People of the Moon(16)
The young man wore a knee-length brown war shirt belted at the waist with a yellow cloth sash that held his belt pouch, a hafted chert knife, and a deer-bone stiletto. His thick black hair was drawn up tight against the back of his skull, held in a bun by a rabbit-bone skewer. Worry pulled at the young man’s eyes and reflected in the set of his mouth. His hawkish nose and thin face weren’t handsome, but he sat with a serious dignity that left the viewer feeling serenity.
The old man loudly swallowed the broth that trickled into his mouth; he gave a faint wave of his hand as the young man raised it again.
“Is that enough, Dune?” the young man asked.
“It is.” What was meant to be a grin was a frightening rictus. “Don’t waste it.”
“But you need your strength, Elder.”
The widening grin exposed more of the toothless gums and the rounded mound of the old man’s tongue. “My body no longer has need of strength. It is now little more than a husk for the souls. I feel it.”
“Feel it?”
“The breath-heart soul, it’s slipping, Poor Singer. Coming loose … like cottonwood down … drifting ever so lightly in my chest.”
The young man’s head lowered, chin coming to rest on his breastbone. “Please. Don’t go. I need you.”
“For what?”
“To teach me.”
“You know most of the things you need to know.”
“I know nothing, Holy Derelict.”
“Ah, then you know everything. The rest is illusion. Or deception.” The old man’s eyelids fluttered. “I have only one thing left for you to consider.”
“What is that?”
“Tell me the story of how the people came into this world. Not just the First People, but all of them.”
Poor Singer cleared his throat, beginning softly: “There are two kinds of ‘People’ in the world. First People and Made People. The First People were the descendants of those who bravely climbed through the four underworlds. They were led by a blue-black wolf and emerged into this world of light. Made People, on the other hand, have four main clans: the Bear Clan, Buffalo Clan, Coyote Clan, and Ant Clan. As well, many lesser clans exist, including the Redbird, the Buffalobeard, Badger, and the Canyon Wren clans. But each of these allies itself with the one of the four great clans, and so is considered part of it. Each clan was originally the animal its name implies. The Creator “Made” them. She breathed upon the animals and changed them into humans to provide company for the First People. For that reason the First People have always seen the Made People as inferior: They were once animals, whereas the First People have always been humans.”
“And the others?” the old man asked. “How do all the other peoples fit in?”
“Other peoples, like the Mogollon Fire Dogs, the Hohokam, the Tower Builders, the barbarian tribes, and wild peoples are not human at all. Despite their humanlike appearances, they have the souls of beasts. The Fire Dogs—my mother’s people—claim that they once lived as fiery wolves in Father Sun’s heart and were cast out because they started chewing up his body. As they ran through the heavens toward earth, their blazing wolf bodies transformed into human shapes. That’s why the Straight Path Nation believes that they have the souls of predators, born to kill.”
“Do you believe that? Being Fire Dog yourself?”
Poor Singer shook his head, then realized the old man had closed his eyes. “No, Dune. I don’t think my souls are different from anyone else’s.”
The old man’s jaw slipped sideways, his mouth an irregular oblong. He wet his lips, gathered himself, and asked, “What is the purpose of the turquoise wolf?”
Poor Singer reached under the elk robe and pulled out the little fetish that hung from a thong around Dune’s neck. “The turquoise wolf figurines are only made by the First People in Talon Town. Because the First People climbed through the Underworlds, they have secret knowledge of those places that Made People do not. They know the landmarks that lead souls to the Land of the Dead, and know the locations of the snares and traps that can catch a soul and hold it forever. For a price, First People will share this secret knowledge, and they might even provide a seeker with a turquoise wolf such as this one to guide him on the journey to the Land of the Dead.”
The words were barely more than a breath. “Do … you … believe that?”
Poor Singer twisted the hem of his roughly woven brown war shirt. “I don’t know anymore. That’s why I need you. Any certainty is gone. I’m lost, Dune.”
“That is the final … trial. To … lose yourself entirely.”