People of the Silence(35)

Buckthorn shifted to sit cross-legged and concentrated. He heard the twittering of birds, saw a roadrunner darting through the brush, heard a far-off coyote yip. “The world’s voice is speaking to me, but I don’t know what you mean by—”

“Stop seeking the musician outside. He is here.” Dune tapped his chest.

“Oh, emotions! Yes, I feel things all the time. Very powerfully. As a matter of fact, I—”

Dune lifted a clawlike hand. “Don’t speak! Listen!”

Buckthorn bit his lip. What a harsh voice the elder had, like a braying buffalo in mating season. Buckthorn sighed and tried to do as he’d been instructed. He listened to the sounds inside him. His heart beat like a pot drum, blood shished in his ears, and his breathing hissed in and out—but he dared not ask the Derelict if he’d located the “divine musician” for fear he’d be rebuked again.

“Ah,” Dune grunted as he rose to his feet.

Buckthorn stood, too. An elderly woman came down the trail, dragging a little boy by the hand. She wore a faded red dress and had twisted her white hair into a topknot. Her nose seemed to have grown out of proportion with her face, thrusting forth like a crooked thumb. Buckthorn barely glanced at her before his gaze went to the little boy, whose long black shirt had been patched in several places. His moccasins had holes in the toes, and he looked thin and pale. But he skipped happily at the woman’s side, his chin-length black hair bouncing as he asked question after question. The woman answered each with a smile.

“These are very poor people,” Buckthorn said to Dune. “Are they slaves? But what master would deny his own servants good moccasins? It hardly seems—”

“With all that chatter filling your brain, it’s no wonder you can’t hear the divine musician.”

Buckthorn hushed.

When the woman came close to Dune, she bowed reverently. “Greetings, holy Derelict.”

“A blessed day to you, Wolf Widow.” His voice had softened, become rich and deep. “I have gifts for you.” Dune picked up the two packs and handed them to the old woman.

Buckthorn gaped, incredulous. His clan had impoverished itself to provide gifts for Dune, not some stranger! “Elder,” he started to object, “I—”

“One more word, and I will send you straight home.”

The old woman gazed at the packs and her eyes widened. She clutched them to her breast like suckling infants. “My grandson and I thank you, Elder. We are on our way to visit his sick mother. These things will bring a smile to her lips.”

“Give your daughter my blessings, Wolf Widow.” He placed a kind hand on her shoulder.

“Yes, Elder, I will.” But she waited, apparently seeing if Dune wished to speak more. The little boy huddled against her leg, looking back and forth between them, drawing a half-circle in the dirt with the holed toe of his moccasin.

“Be on your way, Wolf Widow,” Dune said gently. “Your daughter needs you.”

“Thank you, Elder.”

The woman bowed again and continued northward along the trail with the boy feeling the packs and jabbering excitedly.

Dune turned to Buckthorn and said, “Love and charity. They are all that matter.”

“Yes, I know, but couldn’t you have given them just one pack? I mean, my clan—”

“Don’t say ‘yes’ when you haven’t the slightest notion what I’m speaking about!”

In morose silence, Buckthorn followed Dune back along the sage-choked path that led to his little house. He might have been passing through a tunnel, for the sagebrush grew head-high.

When they reached the door, Dune ordered, “Collect wood for the fire, but not close to the house. Walk for at least a finger of time, then begin gathering wood.”

“But look at the sage right here, elder.” Buckthorn gestured to the blue-green jungle that practically swallowed the house. “It needs to be twisted out.”

Dune fixed him with a glare. “This sage lives here, boy. Go kill something that isn’t my friend.”

Buckthorn stared. In irritation, he said, “Why didn’t you tell me back at the trail? It will be getting dark soon, and if I have to walk for…”

Dune ducked through the doorway and into his house. The deerhide curtain swung behind him.

Buckthorn swallowed his next words, stood uncertainly for a moment, then trudged away, kicking every sagebrush he passed. Did the old man yell at all of his disciples? Black Mesa hadn’t mentioned this cruel streak. Nor had anyone else.

Maybe Dune just doesn’t like me.

While Father Sun descended into Our Mother Earth’s western womb, Buckthorn angrily ripped off dead sage branches and stacked them in his left arm.