People of the Moon(42)

Finally, as the ridge began to flatten and expand, the Made People had constructed a modest, multiroom dwelling with attached kivas. Called Guest House, it was there that visiting workmen, servants, Traders, and other itinerants were housed. The edifice also served as the first line of defense, guarding the bottleneck through which all must pass.

Below Guest House the slope was pimpled with the lumpy dwellings of the barbarians. Following the cliff to the south, the barbarians’ square sun tower stood sentinel. It jutted up from the rimrock like an ugly thumb, a combination solar observatory and lookout. For the First People in Pinnacle House, it was a constant reminder that this land had belonged to the barbarians first—that they were squatting on ground held sacred by the First Moon People.

He need only look out at the crowded valley—dotted with so many houses, structures, and towns—to have that knowledge driven home. Finally, at the foot of the slope to the southwest, the formation called the Dog’s Tooth jutted up defiantly. A thin haze of smoke rose from the walled compound. He growled to himself, thinking of the kivas there, and of the old blind man who conducted black rituals of sorcery inside them.

One day I’m going to find a reason to send the warriors down there. And when I do, your days of evil and mayhem will be over for good.

Stepping across the roof, he followed Burning Smoke. The man was thick and heavy the way a ponderosa pine trunk was. Never fast or flighty, the war chief approached a problem in the same manner a grizzly did a log full of grubs. He ripped it apart with one strong swipe after another, never hurrying, never pressed; but when he was finished, only splinters lay in his wake.

Burning Smoke walked down the narrow line of steps that jutted from the great house’s southern side and led the way along the buff-plastered wall to the small plaza cupped in the angle of the ell.

It was here, with its southeastern exposure, that Priests for three generations had greeted the winter solstice sun, or reclined in the shade cast by summer sunsets.

The beaten earth had been stained with charcoal, littered with bits of broken pottery and colorful flakes of chipped stone. A line of waist-high water jars rested against the north wall, while several looms were propped on the west.

A red-shirted warrior sporting a half-bored expression stood just behind a young barbarian. The warrior gripped a war club in his right hand, its double-bitted stone head polished to a gleam.

The young hunter was wearing a brown fabric hunting shirt that hung to his knees. He’d belted it with a rope from which hung several hide pouches. Heavy yucca trail sandals covered his feet. He squatted, head down, expression blank with the enforced inscrutability of his kind.

“Blessed Water Bow,” Burning Smoke began, gesturing. “This is Ripple, a man of the Blue Stick Clan. We caught him trying to escape from the mountain at first light. My warriors spotted him as he left his sister’s house. His pack was filled with the kind of supplies he’d need over a several-day journey.”

Water Bow stepped over and studied the young man. Given his looks he might be just on the short side of twenty, muscular, rangy, with long hair hanging down his back.

“Look at me,” Water Bow said in the barbarian tongue. He had spent some time learning their language, and it had stood him in good stead. The hunter looked up, his eyes betraying a fleeting moment of fear before he managed to hide it with blankness.

“There are stories circulating about you,” Water Bow continued. “It is said that you had a vision on the mountain. It is said that Old Woman North came to you. Is it so?”

The young man’s lips barely puckered, the only sign that he might have heard. For several heartbeats, he squatted there, perhaps deciding what to say, and then gave a faint shake of his head.

“So, you had no vision of Old Woman North?” Water Bow pressed.

“No, Blessed One,” the hunter finally whispered.

Burning Smoke, hearing the translation, reached down, cupped the man’s jaw, and twisted his head around. The war chief had never seen the value of learning a tongue he thought inferior to his own. As a result, the hunter gave Burning Smoke an empty look when he demanded, “Then where did the stories come from?”

Water Bow raised his hand, gesturing for Burning Smoke to desist. Reluctantly, the war chief released the hunter and stepped back, a dark scowl on his face.

“Things would be easier if you simply told us where this story has come from. Did you start it?”

The hunter swallowed hard, shaking his head, a distance in his eyes that began to ebb into fear.

“Does that mean you didn’t?” Water Bow pressed. “You did not see Old Woman North? She did not foretell the destruction of the First People?”