“Gods,” Two Stone said in awe as he looked around the painted walls. “Have you ever seen such a place?”
“Never.” Bulrush stared down at the Priest where he lay limp on the floor. Blood leaked down from the crown of the man’s head. The eyes were wide, staring, the mouth opened in disbelief. Long black hair, freshly washed, streamed out to glisten in the light. The floor beneath the body was covered with beautifully dyed fabrics woven in intricate patterns. A gorgeous scarlet macaw-feather cloak hung from a peg.
Bulrush started, bit off a cry of fear, and gasped in relief as he recognized that the faces staring at him from shelves in the back of the room were brightly painted masks. He recognized Spider Woman and the Flute Player, but couldn’t place the ogre-looking thing with the big mouth full of teeth.
But it was the painting of the Blue God on the wall that obsessed him. She seemed to be staring, the black hole of her mouth anxiously agape, eyes like molten jet pinned on his.
“Here.” Two Stone tossed him a leather belt pouch that he’d taken from a wooden shelf. As Bulrush fingered it, Two Stone grabbed another for himself and quickly knotted it to his belt. Then, pulling up the hem of his shirt to create a pouch, he emptied one of the small decorated jars into it and tied it off.
Bulrush glanced at the two ladder tips that protruded from an opening in the floor. He hesitated. What additional great wonders might be down there?
“Forget it. We’ve got enough.” Two Stone grabbed up the stew pot and was on his way to the door, calling, “Let’s go.”
“What about him?” Bulrush pointed at the dead Priest.
“Do you want to stay and bury him?”
“No.”
“Then, by those unholy gods on the wall there, let’s get out of here. We want to be far enough away by dawn that they’ll never find us.”
Bulrush nodded before he ducked out into the night. As he shouldered his burden basket, he could remember the hungry eyes of the Blue God where she’d Danced, her arms extended. In his heart, Bulrush knew she reached out for him. And, should she catch him, starvation would be the much better death.
Ten
The sky glowed with a transparent luminosity. A few faint stars gleamed defiantly against the coming dawn. Ripple had heard Traders say that the sky looked different from the lofty heights of First Moon Mountain, that even the finest quartz would be envious of its crystalline quality.
He quietly climbed the pit house ladder, making sure he didn’t rattle his atlatl and darts as he emerged through the smoke hole. With great care he set foot onto his clay-packed roof and felt the timbers give slightly under his weight. When it did, he knew, dirt sifted through the cedar-bark matting to trickle down into the house. This morning he hoped it wouldn’t wake Fir Brush. He didn’t want to deal with her adamant insistence that he forget this mad venture.
Step by step he eased to the edge of the roof and picked his way down the outside ladder to the ground. Not for the first time did he wish that instead of high on the mountain, his family had built their home lower on the slopes, maybe even in the valley, despite its colder climate. As it was, he had a good hand’s journey ahead of him just to make it as far as First Moon Creek. The only good news was that it was all downhill.
People would be up by the time he made the First Moon trail. They’d see him, and eventually the story would get back to Spots, Bad Cast, and Wrapped Wrist.
You didn’t come to us first? He could hear their crying protests. You left us behind!
No, my friends. There is no reason for you to risk yourselves. I was the one who was called. It falls to me, alone, to make my way to the Mountain Witch.
He shivered at the thought. Making a face, he started for the trees that clustered along the eastern rimrock. The square bulk of the watchtower jutted against the lightening sky. Three stories tall, it overlooked the First Moon Valley. From its heights, a keen-eyed observer would be able to follow his progress as he headed up the valley later that morning. Would Fir Brush be up there, searching for her missing brother when he didn’t show up for breakfast?
The Mountain Witch!
A tingle of worry ran through him. As he’d dozed that night waiting for first light, he’d wondered about the Mountain Witch. Why, in the name of the gods, had Cold Bringing Woman told him to go search her out? What could the Mountain Witch do for him that Cold Bringing Woman herself couldn’t?
On his back, his pack swung with each step. He’d packed corn cakes, a ceramic canteen, strips of jerked turkey meat, his fire bow, a length of cord, a stone knife and scraper, some hardened pitch, his sleeping blanket, and a container of grease.