People of the Silence(246)

A tingling numbness ran through Creeper. “You mean, you think … Night Sun said Cloud Playing was bringing her pack, but … no, Webworm, I can’t believe it! Swallowtail was a good boy! I sat with him around supper many times. I think I would know if a murderer—”

“Would you?” Misery lined Webworm’s face. “You said he hated Snake Head, that Swallowtail wanted to destroy him. He may not have believed in the Mogollon prophecies, but it didn’t take a genius to know that if you killed Snake Head’s female relatives, he’d be toppled as the Blessed Sun.”

“Then why didn’t he try to kill Night Sun?”

“Perhaps he thought she was out of the way when Snake Head imprisoned her, or that she was so old she would die naturally soon enough and save him the trouble.”

“But Swallowtail was gone when Cloud Playing was killed,” Creeper insisted. “I remember because I bid him good-bye myself. I packed food for him, and—”

“And he came back two days late, didn’t he? That’s what I heard. Who’s to say that he didn’t hide down in the wash for a couple of days, waiting for her? Maybe even track her from Deer Mother Villager?”

“But she was killed with a bow and arrows! Swallowtail had no such weapons!”

Webworm tenderly smoothed his hand over the wrinkled pack. The copper bells on his shirt clinked. “The boy had access to stone tools. He could have refashioned any of them into arrow points, and making a crude bow requires only a piece of wood and a string.” Webworm hesitated. “We must decide what to do about this, Creeper.”

Creeper prodded the fine jet figurine with his fingertip while he thought. It resembled the curious witch pellet that Mourning Dove had seen Lark spit up—some sort of a stylized serpent. Creeper remembered laughter and joy, and many afternoons spent soothing Swallowtail after Mourning Dove returned from a brutal coupling with Snake Head. The boy had gazed at his mother’s bruises, at the blood on her clothing, an insane rage behind his eyes. Swallowtail had been crazy enough to kill. But did he have the cunning to destroy Snake Head and his family from the inside out? Perhaps Mourning Dove’s obsession with the prophecies, with assuring that Webworm became the Blessed Sun, had given Swallowtail the idea.

Creeper’s blood turned to ice. Could Creeper have lived and loved the boy for so long and not had the slightest notion of how his soul worked?

“Where is Featherstone?”

Webworm gestured toward the door. “She’s in her old chambers. I was helping her pack. She was talking about Night Sun and how much she missed her, and Mother just drifted off. You know how she is. I spread a blanket over her and thought I’d go back and check in half a hand of time.”

“Webworm, this news will be very hard on Featherstone. She loved Cloud Playing. If it were true that Mourning Dove’s son was the one…” His voice tightened. “I think Featherstone has forgotten all about Cloud Playing’s death. I’m not sure what such knowledge will do to her.”

Webworm carefully rerolled the pack and tied it with the cord. “You mean it might be best to keep this to ourselves?”

“There’s nothing we can do about it anyway. Is there?”

Webworm cheeks reddened, then anger, bright and hot, lit his eyes. “Not at this instant, but may the gods help that boy if I ever have a chance to make war on the Tower Builders.”

Creeper lowered his gaze to the scatter of precious tools and herbs. His heart thumped a slow steady cadence. “I pray with all my heart that Mourning Dove is gone when you do.”





Eighth Day





I lie on my back staring up at the swaying Ponderosa pine branches above me. The needles are long and curved. Moonlight coats them, turning them a ghostly silver. Through the filigree of twigs, the Evening People shine.

My body has gone numb. My soul is floating, barely tied to my flesh.

I am ready, I think. I did not feel ready until tonight, but I have done what I can to cleanse and purify my heart. Either she will accept my offering now, or she never will.

I only know that I must try.

I close my eyes, and listen to the wind soughing through the pines. The branches creak and groan. The air smells sweet with the scent of mountain wildflowers. I fill my lungs and hold it for as long as I can, then slowly let the breath out. I am tired, very tired … one last thing to do.

* * *

The Dream stole Poor Singer’s soul away.

He ran as Coyote, his padded feet parting the newly green spring grass and the first delicate wildflowers. From this height, he could see across the infinity of dark mountains that layered the distances. Each range etched the horizon in a lighter shade of hazy blue-gray. Behind him, buttes and mesas carved the lowlands. Ahead of him, jagged peaks punctured the bellies of the Cloud People. His breath puffed whitely. As he bounded higher, the air grew colder, burning his lungs.