People of the Moon(22)
What a terrible jest the gods played when a person awakened every morning in midwinter to find his water jar frozen solid, but with a fresh coating of dust across its surface.
He sighed and returned his attention to the approaching party. The weather would change. It always did.
With quick hands he straightened his bright red war shirt, picked up his bow and quiver, and slung them over his shoulder. After tying his war club to his sash he quickly descended the ladder to the third floor, crossed the roofs, and trotted down the ladder to the second. A stairway led him to the first floor and finally the plaza.
Passing between the First People’s kiva and the great kiva, his path took him across the plaza and out the southeastern gap in the walls. On the way he saluted the guard perched on the roof above and ignored the collection of colorful Traders who displayed their wares beside the walls. Wind Leaf made his way onto the earthen berm that spread over the floodplain.
Dusk Town, like most of their sacred structures, was a representation in miniature of the Five Worlds the First People believed in. The roof where he had first stood represented the Fifth World in which the people currently lived. The Fourth World, or Feather-Wing World, was represented by the first two stories of the town. The Third World, or Fog World, had its counterpart in the open plaza. Beyond the southern storerooms the flat berm portrayed the Sulfur-Smell World. To reach the First, or Soot World, one had to enter the kiva and seek the sipapu, or tunnel, that led down to the land of Power and danger.
People had begun to call back and forth, and now a crowd of onlookers began to assemble on the berm behind him. Happy calls and greetings could be heard. It was quite a collection: Hohokam Traders, local farmers, some of the potters, fletchers, and weavers. But for Yellowgirl’s stern nature, half the construction slaves would have been there, too.
As Wind Leaf waited, the Blessed Sun, Webworm, followed by White Stone and the two ranks of red-shirted warriors, climbed up to greet him. The Blessed Sun wore a tan-and-blue shirt that reached to his knees. The hem was still damp from fording the river, but in the arid heat, it would dry within moments.
Webworm was in his midforties, his face wrinkled with worry. He had once had a bland expression, but these days it was perpetually tight; the man’s eyes never quite hid an incipient panic. Gray streaked the long hair he’d wound into a bun at the back of his head. He’d pinned it with several gorgeous turkey-bone skewers inlaid with turquoise. Three necklaces of ground turquoise beads hung at his neck, one of them interspersed with polished copper bells. Long earrings of carved jet sported accents of bright red coral. In the light, Wind Leaf could see the small spirals tattooed on the man’s chin below his broad mouth.
“Welcome home, Blessed Sun.” Wind Leaf bowed, fingertips to his chin in a sign of deference.
“It’s good to be home,” Webworm granted with a sigh. “Gods, I’m tired.” He rocked from foot to foot as he looked back at the rest of the procession. The litter bearers, mostly slaves, looked ragged and footsore. Most of the Made People, dressed in brown coarsely woven tunics, carried large packs or assortments of pots in net bags. They, too, were grimy, sweating, and dust-streaked—but for their legs where the river had just washed them clean.
Webworm raised a hand. “Thank you all for your courtesy and help. Go now to your families and rest. You’ve earned it.”
The column disintegrated, people calling well wishes, or touching their chins as they walked away. Some of the Made People plodded on into Dusk Town in search of their dwellings. They faded into the crowd as hucksters offered Trade, and friends demanded details of the journey.
“Creeper?” Webworm called to the Buffalo Clan leader. “If you would see me later.”
“Yes, Blessed Sun.” The older man nodded, a dogged loyalty in his eyes as he bowed in respect.
“Walk with me,” Webworm ordered Wind Leaf as he strode past.
Wind Leaf matched the Blessed Sun’s pace. “Yes, Blessed Sun.”
“What is the news? While I was seeing to my mother’s funeral, did the elders come to any decision? Am I still to be the Blessed Sun?”
“You are, my Chief. You are Red Lacewing by birth, and the Blessed Featherstone proclaimed you such. Your wife, the Blessed Desert Willow, has been named Matron of the First People. She informed the Council of Elders that she wished you to remain Blessed Sun.” He hesitated. “Unless, of course, the pretender, Cornsilk, comes down from the mountains and seeks to have herself declared Matron in Desert Willow’s place.”
That brought a growl from Webworm. “If she appears, we’ll deal with her. Assuming she’s stupid enough to try it. Were I in her sandals, I’d rather live into old age up there in the snow than have someone using my skull for a trinket bowl in the First People’s kiva.” He made a throwing-away gesture. “Gods, I just want to sleep for a quarter moon.”