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People of the Moon(211)

By:W. Michael Gear


“Free yourself,” Nightshade repeated as she reached forward and rubbed the datura over Webworm’s lips.

“Elder?” Spots barely mouthed the words. “Are you trying to kill him?”

Spots jumped when Webworm screamed, “Gods, no!”The man sat bolt upright. “Night Sun! Don’t burn! Stop the fire!”

Webworm blinked, eyes fixed on the distance. He rubbed his face, smearing the gray paste over his skin. With fumbling fingers he reached for the white cup Nightshade had filled and sucked down large swallows. As he finished the drink he froze, eyes sliding sideways to take in Nightshade’s masked form. The now-empty cup sagged in his nerveless fingers.

“Who—who are you?” The words came with difficulty. His glazed eyes were wide with fear.

“I have come for your heart,” Nightshade said in the formal tongue of the First People.

“My heart?” Webworm blinked, his eyes glassy from the drug. Sweat was beading on his skin, trickling down around his loose gray-streaked hair.

“You are no longer using it. Only the serpent lives there now. It is black, polluted by your actions. Your orders are reaping the storm, Blessed Sun. Your world is dying. If you doubt, go out and look to the north. See the wrath of Cold Bringing Woman. Feel the bitter flakes of snow that she blows out of the north.”

“Snow?” he asked stupidly.

“Your harvest is freezing, Webworm. The Flute Player has been caught by surprise. The thlatsinas are Dancing even now. With each beat of their feet, they drive snow from Cold Bringing Woman’s storm. The old gods never saw them as they left Cloud Maker Mountain, climbed the Rainbow Serpent, and crossed the smoke pall to help Cold Bringing Woman Dance the storm out of the north. By this time tomorrow, the ripening corn will be frozen solid on its cob. The beans will blacken in their pods, and the sunflowers will turn dark and wither. Some of the squash may be saved, but the immature gourds are lost.”

“What snow?” he repeated, then crawled on wobbly hands and knees to the rear of the room. There he fumbled for the handles, and pulled down a wooden door that had been carefully fitted into the north wall.

A gust of wind immediately blew through the room, and with it came a chilling brace of winter air. Spots could see snowflakes as they blew into the room, landed on the floor, and melted into damp spots. Webworm stared out into the stygian night, sniffing at the damp smells of smoke and snow.

“Fire and ice,” Nightshade said with an empty voice. “Opposites crossed. You sit at the crossroads of the old world and the new.”

It took Webworm three tries to fit the doorway back in place. As suddenly the fire died down to a gleam. Nightshade added another piece of wood.

Webworm collapsed onto his butt, one leg crossed, an anxious look on his drug-slack face. “I can’t lose the harvest. Thousands will revolt. They will blame me.”

“You are too late.” Nightshade’s voice echoed from inside the mask. “The cock-hatched serpent cares only for itself. The only way to save yourself is to surrender your heart.”

“Who are you?” He shot her a glassy glance. His voice began to slur. “Is that you, Seven Stars? Wait, you must be Blue Racer. But no. You’re supposed to be atop First Moon Mountain. Yes, that’s right, and if you don’t bring the rain, I’m taking … taking your … heart.” Even as he said them, the words choked in his throat. He shot a fearful glance at Nightshade’s mask, eyes bulging, sweat popping out on his face.

“The time has come, Webworm. Your tortured Dreams must end. I’ve heard you crying and moaning in the night. You want to be free of that, don’t you?”

“Yes.” His head wobbled as he stared at her mask.

“I can save you from the serpent in the egg. He possesses your souls, and as long as he has them, your breath-heart soul will never escape to travel to the Sky Worlds. You will never see your beloved Cloud Playing, never hold her in your arms. You will never fly up toward Father Sun in the company of your mother, Featherstone. She has so many things to tell you now that her wits have returned.”

“I can’t give you my heart!” Webworm cried.

“You looked into the serpent’s eye,” she told him. “That was the moment it entered your body and wound its way into your heart.”

His eyes had lost their focus, and he blinked in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

“Tell me,” Nightshade asked. “Are you happy?”

“Happy?”

“Are you? Do you ever awaken, glad to be alive? Do you ever finish the day, thinking, ‘I have a good life’?”