People of the Silence(15)
Buckthorn tipped back his head, raising his hooked nose, and breathed in the cool earthy air. He’d plaited his black hair into two braids that covered his ears, protecting them from the wintry chill. The ends hung down on his chest. A new pair of yucca sandals adorned his feet. His mother had made them for him, and just looking at their fine workmanship made his soul ache. The weaving over the toes was tight and perfect. The shell bells tied to the ends of the laces clicked pleasantly with each step he took.
Snow Mountain ducked beneath the door curtain of their house and walked across the plaza. Silver-streaked black hair hung loosely about the shoulders of her turkey-feather cape. Her feet in their tall moccasins passed silently over the frozen sand.
She knelt on the ground at his side and tucked freshly-made blue corncakes into his top pack. In the soft gleam of dawn, she looked sad, but pride glowed in her dark eyes. Few youths received the village elders’ blessings to become Singers, and fewer still were sent off to the holy Derelict for training.
Buckthorn couldn’t believe he had been one of the chosen. At any moment, the dream would vanish, and he’d wake up the same skinny youth he’d always been.
His mother used a braided rawhide thong to tie his three packs together—one for himself, and two for Dune, the latter filled with gifts from Windflower Village. Buckthorn’s breathing went shallow when he looked at those packs. His relatives had contributed their finest belongings: beautiful flutes; two of the renowned Windflower pots, with their reddish-brown slip; decorated baskets, so tightly woven they’d hold water; a few precious turquoise fetishes; a masterfully carved set of the Great Warriors; and other things. They had parted with these treasures willingly, believing that when Buckthorn became a great Singer, he would pay them back tenfold.
And I will. I’ll learn every lesson the holy Derelict wishes to teach me. I will memorize every Healing plant and Song.
Dune the Derelict had a reputation for paradoxical instruction. Buckthorn had known two young Singers who had been sent to Dune and come running home after a single day of what they called “the holy Derelict’s madness.” Both of those young men had failed and taken up lives as farmers—but Buckthorn would not fail.
A yearning lived inside him. He would speak to the Cloud People in their own language. He would be able to recognize fiendish witches and cure the sick. He would Sing and Dance for his people, bringing rain and bountiful harvests, giving them life itself.
Hallowed thlatsinas, I promise to try very hard. I beg you to help me.
He looked south, across the misty waters of the River of Souls, beyond the line of sandstone cliffs that blocked the southern horizon. As if he could see the distant Thlatsina Mountains rising against the sky, he visualized the gods there, leaping, spinning, their heads thrown back, voices rising like wings into the star-spotted dawn. Terrible longing filled him. I’ll see those mountains one day. I promise.
He’d heard that leaden clouds clung to the tallest peaks, holding on for their lives against Wind Baby’s torments. That’s how Wind Baby had gotten his evil reputation: he blew away the clouds and sucked every drop of moisture from the land, leaving both Our Mother Earth and Brother Sky parched and thirsty. When that happened, the children of the Straight Path nation begged for food, and parents grew frantic.
During the summer, Singers Danced and prayed for days, but not just for themselves. They prayed for everyone who was thirsty: animals, plants, even the dry stones that rested in the drainage bottoms. Power lived everywhere, beneath cactus thorns, secreted in sparkles of dew, and hidden in the flecks of moonlight that silvered the sage. By calling upon that Power, Singers could pull clouds together and awaken the soaring Thunderbirds.
Snow Mountain stood up and peered soberly at Buckthorn. Her face was full of love for him. “Black Mesa drew you a map, yes?”
“Yes, Mother, last night. I know exactly how to find the Derelict.” He knew she wanted him to repeat his instructions. “I’ll follow the trail from the river crossing up through the cap rock and turn east until I hit the Tower Road. It’s a good road that will take me south to the Derelict’s canyon. Black Mesa said that if I run it is only four or five days away. I’ll find it. Don’t worry.”
“I know you’re a man, and protected by the gods, but there has been so much raiding this winter by those northern barbarians … Perhaps I should find a runner to go with—”
“Mother,” he said with a smile, “I must go alone. That is the way of it. A Singer goes alone to his destiny.”
“I know, but I—”