“No, I am not. He lied, Tsilu. He was very good at lying.”
Crane takes my arm, turns me around, and leads me south at a brisk walk. He keeps casting glances back over his shoulder, as though he expects the old witch to spring back to life at any moment. I feel the sagebrush raking my moccasins, but I don’t hear it. The pounding in my ears is too loud. And the sunlight is so bright it hurts.
“Would you tell me if you were Maicoh?”
His gray-shot brows lower. As he shoves me ahead of him, around a boulder, he says, “No. I suppose I wouldn’t.”
Twenty-nine
Blue Dove
The sandstone cliffs have changed color, going from red to a pale golden shade. They cast blocky shadows across the flats and almost conceal the village that sits in the valley bottom ahead of us. Except for the smoke rising from the roof entries, I wouldn’t even know the village was there. It blends perfectly with the shadows. I count the curls of smoke. Ten pithouses? A large grove of cottonwood trees stands just to the south of the village, which means there’s a spring down there, and that’s a relief. It’s been a long dry walk today. The air is still down here in the valley, but I can see clouds of dust blow across the clifftops.
“Wasp Moth?” I call. “What village is that?”
The war chief walks five paces ahead of me, quietly speaking with Iron Dog. Behind me, in single file, are Tocho, the albino, and Weevil, who brings up the rear.
“That’s Flower Moon Village, Blessed daughter. We will stop there for the night.”
“Good. I’m tired.”
The truth is I’m exhausted and sick to my stomach, as though I have a fever coming on. And I keep hearing things. Bizarre things. Wooden beaks clacking and shell bells rattling, as though they decorate sacred masks and are being Danced in some grisly ritual that I do not understand. In my worst moments, I glimpse the ungainly form of Mudhead, the sacred clown from the evil thlatsina religion, whirling and cavorting at the very edges of my vision. It’s odd and unnerving. I have the distinct feeling that he’s guarding the soul pot that I carry in the bag tied to my belt.
Wasp Moth trots back to me. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” I snap. “Why?”
“You just stopped in the trail and put a hand to your forehead. I thought maybe—”
“Just find me a house where I can lie down and rest. I’m not feeling well.”
Wasp Moth’s gaze drops to my waist. As the days pass by, I grow increasingly weary of traveling with these halfwits. To keep them happy, I’ve been forced to carry the old bag tied to my belt and hidden beneath my rabbit-fur shawl, for the instant they see it, they start moaning and reaching for their weapons.
“Of course. I’ll send Iron Dog ahead to make the arrangements.”
“Good. Get on with it.”
Wasp Moth bows and trots forward to speak with Iron Dog, who instantly breaks into a distance-eating lope, heading for the village to arrange our lodging for the night.
From behind me, Tocho’s elderly voice calls, “Can I help? I’m a Healer.”
I swing around to glare at the gray-headed old man. He’s been limping since noon. “I wouldn’t let you touch me.”
“May I at least provide some advice?”
“I don’t need your advice.”
But I wish I had a Healer I could trust. Perhaps I’ll locate one at Flower Moon Village. I fear I may have contracted the plague from the last village. Before I turn back, the albino gives me a strange inquiring look.
“Are you sick to your stomach?” he calls out.
Startled, I say, “How did you know that?”
The albino exchanges a glance with Tocho, then strides forward to peer down at me. His translucent face is perfect inside the blue frame of his hood. Long white hair streams down the front of his cape. He is beautiful.
He says, “You should not have tied the bundle to your belt. You don’t know her yet. Her Power is filtering through your flesh into your belly. If you don’t move the bag—”
“Don’t tell me what to do! Do you think I’ve never handled a Power object before? Well, I have. Plenty of them. Besides, this is probably just a lack of water and too many days on the trail.” No sense in worrying my warriors that I might be infested with evil Spirits.
The albino throws up his hands in surrender. “Fine. Die if you want to.”
He walks back to Tocho’s side and they begin a quiet conversation as they study me. Probably wagering on how long it will take me to drop dead.
Just in case they’re right, I ball my fist and strike the bag beneath my cape. “Stop making me sick, old witch!”
Mudhead again, dancing at the edge of my vision, the sound of pot drums …
“Who is he? Why is he out there Dancing?” I shout down at my waist.
Every person on the trail stops and stares at me. Weevil resembles a bug-eyed ferret. As his breathing goes shallow, the ugly warrior subtly pulls his war club and twists it in both hands.
“Blessed daughter, please let me help you.” Tocho limps forward with a kind smile on his face.
“Stay away from me. I can handle one old witch by myself.”
“I know you can,” he says gently as he walks up beside me. “But this is my fault. There are things I should have told you about the bundle when I gave it to you, and I—”
“What? What should you have told me?”
His head totters on the wrinkled stem of his neck. “Come, let’s keep walking toward the village, and I’ll explain on the way. I’m sure you need to lie down and have a hot cup of tea.”
“An ice bath is more what I need. I swear, I’m burning up.”
“Yes, the first few days with her are very difficult, even if you are a trained shaman.”
“What do you mean, the first few days?”
Silent as death, Weevil creeps forward to listen. He’s just a few hands behind me, walking on the balls of his feet like a hunting weasel.
“Well.” Tocho sighs and gazes down into the valley. “Right now, her soul is sending out tendrils that are wiggling inside you, making you ill. If you don’t properly defend—”
“I don’t want her to wiggle inside me!”
“I’m sure you don’t, but that’s the price you pay for being the Keeper of a sacred bundle. Eventually, the tendrils of her soul will twine around your heart and lungs. If you are very lucky, she will merge with you.”
“Merge?” I whirl to stare up at him. “With me?”
“Oh yes. Tendrils of her soul will infiltrate every part of your body. Your eyes, your fingertips, your urine. All of you. After that, you must prove yourself a worthy companion, or she will choke you to death. She—”
“What?”
Tocho gives me a slightly demented look, as though he’s lost his train of thought.
“I asked you a question, old man.”
“What? Oh! Oh, I remember. Yes. Bundles have different methods of exterminating the unworthy, but Nightshade’s method usually involves choking.”
“Choking? Why?”
He tilts his head thoughtfully. “Don’t know, really. I suppose i
t’s quiet and, of course, it’s very thorough. I mean, no one can even hear you scream.”
A squeal, like that of a dying rabbit in the clutches of an eagle, erupts behind me, and when I spin around, I see Weevil sprinting toward a pile of boulders at the base of the golden cliff.
“You’d better be defecating!” I yell. “If you run off like the others—”
“Defecating, Blessed daughter.”
“If you’re not back in one finger of time—”
“Coming back, Blessed daughter.”
As we follow the trail around a tangle of greasewood, I keep glancing back over my shoulder to watch Weevil scrambling up through the rocks. He looks like a deranged packrat. Why does he have to go way up there just to defecate?
“It would help,” Tocho instructs softly, “if you moved the bundle away from your body. Perhaps you could carry it on the end of a staff or even tie the cords over your wrist and carry the bundle suspended. You’d feel better.”
When I look back at him, he’s giving me one of those curiously sympathetic smiles.
“I’ll consider it,” I say. Of course, it would be a way to test whether my illness is caused by the plague or the bundle.
He bows slightly and falls back to walk beside the albino.
I march forward with a confident stride. In the distance, I see Iron Dog running along the trail, almost to the village now. The scouts must have spotted him, for people have begun to emerge from their pithouses and gather in the plaza to greet him.
Shadows are deepening, softening the edges of the ridges and trees, draining the colors from the world. Annoyed, I shove aside my shawl, untie the bag from my belt, and knot the cords around my left wrist.
Instantly, my nausea eases. But …
The strange sounds return. Clacking beaks. Feet pounding the ground. Their insistent stamping shakes the earth awake, and I see clouds rushing toward me from the distant horizon.
Faintly, as though obscured by heat waves, they waver into existence far away, out there in the blowing dust. Their ash-gray bodies are splotched with black and white, their faces painted with zigzagging lines of lightning. Thunder rumbles as they come on. Eleven fantastic figures, pulling legs of rain down from the clouds. Spindly gray legs that walk beside them. Their hair is drawn up into knots on top of their heads and plastered with white clay. Leaping, sun-bronzed bodies. But these are not men. These are gods …
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