On top of Spider Woman’s Butte stood the Sun Stone. Etched with spirals, it allowed Sternlight to measure the exact cycles of the sun. When the summer solstice arrived, a dagger of sunlight lanced between two upright stones and split the spiral down the middle, enabling Sternlight to count the exact number of days until they could harvest the rice grass, corn, beans, and squash, and organize the communal hunts for deer and rabbits. Spider Woman herself guarded the Sun Stone.
The Straight Path people had long lived by rigid schedules. They planted and harvested, collected pine nuts and juniper berries, and ran their hunts on the days Sternlight said they must, for fear that they would offend Our Mother Earth and Father Sun if they did not.
But people had grown more disobedient over recent summers. When the rains fell and the crops grew, people believed in Sternlight’s Powers and did everything he asked. But when no rains came and the crops withered in the fields …
Ironwood glanced at the empty cornfields, remembering the last poor harvest. Those plants that had born fruit had been stunted, the ears of corn short, with poorly formed kernels. It was as if the ground in this valley no longer nourished the plants that had fed the Straight Path people for generations.
People worried that the gods had turned against Sternlight—or he against the gods. Ridiculous rumors about Sternlight being a witch had become common.
“Are we finished?” Sternlight asked.
“Yes, for now. I will send Wraps-His-Tail to Beargrass tomorrow.”
“And I,” Sternlight said softly, “will pray for him. If anyone discovers—”
“No one will.”
Sternlight braced a hand against the carved wall of the rock shelter and rose to stare at Ironwood eye-to-eye. His white shirt whipped around his legs. “Someday soon, someone will. We cannot keep this hidden forever. You realize that, don’t you?”
Ironwood let his folded arms fall to his sides. “The vigil is almost over, my friend. I promise you.”
Sternlight vented a tired breath, whispered, “Yes,” and walked past Ironwood, following the deer trail that ran close to the cliff.
Where once sage had grown, weeds now raked their legs and snagged at their long shirts. The sage had long ago been twisted out to feed ravenous hearths. People needed to cook and heat their houses.
They dared not take the main road that ran between Kettle and Talon Town. Someone would mention that he had seen the War Chief and the Sunwatcher walking alone after dark. Snake Head’s suspicions would wake. He would ask them what they had been doing. Why they couldn’t speak to each other in town. He would suspect betrayal.
And he would be right.
“Sternlight,” Ironwood murmured, “forget the trail. Let’s walk as close to the cliff as we can. The overhanging rock and darkness should hide us completely.”
The chill deepened as they passed the jumble of individual square structures—poorly plastered, the roof poles raggedly finished—set against the cliff. Dark now, the doorways were covered, awaiting the visitors who only came to the canyon for the solstice festivals. The Evening People woke to light the night sky. Ironwood’s breathing created a misty blur in the starlit darkness.
Talon Town loomed ahead, gigantic even after summers of familiarity. The rear wall rose over one hundred hands tall. Propped Pillar, the giant sandstone column that leaned out from the cliff, tilted threateningly toward it.
On the fifth floor, Crow Beard lay dying like some ancient and malignant spider. Filaments of webs spun long ago whirled out of the past, drawing all of them into some hidden trap. Even now Snake Head might be looking out from his little square window. Ironwood’s steps faltered, and he shivered.
But not entirely from cold.
* * *
Buckthorn’s yellow cape billowed in the dawn breeze that gusted along the sandstone cliffs and whimpered through the village. An azure halo swelled in the east, throwing the canyon walls into silhouette. One by one the stars twinkled out of existence, and the clay-washed walls of Windflower Village turned a soft robin’s-egg blue. Ladder legs extended from some of the roofs; pine poles poked out in lines along the ceilings, some hung with peppers and shocks of dried corn or yucca leaves. The square shoulders of the village seemed to dominate the beaten-earth plaza where he’d played as a boy. The sacred kiva on the rise west of the plaza still hid in its dark cloak of shadows.
Buckthorn gazed at it longingly. His old life, the life of the child he had been, had been eaten away in there. A new man had been born in that boy’s place. He didn’t know this man, yet. But I want to, very badly.
People began to wake. An infant cried, and a soft voice responded, soothing the child. Someone coughed. He could hear some elders now, their arms lifted as they Sang to greet the new day. Gentle wisps of smoke rose from the morning fires, lacing the air with the scent of burning juniper.