People of the Moon(143)

“Vermin,” Wind Leaf muttered. He glanced back at Webworm, seeing the Blessed Sun, looking shaken, his eyes blinking. When Wind Leaf turned back to where the old woman had been, the plaza was empty. He craned his neck, looking this way and that, but nowhere did he see her tall form. She might just as well have been a ghost.





Wrapped Wrist had never understood the simple pleasures of anonymity. Fearing he might be recognized, he and Crow Woman had waited until dark in a copse of piñon pine before crossing the fields in the First Moon Valley and climbing the Dog’s Tooth. During the day, she had said nothing more than was absolutely necessary. So be it. Once he’d delivered her to old White Eye, she full well knew the route back to Ironwood’s.

The walled enclosure atop the Dog’s Tooth reassured Wrapped Wrist when he led Crow Woman through the gap in its walls. As he’d climbed, he’d looked out across the valley. The familiar sights, sounds, faces, and places all served to comfort his anxious souls. Never would he have been so happy to simply retire to his uncle’s house, watch the fire as he shared a meal, and enjoy the company of his cousin’s children as they romped on the floor, playing with corn-shuck dolls, rolling little carved wooden animals across the packed dirt, and guessing which hand held the carved ball Uncle had made for them.

“It is Wrapped Wrist,” he called outside White Eye’s pit house.

“Enter,” the old man rasped.

Wrapped Wrist led the way up, glanced inside at the old man, and found him seated on his mat below the northern bench. His fingers cupped a small figurine. Behind his head a stone feather holder bristled with the feathers of eagle, buzzard, red-tailed hawk, and kestrel.

Wrapped Wrist climbed down the ladder, thankful to squat off to one side as Crow Woman scuttled down behind him. She seated herself, hard eyes on the old man.

His odd white eye seemed to gleam in the firelight. “What is the word from the war chief?”

“He sends his greetings, Elder,” Crow Woman said. “Along with a warning from young Ripple.”

White Eye heard something in her voice. “But you do not believe?”

Crow Woman shrugged ineffectively, though perhaps the keen-eared old man heard her clothing shift. “My beliefs have no importance. Ripple interrupted a council to speak with Matron Night Sun and Ironwood.”

“And what did Ripple say?” White Eye turned the little stone figurine. Wrapped Wrist finally identified it as a crudely formed eagle with its wings spread.

“He said that if the First People were to be defeated, it had to be done according to what Cold Bringing Woman told him.” Crow Woman appeared to fidget under that blind eye.

“How many warriors can he bring?”

“Perhaps thirty, Elder.”

“Thirty.” White Eye sat quietly for several heartbeats.

“We are trained, Elder. Not like the anxious young men you can recruit locally.”

“The young men I will pick shall have hearts strong enough for our purposes.”

“I didn’t mean to imply they weren’t courageous, Elder, just that the Blessed Sun will send many of his best warriors to hold Pinnacle Great House. The movement of large numbers of warriors will alert them to an attack. Knowing the war chief as I do, I can imagine that he will seek to avoid—”

“What were Ripple’s precise words?”

A pause.

Crow Woman closed her eyes, speaking precisely, as if she were pulling the words straight out of her memory. “I have seen fire Dancing with ice. Send word now. Tell White Eye that only the strongest threads of silk tether the web. If he would see the First People fall, he must call the elders to council. Spider Woman wants all of the flies in the web before we strike.” She paused. “The fire is loosened; flames rise high. The Dance is begun. In the coming days, Sister Moon’s veil will be spun. When she is finally draped in a smoke-black cloak it will be time for us to strike.”

“And after that?” White Eye asked.

“Nothing. He walked away.”

“And Poor Singer? Did he hear these words?”

“He did.”

“What was his reaction?”

“Poor Singer began to pack his family’s belongings in preparation of leaving. I did hear Poor Singer say that we needed to trust the gods. That wasn’t encouraging to those of us who have little use for gods.”

“Sister Moon’s veil will be spun,” White Eye mused. “Fire and ice.” He nodded. “At last the pieces begin to fit.”

“Fit how?” Wrapped Wrist asked.

The old man ignored him. “How does Ironwood plan on coming here? Surely he isn’t going to try and sneak in among the pilgrims. The Red Shirts will be watching for him and his people.”