“What? The mountain?”
“And the valleys as well.”
“I don’t understand. Make it?”
“Re-create it. Here, in the plaza, with stones, dirt, and grass stems for trees. The way a potter makes a representation of the world when she forms a clay bowl. Pile up the rocks in as close a representation of the mountain as you can. Draw in the streams in the valleys. Make it so that my warriors can study it, know it, as if they were giants looking from above at the actual mountain.”
Bad Cast, with Whistle’s help, had gone to work, stacking rocks, laying a sandstone slab at a cant, and dumping soil over it along the slopes. Two round stones replicated the pillars. He used broken potsherds to indicate the villages, scratched lines marking the major trails, and stuck pine needles into the dirt to indicate trees. Making the model took him most of a day, for he had to portray Juniper Ridge, the mountains to the north and south, as well as their major villages.
When it was finished, Whistle fingered his chin, standing back. Afternoon sunlight cast shadows from the waist-high peak, and the lower rendition of Juniper Ridge.
The warrior said, “I think that’s it. Even the orientation is correct.”
Bad Cast nodded, arching his back and wincing at the pain from being bent over most of the day. “I think we should stick more pine needles into the slopes.”
“It doesn’t have to be perfect,” Whistle reminded. “Just good enough.”
“And you think that’s good enough?”
Whistle chuckled. “It’s a war map, not a sacred offering.”
Ripple’s voice surprised them from behind. “Sometimes they are one and the same.”
Bad Cast turned. Ripple stood silhouetted by the reddish light that filtered through the smoke-hazy sky. His skin might have been copper burnished with blood. Gods, how he had changed: Something about his eyes—they seemed larger, darkened by sadness. A pinching around his once-youthful face expressed an incalculable sense of loss. Before his vision, his frame had been bulky, flesh smooth; now it was composed of bone and fibrous muscle that slid under too-tight skin.
“What is this?” Whistle asked. “One or both?”
Ripple’s lips quivered. “That is for you to decide, warrior. Will you give up First Moon Mountain? Or your souls?”
“I don’t understand.” Whistle looked suddenly nervous.
“You will. Soon you must choose between your life and your souls. The only thing left to be discovered is how you will justify it.”
Whistle’s frown darkened, and then he waved it away. “I serve the war chief. If doing so costs me my life, so be it.”
Ripple nodded with the sagacity of one who knew more than he let on.
Whistle seemed to shiver, saying, “If you will excuse me, I must see to some things.”
Bad Cast watched him walk away, steps hurried and jerky. “What did you say that to him for?”
“So that he may prepare himself.”
Bad Cast stared at his friend. “Ripple, come on. If you know something, tell him. He’s Ironwood’s deputy. The war chief is sending him to meet with White Eye as soon as Wrapped Wrist and Crow Woman return with their report.”
“Events are moving faster than you would think.” Ripple inclined his head toward the room block back under the dull green ponderosas. The mud-splashed line of stone dwellings had taken on the reddish hue of the sky. Protruding roof poles were hung with net bags full of dried corn, chilies, and squash.
Ironwood and Night Sun had emerged from one of the rooms and were talking to Whistle and a dust-covered runner who had appeared out of the trees. The latter was a skinny youth in a brown pullover shirt. He talked hurriedly, arms waving in excitement. He carried a bow and a quiver of arrows.
Ironwood listened to the runner, expression growing stern. He turned and said something to Whistle. The Bee Flower Clan warrior jerked a grim nod, pivoted on his heel, and, with the runner, trotted off toward his shelter back in the trees.
Ironwood spoke tersely to Night Sun, then started across the beaten plaza. Night Sun followed at his heels, a determined look on her face. The tall war chief and formidable woman made for a provoking image: he resplendent in a red shirt and feathered kilt, she in a black dress, strings of gleaming beads at her throat. Her gray hair was twisted and pinned atop her head.
“Bad Cast?” he called as he approached. “Is it ready?”
“Yes, War Chief.”
Ironwood shot Ripple a wary glance. “Good evening, Dreamer. We have just received word: Sunwatcher Blue Racer is on his way to First Moon Mountain. He is traveling slowly because of the size of his party, but should be there in another four days.”