People of the River(6)

"She breathed Power into them? Power to do what?** Lichen asked softly.

Wanderer jerked his chin up, startled by the question. "Why, Power to swim to the Underworld. Everyone has his own method of getting there, and the Wellpot is Nightshade's method. Anyway, Tharon went mad when he sneaked into Nightshade's chamber one night and dared to gaze into her Wellpot. He said his heart started jumping around in his chest so badly that he almost died. He claimed that a pink-faced Spirit had tried to devour his soul."

Flycatcher hunched forward slowly, looking like a vulture spying on a dying rabbit. He whispered hoarsely, "Nightshade breathed evil Spirits into those pots?"

Wanderer matched Flycatcher's expression and posture, staring back breathlessly at the boy for a moment. "What would make you think that?"

"Well, you just said—"

"Come here."

When Flycatcher flung himself back against the wall. Wanderer crawled across the floor, grabbed Flycatcher's recalcitrant head, and started rapping on the top of it with his knuckles, as though sounding it out. "No, too bad," he pronounced and promptly duck-walked back to study the boiling pot.

Flycatcher croaked, "What? Too bad what?"

Wanderer waved a careless hand. "Oh, it's just that humans are bom with a soft spot in the top of their heads through which they can communicate with Earthmaker. In most people, the spot closes up when they're very young and reopens only at death to let the soul depart to the Land of the Ancestors. But!" He shook his finger emphatically. "A person can learn to keep it open if he tries. I thought maybe you'd been getting messages from the Spirits about Nightshade. Turns out you were just guessing." He paused, frowning thoughtfully. "But you know, 1 do brain operations. I could fix that for you."

Flycatcher sat rigid with terror as Wanderer took a wooden cup and dipped it into the pot, smelled the aroma appreciatively, then handed it to Flycatcher, who vehemently shook his head, then to Lichen, who took the cup gratefully. She'd had the tea before and knew how sweet it tasted. Nothing had ever happened to her soul because of it. Wanderer dipped some of the brew for himself and lounged back on his blankets. "Tell me more about this Dream, Lichen. Did you see people?"

"Yes. A little girl. About my age. She was wearing a painted mask with black-and-white squares on it, but I knew she was crying, even though I couldn't see her face."

"Was she the one who called out to you and led you to the Sun Chamber?"

"I think so."

"Why was she crying?" He took a long sip of his tea and smacked his lips as he grinned at Flycatcher.

"I'm not sure, but I feh something horrible. A group of old, gray-haired shamans were hunched on the floor around her. I—"

"Priests," Wanderer corrected. "At Cahokia, they call them priests and priestesses. So . . . what were the priests doing?"

"Singing, and I saw this huge blackness rise over the temple on the tallest mound. It hovered for a little while, then flew north, like the smoke of a forest fire pushed by the wind."

Wanderer set his cup on the floor with a sharp crack. "The blackness flew north?"

She nodded.

Wanderer shot to his feet and turned first one way and then another. "No, no." His stooped position and the curious tilt to his head made him look like a gawky heron. "It doesn't necessarily mean they're coming for us, but if they are, we'd better ..."

His voice trailed away, and Flycatcher cupped a hand to Lichen's ear. "He's as crazy as a rabid skunk! I'm getting out of here. Are you coming?"

"Just a little longer," she whispered back.

Wanderer moved erratically around the room, touching the colorful Spirit symbols on the walls and blowing at the fly that buzzed around his ears. After a few moments, he stopped and his eyes cleared. His madness disappeared, replaced by a seriousness that frightened Lichen. When he turned to gaze at her, a prickle climbed her spine.

"What is it, Wanderer? What are you thinking?"

"Hmm?" he asked, studying her with unnerving concentration. "Thinking? Oh, I wasn't thinking at all . . . except, well, last week Crossed Beak brought me news about a series of murders at Cahokia. All of the priests and priestesses who could breathe life into the Wellpots were killed— except for Nightshade. I was just wondering about the murders. And why the little girl in your Dream is crying."

"Do you think they're connected? Maybe somebody's killing people who can breathe life into the pots, and the little girl is sad because somebody she loved was murdered?"

His bushy gray brows lowered. For a moment their gazes held, and Lichen's heart pounded against her ribs in anticipation. "I pray not. Nightshade lives at River Mounds now. I don't know what she'd do if someone had the boldness to make an attempt on her life." He fumbled uneasily with his cup. "She might just rip the worid asunder in rage."