“I’m not leaving until Ironwood lies dead and I’ve had my chance to spit upon his corpse.”
Swallowtail nodded to himself. That will give me a few days.
Mourning Dove frowned. “What’s the matter? What are you thinking?”
“Just wondering.” He continued flaking his arrow point. Black bits of stone fell atop the small scatter at his feet. From the time he’d turned three summers and first heard his mother tell the story of Young Fawn’s death, he’d been convinced that the First People were not human but evil Earth Spirits who roamed about killing and witching others. “Do you think there’s a chance that Cornsilk might go back to Talon Town? That she would ever decide to accept the position as Matron of the First People?”
It took a moment for her to answer. “Are you asking me if she might return, and depose Featherstone?”
He held his point up to the sunlight, checking the flake scars, admiring the fine workmanship. The Straight Path people had taught him well. He’d become a master flint knapper, the best in Talon Town. Every animal he’d butchered to feed his masters’ bellies had been a study for him. He’d learned how the tools worked on bones and muscles, how soft the liver was, and how the internal organs were connected. Stone and flesh were closely related, like cousins, or perhaps brothers.
“Yes, Mother, that’s what I mean.”
Mourning Dove searched his face. She had never understood him. She never would. A woman like her, so good and loving, could not conceive the depths of the hatred that coiled inside him like a serpent in the brush, ready to strike.
“I doubt it,” she said, “but it’s possible. Why? Do you think—”
“I think,” he said as he lowered the point, “that she may need ‘company’ on her journey to find Poor Singer.”
“You mean you will escort her?”
Swallowtail smiled. “Yes. She needs me, Mother.”
Fifty
Creeper smoothed his red shirt down over his belly and tried to concentrate on Weedblossom’s droning voice. She, Featherstone, and Whistling Bird stood on the east side of the grave dug into the floor. They wore white, and Featherstone’s dark gray hair glimmered in the light streaming through the window behind her.
Webworm stood on Featherstone’s left, at the head of the grave. The fine clothing looked regal on his lanky body. He wore a long tan-and-blue shirt with copper Trade bells dangling around the collar. They tinkled when he moved. He’d pulled his black hair away from his broad face and twisted it into a bun at the back of his head. A magnificent bone hairpin, inlaid with turquoise, coral, and malachite, held it in place.
Badgerbow, Yellowgirl, and the new War Chief, White Stone—his wounded arm bound in tan cloth—stood in the row beside Creeper. They all wore red, the color of mourning and death. Two warriors stood near the pile of dirt at the head of the grave. No one looked happy. Creeper forced his gaze back to the shallow hole in the floor.
Snake Head lay in the bottom, facedown. No one had washed his body or combed his hair. He still wore the bloody shirt he’d died in. Tainted possessions taken from his room had been tossed around him: turquoise beads, shell bracelets …
“From this moment,” Weedblossom said, and raised her gnarled hands to the ceiling, “Snake Head, the traitor, will be locked in darkness here in Talon Town. He will hear his own people curse him, feel them spit upon his grave, and be able to contemplate his arrogant foolishness.”
Weedblossom nodded to the warriors behind the dirt pile, and the men lifted a large slab of sandstone. Everyone backed away to give them room. The warriors walked forward and dropped it over Snake Head, taking care not to break his skull.
Creeper anxiously twisted his hands. He had hated Snake Head, but this punishment turned his soul cold. After Snake Head’s body had been returned to Talon Town, the elders had searched his chamber and, to their horror, discovered a jar of corpse powder. They’d begun questioning the Made People and other First People, and heard dozens of stories of his wickedness. The next day the elders had officially condemned Snake Head as a witch. Weedblossom had said that the speck of dust in his head had become a whirling dust devil, blasting anything in its path, and that he deserved to wail for all eternity for the crimes he’d committed.
“Good, now cover him up.” Weedblossom nodded to the warriors.
The two men returned to the dirt pile and began shoving soil back into the hole.
The elders filed out, then Webworm followed, and finally the clan leaders turned to go. There would be no sacred Songs, no Dances to celebrate his life. No one would weep or cut their hair in grief.