People of the Masks(153)

Dust shouted, “Dust Moon! Matron of Earth Thunderer Village, and her family. Who are you?”

The woman wiped her hands on her brown skirt, and narrowed her eyes. “I am Redbud, sister of Hungry Owl. Are you alone? Just the three of you?”

Sparrow stopped, his nocked bow down at his side, and scanned the trees. “Yes,” he answered. “We are alone. Are you expecting someone else?”

Like the Faces of the Forest stepping out at dark, dozens of people slipped from behind tree trunks. Each person had a bow or knife, even children barely old enough to walk. The villagers closed in, surrounding the newcomers. People whispered at the sight of Rumbler, and their eyes widened.

Sparrow released the tension on his bow, and slowly spread his arms. “We mean you no harm.”

Dust called, “This is no way to greet your relatives. We have come to speak with Patron Hungry Owl! Where is he?”

A slender young man ducked from the lodge at the far western edge of the village, straight up the hill in front of them. He wore a red and black striped shirt, and had plaited his long black hair into a single braid. His turned-up nose rode over full lips.

“Forgive us, Dust Moon,” Hungry Owl said as he hurried forward. “We can spare no sentiment these days.” But he embraced Dust Moon and whispered, “It is good to see you. Come. Share the fire in my lodge.”

“Thank you, Hungry Owl. We are probably being followed. You should post lookouts, just in case—”

“We already have lookouts posted, Matron, that’s how we knew you were coming. But thank you for telling me. Please, this way.”

Hungry Owl turned and walked back up the hill. Dust fell in behind, and Rumbler trotted at her heels, one hand holding onto her skirt.

Sparrow walked last in line, nodding to the warriors he passed. Many wore bandages on arms or legs. One had a broad swath of cloth wrapping his right shoulder. Blood dyed the fabric. Their visit must have forced him from his robes.

Sparrow recognized none of them. It had been seven or eight winters since he, Dust, and Flintboy had been here. In his fourth winter, everything had excited and delighted Flintboy. But much had changed. Children had grown up. The elders Sparrow remembered were gone. Flintboy was gone … .

He ducked beneath the door curtain into the firelit warmth. Buffalo robes covered the floor, and the scent of rose-hip tea filled the air. He knelt beside Dust, across the fire from Hungry Owl. Rumbler sat at the back of the lodge, between Hungry Owl and Dust, his hands on his drawn-up knees, his gaze taking in everything.

Sparrow shifted to a cross-legged position and set his bow at his side.

Pots lined the walls, globular in shape, with round bottoms. Rocks had been wedged around the bases to keep the pots upright. Unpainted, drab designs decorated the clay: checks, raised squares, and the markings from cord-wrapped sticks. In the final stages of shaping a pot, the potter slapped the exterior with the flat face of a paddle. To keep the paddle from sticking to the clay, the paddle was often carved into a checkered pattern, or ribbed with wood. Many people preferred to wrap the paddle with cord. A good potter usually smoothed over these impressions before firing the pot, but these had not been touched. Perhaps the pots had been made in haste? To replace those destroyed during Jumping Badger’s attack?

The fire cast a flickering amber light over the soot-coated ceiling, and wavered from the finely woven baskets hanging on the walls.

Dust slipped out of her pack and lifted her cape over her head, revealing her yellow dress. The fringes on the sleeves danced long after she’d stopped moving. “I’m sorry we frightened you, Hungry Owl. We should have called out before we stepped into the plaza.”

Hungry Owl reached for the dishes stacked beside the fire pit, and pulled out four cups. A cone-shaped teapot rested in the coals at the side of the pit. “We’ve been cautious since the attack. Perhaps too cautious, but we’re afraid t6 relax our guard. We have lookouts posted on the surrounding high points. They report any strangers that come near.”

Dust smoothed the frizzy gray hair away from her face. Her braid hung down the middle of her back. “I think that’s wise,” Dust said softly, then added, “I was sorry to hear about your father. Mouse Bone was a great leader.”

Hungry Owl smiled sadly, and started dipping up cups of tea for them. He handed the first cup to Dust. “Just before the attack, he was speaking of you and Silver Sparrow. He could never quite believe that you’d divorced. He said you always seemed inseparable.” Hungry Owl handed the second cup to Sparrow.

He took it, saying, “We are. It just took Dust a while to realize it.”