People of the Moon(228)

“No,” she told him simply. “Leave me like this. All debts are paid.” She glanced at Ironwood. “Our world is ended, isn’t it?”

He nodded, shoulders sagging. “It is.”

Spots sank back to his knees again, reaching for the cup and placing it to her lips. She drank, spilling water down the side of her face. “Thank you.”

“Where is Night Sun?” Ironwood asked. “Is she here, in a room close by?”

Nightshade shook her head. “No, War Chief. The cannibal, Leather Hand, took her to Talon Town. Laid a trap for you.”

“Talon Town?”

Spots heard the hope in the war chief’s voice. He could see the sudden glitter in the man’s eyes.

“Yours was a great love, Ironwood,” Nightshade whispered. “Mythic.”

“What can I do to help you?” Spots asked as he wrung his hands.

“The Wellpot,” she said weakly.

Spots carefully lifted the shining bowl.

“Scoop out a handful,” the old woman told him. She watched as he mounded the gray paste on his fingertips. “That’s it. Place it on my tongue.”

“Elder, you can’t survive that much datura.”

“It will free my souls from the stake, Spots,” she whispered. Her eyes went to Ironwood.

Spots extended his fingers, letting the old woman suck the gob of paste from them. He swallowed hard, watching her roll the concentrated datura seed from side to side in her mouth.

“Elder?” Ironwood asked. “Is there anything you want me to do afterward? Perhaps take you back to Talon Town with me? Or back to the mountain to be with Badgertail?”

“My bones will be fine here, War Chief,” she said with a sigh. “Fear not for my breath-heart soul; it is already halfway loose of the stake. Brother Mud Head awaits us.”

“Us?” Ironwood made a pained sound as he rubbed his left shoulder. He kept wincing, as if against pain.

She glanced at Spots. “Take the Wellpot and my pack. The Spirits say they like you. Treat them kindly and they will serve you well.” She looked at Ironwood. “Do you want Mud Head and me to take you to Night Sun now?”

“You’ll take me to her?” Ironwood asked. He sounded confused, his breathing labored. He blinked, shaking his head. Sweat made a sheen on his skin. He looked curiously gray, even in the torchlight.

“She is calling from the Land of the Dead. We can take you to her now, or you can live out the rest of your natural life. The decision is yours.”

“She’s dead?” Spots asked incredulously. “How can you know?”

Ironwood gasped and closed his eyes, his breath sounding like a great weight was on his shoulders. “If you can hear her … Yes, I understand. Take me to her now, Nightshade.”

“Then come, War Chief,” Nightshade whispered weakly. “Reach out … . Take my hand … .”

Spots glanced uneasily at Nightshade. Her eyes had rolled back in her head, her breath exhaling slowly as her souls slipped away.

“Let go, War Chief. Embrace the Moment of Sums … .”

Ironwood’s breath caught, his shoulders hunching as if a hard blow had been dealt to his breastbone. He stiffened, whispering, “Night Sun?” then slumped loosely to the floor. His right eye was half-lidded and dark, and Spots heard him whisper the words, “Oh, my love …”

“War Chief?” Spots grasped his shoulder, shaking the limp body. “War Chief?”

In shadows cast on the walls by the flickering torchlight, he would have sworn he saw Mud Head’s ungainly round form Dancing away hand in hand with two human shapes.





Sixty-two



Bad Cast and Soft Cloth had arrived in Flowing Waters Town amid a stream of refugees. Only by demanding that they be allowed to speak to Crow Woman had they finally made it past the barricades that had been thrown up at each gate. Squads of heavily armed warriors kept the crowd at bay and defended the precious food stores.

Once inside, Bad Cast had been taken to Spots and Wrapped Wrist. There, he’d delivered the message that Fir Brush and Slipped Bark were traveling south looking for food. They had left in the company of Spots’s sister, Yellow Petal, and her baby, Fresh Stalk. Her husband Black Bush and some of his friends thought they could make it across the mountains to a valley that was rumored to have been frost free. They were traveling light, carrying only a water jar and cooking pot. Yellow Petal had taken her feather holder, swearing it would grace the mantel of her new house.

On the day of Ironwood’s funeral, fires were burning in the great kiva. People watched from the galleries, the benches were packed, and outside, guards kept a firm watch on those of the refugees that had been allowed into the plaza.