People of the Silence(244)

Snake Head was truly alone now.

Creeper walked out last, ducking through the low doorway into the bright noon sunlight. Talon Town sparkled whitely, and the canyon had a pale orange hue, as though washed out by Father Sun’s brilliance. Warm wind gusted across the plaza.

Webworm and the First People elders stood in a small group, talking in low voices, and the Made People went back to their daily duties. Badgerbow lifted a hand to Creeper before he disappeared through the gate that separated the eastern and western plazas. Creeper waved and headed for the ladders that led to Night Sun’s old chamber—now Featherstone’s chamber.

As he climbed to the fourth floor, sweat beaded on his cheeks and ran down his chin. The days had grown very warm. Wildflowers created a yellow and blue patchwork across the highlands. The canyon seemed too silent, though, as if people were still in shock from the raid.

Creeper shook his head. The very fact of the raid had the First People rushing about like dogs with the foaming-mouth disease. The next morning the elders decided that they had been too indolent and arrogant, believing themselves invincible. Changes were quickly instituted. Talon Town no longer had a front entryway. Nor were there exterior windows, or even tiny slits for ventilation. Featherstone had ordered them all walled up. The only way in or out of town now was by ladder. At night, those ladders were drawn inside. The new War Chief, White Stone, stood over the front, as always, but nine other warriors stood around the walls to help him keep watch.

They all vowed it would never happen again, but as Creeper gazed across the crowded canyon, at the huge towns and hundreds of small villages, he knew the time would come when they would not be able to protect themselves. A good War Chief with enough warriors could box this canyon tight, kill the Trade, and cut off access to wood, water and food. It might take moons, but in the summertime during a drought … Creeper shuddered. The Straight Path people considered themselves a nation of glorious warriors. Surrender was unthinkable.

He walked across the rooftop, ducked through the doorway into the chamber, and returned to his former activity: arranging Featherstone’s chamber for her. Early that morning he’d set out the pots along the southern wall, to his right, and stacked the baskets in the northwestern corner. He’d laid out sitting mats around the fire bowl, making certain everything was easy to reach. Featherstone’s eyes had worsened in the past few moons. Often, these days, she couldn’t see her teacup when it sat right in front of her.

Creeper knelt beside the fire bowl and spread the legs of the boiling tripod, then hung the pot in the center. The soot-coated clay pot swung gently.

Though Night Sun’s things had been removed and ritually buried beneath the floor of the plaza—to keep their depraved taint from causing illnesses or deaths—this chamber still felt like Night Sun. Creeper’s gaze drifted between the Buffalo Thlatsina on the south wall and the Sun Thlatsina on the north wall. The Buffalo seemed to be tossing his shaggy head, his long black beard flying as he Danced, while the Sun god had his pink arms spread, and one foot lifted. Through the window in the eastern wall, Propped Pillar leaned toward Talon Town. Two eagles, male and female, perched near the nest on the top of the stone tower, their heads cocked, searching for movement below.

Weedblossom had come in yesterday and ritually smoked the chamber to cleanse it of evil Spirits, and the faint fragrance of cedar clung to the walls. Despite such precautions, Creeper felt a sadness here.

He hadn’t realized until recently what a frustrated life Night Sun had led, and he sympathized with her. He couldn’t find it in him to hate her for loving one of the Made People. Though he had spent much of his life hoping to see Featherstone one day become the great Matron of the First People, Creeper wished she were just an ordinary old woman from the Coyote Clan. The past few days he had been very lonely. He missed Mourning Dove. They had shared a kind of intimacy that he would never have with Featherstone, no matter how much they cared for each other. Mourning Dove had been his friend. They had helped each other as much as they could given their circumstances, and had lain awake late into the nights just talking. He ached for that closeness, for the sensation of her sleeping in his arms.

She’s gone, you fool. Let her go.

Creeper crouched beside Featherstone’s rolled sleeping mats and spread them across the floor, then placed two folded blankets at the foot—the soft red-and-white one on top, as she liked it to be.

“Creeper?”

“Yes, I’m here.” He swiveled toward the door.

Webworm entered, carrying two small sacks. His blue-and-tan robe, woven of the finest cloth, shimmered in the light.