People of the Silence (72 page)

Cornsilk folded her arms tightly across her breast. “Ever since I found it, I’ve been having strange dreams.”

“Dreams? About what?”

A shiver went up her back, and she gritted her teeth, as if to still it. “Dancing Badgers and blood-filled seas … and a—a young woman.” She pinned him with a hard gaze. “What happened to Cloud Playing? I think I need to know.”

Wind Baby gusted and black hair fluttered around her.

Ironwood handed the jet carving back to her, and Cornsilk put it in her pouch and tucked it inside her dress. He said, “She was murdered, Cornsilk. Cloud Playing was returning from Deer Mother Village. Someone caught her as she climbed up the wash, down there.” He pointed to the broad hard-packed trail about two hundred hands to the east. “That’s the main trail, the trail that Made People and First People take. But there is another trail about a thousand hands further east that is used by slaves. Cloud Playing tried to come up the main trail, but her murderer met her as she came out of the wash. I checked the tracks myself. He was a heavy man, a big man. His—”

“His tracks sank deeply into the sand?”

He smiled proudly. “Yes. Did Beargrass teach you that?”

She nodded. “So it was either a big man, or a man carrying something heavy. Like a pack? Or a—”

“Yes. Something like that. Anyway, Cloud Playing ran back down into the wash, and it must have occurred to her that she could take the lower trail, the slave’s trail, because she headed for it. But cautiously. She stopped frequently as she walked the bottom of the drainage.”

“And the tracks on the bank above? What was the man doing?”

Ironwood could see the images on his soul: tracks spinning, leaping … “Dancing. He was Dancing, Cornsilk. I can’t explain it. It appeared to be some sort of mockery of our sacred ways. The murderer must have hated our beliefs, the thlatsinas, our rituals. Who else would be brave enough to mock them?”

“Someone like a Fire Dog?”

Ironwood lifted a hand uncertainly. “That’s what it
looked
like, Cornsilk. I suspect that’s what we were supposed to think.… But there’s more to the story. About fifty hands from the slave trail, Cloud Playing broke into a dead run, apparently trying to reach the trail before she was cut off. She didn’t make it. Her attacker came down the trail, Dancing. What happened next is confusing. They stood only ten hands apart at the bottom of the trail, and it seems they spoke, or he spoke to her. Cloud Playing began taking anxious steps, back and forth, in the same place. I counted over three dozen of her prints there. But her attacker just stood still, his feet braced. Then, Cloud Playing backed away and ran up the crossing as though being pursued by angry Earth Spirits. Her attacker followed slowly. Again, he was Dancing, spinning around, leaping from side to side.”

“Is that when he killed her?”

“Yes. He knelt at the top of the drainage and shot her in the back. Cloud Playing fell to her knees, and her attacker crouched right in front of her. He used something sharp, either an arrow point, or a knife, to slit open her belly. Then he—”

Cornsilk put a hand to her lips.
“Blessed thlatsinas.”

“Even more interesting. This is a very curious murderer. After he’d killed her, he closed her eyes and rolled her onto her belly, presumably so her blood could drain out onto the ground, then he—”

“You mean,” Cornsilk whispered. “As if bleeding out a freshly killed deer, sharing the feast with Our Mother Earth?”

Ironwood nodded, and his gaze searched the darkening landscape. He felt suddenly uneasy, as if they were being watched. Just the eerie story, probably, but his gaze sought movement in the growing darkness. “Suggesting that the murderer believed Cloud Playing’s death somehow renewed the world.” His gaze scanned the cliff tops and went over the drainage. “The strange thing is, the murderer also sprinkled her wounds with corpse powder.”

“So a witch killed her?”

“Or someone wished us to think a witch killed her.”

Cornsilk rubbed her arms. A frosty chill rode the night wind. The Evening People had begun to sprinkle the sky, flashing and glimmering. “She would have been the next Matron of Talon Town, wouldn’t she?”

“Yes, she would have.” Ironwood’s ears pricked suddenly. He could hear voices. No,
one
voice, in the wind. Faint. He couldn’t make out the words. Wind Baby? Speaking to him after all these summers? His heart pounded and he sat up straighter, listening.

“Cornsilk,” he said softly. “I think we should be getting back.”

Her yellow dress whipped around her long legs as she got to her feet. “All right.”

Ironwood rose cautiously, studying the drainage and the trail to Talon Town. Firelight gleamed in the doors and windows. The Great Warriors seemed to be peering directly at them, their lightning bolt lances raised protectively, their magnificent masks shining.

He edged in front of her. “Walk behind me, Cornsilk. But stay close.”

“Why, do you think there’s something—”

“I’m just naturally cautious.”

He’d taken three steps when a raven plummeted from the sky, its wings tucked. Against the slate gray sky, it looked blacker than pure jet. As the bird swooped over their heads, it let out a single spine-tingling
caw!
and soared into the sky again.

Cornsilk’s mouth dropped open. “Where did it come from? It’s night. Ravens don’t fly at night!”

“It just dove out of nowhere.”

The raven vanished into the well of darkness beneath the canyon rim.

Ironwood’s nerves hummed. “Cornsilk, didn’t you say you thought your Spirit Helper was Raven?”

“Yes.”

He gripped her hand tightly. “Don’t let go of me, you understand? I want you
very
close to me.”

“I understand!”

She walked almost on his heels as they headed back toward Talon Town.

*   *   *

A dog growled, and a child let out a sharp yip, as if bitten. When a woman’s voice scolded, “I told you not to tease the dog!” Webworm smiled. He crouched on the roof above the entry; he’d relieved Gnat less than a hand of time ago. The scent of cedar bark torches filled the night. Dusk had smoothed the canyon bottom, erasing the drainages and low hills, leaving a solid indigo sheet spotted with cooking fires. The orange sparkles blinked as people walked back and forth in front of them.

A lot of people were coming in for the burial procession. They would line the way out of the canyon, sprinkling cornmeal on the road, weeping and tearing their hair. Webworm had seen many of these things. The ridiculously huge party of dignitaries and warriors would pass by somberly, not saying a word to the mourners.

Webworm rubbed his face. Where had his elation at being chosen War Chief gone? Every day he grew less and less enthusiastic.

Deep weariness weighted his muscles. He had to remind himself that he was standing guard and could not afford such soul wanderings, but he had not slept in thirty hands of time. He’d spent every moment finagling, pleading, even offering to
pay
warriors from the other clans to join the burial procession. He’d managed to get sixty-eight, which should be enough to satisfy Snake Head. It would have to. He would leave five warriors on guard: four in Talon Town, and young Sawfly in the signal tower near Center Place. The only other warrior he had not approached had been Ironwood. He’d tried, but Ironwood had not been in his chamber all day. People said that Ironwood was with Sternlight, then with Night Sun, and finally Dune. Webworm had checked Ironwood’s chamber one last time before he’d relieved Gnat at guard. Creeper had told Webworm that he’d seen Ironwood leave Talon Town just before sunset.

He had not returned, or Webworm would have seen him. What could he be doing out there? Had he gone to visit a nearby town?

As people began supper, the sounds of clacking cups and bowls rose. Webworm had gone to his mother’s chamber long enough to speak with Creeper, kiss his mother’s forehead, and gobble down a bowl of beans and onions. He felt better, though hunger still nibbled at his belly. Creeper had promised every able-bodied warrior the Buffalo Clan possessed, but several people were sick, one with a broken wrist. Badgerbow had cursed and told Webworm what foolishness it was to waste eighty warriors on a burial party, but he’d promised twenty men from the Coyote Clan. Yellowgirl had fussed about giving him fifteen. She considered her Ant Clan masons to be too good for warrior duty. Webworm agreed with her. A good mason was worth her weight in turquoise. A warrior was expendable.

He sighed.

Something caught his eye. Webworm had to look slightly to the side to see the person. Dressed in brown, he or she almost blended with the night. The person climbed out of Creeper’s window and darted away into the darkness.

Mourning Dove? Where is she going this time? Another meeting with Cone?
He rubbed his jaw as he considered, then sat down and brought up his knees so that he could prop his arms on them. At night, with no one to replace him, he didn’t have the luxury of traipsing after her to find out what she was up to.

But, by Wind Baby’s breath, this activity worried him.

Mourning Dove knew the penalty for going out at night. She wouldn’t dare unless Snake Head or Creeper had given her permission. Would she? Webworm cocked his head. But if either had given her permission, why did she have to sneak out through the window? She could have walked out the entry under his nose.

For the same reason she did it this morning. Snake Head doesn’t wish anyone, including me, to know she’s out meeting with Cone.

He massaged the back of his neck. Cone had said his work was related to the “survival” of the Straight Path people. What did that mean? Securing more food to stave off famine? Creating alliances to better fight their enemies? Perhaps establishing Trade with the forbidden mound builders? Webworm had heard that they produced a magnificent black pottery and—

A sharp cry split the night down near the wash, followed by a man’s hoarse scream.

Webworm lurched for his bow and quiver of arrows, then jumped to his feet, searching the darkness. His heart began to hammer when he recognized Ironwood running wildly for Talon Town, carrying someone, shouting,
“Sternlight? Sternlight!”

Webworm slung his quiver and bow over his shoulder and raced for the ladder, climbing down three rungs at a time. When he lunged for the entry, he almost ran into Ironwood who dashed through with …
with Cornsilk!

Webworm’s mouth opened. She lay limply in his arms, her long bloody hair spilling down his side. A broken arrow protruded from her face. Blood dyed her yellow dress and the front of Ironwood’s buckskin shirt.

“What happened?” Webworm demanded, nocking his bow and whirling toward the entry. “Are we being attacked?”

“I don’t know.” Ironwood placed the girl on the ground and knelt beside her, studying her bloody face.

“Who did this? Did you see—”

“I didn’t have the time to search. My daughter’s hurt too badly. I—”

“Your daughter?”
Like broken potsherds reassembling themselves, the whole came clear in an instant, and he understood the terrible secret that Night Sun had been keeping from the other First People. In shock, he stared at Ironwood.

Rage twisted Ironwood’s face. He lurched to his feet and shouted, “What’s the matter with you? You’re War Chief! Organize your warriors! Post guards around the town, and then form a search party! By morning the attacker will be long gone!” He made a sweeping gesture with his muscular arm.
“Move!”

Unnerved, Webworm turned and ran for Gnat’s chamber, which opened onto the plaza.

Behind him, Ironwood shouted,
“Sternlight! Night Sun!”

Sternlight ducked beneath his door curtain and raced to the edge of the roof. Night Sun came out behind him, her blue dress shining in the firelight. People were lining the roofs, staring down, calling to each other in confusion.

“Ironwood?” Sternlight stood frozen. “What—”

“Sternlight, hurry! Night Sun, bring your Healing bag. Cornsilk is hurt. She’s hurt badly!”

Webworm stopped outside Gnat’s door and yelled, “Gnat? Get up!”

A groggy voice responded, “What’s wrong? What’s all the shouting?”

Gnat stumbled out into the cold air wearing only a breech-clout, his black hair awry, his eyes glazed with sleep.

Webworm ordered, “Gather twenty warriors. Station ten on the roofs. I want the other ten with me. Tell them to bring torches. It may be a long night.”

“But why? What’s—”

“Someone tried to kill one of the First People. Hurry, Gnat! We’ve no time to lose!”

Gnat ran.

Webworm turned and sprinted past Ironwood and the wounded girl, heading for Creeper’s chamber. He didn’t know what to think or feel. It couldn’t have been Mourning Dove, could it? No, no. He couldn’t believe that. But if Mourning Dove had attacked one of the First People, and Creeper were guilty of allowing her to go in and out his window to do it.…

Never. Not knowingly.

Webworm stopped outside Creeper’s chamber and called, “Creeper? Creeper, are you there?”

No answer.

Webworm threw back the curtain and peered inside.

Starlight streamed through the window, falling over the empty blankets piled in the middle of the floor. For a moment, he could not move, then it occurred to him that Creeper was probably still with Featherstone. They often spoke late into the night.

“Which means Mourning Dove used his window without Creeper’s knowledge or permission.” Webworm sank against the wall in relief, and wiped sweat from his eyes. “Of course. Creeper knew nothing about this.”

A clamor rose in the plaza, people shouting and feet pounding. Webworm turned and looked. Ironwood’s voice carried above the noise:
“Poor Singer, give me that blanket. Help me wrap her. Then I’m taking her to the First People’s kiva!”

“His daughter…” Webworm whispered, his eyes on the unconscious girl. Ironwood gently lifted her into his arms; her long hair dragged the ground. “I would have never believed it.”

For the briefest instant, Webworm closed his eyes and said a soft prayer, begging the gods to help Ironwood escape before the wrath of the First People elders cost him his life.