People of the Silence (90 page)

But to let Ironwood go free! His wife’s dead eyes stared out at him from the depths of his soul. How could he let her murderer go? Or turn his back on the loss and abuse of his daughter? Could he simply forget the terrible suffering and grief?

Jay Bird shook his head. “I can’t let him go, Poor Singer.”

“He was following the orders of his Blessed Sun, Grandfather, as your War Chief follows yours. You are punishing the tool for allowing itself to be used.”

“But his death will strike terror into the hearts of our enemies, Grandson. I must—”

“They are already afraid, Grandfather.” Poor Singer’s nose wrinkled at the strange odor carried on the western breeze. “The gods have their own sense of justice. I…” He frowned. “Like an old tree, the Straight Path nation looks massive from the outside, but the center of the trunk is rotting, dying. They do not have much time.”

“How do you know, Poor Singer? Did the gods tell you this?”

Poor Singer folded his arms tightly across his chest. “No … but I know it to be true.”

Jay Bird’s brows lowered at the glow in Poor Singer’s eyes. For long moments, he stared into those eyes, seeing the promise of the future, the pain of the past. Justice was such a tenuous thing, the balance so precarious. How could he believe? Poor Singer was barely a man. Could Jay Bird trust his vision?

Jay Bird closed his eyes. “Sometimes,” he whispered, “a man must be willing to forego the satisfaction of vengeance and place his faith in his family.”

Poor Singer straightened. “What does that mean?”

Hatred curled like an angry snake in Jay Bird’s belly. “It means I…” He could barely get the words out. “I will free Ironwood.”

Poor Singer embraced Jay Bird so hard the hug drove the air from his lungs. A warm sensation spread through him—the same sort of elation he used to feel when Young Fawn hugged him. Jay Bird smiled wearily and patted his grandson’s back.

“But
you
must tell him,” Jay Bird said. “If I look upon him again, I will surely kill him.”

“I’ll tell him!”

Jay Bird shoved back. “Then go. Do it now, before I have time to reconsider. We will talk more later.”

Poor Singer leaped to his feet and ran, his legs pumping as he took the trail toward the pen.

Jay Bird struggled to calm his writhing gut. All those years of brooding, the suppressed rage, had carried him as wind does a feather. Now, his soul had come to ground. The arms of the breeze had failed him.

Is this the price for all that pain?
He had grown sentimental in his old age. But perhaps it would all work out. Poor Singer would have to repeat his vision to the entire community. Everyone would wish to hear it.
And it might be the only thing that saves me from my people’s wrath.

Not that it mattered. He had endured their wrath before, and this one act had given him the grandson he might otherwise have lost. The warmth of Poor Singer’s embrace lived in his heart.

He squinted after the youth. Sunlight slanting through the clouds threw a golden veil over Poor Singer as he climbed toward the village.

“Keeper, I pray I am doing the right thing. If I’m not…”

The earth shook again, a tremor that took Jay Bird by surprise. And then, off to the west, the Rainbow Serpent glittered to life. She rose majestically over the mountaintop behind Gila Monster Cliffs Village, and stretched across the sky like a many-colored bridge of light.

The billowing thunderheads seemed to part before her, retreating to the edges of her glory.

Awed, Jay Bird whispered,
“This time … I hear you.”

*   *   *

Creeper stood beside Webworm in a shower of falling gray ash, watching the stream of people climbing over the walls, down the ladders, leaving Talon Town. Packs wobbled on their backs as they headed toward the wash to fill their jars with gray water one last time. An ominous buzz of conversation stirred the quiet.

Creeper folded his arms and hugged himself. The ash settled over the canyon like a smothering blanket, turning the town’s white walls gray. Nearly four hands had built up in the plaza. A weaving pattern of trails cut through the windblown drifts. Creeper turned and squinted northward. He could barely make out the towering sandstone wall behind Talon Town. Patches of golden rock appeared and disappeared through the thick veil of whirling ash. Traders had been coming through, and they told horrifying stories. The massive quake, they said, had been felt for ten days’ run in any direction.

Webworm let out a deep sigh. He wore a red cape with the hood pulled up to shield his face, but ash coated his black hair and clung to his eyelashes. He had his jaw clenched. “A Hohokam Trader came through this morning. He told me that fiery rivers are pouring out of the Thlatsina Mountains, burning everything in their paths. He said forest fires are consuming the whole world. His people are terrified, too.”

Creeper gazed up at the sky. It glowed an eerie shade of yellowish purple, as though the skyworlds had been battered and bruised by the gods’ wrath. Smoke stung his nostrils with every breath.

“What did we expect?” he said in a low voice. “First the Matron is disgraced, then Talon Town is raided, and she, the holy Derelict, and the Sunwatcher are captured. After that the Blessed Sun is murdered and buried as a witch—”

“The gods must hate us.”

Tenderly, Creeper placed a hand on Webworm’s shoulder. He would not repeat the other whispers he’d heard late at night, whispers that made his heart beat painfully in his chest:
“Look at what has happened to us! The new Blessed Sun is half Fire Dog, and the new Matron is a demented old woman! We are doomed! Let’s go before it’s too late!”

Webworm tugged his hood more closely about his face and frowned at the latest group of people to descend the ladders. Their bright capes, reds, yellows, and one a pale purple, contrasted with the ashen ground. Family by family, they were heading for the outlying villages and kin who would take them in. “If this keeps up, Creeper, I will rule over silence. Talon Town will be abandoned.”

“We cannot stop them. They are free people.”

“That Trader,” Webworm murmured, “he told me that just before the rivers of fire spurted from the earth, the ancestors in the underworlds grew so angry that the shaking ground cracked wide open, swallowing rivers and villages, then one of the mountains exploded—the entire top blew off, Creeper! Huge molten boulders flew through the air like birds! He said—”

“
Hallowed Ancestors!
” Creeper gasped, “
Sternlight predicted that the gods would hurl huge fiery rocks to split the Fifth World apart!
”

Webworm turned to peer at Creeper with his frightened soul in his eyes. “Do you think … can this really be the end of our world, Creeper?”

Creeper gazed down at the stream of people vanishing into the gray haze. Somewhere out there, a child sobbed.

“Who’s to say, Webworm?” he answered gently. “Only the gods and very great Dreamers know such things.”

Fifty-Three

Sun Cycle of the Dragonfly, Moon of Fledgling Robins

Ironwood led the way up the winding game trail, taking Night Sun by the hand as they walked along a narrow precipice. To his right, the sheer cliff fell away, ending hundreds of hands below in a huge pile of worn and broken boulders. Magnificent mountain peaks jutted through the haze around them. Snow still veined the deepest cracks, but a warm wind flapped the fringes on his buckskin shirt. He loved these alpine meadows. Wildflowers turned the slopes into a mosaic of blue, yellow, and white. Thunderheads crowded the blue high above. It had been raining off and on, settling the ash that still rose in plumes to the southwest.

In the past two moons, his body had mostly healed, though walking still pained him. The empty left eye socket ached all the time, but the steady leakage of pus had tapered off to a yellow crust. He adjusted the patch he wore over it and looked down at his arms, at the intricate tracery of whitening scars. Pink ridges of tissue criss-crossed his face, too, but his chest, legs, and back were worse.

When they reached the crest of the hill, he stopped and looked down the trail. Cornsilk, Poor Singer, and Dune walked a short distance behind. Dune had picked up a walking stick and used it to gesture with, as well as for support. He was stabbing it at Poor Singer. The two had been arguing about this trip for days. Poor Singer claimed he had to find out if the Keeper of the Tortoise Bundle was real. To which Dune replied, “Real where? In this world, or another?”

Ironwood smiled.

Night Sun turned to follow his gaze. “Are they still at it?”

Ironwood’s gaze caressed the graying black hair that fluttered about her beautiful face. Poor Singer had talked his grandmother into providing new clothing for them, and Night Sun wore a red dress with black lightning spirals around the hem. She looked lovely. They’d left Gila Monster Cliffs Village as soon as Ironwood could walk, but they hadn’t gone far—just up into the mountains. They’d spent a full moon in a wondrous little canyon filled with currant and berry bushes, surrounded by tall pines and oaks.

Since then, they’d been slowly making their way north through the ash-coated deserts. They didn’t have the strength for rapid travel, and with raiding warriors and refugees on the trails, care had to be taken. They’d adopted a leisurely pace, stopping often to let Dune rest, to hunt or fish—for none of the villages would have welcomed them. Besides, since they didn’t know where they were going, it mattered little when they arrived. Up there, in the far northern mountains, they would find a home.

Ironwood grinned. “Poor Singer maintains this is the way, and Dune says he’s lost his senses. That no one with any brains would live in this cold country.”

Night Sun laughed, and the sound melted Ironwood’s heart. It had been a long time since he’d heard her laugh with true joy.

Dune waved his walking stick at Poor Singer and the youth skipped sideways with a yip. Cornsilk grinned at their antics. Despite her rich tan, an irregular splotch of white scar tissue marred her cheek.

We all have scars. Cornsilk’s and mine are just easy to see.

“I must admit,” Night Sun said, sighing, “I really love these cool mountains. The pines, the streams, the abundance of game. I could be very happy here, Ironwood.”

Ironwood grasped Night Sun’s hand and held it tightly. “As soon as you want to stop, tell me. I’ll start cutting stones for a house.”

She slipped her arm around his waist and pulled him close. “Do you think the rumors are true? That the Mogollon joined forces with the Tower Builders to attack Straight Path Canyon?”

“The Trader who told us said he’d heard they were going to attack the canyon, not that they had. I’m sure Webworm has heard the same rumors. He’ll be taking the proper precautions.” Ironwood tenderly smoothed loose hair behind her ear. “Do you miss home so much?”

Night Sun looked away, her gaze roaming the pines and quaking aspens. “One does not forget a lifetime of responsibility. In a sense, I always will be Matron of Talon Town. But being worried about them doesn’t mean I want to go back, my husband. I don’t. I only regret that you and I haven’t found our place yet.”

“We will. I want to keep going north, far away from Straight Path country.”

Night Sun rested her head against his chest and tightened her arms around his waist. “So do I.”

As Dune, Poor Singer, and Cornsilk came closer, Ironwood heard Dune say, “You don’t search for gods, boy, the gods search for you. And usually, after they’ve found you, you wish they hadn’t.”

Poor Singer shook his head. He wore a blue shirt and had tied his hair in back with a length of cord. The style accentuated the narrowness of his face and the size of his dark eyes. “I don’t think she was a god, Dune. I think she was a woman. A human being.”

“Human beings don’t live in turquoise caves, you imbecile. Gods do.”

Ironwood looked southward. Far away, on the other side of those jagged peaks, sat Fourth Night House, and the turquoise mines of the Straight Path nation. Could such a cave truly exist? Ever since Poor Singer had told the story of the Keeper, Ironwood had been trying to imagine where the cave might be. Large veins of turquoise were very rare and precious. Even if they found it, the cave might be heavily guarded. On the other hand, the Keeper might have enough Spirit Power to keep the cave hidden from probing eyes.

“But she looked real, Dune,” Poor Singer insisted. “I swear it.”

“Well,” Cornsilk said, “the only way to know is to keep searching.”

Ironwood heaved a sigh. “Do you still think it has to be one of these peaks, Poor Singer?”

The youth lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the sunlight and scanned the splintered granite pinnacles. “They look different without the snow, and the meadows have greened, the aspens are all leafed out, but I’m almost certain.”

“Good enough,” Ironwood replied, and took Night Sun’s hand again. “I’ll lead.”

They climbed the game trail, passing through a whispering grove of aspens, and emerged into another alpine meadow. This one sloped downhill. A fringe of barberry bushes ringed the tall grasses.

*   *   *

When rain began to fall again, the thick-muscled man stopped stacking firewood to catch his breath and caught sight of five people climbing the game trail. He frowned at the bobbing line of heads, wiped his sweating brow on his elkhide sleeve, and flexed his strong hands. His broad, tattooed cheeks and gray hair glistened with dampness. Scars from old battles puckered his flesh. He glanced at the gnarled war club where it lay propped against a tree, the copper spike gleaming.

He turned and called, “Nightshade?”

She shoved the brush aside and ducked out of the narrow cave entrance, standing tall, her red sleeves billowing in the stiff mountain wind. It still surprised him that she insisted upon wearing red, for the tradition came from a people they had both long ago abandoned.

Lifting a hand to her forehead, she examined the visitors climbing through the meadow. Their laughter echoed. As though in response, Thunderbird roared and the drizzle turned to a downpour. Rain cascaded down the sides of the mountains, making the granite shine. Nightshade smiled.