People of the Masks(17)
He’d hated her for that … for a time.
But he’d gotten over it.
He reached up to touch the shell-bead necklace around his throat. He’d restrung it ten times over the past thirty-seven winters. About to leave on his first war raid, he’d been afraid, and filled with longings he could not explain. He’d gone to Dust to say goodbye. She’d held him tightly, and told him how proud she was of him, how much faith she had in his abilities as a warrior. When she’d draped the necklace over his head, he’d felt strength flow into his veins … . He’d never let the necklace out of his sight.
Yearning settled in the pit of his empty stomach. He started to run, heading home to her and his grandchildren. He especially longed to see Planter, his daughter. Sparrow might not be able to do anything else right, but he could help her and his grandchildren.
He neared the crest of the hill overlooking Earth Thunderer Village, and slowed to a walk. The crows had circled. They sailed over his head, diving playfully, cawing to each other. Sparrow forced his wobbling knees onward and up.
Strange. By now he ought to hear voices, and see smoke rising from the village fires. The dogs ought to be barking … .
Sparrow followed the trail over the hill and came to an abrupt halt. The sapling lodge frames stood naked; the bark coverings had been carefully rolled up and carried away. Not even a whiff of smoke spiraled up from the cold fire pits. Earth Thunderer Village had been gone for days.
Anger mixed nauseatingly with despair.
“Oh, Dust Moon,” he said through gritted teeth.
To track them down might take days.
His shaking knees went out from under him. He collapsed into the dirt, and the rich scent of damp soil filled his nostrils.
Rather than rising, and beginning his pursuit, he rolled to his side and tried to sleep.
The Dream rolls in like thunder over the lake.
I am cold. Freezing cold. Running …
Pale light streams down through the winter-bare branches to dapple the shining face of the Boy. He Dances through collapsed piles of burned bark, jumbles of charred roof beams, standing skeletons of walls—all that is left of Paint Rock Village.
His laughter is like the melodious call of the finch. Sweet. Joyous.
He climbs upon a smoldering roof beam, spins on one foot and leaps to the ground, landing as soft and silent as mist.
No delicate ash puffs beneath his moccasined feet. The smoke spiraling up from the beam does not even waver as he Dances alongside it.
All is still.
No one knows he is there.
Except you. And me.
And the dead who watch with ash-caked eyes.
The shell beads on his hide shirt glimmer as he skips through an ocean of torn bodies. Some have arrows sticking from their chests. Others have crushed skulls.
The Boy opens his arms to the sun-drenched sky, and calls:
“Wake up, my shadows! Hurry! Grandfather Day Maker’s children are hunting you. If they catch you, I will lose the endless eyes you have opened in me.”
The Boy turns and stares. His eyes have changed. They are no longer wide and dark; they are glowing embers. Bright gold. Fiery. He fills his lungs with the smoky air, and shouts, “Have you no ears? Hurry! You are being hunted!”
The Boy spins around, laughing, and the ash from the burned village whirls up, growing blacker, forming a deep dark hole in the face of the world.
It is the gaping maw of oblivion.
Inside it, I see millions of gaunt, stricken faces, crying out for help … .
Four
“Blue Raven? Blue Raven, they are here!”
Plume threw back the hide door curtain to the longhouse, and peered inside. Ten winters old, the boy had a broad flat face. He wet his lips nervously and used a grimy hand to shove shoulder-length black hair away from his eyes. “They just arrived! Starflower says you must hurry. But just you! No one else. They are taking the False Face Child to the council house!”
The longhouse went silent.
They had been waiting for this, most like children expecting an enchanted gift from the Spirit World, some as if dreading the terrible punishment they deserved for the crime. Blue Raven’s gaze drifted down the house’s hundred-hand length, studying his relatives’ taut faces. He had opposed this raid. They knew it. All forty sat perfectly still, horn spoons of food halted halfway to their mouths.
“Let me gather my things.” Blue Raven set down his freshly poured cup of fir-needle tea. Tall, with long graying black hair and an oval face, he had seen forty-one winters. He reached for his cape.
His aging mother and young niece sat across the fire from him. Both appeared to be in shock. His mother, Frost-in-the-Willows, had her head down, face blank, but her breathing had gone shallow. The triangles of pounded copper encircling the collar of her tan dress shimmered with each swift exhalation.