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People of the Silence(28)

By:W. Michael Gear


Thistle closed her eyes. “If War Chief Ironwood doesn’t slit his throat first to make certain. He hates Crow Beard. The man is—”

“Hush, wife!” Beargrass glanced around anxiously. “You know Wind Baby is his Spirit Helper! He tells Ironwood every word he hears!”

Thistle leaped up and ran to the door to peer out into the predawn darkness. A pale lavender glow lit the mountainous eastern horizon, pushing up the indigo of night, making way for Father Sun’s daily rebirth. From this hillside above Lanceleaf Village, she could see the broad plaza and most of the valley. Within the protective rectangle of the village, the plaza was gray and silent.

Wide-eyed, she studied the desert plants. Not even the barest of breezes moved the sagebrush. She let the door curtain fall closed. “I think we are safe.”

As she walked back toward her husband, forbidden thoughts crowded her soul, old fears she had worked cycles to suppress. What would life be like without her children? Every vista, every flower or tiny bug, looked brighter and more beautiful when she looked at it with them. She put a hand to her face to cover her tears.

“Don’t cry, my wife.” Beargrass drew her down to the mat beside him. “We are safe. Not even Wind Baby would betray us after what we have gone through for the Blessed Sun.”

“I wasn’t crying for us, my husband, but for the child. Don’t you see? Crow Beard wouldn’t have sent runners to us unless he himself believed he was about to die, and he was warning us that … that we might lose our child.”

Beargrass put a gentle hand on her soft hair. “That makes no sense, my wife. Crow Beard has other children to rule after he is gone. If Crow Beard had wanted ours to come to Talon Town, he would demand it outright. Not send messengers with news that he is dying. What purpose would it serve?”

“I don’t know,” she answered softly.

He nuzzled his forehead against hers. “Listen to me. The Chief abandoned his offspring out of kindness, and has compensated us well for keeping his secret. Look at the fine blankets we own. The magnificent turquoise jewelry. The copper bells from the Hohokam people far to the southwest. Each is worth more than the rearing we’ve provided. He’d never ask for the child back. He couldn’t be so cruel.”

Hope, light and sweet, sent tendrils through her. She looked up at Beargrass. “Do you think so? Truly?”

“Yes. Maybe the Chief only wished to warn us that if he died the payments would stop coming.”

“Yes. Yes, of course!” A desperate laugh escaped her lips. She clutched handfuls of her yellow skirt. “That’s why he asked Ironwood to send runners! We have nothing to fear. There will be no more payments, but what do we care? The secret will die with us and our family will be safe forever!”

Beargrass whispered, “Yes,” but his gaze darted uncertainly over the clay-washed walls.

“What’s wrong? What are you thinking?”

Beargrass rose and went to stand over the children, his gaze on Cornsilk. Long raven strands of her hair spread over the sleeping mat. Beargrass reached down to touch them, but stopped a hand’s breadth short, probably because she’d been ill, and he didn’t wish to wake her. As though it hurt not to touch his daughter, he drew back his open hand and clenched it into a fist.

“I was thinking that we are not the only ones left who know.”

Thistle swallowed her response when she saw Fledgling rouse. Their voices had been too loud. He yawned and stretched his arms over his head. His round tawny face gleamed when he rolled on his back to look up at Beargrass. “Hello, Father.”

Beargrass knelt by his side. “I’m sorry I woke you, my son. It is not yet morning. Sleep some more.”

Sleepily, Fledgling asked, “Did you just return?”

“Yes. It has been a long night.”

“What did the runners want?”

“Oh, many things, most—”

“Father.” Fledgling lifted himself on one elbow. The flame glow made his dark eyes shine as if coated with pure copper. His bare chest looked skinny and very pale. “The ghosts in the afterworld told me that they had come to ask you to be a warrior for the Blessed Sun again. It scared me.”

“No, no, my son.” Beargrass cast a worried glance at Thistle. “Nothing so serious.”

Blood drained from Thistle’s face. A lie? Was he saving this news for the last?

For two summers Beargrass had served as one of the Chief’s most loyal guards. On the last night of his service, Sternlight had come to Beargrass with the newborn child in his arms, a tiny mewling creature wrapped in a magnificent turquoise-studded blanket. The Sunwatcher had explained Crow Beard’s shame: “The Blessed Sun mated with one of his wife’s slaves. An error in judgment to be sure—more so since this child came from the union  . Crow Beard does not wish the child dead, but you know how Night Sun is. She will have the infant skinned alive before the entire town. Beargrass, Chief Crow Beard knows your wife recently bore a child. He values your loyalty and wishes to ask a great favor of you. Would you and your wife claim the child as your own? Compensation will be given, of course. You must only vow never to tell anyone.…”