People of the Canyons

by Kathleen O'Neal Gear

Blue Dove finishes her cup of pinole and gestures to the pot. “Wasp Moth, I’m so weak I can barely stand. Bring our prisoners and the pinole back to Mother Mazanita’s pithouse. I need to sit down.”

  “Of course, Blessed daughter.”

  As she unsteadily walks away with her rabbit-fur shawl swaying around her legs, Crane turns to Grandfather. “Is she sick?”

  Grandfather nods. “She woke with the soul pot under her head.”

  Crane’s sudden intake of breath makes the Straight Path woman stop and turn to look at him. “Dear gods. It’s a miracle you’re alive.”

  “But I am,” Blue Dove says. “The old witch couldn’t kill me, and she tried. You should think on that fact.”

  When she heads for the pithouse again, Wasp Moth kneels before the fire, pulls his sleeve down over his hand, and uses it to lift the hot pot from the coals, calling, “Weevil? Iron Dog? Herd our prisoners to Mother Mazanita’s pithouse. I’ll be there shortly.”

  The two burly warriors trot over, draw their war clubs from their belts, and smack them authoritatively into their palms.

  “Move,” Iron Dog says. “Follow the Blessed daughter.”

  Crane replies, “Don’t forget that I came here of my own accord. I don’t know these other prisoners. Except Tsilu. I only know her because I found her and her friend walking the trail, following behind Tocho. We traveled together. That’s all.”

  “What a waste of breath. Why would I care?” Iron Dog says with narrowed eyes. “Move, before I club your brains out.”

  Crane holds up his hands and follows Blue Dove’s tracks through the flowering brush.

  I fall into line behind Grandfather. My brother walks barely a pace behind me. Very softly, for my ears alone, I hear him say, “Everything’s all right. Don’t worry.”

  “Sorry,” I whisper, barely audible.

  There’s a smile in his voice when he replies, “You always were impulsive.”

  I continue walking with my head down, watching as the tears that fall from my eyes speckle the dirt. He knows me.

  Forty

  Tsilu

  Following Crane and Grandfather, I climb down the ladder into the warm firelit air of the pithouse. The six severed heads shock me, but only for a moment. They’re swinging about, their hair sawing across the rafters, producing a sound like rusty laughter. For some reason, the shriveled pits of eyes are less disturbing to me than the unnatural gape of their jaws. Did someone pull them out of the sockets before hanging them up? If so, eventually the dried muscle and sinew that currently attach them to the skull will crack, and the jaws will crash to the floor.

  Stepping off the ladder, I search for the owner, Mother Mazanita, but do not see her. The only other female in the pithouse is Blue Dove. She looks ill as she sits before the fire with her shawl drawn tightly around her shoulders. The rabbit hair reflects the flickers of firelight, making it appear netted with tiny winking sparks. Crane stands to her right, warming his hands over the flames. Arranged along a shelf in the rear, I see a scalp stretcher and a scalp mask. But they look old, very old, like artifacts collected from the remains of a long-vanished people.

  “Come over, girl. Sit down by the fire where I can look at you,” Blue Dove orders and stabs a finger to the opposite side of the fire.

  I glance up at Grandfather.

  He calmly nods. “Just do as she asks.”

  When I walk over and tiredly slump down before the flames, Crane studies me with a guarded expression. I feel as limp as a wet rag. Slipping Kwinsi’s pack from my left shoulder, I rest it on the floor between us. The figurines have been utterly quiet since we were captured.

  As the warriors and Maicoh climb down, they separate. Iron Dog and Weevil step over to the blankets on the far side of the pithouse, while Grandfather and my brother disappear behind me, whispering to each other. I hear them lean back against the pithouse wall—their capes scratch the clay—but I can no longer see them, and that fills me with dread. Is he Maicoh? Crane said Maicoh was my father, his son. But I know this man is my older brother. Is it possible that he is also Maicoh? Or was Crane lying to keep people off-guard?

  After Wasp Moth has worked the pinole pot down into the hot coals, he says, “Will there be anything else, Blessed daughter?”

  “No. Go away.”

  Bowing, he walks over to sit down on the blankets beside Iron Dog and Weevil.

  Blue Dove’s gaze clings to my face, going over every detail, periodically glancing up at Crane, then over my shoulder at Grandfather and Maicoh. “I don’t see a resemblance to any of you. Not at all.”

  Grandfather says, “Tsilu is my adopted granddaughter. I found her wandering—”

  “I didn’t ask you, old man.”

  Her contemptuous voice stuns me. I’ve never heard anyone speak to Grandfather that way. No one would dare. People address him in respectful, even frightened tones. Doesn’t she know who he is?

  “Grandfather is the most Powerful shaman within a moon’s walk of Red Rock Canyon,” I say. “He’s performed many miracles. Even brought the dead back to life. You should be more careful how you speak to him.”

  “Oh, yes,” Blue Dove says with exaggerated seriousness. “I’ve heard the fanciful tales about Tocho.” She glances up at Crane, then back at me. “But I’ve seen no evidence of this Power. In fact, quite the reverse. He’s a demented old hunchback with a rickety voice and bad knees. If I didn’t think I might still need him—”

  “You don’t know anything about him,” I object. “When he was a boy Nightshade came to his village. She touched him and half-invisible Spirits Danced to life around him. The entire village saw them. Then a giant dragonfly spiraled down, picked him up, and carried him to Moon Mother on her back. When he returned, he was worshipped as a Power child. Someday, when he dies, Dragonfly will sail down from the sky again and carry him up to the Star Road.”

  Crane, listening to me with a reverent expression on his face, smiles as though he’s proud of me for standing up for Grandfather.

  “Perhaps we should test that hypothesis,” Blue Dove says. “I’ll order Wasp Moth to shoot an arrow through the old fake, and we’ll see if Dragonfly shows up.”

  Terror jolts me. “No! Please! He—”

  “Not necessary.” Grandfather chuckles.

  “No?” Blue Dove’s gaze slides off my face to peer over my shoulder.

  “No. I admit it. I’m a fake. An arthritic old impostor. You’re right.”

  His words hurt me. Swiveling around, I stare at him, and find him smiling his love at me. “But, Grandfather—”

  “Don’t look at him. Look at me, girl,” Blue Dove orders.

  Before I turn back, my brother faintly shakes his head. The gesture is so slight I’m not sure I saw it. Was he trying to tell me something? Maybe to be quiet?

  Blue Dove gives me a gloating smile. “You should be glad I forced him to tell you the truth. Living with a liar is horrid. I know. I had a husband once.” Her eyes stray to the severed heads suspended from the rafters and she lifts a brow, as though suspicious they were guilty of the same crime.

  “What happened to your husband?” I inquire.

  “He met with an unfortunate accident. A stiletto in the back.”

  The three warriors look up from their conversation to squint at her, but Blue Dove doesn’t notice. She has her gaze on Crane.

  “See those cups sitting by the hearthstones? Dip yourself and the girl some pinole, then you can tell me how you escaped that night in OwlClaw Village. My warriors told me you vanished like a ghost.”

  “I didn’t vanish like a ghost. I went to pick up my pack, and by the time I returned, you were all gone. Tracking you through the torrential rain was not easy.”

  Wasp Moth hunches sheepishly, as though preparing himself for Blue Dove’s ire, but she doesn’t even glance at him. She watches Crane kneel and dip a cup into the pinole pot.

  “Here, Tsilu.” He hands it to me. “I know you’re hungry.”

  “Th
ank you.” My empty stomach growls when I take the first delicious sip.

  “You expect some small reward, I assume,” Blue Dove says.

  Crane fills his own cup and sits down cross-legged on the floor. After he takes a long drink of the pinole, he inquires, “Small? I deserve the reward you offered me. I helped you capture Tocho. In essence, I gave you Nightshade’s soul pot. Maicoh wasn’t even there at the time. You owe me.”

  I turn halfway around to look at my brother. He sits with his knees drawn up and his fists propped atop them, quietly watching Crane and Blue Dove. The firelight reflects oddly from his translucent skin … like fiery wings flapping across his cheeks and forehead. Grandfather, who sits beside him, has his eyes closed, dozing. I’m concerned about him. He was limping badly on the way to this pithouse. After so long on the trail, he must be in agony.

  Blue Dove shivers and pulls her shawl even more tightly around her shoulders. “Yes, you were useful. You do deserve something, I admit. But not the reward.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you are no longer useful. I mean, can you open the old leather bag or the soul pot? The albino claims he’s the only one who can, and he will only open it for my father. He is still useful.”

  Crane shifts nervously. “Let me see if I understand. Whoever opens the bag deserves the full reward. Is that correct?”

  Blue Dove gives him a knowing smile. “Probably, though that will be my father’s decision.”

  “All right. Give it to me. How hard can it be to open an old bag? I’ll…”

  Laughter bursts out from the warriors. Iron Dog and Wasp Moth are hooting and slapping their thighs, while Weevil watches stoically, his hand on the war club in his belt.

  “Yes, give it to him.” Wasp Moth thrusts a hand toward Crane. “I want to watch him try to open it.”

  Blue Dove gestures to my brother. “Albino, give Crane the old bag.”

  For a few heartbeats, Crane and my brother stare at each other. Finally, my brother reaches down and pulls his cape aside to reveal Grandfather’s Spirit bundle, which is tied to his belt. Waving his hand over the bag, he says something so soft I can’t hear the words, removes it from his belt, and rises to walk across the floor.

  As he bends down to hand the bag to Crane, his long braid falls over his shoulder. It looks startling white against his blue cape. Softly, he asks Crane, “Do you dream?”

  Crane places the bag in his lap and squints up at him. “Of course. Why?”

  “You never will again. This, my friend, is a living, breathing nightmare. It will consume your life. Beware.”

  Glancing down at the bag, Crane suddenly looks worried. He watches as Maicoh straightens and walks back to sit down beside Grandfather. Grandfather’s head has fallen to the side and he’s breathing deeply, as though sound asleep.

  On the floor beside me, the figurines in Kwinsi’s pack move. I see them slide to the opposite side of the pack, the side farthest away from the bundle in Crane’s lap. No one else seems to notice the movement, except Grandfather, who opens one eye and peers at the pack. Then he closes it and smiles.

  Placing his cup on the floor, Crane turns his attention to the sacred bundle. He examines it for a time, then lowers his hands, grasps one of the ties, and gently tugs. As the loops in the slipknot fall apart, gasps rise from the warriors.

  Wasp Moth leaps to his feet. “I don’t believe it!”

  Once the knots are gone, Crane slips his fingers inside the top of the bag and pulls it open to stare down at the contents. “It’s a pretty thing. Do you want me to hand you Nightshade’s soul pot?”

  Forty-one

  Tsilu

  Every warrior in the pithouse scrambles to his feet. Iron Dog and Wasp Moth hurry toward Crane to see the pot. Only Weevil hangs back, perched on the balls of his feet, ready to pounce should something unexpected slither out of the soul pot.

  I’m scared, too. All my life, Grandfather has told me to stay away from the pot. He’s never let me touch it, because he said the Power radiating from the pot might kill me.

  Blue Dove examines Crane with a kind of wary respect. “By all means. Hand me the pot.”

  Crane draws out a small black pot with a lid that’s been glued on with thick pine pitch. As he hands it to her, he says, “It’s very warm. I don’t know why.”

  Blue Dove takes the pot and frowns at it. “It is warm. Body temperature.”

  “Body temperature?” Weevil cries. “Is it filled with blood? Living blood? Wiggle it. See if it sloshes.”

  Iron Dog gives him a skeptical sideways glance, and in a scary voice says, “It’s probably a tiny body. One of the little humans the Blessed daughter saw standing on Tocho’s crotch.”

  Blue Dove scowls at him and turns the pot in her hands, studying the delicate spirals etched into the shiny black surface. “It’s more of a deep bowl than a pot. A black bowl with a lid. Somebody should jiggle the lid. Make sure it’s really sealed.”

  Grandfather yawns as the far-off mournful howls of a wolf eddy around the pithouse, rising and falling like a distant ritual Song.

  I look up at the roof entry, where sunset has turned the thin clouds into wisps of scarlet flame. The wolf howls again, sounding much closer, as though he’s charging across the desert at full speed to greet Nightshade when she steps into this world again for the first time in over thirty summers.

  Blue Dove nervously licks her lips as she studies the pot. “Here,” she says, and hands it to Wasp Moth.

  “What am I supposed to do with it?”

  “Twist the lid. Just a little. See if any of the pine pitch cracks off. You know, see if it has any flaws, like Mother Mazanita talked about.”

  “I will not!”

  “You miserable coward. Give it back!” Blue Dove thrusts out a hand, and Wasp Moth immediately shoves it into her palm. “I’ll do it myself.”

  Blue Dove frowns at the pot, takes a deep breath to prepare herself, then tries to turn the lid. Finally, she wrenches so hard her arms shake. She looks relieved. “That ancient pitch would have broken by now, if it was going to. Must be sealed tight.”

  “Blessed daughter, you’re weak from your illness,” Grandfather says in a gentle voice. “Why don’t you let me make sure?”

  Grandfather rises and pads slowly across the floor. He sits down beside me and protectively wraps an arm around my shoulders. Placing his mouth against my ear, he whispers, “Are you all right, Tsilu?”

  The feel of his arm holding me is like a cool salve on a burn. I lean into his embrace and nod against his chest.

  Blue Dove gives Grandfather a suspicious look. “Why would you offer to help?”

  “Gods!” Wasp Moth says. “He probably wants her soul running around ripping out windpipes.”

  “I heard about something like that once,” Weevil calls from the rear of the pithouse. “A stranger broke a soul pot by accident and the freed soul leaped out and strangled everyone in the house.”

  “If it strangled everyone,” Iron Dog says, “who was left to tell the story?”

  Weevil’s eyes narrow while he considers the matter. “Well, maybe—”

  “Stop! I can’t bear to hear your answer.” Iron Dog makes a deep-throated sound of disgust and stamps over to his blanket where he stretches out on his back and covers his eyes with his arm. “I’m surrounded by buffoons.”

  Grandfather watches them with a mild expression, then extends his hand to Blue Dove. “Please? This way you can all stop wondering—”

  “I’m telling you! Don’t give it to him!” Weevil warns.

  Grandfather extends his hand farther, asking for the pot.

  Blue Dove hesitates, glances fearfully at the pot, but at last places the sacred object in Grandfather’s crooked fingers. “But don’t open it.”

  “Of course not.”

  When Grandfather reverently lifts the pot to his lips and whispers something against the black wall, a strange twinkling fills the air, as though the pithouse has been blown f
ull of sunlit dust.

  “Grandfather,” I murmur, looking around. “I’m scared.”

  He whispers back, “Do you remember what I told you about death?”

  “That it’s just a small step on the Blessed path?”

  “That’s right.” He softly strokes my cheek. “Death is not a final act. It’s a link between worlds. For many summers I’ve been looking forward to seeing Dragonfly again. Can you keep watch on the roof entry for me? When you see her—”

  “Hold on,” Wasp Moth says. “Why is the old man talking about death?”

  “I don’t know, but I don’t like it one bit,” Weevil agrees.

  My brother’s low laugh weaves through the shimmering haze like a golden thread. I close my eyes, listening to it reverberate around inside me. I remember that laugh. Hearing it again reminds me of wildflower meadows and my mother; it makes me happy.

  I hear him rise and walk toward the fire.

  Blue Dove watches him with an inquisitive expression. When he stops beside Grandfather, she says, “If you really are the Powerful and terrifying Maicoh, and the only one who can actually open the pot, then perhaps the old man should give it to you to test the seal.”

  My brother’s pale face is like firelit glass. He laughs with dark amusement.

  “May I, elder?”

  “Of course.”

  Grandfather carefully places the pot in Maicoh’s white hands.

  A chill seems to run through my brother as he draws the pot up to his lips to lightly kiss it. “Forgive me for disturbing you.”

  With barely any effort at all, he twists off the lid and tips the soul pot to the firelight, turning it so each person in the pithouse can see that it’s totally empty.

  “You opened it!” Weevil cries.

  Blue Dove seems to be holding her breath, watching the pot with wide eyes. “And nothing happened.”

  “I knew it!” Iron Dog breaks out in loud breathless laughter. “You idiots have been hearing voices and seeing things … and the pot has nothing in it but air! What a bunch of mindless morons!”

  “I never heard voices!” Blue Dove quickly declares.