Tall Man scuttled up to her, reaching out. “Wait!”
“If you’ve got Power, now’s the time to use it.”
“The danger isn’t with Mica Bird! It’s the Mask! Be careful.
Leave it to me!” He twisted then, sliding out of his backpack and fumbling with the straps.
She barely heard him, finding a fire-hardened hickory digging stick thrust into the snow before the doorway. No doubt the one Mica Bird had used to desecrate his grandfather’s grave with.
She had to tug to free it from the frozen ground, but the weight reassured her.
Thus armed, she took a deep breath and ducked through the door flap. Like most of the big clan houses, this one had been built in two sections, joined by a narrow passage in the middle.
The outer—the one she was now in—was reserved for visitors, general clan meetings, and secular activities.
The interior of the clan house was dark, eerie. The feeling of malicious Power hovering in the cold air strengthened. In the sudden silence, Star Shell could hear the frantic beating of her heart. Unseen things moved, stirring the air.
“Mica Bird? Where are you?”
Silence.
The door hanging shifted, and in her fear, Star Shell whirled, bringing up the digging stick. She stopped a split instant before she brained Tall Man. He looked about warily. A rolled bundle of wolfhide filled his stunted arms.
“Careful,” the Magician warned. It took a moment before she realized that he didn’t refer to the fact that she’d almost killed him.
“Mica Bird?” she called again, stepping into the center of the dark room. A creaking sound came from down the dark passage that led into the rear.
She blinked, trying to clear her vision. Why did it have to be so dark? Did something move back there in the shadows? ” Mica Bird? It’s Star Shell. I’m back. Where are you?”
The faint creak sounded again.
Her eyes were adapting to the low light. She took another step, noticing the faint glow of embers in the main fire hearth.
Familiar benches lined the far wall. Ceramic pots lay scattered about, most of them broken. Spilled goosefoot seeds grated underfoot.
What if he was wearing the Mask? What if he used it on her?
She had no defense.
She kicked something that rolled hollowly, unevenly, to one side. Glancing down, she gasped and backed a step. The broken skull lay on its side like a cracked egg, its empty eye sockets staring vacantly. Peering closely, she could see broken bones strewn all over the floor—splintered as if they’d been smacked by a hammerstone.
His grandfather! A sob caught in her throat; the urge to vomit tickled her stomach.
In horror, she whispered, “Oh, Mica Bird, what have you done?” She crept forward, glancing into the passage that led to the rear section.
Shattered pottery crunched under her wet moccasins as she entered the narrow passage. The place smelled of seasoned wood, smoke, and leather.
Blessed Spirits, will this never end? She tightened her grip on the digging stick, painfully aware of the Magician’s footsteps scuffing the floor behind her.
The darkness pressed down, suffocating despite the cold air that stirred. A somber presence seemed to linger in the murk, drifting over her, threatening, measuring.
Grandfather’s ghost. It had to be.
She ceased to battle the trembling in her legs and stepped into the rear section. The creaking was louder now, the sound like straining wood. Yes, something moved in the rear of the room.
Something in the air, floating, ..
Her mouth had gone dry; the digging stick shook as she lifted it, ready to strike. In a bare whisper, she asked, “Mica Bird?”
She could see it now, dangling, spinning slowly in time to the creaking of the wood.
No! It couldn’t be!
The Magician stepped around her warily, angling off to one side. He made a clucking sound, like a scolding grouse, and picked something up from the floor; then, as if burned, he let out a cry and hastily dropped it, muttering to himself as he wrestled with the wolfhide. She knew the shape of the Mask.
Star Shell stood rooted, barely aware of Tall Man’s movements.
Her eyes had fixed’on the body of her husband where it spun in the air.
He hung naked, his head oddly cocked to one side. In the dim light, she could see the tongue, swollen and protruding, the glassy eyes bulged out in terror. And yes, there it was: a thick twist of rope that suspended him from the heavy rafter. The harsh fiber had cut deeply into the puffy flesh of Mica Bird’s neck.
“I’ve got it,” the Magician groaned. “It’s covered, girl.
Don’t—whatever you do—don’t take the Mask out of this sack.”
She barely heard. Mica Bird’s body slowed to a stop—that glassy stare drilling into her—then began rotating slowly in the other direction.