Thistle wet her lips anxiously. Her gaze drifted to the right. At the foot of their bed sat a large, elaborately painted pot, the ceramic lid weighted down with a heavy stone. The pot held extraordinary trade goods: red and green parrot feathers, jet and turquoise jewelry, seashells brought all the way from the great ocean, two flutes made from the leg bones of large cats, and six intricately carved statues—alien gods, with long teeth and bulging eyes.
The statues had been gifts from the Blessed Sun, Chief Crow Beard of Talon Town, and neither she nor Beargrass could have refused them. They terrified her. When Thistle least expected it, the Spirits in the statues would suddenly wake and send Power rushing like melted rock through her veins. She was no Spirit Dreamer, not even a seeker of visions, so their message eluded her. She knew only that they, too, feared the future.
The steps halted outside the door.
A gentle voice called, “You should not be awake, my wife. The Evening People have walked from dusk until nearly dawn. Did I not tell you you should—”
“And I begged you not to attend the meeting!” She leaped to her feet and went to stand over the children.
Beargrass pulled open the deerhide curtain, ducked through the low T-shaped doorway, and entered the house. He had a narrow face with a round nose, and eyes the color of old cedar bark, an odd gray-brown that glinted in the firelight. His long black hair hung loosely about his shoulders. Though he had seen only thirty-three summers, lines etched his forehead and ran crookedly from the corners of his eyes. He wore a beautiful blue blanket over his shoulders. Beneath it, his long red-and-black striped shirt hung to below his knees.
“I regret that the meeting took so long,” he apologized. “I hope you didn’t worry.” He removed his blanket and quietly folded it. “How is Cornsilk?”
Thistle looked at him, knowing that he was delaying. It’s worse than I thought. “She’s still weak, but her cough is gone.”
“And Fledgling?”
Thistle knelt beside the fifteen-summers-old youth and gently tucked the blanket around his bare back. Her long hair fell over her shoulders, shielding her strained expression. “He asked me many questions about where you had gone, and what news the runners had brought. He…”
Her hands started to shake. Tightening them into fists, she got to her feet and walked to stand face-to-face with her husband. “Tell me. What did they say?”
The grim runners had arrived at sundown, drenched in sweat. They had run for three days straight, neither eating nor sleeping. They went immediately to the clan Matron and asked to speak with Beargrass and Thistle, saying they brought urgent news from Ironwood, the great War Chief of Talon Town.
Panicked, Thistle had refused to leave her house, using her daughter’s illness as an excuse, and advised her husband to do the same. He had ignored her—as loyal to the Blessed Sun and his favored War Chief now as he had been sixteen summers before.
Beargrass walked to their willow-twig sleeping mats and placed the folded blanket atop them. With his broad back to her, he murmured, “They say Crow Beard is dying.”
“Are they sure? But how can they be after—”
“Please.” Beargrass turned, and she saw the ache in his eyes. “Let us sit down and speak of this calmly.” He gestured to the mats spread around the fire.
Thistle cast a terrified look at the children, but did as he’d asked. Legs unsteady, she dropped to the south mat, facing the doorway, drew up her knees and wrapped her arms tightly around them. “Do you believe it?”
Beargrass knelt on the north mat, across from her. The golden aura of the fire bathed his shirt with a curious orange color. “Wraps-His-Tail told me himself. He is the War Chief’s deputy and dearest friend. He is bound to the truth. He would not lie, as I wouldn’t have when I was the War Chief’s deputy. Thistle, the Blessed Sun has seen almost fifty-five summers. Given his frailty and the many illnesses he has suffered, Spider Woman has been generous to give him so many. I pray she—”
“But what will become of us?” The desperation in her voice surprised her. More quietly, she asked, “Of our family? He can’t die! Not yet. Besides, how many times have we heard his death proclaimed? At least five! I do not believe it!”
Beargrass shifted uncomfortably and his shadow leaped over the wall behind him like a silent dancing ghost. His wrinkles deepened. “I admit that Crow Beard may just be off on another Soul March to the afterworld, but I don’t think so.” He rubbed his hands together, warming them. “In any case, we’ll know soon enough. Sternlight will place his body on the great foot-drum in the First People’s kiva and instruct slaves to watch over him.”