People of the Moon(187)
Broken pottery cracked and popped under his weight. Bits of torn matting, cloth, split baskets, drying racks, and other household debris were scattered about.
Curls of smoke rose around him, the acrid odor clogging his nose. He closed his eyes, inhaling the stench of destruction into his souls. When he opened them and looked north, he could see the distant forest fire: a thousand winking eyes that vanished and reappeared in the smoke palls.
Those were the mountains of his youth. He had traveled every trail, scaled every peak. He’d known them as intimately as this valley he called home. The clearing where Cold Bringing Woman had appeared to him was now turned to ash. Had the great bear survived? Or had that shared meal of elk been among his last?
He blinked at smoke-induced tears and remembered the cool forests where he’d hunted. The mice and voles wouldn’t have escaped. Many of the deer and elk would have been trapped in the blind valleys. How many of the stately trees now existed as burned snags?
The time has come. He threw his arms wide, aware of the heat that radiated from the burned buildings to warm his skin.
In the vision he had seen the River of Stones running black with ash; then that afternoon, it had been as he had seen. The image was burned into his memory. The farmers he had overheard were discussing how it would help finish the corn, the added nutrients sure to guarantee full kernels and large ears.
“What an empty promise the gods have made.” He let the first sob rise from his chest. Hot tears trickled down his cheeks.
Cold Bringing Woman? Can I cancel my bargain? Can I just go away and save this world? Will you allow me to escape with Orenda? Can I have my children? Can I die of old age, having lived a ripe and full life?
He felt rather than saw or heard the dark rasp of wings in the smoke-laden air. Smoke and tendrils of ash whirled about him.
No, the bargain was long since struck. Only now, as the immensity of it was brought home, did he wish that he’d been left to die in his prison deep inside Pinnacle House. That end, painful as it was to his body, was preferable to what his souls were about to suffer.
He heard the crunching steps behind him. Then Ironwood said, “You asked me to meet you here.”
“In the vision, Cold Bringing Woman said I would face you in the smoking ruins of my people’s house. I didn’t know what that meant. But here I am, and here you are.”
“Face me?” Ironwood cocked his head. “Does this have anything to do with the signals we’ve seen flashed from Pinnacle House?”
“Cold Bringing Woman said you would have to decide if you would save one, or many. Tonight you must choose if you are a husband or a chief. Will you save your souls, or your people? Power awaits your decision.”
Ironwood was silent, a towering dark form in the night. “My souls or my people? I don’t understand. I have always chosen my people.”
“As you did the night you lay with Night Sun and conceived a child? As you did when you refused the temptation to kill Snake Head before he could become Blessed Sun? How many times have you ignored your responsibilities to salve your heart?”
“Many,” he said reluctantly. “What are you trying to tell me?”
“That when the time comes, the choice of the heart will oppose the choice of leadership. You may choose either way, War Chief. There is no wrong answer.”
“I still don’t understand. What you are trying to get me to choose?”
Ripple turned, pointing up past the dark pillars of First Moon Mountain. There, behind the billowing black of the smoke-filled night, Sister Moon appeared for the briefest of seconds, her round shape but a faint reddish disc in the murky sky. She shone for less than a heartbeat before she faded into nothingness.
“Sister Moon has donned her smoke-black cape, War Chief. By this time tomorrow, we must commit ourselves to the Dance.”
Fifty-two
The wind brought Bad Cast awake. He lay curled against Soft Cloth, thankful for her warmth under the thin blanket. Another gust whistled through the ladder uprights where they protruded from the roof.
He sniffed, aware that the odor of smoke was stronger. Outside a basket tumbled across the plaza, pushed by the wind. He hoped nothing fragile or important had been inside. Something wooden was blown over to an accompanying clatter.
“Storm?” Soft Cloth asked.
“Sounds like.”
She sniffed. “That’s not our fire, is it?”
“No. Sure is strong.” He glanced around, assured that no flames were licking at the inside of their pit house. House fires terrified his people, especially because escape was through the roof smoke hole. Just ask Spots; he could testify to the terror of a burning house.