People of the Moon(217)

“Another roof just fell in,” Soft Cloth told the elder. “The sparks are whirling up into the air. The snow is falling in a red veil that fills the sky. It looks like bloody feathers as it swirls out of the night.”

Fir Brush watched mute. It had no form, no shape in her souls. When they had left the kiva that afternoon, they had had no order, just a quiet desperation. The council had disintegrated without the leadership of the elders. So many individuals had insisted on speaking. Some had argued for war, others for peace.

Some called for revenge for Ripple’s death. Others insisted that he was obviously a false Prophet, or no assassin could have killed him.

In the end, they had trickled away by ones and twos to climb First Moon Mountain. They had watched the great forest fire as it burned down from the north, felt the change in the wind, and stopped to borrow blankets and clothing from relatives who lived on the mountain.

By the time the first flakes of snow had been whisked across the mountain by the whistling wind, the words, “Cold Bringing Woman’s promise” and “Ripple’s vision” were passing from lip to lip.

As the temperature dropped, they had crowded toward Guest House, creeping up in the dark, filing past. When one of the Made People stepped out to protest, he was clubbed down. For the most part, the other Made People just watched them pass, like wraiths in the storm.

What amazed Fir Brush was how quiet they had been. Even when they approached the Eagle’s Fist, no one had spoken.

“Who comes?” Yucca Sock had called, and Orenda had answered, “The people come, Yucca Sock. Let them pass.”

As Fir Brush led the first of them up the ladder, it was to find the western plaza kiva shooting a yellow column of flame into the night.

Later Fir Brush would only remember images, nothing particularly coherent. She would remember the shrieks of rage and horror as the elders were discovered dead. She had seen Crow Woman and Wrapped Wrist as they ran into each other’s arms.

She remembered Yellow Petal, shrieking and Dancing as she clutched a red-painted feather holder she’d taken from Larkspur’s room. She clutched it to her chest, the eagle, hawk, and macaw feathers waving back and forth. She was leaping as she cavorted with Black Bush and his teenage sister, Red Thorn. They weren’t the only ones. Everyone was looting the place, racing the flames as they burned through roof after roof.

Finally she remembered Ironwood shouting, pleading, as her people found Matron Larkspur, Burning Smoke, and Water Bow. They were dragged kicking and screaming from the smoking rooms.

He was frantic, trying to stop the howling Moon People, as one by one, they threw the First People, screaming into the burning kiva.

In the end, Ironwood had collapsed onto his knees, Pinnacle Great House burning around him. He knelt there, sweaty skin shining in the firelight, head bowed, shoulders slumped in defeat. He might even have died there, consumed with the rest, but Crow Woman and Wrapped Wrist braved the heat and dragged him from the growing inferno.

“What terror have we wrought?” Bad Cast asked.

“The end of our world,” White Eye answered. “Come. Someone needs to get me off this mountain before I freeze. The storm is intensifying. We need to seek shelter.”

“There is no shelter,” Fir Brush said. “Not for my brother, or me, or any of us.”





Fifty-nine



THE UNBROKEN CIRCLE





Oh, yes, at my age I know exactly what life is.

Life is the flash of a raven’s wings in the sunlight. It is the white breath of the buffalo in the wintertime. It thrives in the glowing bellies of the Cloud People as they sail across the sky to melt into the sunrise.

And Death?

Death is no mystery.

It is merely the raven’s dark wing.

It reflects from the buffalo’s black hooves, stamping out eternity.

It is the crackle of a thunderhead flashing lightning.

Do you really believe there is a difference between a raven’s wing and a raven’s wing flashing sunlight? A raven is still a raven. Or between a buffalo’s white breath and those terrible churning black hooves? It is still a buffalo. Or a glowing cloud and a roaring thunderhead? Both are manifestations of a cloud.

No matter what foolish holy people try to tell you, there is only one animal.

It lives to die.

And it dies to live.

No other truth is as simple.

Or as complex.





Cold settled on the land, deep and unforgiving as violent winds blew the storm on to the south. In its wake, a crystal sky gave way to the promise of sunrise.

War Chief Wind Leaf climbed onto the fourth-story roof and stared out in disbelief at the blue world around him. His breath froze before his face, his eyes on the fields. Snow draped the corn as if carefully laid. Icicles hung sparkling from the long green leaves. Bean plants bowed under the white weight, and the larger squash wore hats of snow.