People of the Silence (51 page)

And it left her weak and reeling.

If Sternlight turned out to be a witch, what would she do? She couldn’t reveal herself to a witch. And what of Night Sun? Dead? Murdered for the crime of incest? Or banished?

She rubbed the toe of her sandal over a brightly colored rock. Perhaps Night Sun would wish her dead because she was the child of an incestuous union. Maybe that’s why she’d sent Cornsilk away in the beginning. She’d hated the sight of her misbegotten child.…

*   *   *

Poor Singer watched her from camp. Silk walked with her head down, hair flying, her long tanned legs shining in the amber dusk. Her green dress was sleek upon her slender body, but she looked sad.

“She needs time alone,” he murmured to the pines that swayed around him. “Time to heal.”

She might put up a brave and courageous front, but deep in her eyes lay a terrible desolation of the soul that worried him. Only a moon had passed since the destruction of her village. It would probably take several more before the grief dimmed.

I pray she finds family in Talon Town. That they give her a place and a new family.
Though he had to admit, he would miss her very much when they parted ways. Despite her inner turmoil, she managed to keep him smiling. But he was attracted to more than her beauty and sense of humor. Power lived inside her, hidden deep, like Thunderbird sleeping in a billowing nest of clouds, and Poor Singer had the feeling that when the Power woke … it would tremble the skyworlds.

He stretched out on his side in the red sand. He’d thrown their blankets out on a moss-covered area beneath the largest pine, but built the fire two body-lengths away, in a scooped hollow in the sand, to shield the flames from the wind. Pine needles scattered the ground and glinted in the bottom of the tiny pool. Cool, clear water gurgled up from a crevice in the red sandstone, and created a tiny marsh about ten hands across. The cattails had just sprouted. Green leaves poked up through the water.

The three pines leaned eastward, slanted by the prevailing winds. No wonder the western face of the low mesa had a scrubbed look. Jutting knuckles of stone tipped skyward, and deep furrows sliced down through the tan-and-red soil. On a flat sandstone face above the seep, a water being watched him. Carved into the stone by an expert hand, the being had a spiral face with a headdress of sunbeams and a square body. Its jagged arms imitated lightning bolts.

Poor Singer picked up a stick and prodded the fire. Sparks jumped and twisted away in the wind. Spirits lived here. Poor Singer could sense them breathing all around him.

He lowered his gaze to the struggling flames and said a silent prayer, thanking the Spirits for allowing him and Silk to spend the night. Pine boughs shished and rocked in response.

With a deer scapula, Poor Singer scooped more hot coals around the charred base of their boiling pot, then reached for his pack and removed the small bag of beeweed mixed with dried onions. He dumped the contents into the pot. When it started to bubble, he added a handful of cornmeal and stirred the gruel with a wooden paddle. He’d laid out their cups, bowls, and two horn spoons in preparation for supper.

He’d been feeling oddly—like a bit of eagle down whipped by gale force winds. During the long days of his fast, something had happened inside him. Though he could not say exactly when the change had been accomplished, he’d grown whole and unafraid. As if, in the blink of an eye, his soul had aged and ripened. He wondered if he’d grown the heart of a cloud without realizing it—and if he could now walk on the wind. He rubbed his fingers in the warm sand, thinking, wishing he knew what that meant. His father had not visited him in his dreams for half a moon, though he had run the sacred trail to the lip of the turquoise cave and bravely peered into the darkness. He’d respected the Keeper of the Tortoise Bundle’s wishes and stayed outside … but he wanted to smell the high mountain pine trees, and watch the tiny clouds puffing from the entrance and floating up to join their relatives. Once, he had even dared to call to the woman inside, but she had not answered.

Poor Singer dipped himself a cup of pine needle tea, and braced himself on one elbow to drink. As he tasted the tangy brew, he saw Silk descending the game trail that slithered down the side of the mesa. She walked slowly, as if deep in thought. Long black hair flew around her beautiful face. Her golden skin was lavender in the twilight glow. She ducked beneath the limbs of a pine and smiled at him, but he could see the haunted look in her eyes. Her vulnerabilities lay as exposed as the rocks on the scoured mesa. No woman had ever looked at him the way she did—as though he were the only friend she had in the entire world. It made him feel strangely good.

Poor Singer smiled back. “The gruel is done. I hope you’re hungry. I made enough for five people.” He leaned forward to stir the thick corn mush with his paddle.

Silk knelt before the teapot and dipped her cup full. “I’m hungry enough to chew bark off a pine. We walked a long way today.” She sat down cross-legged on the sand beside him and sighed. In the flickering light of the flames, her green dress turned a dark orange. “How are you feeling?”

“Pretty wobbly. Exhausted, actually.”

“It takes time to get your strength back after a fast.”

Poor Singer nodded agreement and used his horn spoon to fill their bowls with gruel. His fingers brushed hers lightly as he handed her one. “It came out thick. I hope it tastes good.”

Silk sniffed her bowl. “It smells delicious, Poor Singer. Thank you for fixing supper while I was up walking in the wind. I know I should have been down here helping you.”

“I’m glad you took time to walk. You looked happy up there.”

She gave him a soft smile that touched his heart. “For a few moments, I was.”

“Besides,” he said, “I like cooking. At home, in Windflower Village, I used to cook supper for my mother. I miss it—and her.”

Silk picked up her horn spoon and began eating, but her eyes tensed. She chewed slowly, her gaze on the fire’s brassy reflection where it danced among the green cattail stems. Old pine cones littered the bottom of the pool, canted at angles on a bed of shining white, black, and tan pebbles.

She’s thinking about her own mother.
Poor Singer suffered a pang of guilt for reminding her. He spooned corn gruel into his mouth and watched the clouds change from orange to dark grayish purple. The beeweed and onions gave the cornmeal a savory flavor.

As evening deepened, Wind Baby calmed down to a faint whisper, soughing through the pines and rustling the grass. Ripples bobbed across the firelit surface of the pool.

They ate in silence, Silk staring at something he could not see. Poor Singer watched her from the corner of his eye.

She finished her gruel, set her bowl aside, and drew up her legs. Wrapping her arms around them, she propped her chin on her knees. Long hair draped around her like a shining black curtain.

To take his mind from the longings she stirred within his traitorous body, Poor Singer said, “You seem far away.”

“Um … I guess I am.”

“What are you thinking about?”

Silk rubbed her chin on the fabric covering her knees and tilted her head to look at him. Her broad cheekbones and pointed nose caught the gleam of the fire. “Poor Singer, do you miss your friends?”

He used his spoon to scrape the last gruel from the bottom of his bowl. After he’d swallowed, he sat quietly for a time, then answered, “I didn’t have any friends, Silk. At least, not my own age.”

Her graceful eyebrows lifted. “Not even one?”

“My mother and Black Mesa were my friends. But—but that was all.” Poor Singer picked up his teacup and turned it in his hands.

Silk’s gaze searched his expression. “But you’re so likable, Poor Singer. It doesn’t make sense. Why didn’t you have friends your own age?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Black Mesa said they didn’t understand the Power in my eyes, but I always believed it was because I couldn’t do anything the other children considered important.” He frowned at the dregs in his teacup. Actually, he couldn’t do anything anyone considered important, except Sing. His deep resonant voice had brought him renown … but not friends.

Silk shifted, and he looked up. Behind her, dark clouds sailed over the pointed tops of the pine trees, silent as the shadows of the gods. The night animals had begun to prowl. The lilting howls of hunting coyotes echoed.

“What couldn’t you do?” Silk asked.

Poor Singer smiled, amused at himself. “Well, first off, my stone tools resembled the fumbling efforts of a five-summers-old boy; every girl in the village could outrun me; I couldn’t hit a quail with a rock if I was standing on top of the bird; every time I got into a fight, my opponent beat me senseless. And I
was
trying to win, Silk.” She smiled, and he went on, “But more than that, I think the other children didn’t like me because I was such a loner. I always preferred the company of insects and prickly pear to that of people.”

Silk’s eyes seemed to grow deeper and darker, shining like huge black moons. A young man could lose himself in those eyes, and never wish to be found. A tingle ran through Poor Singer’s body and settled in all the wrong places—at least wrong according to Dune’s teachings. He could hear the little tyrant’s voice in his soul,
“If you ever wish to be a wellspring of hope for your people, you must let go of your body. Flesh may feel soft and warm, but it is the most Powerful cage in Creation. Stronger than stone walls twenty hands thick. Let it go.…”

Feeling awkward, Poor Singer smiled and looked away. Perhaps that’s why he’d been lonely most of his life: he needed to be.

Silk’s gaze drifted to the sky. The first Evening People had wakened, and silver sparkles filled the night. From this side view, she looked all the more delicate and beautiful. A log snapped in the fire, and the flash threaded her face and hair with crimson light.

Silk’s toes curled against the soles of her sandals. She continued to look up at the starry sky. “I like being alone, too.”

“Do you?”

“Well, not all the time. Usually I like being close to people, but when I need to be alone, I need it like a starving woman needs food.”

It had never occurred to him that anyone else in the world had ever sought solitude with the same single-minded passion that he had. “It’s hard, isn’t it?” He met her eyes. “To really
be
alone. I mean, even when you are by yourself, you are generally thinking of other people and so you’re really not alone in your soul.”

A breath of wind fluttered her long black hair against her back. “It’s hard. Mostly because clans discourage solitude. There are so many people that someone is always trying to get you to gather another basket of ricegrass seeds, or fill a pot with water, or grind more corn. If you ever escape to sit on a hilltop just to listen to the canyon wrens, people scold you for wasting time. They tell you you’ve been bad, that you’re shirking your duties and should be ashamed.” She gazed at him solemnly. “That’s why a friend is so important, Poor Singer. A friend acts as a shield for you. She makes sure you get to sit on hilltops now and then.”

“I’ve never thought of it that way. It never occurred to me that another person could understand my soul so well. Did you have a friend like that, Silk?”

Tears welled in her eyes. “Yes, I did.”

Poor Singer longed to touch her to ease that pain, but instead he gripped his teacup hard. “What was her name?”

“Leafhopper. I—I miss her.”

“Was she killed in the attack?”

“I don’t know. Leafhopper lived with her aunt at the corner of the village near the gate. The enemy warriors would have struck there first—wouldn’t they?”

Poor Singer bit his lip. “I can’t say, Silk. I’ve never been on a raid.”

“I think they would have.” Silk wiped her eyes with the back of her hand … and a warm wave of fear eddied through him.

Poor Singer sat up, his mouth open. As though he were falling into the first underworld again, lightheaded nausea tormented him. Fatigue from too much exertion after his fast? Or something else? A horrible premonition?

He sipped more tea to settle his stomach. “Silk? Do you remember when you first climbed down the stairs by Dune’s house and I said I thought I knew you?”

A frown incised her forehead. “Yes.”

“I know where I saw you.”

She tucked hair behind her ears and tilted her head. “We’ve never met, Poor Singer. I would have remembered.”

“No … not in this world.”

Their gazes held.

Silk said, “You saw me in another world?”

He swallowed the lump in his throat. “When I went through the kiva initiation to become a Singer … you were there with me. I still don’t understand it—but as I fell into the flames, you fell with me.”

“Flames?”

Poor Singer nodded. Uneasy, he turned and sat cross-legged facing her. He leaned forward, peering directly into her soul, and said, “In the First Underworld, the Soot World, I saw a crystal pillar. It changed from black to blue, then, as if the tunnel to the underworld had been pierced by an unseen shaft of light, the blue turned a magnificent shade of turquoise. Thousands of falling stars cascaded down like fiery white sparks. Then the crystal caught fire and blazed, devouring the sky. But … but in the midst of the flames, I saw you, Silk. You were crying.” He lifted a hand to touch her silken hair. “As you were just now. Long black hair tumbled over your shoulders. And behind you—” Poor Singer stopped suddenly as understanding dawned. A strange hollowness invaded his breast. “Blessed Ancestors, the jagged mountain peak that I saw behind you was the peak where the turquoise cave hides.” Stunned by the realization, he sat perfectly still, his gaze locked with hers.

“What is the turquoise cave?”

“Oh, it’s beautiful, Silk. It’s … well, I don’t know how to describe it, but it’s like being inside a turquoise geode in a lightning storm.” His brows arched at the inadequacy of the description. “When the storm is inside the geode with you,” he added lamely, “it’s
magical.
”

Silk folded her legs under her and shifted to face him. She braced a hand and said, “Was I in the cave with you?”