“Shut your mouth! You…” Leather Hand’s eyes suddenly narrow and he stares hard at Crane, as though he vaguely recognizes him. “Do I know you?”
“No, Blessed Sun, but—”
“Then get out!” He flings an arm out as though to wipe the room clean. “All of you. Out!”
Sunwatcher Cub steps forward with his hands out to urge us to leave. “I’ll escort you to your chamber. The Blessed Sun has had a long day and needs his rest. He’ll speak with you tomorrow.”
Just before we step outside into the night, I see Leather Hand lift the pot, place it against his lips, and laugh against the ceramic exterior: “Greetings, old enemy.”
Fifty-one
The Blessed Sun
Leather Hand watched Stinger, who stood outside calling orders to organize night patrols. The High War Chief had assigned four men instead of the usual two to guard Leather Hand’s chamber, which was good thinking after the unsettling day he’d had. The rest of the warriors divided into two groups. The first group trotted away across the roofs to stand watch for the night. The second, larger group waited in line to climb down the ladder to the plaza. While the men bided their time, they laughed and talked.
One gangly youth said, “Old man BearBack says when her soul is loosed from the pot the world will end. Mother Earth will heave up and the footprints of the dead will tumble out of the skies—”
An older warrior snickered. “That’s ridiculous. Anyway, BearBack is demented. Last week he told me he’d seen turkeys roosting on clouds. Kept grabbing me and trying to point ’em out.”
“So?” The youth shrugged. “He may have been wrong about that, but that doesn’t mean he’s wrong about the end of the world. I’ve heard tales about the legendary Nightshade, and she could call gigantic flocks of Thunderbirds from the air—”
“Quiet! Both of you,” Weevil growled and stepped away from Leather Hand’s door with his war club up. “Stop talking about her. She’ll hear you! You have no idea what we’ve been through—”
Iron Dog gruffly interrupted, “Yes, do stop, Fisher. Can’t you see these tales terrify Weevil?”
“I am not terrified!” Weevil objected in a shaky voice.
“What happened out there on the trail?” Fisher walked closer to them. “Stories are already circulating about how giant monsters stalked you and ate the other warriors who were with you—”
“Where’d you hear that nonsense?” Iron Dog whirled to give Weevil an enraged look.
“I didn’t say a word!” Weevil insisted. “All I said was—”
Leather Hand, irritated beyond endurance by their frightened voices, yelled, “Deputy Iron Dog, lower my door curtain, and cease your mindless babbling!”
“Yes, Blessed Sun.” Iron Dog hastened to pull the door curtain from the peg and let it fall closed.
The warriors continued to murmur to each other, but Leather Hand ignored them. Instead he watched the curtain sway while his eyes adjusted to the gleam of the firebowls. The wavering reddish hue dyed the air and the faces of the wicked thlatsinas on the walls. Swiveling around on the pallet, he turned his back to the door so he could see his enemies looming over him. Or perhaps the thlatsinas were bending down to examine the pot in his lap?
“I told you I’d get it,” he crowed triumphantly. “See? I hold it in my hands.” He lifted the pot for the false gods to get a good look.
How strange that they made no rejoinder. After all their beastly chatter recently, now they were silent? He heard only the hushed speculative voices of his warriors outside.
Cold Bringing Woman’s white face had a curious pink glow, as though blood were seeping up into her cheeks. He knew it was just the gleam of the firebowls. Still, it bothered him.
The Black Ogres, on the other hand, stood like simple paintings. Dead. Nothing more than minerals and fats brushstroked into gods.
“Why are you all so silent? You’re acting like field mice hiding in wall cracks. Are you afraid of her?”
Utter stillness filled the chamber. Even the red coals in the firebowls stopped sputtering, which never happened. Wind constantly seeped around the door curtain and fanned the coals.
But he felt no wind …
And heard not a peep from his warriors outside.
Probably just gone quiet to listen to Leather Hand’s conversation with the gods, he thought, but a spine-tingling sensation rippled through him. Inexplicably, he felt his chamber had been transformed into a soundproof cocoon to prepare it for a strange and wondrous hatching.
When he shifted to study the soul pots perched on their shelves, he sucked in a sudden breath.
“What…”
Beside each of the four pots lined up on the left of the middle shelf stood a small figurine about the length of his hand. Where had they come from?
Setting Nightshade’s soul pot down near his tea cup, Leather Hand staggered to his feet and walked across the chamber to examine them.
What curious and repugnant objects.
Made of unbaked clay, they had thin pinched noses and slits for eyes, as though the figurines were sleeping or perhaps meant to represent the closed eyes of the dead. Their bodies were painted with red, buff, blue, and black paint, and each wore a necklace and belt made from hand-rolled beads of clay, which he assumed were supposed to be shells or stone ornaments. All were clearly female, for they had breasts.
Reaching up, he lifted down one of the figurines to examine it. Fragile. Very fragile. Carefully, he turned it over in his hands. The triangular shape of its body and the stylized hair buns that rested upon the figure’s shoulders told him it was likely fashioned by the Canyon People. Their rock art was similar.
Despite their otherworldly appearance, he sensed no souls in the objects. They were merely cold clay, and it occurred to him that they must have been constructed as children’s toys. Bizarre dolls.
“Who placed you beside these soul pots?” he asked the figurine in his hand and then looked into the painted faces of the three other dolls.
None responded. But, of course, they had no mouths, so perhaps they could not speak. Nor did they have ears, at least not that he could make out with his failing vision.
Why would anyone fashion a child’s doll without ears or a mouth? Did the figurines represent deaf mutes? Or possibly the creatures did not need ears or mouths because they had supernatural hearing and voices?
In any case, he found them disturbing. In the morning, he’d have his White Moccasins hunt down the culprit who’d placed them on this shelf, and order the man or woman slowly cut apart so he could eat them alive, a piece at a time.
But for now he was tired and fuming from a long day of unsettling events. He put the figurine back on the shelf and hobbled over to his pallet to lie down.
As he stretched out on his side, facing the firebowl, he picked up Nightshade’s soul pot and twisted the lid. When it didn’t budge, he put all his strength into twisting it off, twisted so hard his arm shook, but still it was glued on tight. Defeated, he decided he’d do it tomorrow morning, when he was fresh and stronger.
With a sigh, he rested the pot upon the coyote hides less than a single hand-length in front of his eyes. He could see himself in the shiny black surface. Right over his head, the reflection of Cold Bringing Woman’s red eyes appeared. He must be more tired than he thought, for he swore he saw them blink …
He did not feel the beast’s presence, though.
The paintings and soul pots remained as quiet as the dead when he closed his eyes.
Fifty-two
Tsilu
This chamber is small, dark, and cold.
Where I huddle in the corner with my cape drawn tightly about me, my breath frosts the air. My brother paces back and forth in front of me. Grandfather and Crane sit in the middle of the chamber with their faces close, speaking too low for me to hear. We’re being held on the third floor, guarded by two White Moccasins. Just beyond the door curtain, they talk in quiet voices. Sometimes I glimpse them s
tanding out there as the evening wind constantly flutters the curtain and moonlight sheathes their tall shapes as it floods the chamber with silver light.
I’ve never been this frightened. There’s no way out and no one here to help us. Before we entered the town, we could have made a run for it, maybe escaped into the desert. Now we must endure until our fates are determined by a fiendish madman, the cannibal witch who rules the Straight Path nation with a magical granite fist.
My brother stops pacing and folds his arms tightly across his chest, as though he’s just been struck with an unpleasant thought. His hard blue eyes glint in the shifting moonlight.
No one pays me the slightest attention. I could be invisible. I feel invisible, but that’s all right. From their facial expressions, I know they are planning and plotting. My puny fears are not important.
I miss Kwinsi more now than ever before. If he were here, he would find a way to ease my fears, to make me smile. He had such a rare gift. I pray that tonight he is sitting around the campfires of the dead telling amusing stories to our ancestors. Their laughter would make him happy.
Footsteps … outside.
Grandfather and Crane both look toward the door. The warriors call some greeting that I can’t make out.
A man says, “It begins now. Walk away.”
“Of course, Sunwatcher.”
The warriors trot away from our door.
Sunwatcher Cub draws the curtain aside. He has eyes for no one but Crane. “We must talk.”
Crane instantly rises to his feet and ducks beneath the curtain into the moonlight.
My brother wanders over to kneel beside Grandfather, but neither says a word.
They are straining to listen, as I am, to the quiet voices just beyond the dancing curtain.
“… fetish?” Cub whispers.
“Yes, I have it. Why … send BoneDust to give … me?”
“… safe … knew you’d…”
“… didn’t at first. I didn’t even know what it—”
“I trusted you would find out.”
When the wind gusts, the curtain flaps, and I see Crane standing with his fists propped on his hips. His black cloak blends so perfectly with the night his pale hands and face stand out as though plastered with ceremonial white clay. “I did.”
“Blue Dove?”
“Doesn’t know anything.”
Cub’s gaze strays to the warriors standing six or seven paces away, at the very edge of the roof, looking out across the surrounding moonlit hills as though completely unconcerned with this conversation.
Crane asks, “What next?”
The curtain flutters in the wind. I hear Cub say, “Whenever you are ready.”
Cub walks directly to the warriors, speaks with them, and they all walk away. A few of the warriors glance back at our chamber, but they do not return to guard us.
Moments later Crane steps through the doorway, and braces his feet to stare down at Grandfather and Maicoh.
“We need to discuss…” He suddenly shudders and doubles over as if he’s taken a blow to the belly.
I scramble to my feet to run to him, but Maicoh grabs my wrist and drags me away. Pulling back against his grip, I say, “He needs help! What’s wrong with him? I’ve never seen—”
“He never let you see. These seizures started when he was twelve. The instant Nightshade left Poor Singer’s village, he collapsed.”
Grandfather extends an arm to point to the rear of the chamber. “Move back, please. He needs space. This has been coming on for days.”
“Hurry, Tsilu,” my brother says as he ushers me to the rear of the chamber where complete darkness hovers.
Grandfather helps Crane to his feet, and says, “Don’t fight it, brother. Just let it happen.”
“Snowbird, I … I’m falling…”
“It’s all right. I’m here. I’m not leaving you.”
I flinch. This is not a name I know. Is it Grandfather’s name? Maybe Tocho is his adult name, and Snowbird was his childhood …
Grandfather holds Crane in his arms as Crane gasps for air. He’s suffocating.
“Help him!” I cry and struggle against my brother’s strong arms, trying to run to Grandfather and Crane.
“Be quiet! No one must hear!” Maicoh grabs me and holds me tightly. “We are no part of this now.”
“But what’s hap—”
“She’s calling him.”
I look up as understanding begins to dawn. My brother’s pale face has gone snowy white.
“Nightshade?” I whisper.
“Of course.”
Crane wraps his arms around Grandfather’s shoulders as though it’s the only way he can keep upright. His eyes have fastened on the far wall. It takes me a few heartbeats before I realize he’s gazing straight through the walls to the Blessed Sun’s chamber where the soul pot resides.
“Let me g-go,” Crane whispers.
Grandfather looks stricken. Tears fill his eyes as he releases Crane, who staggers over to place a hand against the wall. His fingers clutch for the tiniest holds to keep standing. Then I watch as he slowly slides down the wall to sit in a heap in the doorway. He is a dark silhouette against the brilliant background of moonlight that streams across Flowing Waters Town.
Crane topples to his side and begins jerking like a clubbed antelope and I scream, but Maicoh clamps a hand over my mouth and growls, “Quiet! You’re going to get us all killed!”
Grandfather kneels in front of Crane and places a hand upon his shuddering chest. “I’m still here. You’re all right.”
Crane’s body suddenly freezes in place, every muscle clenched. As though he’s entered a world where time has stopped, his mouth gapes and he stares out at nothing. Then, gradually, the rigor fades and his body goes limp.
Grandfather rises and walks to the doorway, where he steps outside the chamber to look around town, checking for warriors. “They’re all gone.”
“All?” my brother asks.
“Yes. Stinger’s orders.” Grandfather kneels and drags Crane’s arm across his shoulders. “Come on, brother. We have to go.”
Crane squeezes his eyes closed for a moment, then gives me a heartrending glance and turns his attention back to Grandfather. “I’m ready.”
Grandfather supports Crane as he staggers to his feet, and both men disappear into the moonlight.
I fight against my brother, trying to run after them. “Let me go!”
“Stop it! Listen to me, Tsilu. You and I are going to walk out of town. Right now.”
“But won’t the guards—”
“There are no guards. Stinger only assigned men to the walls tonight whom he trusted to obey his orders perfectly. But we must hurry. When the cries start, other warriors will wake with their weapons in their hands. By that time, we must be long gone.”
“But Grandfather and Crane—”
“I—I don’t know. But we have to go now.” Maicoh kneels in front of me to stare into my blurry eyes. I’m crying and I don’t know when it began. “Sister, this is a time for bravery. Are you ready?”
Swallowing hard, I answer, “Yes.”
Fifty-three
The Blessed Sun
In the middle of the night, the scrape of sandals woke Leather Hand.
Groggy, he lifted his head and gazed around his chamber, searching for the priests who constantly refilled his firebowls throughout the night, but noticed that most of the bowls had burned down to gray ash. Where were his attending priests? Only a handful of red coals glowed in the bowl by his sleeping pallet. It was still warm, though, so he wasn’t freezing.
Lowering his head to the soft coyote hides, he closed his eyes and tried to return to the dreams he’d been having of long-ago war walks and burning villages. He’d been so strong back then. The huge leaping flames and screams had glutted him with glory. It was unpleasant to wake to a withered and feeble body.
The scrape of sandals again.
Soft. Barely there.
He shoved up on one elbow and squinted at the shrouded corners. “Is someone here? Where are you? Step forward!”
The red wall around the Black Ogres rippled like waves rolling away from a rock tossed into a vast blood-filled lake.
A trick of his old eyes?
Leather Hand sat up and rubbed them to help clear his vision.
“Finally awake?”
Startled, Leather Hand whirled around to stare at the gray-haired man standing in the corner.
“Guards!” he cried. “Guards!”
When no one responded, a cold well grew in his belly. That’s why he had no attending priests. Stinger and Cub. The filthy traitors!
The man walked forward, holding out a small black object clamped between his thumb and forefinger. “I’m sure you’ve been looking for this.”
“What is it? Who are you?”
As the old man entered the faint halo cast by the firebowl, Leather Hand recognized him. He’d been shaking like a frightened mouse where he’d sat beside Crane. He wore the ugly deer-hock moccasins of the Canyon People, which was curious. Leather Hand had definitely heard the scrape of sandals.
“You … Who are you? The ugly girl called you Grandfather. What’s your name?”
“I’m nobody. Just a messenger.”
“Then deliver the message and leave!”
When the man knelt before the firebowl and extended the object to Leather Hand, he suddenly realized what it was.
Grabbing it, he exclaimed, “My fetish! Where did you get it? I’ve turned the town upside down searching for this! It was a gift from the Blessed Sun Webworm.”
The black serpent inside the broken eggshell stared up at Leather Hand with flickering red eyes. Yes, his breath-heart soul was still alive and watching him.
The man eased down to the floor and laced his fingers around one knee. “It’s been a long journey, hasn’t it? Over the summers, I’ve watched in awe as your evil Powers grew. In fact, I’m sure you are the most Powerful witch who has ever lived.”
There was a strange admiration in the man’s voice. Leather Hand drew himself up and squared his shoulders. “Of course I am. No one has witched so many, or killed so many.”
People of the Canyons Page 28