People of the Black Sun(103)

“Are you hoping to Trade here?”

“Absolutely. That’s why we’re here. And you’d better remember it.” As he opened his paints box, the cold leather hinges squealed. “As we Trade, we will talk about the great miracle that occurred during the Bur Oak battle, but we’ll just be gossiping, passing along the news of other nations, as Traders do.”

“What about Sky Messenger’s vision? Shouldn’t we—”

“Really, Hiyawento.” Towa looked up and his mouth quirked. “How poor a Trader do you think I am? Since I first heard of his vision, I’ve been carrying the story everywhere I go. The last time I was here, the Ruling Council called in every storyteller. They asked me to retell the story over and over, to make sure they had the details right, so they could go home and repeat it.”

“Do they believe his vision?”

Towa rose with his paints box in hand, studied Hiyawento’s eaglelike face and dipped a fingertip into the white paint. A mixture of clay, crushed shell, and bear fat, it had a pleasing sparkle. As he began painting Hiyawento’s face, he answered, “I happen to be a very good storyteller. When I was finished with the fifth telling, no one with a soul could have doubted its truth. Every jaw in the council house hung slack with awe. Even the children had hushed and stared at me with huge eyes.”

Hiyawento smiled. “Sky Messenger will appreciate that, old friend.”

“He’d better. Retelling the story forced me to remain in the midst of the sickness far longer than I’d intended. I had to stay away from Riverbank Village for another five days to make sure I hadn’t been infested with the Evil Spirits. The last thing I wished to do was carry them home to Riverbank Village.” In a sad voice he added, “Though when I arrived I discovered sickness had already entered the village, carried in the bodies of Flint captives taken during the latest raid on Monster Rock Village.”

Concerned, Hiyawento asked, “How are your wife and son?”

“Both were sickened, but got well. I was fortunate. Many others perished.”

The expressions on Towa’s handsome face shifted as he scrutinized his painting, then decided to add black circles around Hiyawento’s eyes and mouth. “There, not even Sky Messenger would recognize you.”

While Towa painted his own face, red on top and gray on the bottom, Hiyawento’s gaze returned to the village. As Elder Brother Sun descended in the west, the colors of the late afternoon began to shade toward dusk. The yellow sunlight that had illuminated hundreds of huts only moments ago had turned deep amber, and the lengthening forest shadows pointed eastward like black lightning bolts zigzagging across the hills.

When the breeze shifted, the scent of hundreds of campfires blew around him.

Towa tucked his paints box back into his pack, tugged the laces tight and slipped it over his shoulders again. As he rose, he exhaled the words, “I think we should get a little closer. Their scouts will already have spotted us. If we just keep standing here they will become suspicious that we are Mountain People spies. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s go, Wrass.”

Towa led the way down the hill at a slow trot.





Thirty-nine

Matron Jigonsaseh stopped long enough to tuck grimy black hair behind her ears. As the hush of evening settled over Bur Oak Village, small fires continued to burn, mostly in the longhouse roofs, sending ash floating across the plaza in waves. The cool air was pungent with the odor of charred slippery elm bark, and redolent with the cries of the wounded and grieving. Their losses had been devastating. When they were attacked again, not if, they’d be overrun. She suspected it would take Negano less than four hands of time to completely destroy the last survivors of the Standing Stone nation.

She propped a hand on CorpseEye where he rested in her belt, and continued toward the wounded where they were laid out in rows. The few remaining pots of water had been stashed close to them. From this point on, only the wounded that were certain to live would receive water. Her long-empty stomach—empty of both food and water, for she would not eat or drink if her warriors couldn’t—had been playing tricks on her souls. Sometimes the screams and sobs seemed far away and tiny, like the incoherent dreams born of a fever. Later, they bombarded her like huge fists, beating her heart to dust. She was tired, so tired, but she could not lie down until this was finished.

A curious numbness had begun to filter through her body at noon, and totally possessed her by sundown, killing her emotions. She should feel glad that they had survived another day, but the only thought that came to her was that she had to figure out a way to make it just one more. One more day, my ancestors, just let me fight for one more day.