“I … I’m going to throw up,” he said.
A pot was placed in his hands.
Buckthorn’s stomach heaved and heaved until he felt like a quivering mass of bruised flesh. He set the pot aside and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Despite the effort, he had not opened his eyes. Nor would he, until told to do so.
Faintly, the drumbeat echoed through the gleaming chamber.
He saw the beat pulsing on the gold-tinged backs of his eyelids. The four sacred colors lanced out from each beat, soaring away like glowing arrows, flying to the farthest edges of his vision, and beyond into a shimmering haze.
The passing of time vanished until he might have sat there forever, but he jerked when fingers touched his eyes and gently pulled up his lids.
Buckthorn blinked lazily.
The flute joined the drum …
His balance fled. He fell forward, bracing his hands on either side of the tunnel to the underworld, looking straight into the sipapu. The darkness wavered. Ripples flowed out like windblown waves journeying across a lake without a shore. In the heart of that blackness, a crystal pillar took shape, rising, growing, shimmering like a thousand diamonds as it rushed upward, building crystal upon crystal.
Fear, bright and glowing, shot through Buckthorn. “It … it’s coming too fast. It’s going to lance right through me!”
The darkness around the crystal pillar changed from pitch black to deep blue. Then, as if the tunnel had been pierced by an unseen shaft of light, the blue turned a magnificent shade of turquoise, and a blue-green cave took shape. Light flashed. Thousands of falling stars cascaded down like points of white fire. In the heart of the cave, flame sparked, and the crystal pillar caught fire. The blaze roared out of control, devouring the cave, and in the midst of it he saw a young woman’s face, beautiful, crying, with long black hair falling about her shoulders … and a jagged mountain peak sheathed in starlight.
“Ah!” Buckthorn cried out. “Help me! I—I’m falling! I’m falling in!”
A soft voice said, You are going where the world is born, Buckthorn. Just let yourself go. Let go.
The golden ceremonial chamber spun, and Buckthorn dove headfirst through breathtaking flame-colored skies, falling, falling …
* * *
Black Mesa stood beside Snow Mountain, watching Buckthorn, who sat in the middle of the plaza, making a drum. The snow had melted in the rain that had fallen for two days, leaving the sand clean and sparkling. Pools of water shone on the terraced fields stretching out from the base of the sandstone cliffs. Scruffy patches of saltbush and grass edged the fields with dull colors. Rivulets had incised the plaster covering the village’s stone walls, giving them an aged look. They would have to be replastered.
Scattered around Buckthorn lay pieces of leather, stone tools, strips of sinew and rawhide, and a single perfect turkey feather.
The youth hadn’t said a word in three days. Not since he had emerged from the kiva.
People moved around the plaza, enjoying the warm sun, weaving blankets on large looms, grinding corn, and attending to mending. They patted Buckthorn’s head or shoulder and spoke to him in gentle tones as they passed.
Buckthorn only smiled in return. Silent. His narrow face glowing as if from an inner radiance. No one pushed him. Everyone knew he must return to them in his own time, that part of his soul still hovered in the First Underworld, walking among the ancestors, studying the strange plants and animals that lived there.
Black Mesa folded his aged arms across his breast. His black shirt hung to his knees and looked huge on his frail body. Over the long passing of the seasons, his muscles had evaporated to stringy masses, leaving a rickety bag of bones behind. He’d left his long gray hair loose today, and it fluttered around his wrinkled face.
Snow Mountain murmured, “He’ll be all right, won’t he?”
“Of course.”
Worry shone in her dark eyes. At the age of thirty-five summers, silver had just begun to streak her black hair and lines to etch her forehead. Her short pointed nose rode over thin lips. She wore a red and black dress today. “Did he tell you?” she asked anxiously. “Did he tell you what he saw in the First Underworld?”
“It won’t make much sense to you.”
“But I wish to know. If you can tell me, perhaps it will help me to understand him better. He has always been a … a mystery to me. And my greatest joy. I’m worried about him, Black Mesa.”
Black Mesa’s gaze drifted to the twin knobs that loomed over the valley—the stone bodies of gods, eternally watching. He had long wondered what their souls did in the skyworlds. Did they make bows and recount their exploits? Did they hunt? Or just Dance continually to keep the world vibrantly alive? The blue-gray thunderheads that had been gathering all day had crumbled to ruins in the sky. Shreds of their glory drifted northward, tinged with the palest of blues.