“It’s all right,” he whispered to calm himself. “You can endure it. Think of the things you will be able to do for your people once you’ve become a great Singer. You’ll be able to Heal the sick, and help lonely ghosts find their ways to the afterworlds. You’ll be prepared to battle witches, and speak with the plants and animals in their own languages.”
It didn’t take long before he’d lost himself and his anger in sublime thoughts of his future. Why, when he’d earned the title of Singer, no one would ever shout at him again. He’d be revered, and not a little feared. He chuckled at the thought.
A breath of wind trailed over the sage like the hem of a woman’s dress, soft and silken. Buckthorn looked up. The gust whipped the brush on its journey westward toward a distant butte that stood alone in the middle of the canyon, its rocky top gleaming. Brush-covered flats spread around the butte, running until they butted against the red canyon walls on the north and south.
At some point in his training, Dune would bestow a new name upon Buckthorn, and he longed for one that echoed the names of his greatest heroes: Wolfdreamer, Born of Water, and Home-Going-Boy. Maybe something like Going-Home-Dreamer or Born-of-Wolf-Water. Those would be very powerful names. He’d have to hint about it to Dune.
Buckthorn happily trotted back for the house.
The light had faded to a rusty hue that turned the cliffs dark vermilion. Desert fragrances intensified with the night, the sage more pungent, the juniper rich and savory.
As he thrashed through a clot of buckbrush, he saw Dune come out to stand in front of his door. The old man had his sticklike arms folded. White hair made a wispy halo around his shriveled face.
Grinning, Buckthorn hurried forward. “Isn’t it a beautiful evening, Elder? Just look at the colors!”
Dune scowled. “What is the matter with you?”
Buckthorn stopped dead in his tracks. “W-what?”
“You don’t carry sacred sage like that! What a jumble! Do you wish to offend the Spirit of the plant? Order the sticks. Lay each in the crook of your arm like a precious child. Gently. One atop the other. Well? Don’t stand there staring. Drop the sticks and order them. Now!”
Buckthorn hastily dumped his load and began picking them up again, doing as he’d been instructed, one at a time, gently. But he wondered at this lunacy. What possible difference could it make to the Spirit of the sage how he carried her dead branches?
Once he’d finished, Dune held aside the door curtain, and Buckthorn entered the house. He laid the branches by the fire-pit in the middle of the floor and looked around.
What a bleak place! Dune owned almost nothing. A flat slab and handstone, for grinding seeds, lay near the door. Beside them sat a large water jar and two clay pots, one for cornmeal and the other for dried meats. Ears of corn, squash gourds, sunflowers, and other plants hung from the rafters. In the corner, to Buckthorn’s right, a stack of colored baskets leaned precariously. Two plain gray blankets lay rolled up on either side of the house. But no floor mats cushioned the cold dirt floor; no paintings brightened the soot-smudged clay walls.
Dune entered and heaved a tired breath. He gestured to the wood pile. “Make a fire. There are hot coals beneath the ash bed.”
“Yes, Elder.”
Buckthorn used a stick to dig around, isolating the hot coals from the dead ones. When he had a mound in the center of the pit, he laid four small pieces of wood on top and blew gently. White ash fluttered. The coals slowly reddened and flames crackled up around the tinder.
Buckthorn kept adding wood while he watched the Derelict. The old man set up his tea tripod and hung a soot-coated pot in the middle, then slumped down on the dirt floor and sighed.
Buckthorn said, “Elder? Why is it that you have not painted images of the thlatsinas on your walls? You are their greatest messenger. You should have them around you, and it would certainly brighten your house. It would please me very much to do that for you, if you wish.”
Dune squinted. “Paintings and possessions are for people who plan to sleep in the same house for a long time. I do not.”
“Oh, forgive me.” He paused, squinting. “I thought you had lived here forever. Black Mesa knew right where you would be, and so I assumed—”
“Forty-four summers.”
Buckthorn looked at him. “You’ve lived here for forty-four summers?”
“Almost forty-five.”
“Well…” Buckthorn blinked in confusion. “If this has been your home for so long, where do you plan to sleep if not in this house?”
The old man raised his bushy white brows. “Under a stone slab if I’m not careful.”