Bone Walker: Book III of the Anasazi Mysteries (12 page)

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Authors: Kathleen O'Neal Gear,W. Michael Gear

BOOK: Bone Walker: Book III of the Anasazi Mysteries
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“Great Flute Player
At the sound of your flute
we came. Rising from the worlds.
Rising we came.
Led by your enchanting music.
From the darkness, you led the way.
With seeds upon your back.
Here. In the Fourth World, you led the way.
South.
Down the great road from darkness to the sun.
South. We hear your flute. We Dance your road.
Your path is our garden.
Bless us. Raise your flute and call the rains.
Cast your seed upon our gardens.
Make us fruitful.
Hututu. Hututu. Hututu”
Catkin surprised herself when she caught her tongue wrapping around the familiar words of the old song. For how many sun cycles had her people sung that prayer? This new belief, that of the katsinas, didn’t deny the Flute Player. No one claimed that the katsinas were greater than the old god. So why were people killing each other over what they believed? Unable to help herself, she looked to the south, toward the sun, where the Flute Player’s greatest gift of light and warmth originated. The offerings in the niches shimmered in the firelight, turquoise, shell, and cornmeal. It was old, that combination, from the time when the First People ventured out from the underworlds.
“So,” Blue Corn said, irritation in her voice, “our Mogollon guests came to tell us of the Blessed Poor Singer’s prophecy. Now two of them have been murdered. On
my
doorstep, while under
my
protection.” She turned her eyes in the direction of the Katsinas’ People. “My people were not responsible for this crime. Of that, I am certain.”
Matron White Smoke muttered in assent, her old eyes burning as she glared at the Katsinas’ People.
Matron Cloudblower rose from where she sat several places down, to Catkin’s right. She wore a yellow tunic belted at the waist by a yucca sash; she had collected her long graying black hair in a bun at the nape of her neck. The gathering quieted.
Cloudblower spread her muscular arms wide. “I have spoken with my people. I assure you, none of us wished the Mogollon prophet dead. You know that our quest for the First People’s kiva has not been easy. We truly wished to hear the prophet’s words, believing he might be able to help us. We are few in number now. We need help. The coughing sickness has carried away many of our people over the last three summers—”
“Witchcraft,” someone hissed loud enough that it carried to all parts of the kiva. “False gods!”
Catkin cocked her head in search of the culprit, but couldn’t pick out the speaker in the sea of faces.
She remembered Two Hearts’s assertion in the cave above Longtail village that the katsinas brought the coughing disease. The memory lingered of her husband wasting away before her, his body wracked by coughs that left his lips bright with blood. His fevered eyes still stared out from her nightmares.
“There is no witchcraft among the katsinas,” Cloudblower replied in a soft voice.
“No?” Blue Corn asked. “Springbank was one of the Katsinas’ People, was he not? Didn’t you tell me that he is the legendary witch, Two Hearts?”
Catkin’s nerves tingled at the undercurrent of threat that slipped through the room. Warriors whispered to each other and propped their hands on belted stilettos and war clubs.
“I said there is no witchcraft among the katsinas, Matron.” Cloudblower’s expression turned sad. “What people do is another thing. Witches have their own needs and their own ways of filling them. Springbank lived among us, yes, but he wished to destroy the Katsinas’ People. He was not one of us. He didn’t believe in Poor Singer’s prophecy.”
Blue Corn’s lips twitched. “What of this rumor that the legendary White Moccasins are prowling about?”
Stone Ghost stood and walked over to take Cloudblower’s arm. His mangy turkey-feather cape swayed with each step. “Great Matron, it is no rumor. They are indeed a threat and they are indeed among us.”
“What proof have you?”
“I have seen them. It was White Moccasins who killed every man, woman, and child in Aspen village. War Chief Browser can tell you the details, but the people at Aspen village suffered the same fate as legions of Made People did a hundred sun cycles ago.”
Stone Ghost turned slowly, scanning the faces. “Do any of you remember the punishment exacted by the Blessed Sun from those who disobeyed him? He sent his red-shirted warriors to burn your village and desecrate your dead! His warriors stripped the offender’s flesh from his bones, boiled it, and ate it while the few wailing survivors watched in horror.”
To the now silent room, he added, “There was a reason that the Made People hunted the First People ; down and killed them.” His voice dropped. “They had to be punished for their misdeeds.”
“But we have only your words that these White Moccasins still exist?” Blue Corn leaned forward and propped her elbow on her knee. “Where is the proof, Elder? I heard all kinds of stories from Old Pidgeontail. Exciting battle, a secret cave, the old witch, Two Hearts, disguised as Elder Springbank, and incredible wealth. But where, Elder, is one of these White Moccasins? Show me a body.”
Stone Ghost bowed his head and his wispy white hair glistened. “I cannot. They carried their dead away before Catkin could return with a war party. But they exist, Matron, and they hate us.”
Catkin’s eyes narrowed when she saw Obsidian. The woman sat frozen, rigid, her long glossy black hair interwoven with turquoise beads and coral bangles. She sat two rows back and to the left. Her large dark eyes were almost swimming, and one hand had risen to cover her perfect mouth.
“So,” Blue Corn countered dryly. “Elder Stone Ghost has seen White Moccasins. I can place my faith in the word of a hermit who, until one sun cycle ago, lived by himself out in the sagebrush at the foot of Smoking Mirror Butte.
“Tell me, Elder, have not people also claimed that you are a witch?”
Catkin reached down, fingers resting lightly on the wood of her war club handle.
Stone Ghost tipped his wrinkled face up and smiled. “I do not understand, Matron. Why would you allow the assertions of fools to occupy your attention when you have two dead Mogollon guests, and your own warriors almost massacred the rest less than a hand of time ago? Are you trying to distract us from finding the prophet’s murderer?”
Blue Corn gave him a cold look and waved a hand dismissively. “You are supposed to be able to solve such crimes. Why don’t you do it?”
Stone Ghost nodded. “That will be difficult. The killer was brilliant.”
Blue Corn scoffed, “What does it take to sneak up in a snowstorm, brain a sleepy guard, club a prophet, and cut up two bodies?”
“Is that what you think happened last night?” Stone Ghost seemed genuinely amazed.
“Well, that makes the most sense. For all we know, it could have been anyone. Perhaps”—her gaze narrowed—“even one of the Mogollon.”
Whispers of angry disbelief erupted before their elder silenced them. Catkin had to say this for the old man, he commanded instant respect from his fiery young warriors. It had been many summers since she had seen that kind of discipline.
“Well,” Blue Corn maintained, “how do we know they didn’t kill him? Perhaps they, too, have their reasons for disliking the katsinas, or thlatsinas, as they call them? We have nothing more than their prophet’s word that he was here on behalf of Poor Singer’s prophecy.”
Stone Ghost waved the Mogollon elder down as he started to stand to answer the charge, and said, “Matron Blue Corn, you make a very good point, and to be sure, it is worthy of consideration—because you are clearly supposed to think that. Like I said, the murderer was brilliant. Might I tell you why?”
Blue Corn arched a skeptical eyebrow. “I would appreciate that, Elder.”
Stone Ghost hobbled toward her, one hand at his chin as though in deep thought. “The person who murdered the prophet wanted to achieve many things. First, he wanted the prophet dead before he could reveal what he knew of Poor Singer’s prophecy. But he also had to destroy anyone who might know it. How to do that? The most obvious way was to have Rain Crow’s warriors kill every Mogollon in your village—which came very near to happening. Only by accident did my nephew, Catkin, and I arrive in time to avert such a catastrophe. The murderer wanted you involved in a major war with the Fire Dogs. Not just petty raiding like we all like to engage in from time to time, but a blood vendetta. The fourth goal, of course, was to cast suspicion upon the Katsinas’ People. The last thing the murderer wants is for you, Matron, to develop any kind of sympathy for the katsinas’ cause. The more the Made People fight each other, the less likely we are to worry about ‘mythical’ White Moccasins slipping around injecting their venom. And,” he said, and took a deep breath, “the final goal was to create dissension among the Katsinas’ People. We are weak right now. We have a new Matron. If the murderer could frighten us badly enough to splinter our people, maybe the problem of the Katsinas’ People would simply go away.”
Blue Corn’s expression had grown thoughtful. “How does killing a Mogollon prophet split the Katsinas’ People? What would you care?”
“When we lived near Talon Town, a young warrior named Whiproot was killed—in exactly the same way as the Mogollon prophet. We believed the murderers were dead, but now, none of us can be sure. Many of our people will be wondering if we are dealing with ordinary murderers, or witches so powerful that we cannot kill them. We all know that truly great witches have ways of extending their own lives.”
“How do the White Moccasins, the legendary warriors of the First People, fit into this?”
Stone Ghost shook his head. “I’m not certain yet.”
“But you think the prophet’s message threatened the White Moccasins?” Blue Corn had propped her chin on her palm, as though considering that.
“I do.”
“So, you must find out what his message was.”
Stone Ghost shook his head again. “No, my nephew and I have more important concerns.”
Blue Corn’s interest sharpened. “And just what do you think is more important than the murder of two of my guests?”
Stone Ghost walked back and looked down into Browser’s dark eyes, before saying, “The murderer. We must find the old witch before he can extend his life again.”
Blue Corn’s face twisted incredulously. “You think Two Hearts killed the Mogollon prophet?”
Laughter sprinkled the sudden din of voices.
Stone Ghost replied, “Two Hearts or one of his assassins, yes.”
Catkin saw Rain Crow shift. It was a subtle movement, but a quick one. She turned to follow his gaze.
Obsidian’s beautiful face had gone white as new-fallen snow, and her huge black eyes sparkled with fear.
Catkin followed her gaze to the crowd that filled the great kiva’s stairway. It took her a moment to identify the man who had locked eyes with Obsidian. She knew him from his old face and odd, light brown eyes. The renowned Trader, Old Pigeontail. He was nodding slightly. Obsidian looked petrified with terror. Catkin had never seen such fear—except on the battlefield.
From warriors about to die.
 
 
“PIPER, COME … COME here.”
Piper sits before the fire, tending it, as Mother said to do.
“Piper!”
She pulls her blanket over her head so that only one eye sees him lying on the other side of the fire. Mother is gone. There’s no one to make her. The blanket smells dusty, like a dead animal’s fur.
“I said … come!”
Grandfather’s reaching hand is a skeleton’s, the fingernails are long and twisted and yellow. They click like a grasshopper. Piper dreams of summer, when the grasshoppers fill the brush and leap when she tries to catch them.
The worst bad thing would be if Grandfather gets up.
Piper uses a stick to prod the fire and sparks crackle up like stars falling backward. She watches them swirl and rise toward the smokehole in the roof. She watches until she can’t see them anymore, just blue sky and drifting Cloud People.
“If you don’t … come over here! …”
Piper tilts her head. The Cloud People are flying so high, they are freezing. Freezing to death. Piper shivers and tucks her hands under her armpits.
From somewhere far away, she hears a voice shouting, “Piper! Piper! Piper …”
The Cloud People swirl and crowd together for warmth, but Piper can’t feel it. She shivers harder and wishes she could fly up there with them. They would wrap their fluffy bodies around her and hold her tight and fly away …
Piper blinks.
It is nighttime.
The fire is dead.
Groans make Piper turn.
Grandfather is eating yesterday’s soup from a clay bowl. He makes sounds like a den of coyote pups, squeaking and growling, but his mouth is a fish’s mouth, opening and closing. She imagines she can see bubbles climbing up, going higher, until they can escape through the smokehole to fly free.

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