People of the Moon(12)
In an effort to remove the offending images, Leather Hand had ordered the local barbarians to scrape the walls down to bare stone. Then he had them carefully collect the scrapings and bear the baskets of flaked clay three days’ walk over to the River of Sorrows. There they were cast into the current to be carried off to the distant north so their scattered remains couldn’t pollute the soil under his feet.
For the base coat he had decided on a light brown plaster and required runners to carry in white, yellow, red, brown, and black clays. To these he had had the artists add mineral and organic pigments so that the colors were bright and fresh. He nodded as his gaze passed from image to image. Where just days ago Sternlight’s accursed thlatsinas had blasphemed the walls, now the old gods once again reigned.
“Featherstone is dead,” he said aloud. “And the thlatsinas are dead with her. The Blessed Webworm has ordered all trace of their existence to be obliterated. Any who practice their ways are to be punished.”
A weight had been lifted from his shoulders. His souls had taken on an airy feel, floating and light. When he looked at the east wall Spider Woman’s image now Danced on the clean plaster. She wore a bright yellow dress and carried a feather prayer fan. In the south, the Flute Player cavorted, his burden basket riding high on his back. Three feathers curled up from his head. He held his flute to his mouth, and his enlarged penis protruded before him. In the west the Blue God thrust her arms out, seeking her next victim, her open mouth ready to devour the soul of any unwary prey. Finally, if he turned his head, he could see Old Woman North, dressed in white, as she lifted her staff to bring the cold winds of winter into the world. Between the figures, the spirals of Father Sun and circles of Sister Moon marked the southeast, southwest, northwest, and northeast. Cloud People sent rain from the skies; zigzags of lightning marked their passing. Finally, the Plumed Serpent hovered over the bench, his body bright blue, eyes hollow circles of turquoise behind a black forked tongue.
“It is a beautiful place now,” Leather Hand said fervently. “I can feel peace here, as if the old gods are breathing from the very stone and plaster.”
“I fear your peace shall be short-lived. The barbarians can smell the First People’s weakness on the wind. At the first hint of vulnerability, they’ll be ready to pounce.”
“Not as long as they fear my warriors.”
Seven Stars gave him a knowing look. “A whipped dog fears its master. Each time you beat it with a cudgel, it cowers back, ears lowered, tail between its legs. But with each blow, War Chief, it longs to bite back. Sometimes a bit of succulent meat and a kind word can succeed where a blow will not.”
“I have no meat to give, Priest.” Leather Hand leaned his head back, feeling the cool touch of the damp plaster. At least in Tall Piñon Town part of the world had been set straight. He could feel the lines of Power running through the great kiva, realigning themselves into the wonderful patterns of the past.
Succulent meat and a kind word? What had that ever accomplished except to create suspicion about one’s resolution to follow a given path?
Closing his eyes he could imagine his brother’s face. Those knowing eyes were staring at him out of the past, boring out from Leather Hand’s memory. A faint smile hung on his brother’s lips, a question in the arch of his eyebrows.
“Where are you now, Brother?” The words carried in the silence of the great kiva. The fire popped in answer, and the painted images of the gods watched him with a sober curiosity.
Seven Stars said nothing as Leather Hand asked, “Does your soul Dance with the Ancestors? Have they welcomed you with open arms?”
He smiled, imagining the scene. Mother, Uncle, their grandparents, all would be laughing, taking his brother’s breath-heart soul into their embrace.
“Your brother was a great man,” Seven Stars said softly. “He was taken into the realm of the dead with great joy.”
By the gods, I miss him. A stitch of grief lanced his breast. In spite of himself, Leather Hand clasped a fist, the muscles of his arm knotting.
“Tell me about him,” Seven Stars prodded.
“Wraps His Tail grew up Dreaming about being a warrior. He always told stories about the day he would assume the Blessed Sun’s red shirt and take up his warrior’s duties. He bragged of the battles he would fight, of the wealth he would accumulate, and the glory that would be his as he fought the Tower Builders in the north and the Mogollon Fire Dogs to the south.
“Wraps His Tail was accepted as a warrior just after his seventeenth birthday and rose rapidly through the ranks to the position of deputy under the great War Chief Ironwood.”