“No … Spirit … Plants!” she gasped, and her death rattle grew louder. She thrashed weakly in her bed, rolling from side to side as though to stop the liquid from filling up in her lungs.
I nodded in sudden understanding. All of her “Healers” had accomplished but one thing: They had prevented her from participating in her own death, surely the most fundamental right of everything alive.
I said, “If you don’t mind, I’d just like to sit with you for a time.”
The anger in her eyes diminished, replaced by a kind of exhausted relief. She knew she was dying. She just wanted to be left in peace to be finished with it.
I took her hand, and very quietly said, “I once knew a great holy man named Wanderer who told me that a person’s entire life could be read in the pattern of wrinkles on the backs of his hands.” I smiled. “Of course he also believed it could be read in shriveled elderberries, on tortoise shells, and anything else with intricate patterns.”
Little Flower gave me a faint grin.
As I began telling her what I saw in her wrinkles—a life of joys and travails, of many children, and even more grandchildren—her smile grew. Finally, she sagged against her bedding and closed her eyes.
I began Singing the Death Song, which is a very beautiful lilting melody. As she listened to my soft voice, her terror dissolved. In less than a few hundred heartbeats, her breathing stopped.
The weight of the silence that followed was crushing.
Since that moment I have been the second kind of Healer. I do not deceive my patients into looking the other way. Instead, I encourage them to stare straight down the dark tunnel’s throat. As a Helper, holding the lamp and walking as far as I can with them, I let them follow their own way into the darkness. I have never left them alone, but tried to keep vigil and protect them while they stepped inexorably forward.
As I gaze out across the vast deserts, I realize that civilizations have the same needs that dying people do.
I am merely the Helper. If I have hoarded enough Power, I will be able Sing this world into Death … .
The great kiva dominated the Dusk House plaza like a huge stone drum. It stood in defiance of the hot summer sun. Constructed with a line of vaults around its perimeter, the kiva was insulated from the oppressive heat that rose from the fields and shimmered the distant horizon into liquid silver.
Inside, down on the kiva’s cool subterranean floor, Matron Desert Willow stood with her arms crossed under her high pointed breasts. She had had her slaves braid turquoise, jet, and coral beads into her long black hair, and a necklace of copper bells hung from her slender neck.
War Chief Wind Leaf watched her, making no pains about admiring her athletic body, enjoying the way her smooth brown skin dipped from her sides to a narrow waist and then swelled into the roundness of her hips. The twin globes of her tight buttocks rounded the light cotton skirt she had belted below her navel. Behind that thin fabric lay the glistening thatch of her pubis. He could sense it, as though it called to his manhood.
She must have felt his longing, for she cast a reproving glance at him; warning flashed in her large dark eyes, but her reddened lips hinted at a sensual smile.
The Buffalo Clan Elder, Creeper, seemed oblivious where he sat on the plastered side of the eastern foot drum, his vague stare fixed on the square column that supported the heavy roof to his right.
The elder hadn’t been the same since Featherstone’s death. It was common knowledge that the old fool had loved her, despite her fits of mindlessness. Nevertheless, Creeper served his purpose. His lifelong friendship with Webworm helped to keep the fermenting Badger Clan in line. They could do nothing until Creeper finally died; only then could the dissenting clan leaders hope to take over.
When that day finally arrives, we’re going to be in trouble. The more strident voices were already calling for the First People to share authority equally with the clans. They pointed out, correctly, that there were so few First People anymore that the time had come for them to give up their monopoly on control. Wind Leaf had seen the simmering resentment, had heard the muttered deprecations as his warriors passed. Jealousy, like a festering sore, afflicted the Made People.
“What do you think of this?” Webworm called from behind the decorated screen that concealed the northern entrance. Made from painted fabric stretched over poles set in the floor, the screen was painted with images of the Yamuhakto, the Warriors of the East and West, who guarded the doorway to the Under Worlds. A rustling of fabric preceded his appearance at the masked doorway.
He strode out from behind the screen, head high, majestic in a colorful costume. A panoply of bright macaw, eagle, and blue heron feathers splayed out from the sides of a large wooden eagle mask that he wore. The eagle’s head had been painted black, the eye holes rimmed in white, and a hooked yellow beak protruded for half an arm’s length. Drapes of the finest white and blue cloth hung from his blocky body. A fan made of thin wooden boards and painted in blood red, sunflower yellow, and charcoal black gave his shoulders the appearance of an oversized butterfly. A giant bustle spread from behind, also of thin wood, and was painted in the shapes and colors of a dozen wildflowers. The flowers framed the cross of Morning Star on his right, and of Evening Star on his left.