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People of the Moon(205)

By:W. Michael Gear


“I will do nothing you ask of me.” Night Sun lifted her chin defiantly.

“Cut the cords that bind her,” Leather Hand ordered as several of his warriors bent and began pitching the gorgeous masks into the central fire. “She no doubt Dreams of escape, of slipping away in the night.” He was watching Ravenfire’s expression as he said, “Tonight, Matron Night Sun, you will Dance atop the burning thlatsinas. After this night, you will never walk again.”

Ravenfire only swallowed. He looked slightly ill as two warriors prodded Night Sun forward; then one shoved her into the fire pit, her bare feet stumbling over the burning masks.

She tried to flee, but with each step she took, the ring of warriors pushed her back.

Even when the smell of her burning flesh began to fill the air, Ravenfire’s expression remained strained, but not sympathetic.

Perhaps he is suited to be one of us?

Through it all, Night Sun locked eyes with his, as if her souls were untouched by the pain she had to be feeling.

Very well. He could always raise the stakes.





Dusk bore down on Flowing Waters Town, the sky black and cross. The smell of smoke had intensified while tiny black flecks of ash drifted down from the surly sky.

Spots crouched, his blanket around his shoulders, and wondered if it was the end of the world. A couple of sticks of firewood remained. His pile would have been gone by midday but for the horrendous return he asked for each piece.

People had been wary. He’d seen it in their eyes, felt that sense of foreboding as the wind sawed at Dusk House’s tall bulk, prodded at the doorways, and whistled around the square-cornered rooms.

Each time he glanced over at Nightshade, her dark eyes were fixed on his. No expression crossed her impassive face, but he could feel her anticipation. The question lay deep behind her eyes.

Yes, I’m here for you.

Spots exhaled worriedly, and realized his breath was white before his mouth. Gods, how cold was it going to get? Worse, the old woman was still naked, her thin bones having no protection against the increasing chill. People were staying inside, walking quickly, with wraps around their shoulders when they had to travel outside.

The circular bulk of the great kiva resembled a big head, vaults like eyes, the entrance a square muzzle with a yawning mouth. Atop the southeast gate, the guard huddled under his blanket, looking particularly glum. His expression left no doubt about his misery. The guard on the southwestern gate looked similarly preoccupied as he shivered in his war shirt. When he’d come to take his place, he’d been poorly dressed, having given no thought to the fact the chill would intensify.

“It’s almost dark,” Cactus Flower said from where she huddled in the next doorway. “Let’s just go home, Spots. Whatever you have to do, wait until the weather’s nicer.”

“I can’t.” He stepped out, shivered, and walked to where she’d taken shelter. Wind Baby had flipped up the corners of her blanket, mostly covering her pile of shells, jet bracelets, and locally made ceramic jars with their pretty black-on-white patterns.

She shook her head, a sober reserve in her eyes. “It smells like snow. You don’t want to be out in this.”

He smiled. “Would you do me the greatest of favors?”

She tilted her head. “In return for what?”

“Me.”

“What do you mean, you?”

“Will you go back to your farmstead, fix a warm dinner, and eat it? Then I want you to go to bed, and have the covers warm for me when I show up. I don’t know how long I will be, but when I do finally get there, I will be yours for as long as you want me.”

“You will be mine?”

He nodded. “To do whatever you want. To stay here and farm if you wish, or to go on the road, Trading where we will. I would be happy to continue fetching firewood for Trade here just as we’ve been doing. You decide, and I will agree to it.”

“Assuming you live through this?”

He shrugged.

“You know,” she told him, “the Blessed Matron suspected a young man and his dog of aiding a witch who was cursing people using bits of buffalo fur soaked in menstrual blood. She had him walled up in one of the interior rooms. People said they could hear the little dog scratching at the walls for days.”

“I’m not cursing anyone.”

“Can you imagine what that must have been like?” Cactus Flower asked, looking past him to Nightshade’s cage. “Slowly dying of thirst in the dark, all the sound deadened by the thick floors and walls.” She paused. “Do you think in the last days he clawed at the walls? It’s been said that people will rake their fingernails off in desperation.”