People of the Silence(19)

The raven hopped along behind her, wings out for balance.

The children by the kiva shoved each other, then one let out a sharp shriek, and all of them raced through the gobbling turkeys, scattering them every which way. Feathers flew up and gently pirouetted down across the plaza.

Adults murmured worriedly. Cornsilk caught a look of condemnation on Clover’s old face.

Crouching, she dumped her bowl of flour into the hot pot sitting on the coals and used a wooden paddle to stir it around until the cornmeal steamed, losing some of its moisture and browning slightly. Moisture led to spoilage, so this process assured that the flour would last longer and taste better. She stirred it for a time longer, then scooped the flour out with the paddle and refilled the bowl.

Every eye in the plaza rested on her as she rose and headed back to her grinding slabs, her moccasins soundless on the hard-packed dirt of the plaza.

The Ant Clan plastered their buildings with a rusty-hued clay that faded into the background of the rolling red and tan hills, but just over the roofs she saw yucca plants spiking up through the sage and heard their fist-sized seed pods rattling in the breeze. The fragrance of burning cedar encircled her.

Cornsilk’s family didn’t live in the main village complex, but in a small house on the hillside just behind it. Cornsilk’s father, Beargrass, held the position of War Chief of Lanceleaf Village. For this reason their house had been built higher than the rest of the village, with a wide view of the cornfields and approaches to the village. From those heights, Beargrass could keep better watch for Tower Builders, or Wild Men.

At that moment, Cornsilk’s mother, Thistle, walked into the plaza and caught sight of the raven. Thistle wore a white-and-yellow striped dress and carried a pot balanced on her head. She folded her arms, face sour as she watched the raven stride at Cornsilk’s side.

Cornsilk leveled a kick at him.

The raven fluttered up and came down.

“Blessed Spirits!” she hollered. “What do you wish from me?”

She speeded up. The raven ran faster, keeping pace with her.

Dropping to her knees, Cornsilk dumped the bowl of flour onto the fine-grained slab and got back into position. As she worked her handstone over it, grinding it to powder, it changed color, going from red to a pale rose-petal pink. After being browned, it smelled deliciously like popped corn.

The raven stuck his beak out, sniffing.

Cornsilk ignored him.

Leafhopper kept glancing at her as she worked her way across the plaza, smiling politely at the elders and speaking to each one. Though Leafhopper was Cornsilk’s age—fifteen summers, almost sixteen—she stood a head shorter, and had a round face with a pudgy squarish body. She never belted her dresses, which meant they hung like bean-harvesting sacks from her squat frame. Her parents had died four summers ago, and she lived with her aunt, who insisted Leafhopper wear her hair trimmed even with her chin, because the style required less care. A red headband kept it out of her soft brown eyes.

They had both become women fifteen moons ago, but not one young man had courted Leafhopper. Cornsilk herself had seen only one suitor: young Stone Forehead. He’d babbled endlessly about how one day he would be the greatest warrior the Ant Clan had ever known. The topic of conversation hadn’t varied after their first tentative coupling. But Stone Forehead had stopped coming to see Cornsilk after she’d gone hunting with him and shot four sage grouse to his one. She suspected she’d made her real mistake the night over supper when she’d casually mentioned that she planned to be the greatest warrior the Ant Clan had ever known.

Leafhopper bent over Matron Clover and made some comment about her loosely woven sifter basket. Clover patted her plump cheek.

Cornsilk took the opportunity to fling an arm out at the raven. He just pulled his head back momentarily and returned to his former attentive position.

“Oh, all right!” she growled in defeat.

Grabbing a fistful of coarsely ground corn from the other slab, she scattered it in front of him. The raven ate it up like a bird on the verge of starving to death.

“Now will you leave, please?”

The raven cocked his head, peered at her with one eye, and leaped into the sky. Cornsilk watched him circle the village, his black body striking against the deep blue of the winter sky, then wing southward toward the distant butte that thrust its square nose into the sky.

Cornsilk breathed a sigh of relief and went back to grinding the coarse meal.

Leafhopper hurried toward Cornsilk, her tan-and-black dress swishing around her short legs. She knelt, drew a handful of corn from the full pot, and placed it on the coarse slab. When she picked up a handstone, she whispered, “Great Badger, Cornsilk! This is the fourth day in a row that raven has pestered you. That’s a sacred number. Everyone is muttering about it.”