People of the Silence(248)

“What have you to offer me?”

Poor Singer inhaled a breath of the warm, damp air. “Myself.”

“In exchange for what?”

“The life of a man called Ironwood.”

“Your grandfather wishes to kill him?” she asked as she gracefully walked to the opposite side of the narrow tunnel and sat down, her back against the stone. The conflagration had turned so blinding Poor Singer had to slit his eyes and tip his muzzle to see her.

Was she human? Or a god? “Yes, and I—I can’t let that happen.”

Her gaze bored into him. “You would give up Cornsilk? You would sacrifice her happiness as well as your own?”

Poor Singer’s forelegs had started to shake so badly, he had to lie down on the warm floor. “I love her, Keeper. I love her very much, but she is young. She will find another.”

The Keeper just stared at him. “Why would you give up your life for a man you barely know?”

Poor Singer swallowed down his tight throat. “I just … I can’t see any more of them die. Please. This isn’t their fault. Don’t you understand? If I hadn’t been born, none of this would have happened! But I was. And these things have happened because of me. This is my responsibility!”

“Do you know how many innocent men and women Ironwood has killed? How many children he has taken as slaves? What makes you think his life is worth more than yours? Are you guilty of any of these crimes?”

Poor Singer lowered his muzzle to rest on his paws. “No, no, I’m not. But what does that matter?”

“It matters a great deal to the gods. They are fanatical about justice.”

“But Keeper, many of the gods were warriors. They are also fanatical about duty and responsibility. Ironwood is a good man. He was only doing his duty to his people and his Chief. And I am doing mine now.”

She drew back her head as if in disbelief. “You consider dying for no reason to be your duty?”

“But it isn’t for no reason. I’m offering my life for Ironwood’s because I believe the world will be better with Ironwood in it. So many have already died because of me. Please, let me do this?”

The magnificent blue fire began to subside. The walls went from a blazing azure to pale blue, and finally to an icy gray-white.

The Keeper’s black eyes seemed to grow in that tarnished gleam, huge as an owl’s, and just as wary. She asked, “Do you now understand what it means to have the heart of a cloud?”

Poor Singer’s mouth went dry. He bent to lap water from the floor, cooling his hot throat, calming his nerves. The moisture tasted sweet and warm. He licked his muzzle to dry it.

“I believe,” he answered through a long exhalation, “that the heart of a cloud is tears, Keeper. I’ve been thinking a lot about it. We often speak of the Cloud People shedding tears for us, to give us life. Rain is their tears.”

A bare smile touched her face. “And walking upon the wind? Do you know what that means?”

Poor Singer shifted uncertainly. He had been worried about this one. His tail brushed the stone wall as he thought about it. “If I lived in the heart of a cloud, I would be able to look down upon the world from high above the chaos, to see it more clearly. I think that’s what it means. If I could live inside the tears of others, I would see life more clearly.”

As though she found the rounded pits in the stone floor fascinating, she thoughtfully smoothed her fingers over them. When she looked up again, her dark eyes seemed to fill half of her beautiful face. “Your offering tonight proves you have grown the heart of a cloud. You are a Singer. Your people need you.” She rose to her feet and her red dress swayed about her tall body. “Now go and walk upon the wind. Tell your grandfather what you did here. What you saw here. He will understand.”

She started back for the trail that skirted the dark pond, and Poor Singer sat up. “But, wait! What about my offering? Do you accept it? Will you help me to save Ironwood’s life?”

The Keeper of the Tortoise Bundle bowed her head. “If you will do as I told you, you will be a very great Singer one day. Make your life an offering, Poor Singer. It will save far more people than your death. Someday, when you are able, return here. I will teach you what I know of clouds and tears.”

She walked around the trail and vanished into the crevice in the cave. The pond wavered from the breath of her passing, and fragments of light danced over the walls.

Poor Singer stood on weak legs. He started back up the tunnel, his head hanging low, feeling numb.

“Poor Singer?”

The call was faint. He turned to look into the maw of the cave, but saw only darkness.