People of the Silence(37)
“Elder! You mustn’t jest about witchcraft!”
“Why not?” Dune scratched his side.
“Blessed thlatsinas! I was sent here by my clan to learn to be a Spirit Singer. It wouldn’t do to have people whispering behind their hands that I was trained by a man who lopes across the desert at night in the body of a bobcat!”
The deep wrinkles of Dune’s face twisted and contorted when he grinned.
Buckthorn got to his feet and nervously thrust a hand toward the door. “I—I left my pack outside. I have blue corn cakes in it. My mother made them for us for supper tonight. Let me get it.”
The brightest Evening People had opened their eyes. They peered down at Buckthorn as he retrieved his pack from beside the door. Confused, he grimaced at the growing darkness, feeling as if he’d been maneuvered into studying with Trickster Coyote. Didn’t anybody know what a crazy old fool Dune was? Then he remembered the other two Singers-in-the-making who’d returned to Windflower Village proclaiming exactly that. Why hadn’t anybody believed them?
Grumbling softly, he ducked back inside. Dune watched him through half-lidded eyes.
Buckthorn knelt by the fire and unlaced his pack. Firelight fluttered over his hands like luminous butterfly wings. Just as he started to pull out a cake, Dune ordered, “Give it to me.”
“I’m getting ready to, Elder! Here.” He extended a cake.
Dune took it, then held out his hand again. “The pack. Give me the pack.”
Buckthorn did.
Dune took it, rummaged around to find all the cakes, set them on a hearth stone, and began eating. Crumbs fell down the front of his brown shirt, dotting it with blue.
Buckthorn sat in silence, counting each cake the old man ate. Finally, when he feared the worst, he said. “Elder, I ran all the way here. I am very hungry, so if you don’t mind—”
Around a mouthful of food, Dune said, “You should sleep.” He pointed to the blanket rolled up on the floor on the north side of the house. “That is your place.”
“Yes, well,” Buckthorn said as he glanced at it. “After I’ve eaten. I’m starving, and I—”
“Now,” Dune shouted. “Go to sleep!”
Buckthorn lurched to his feet, fists clenched. “You do not have to yell at me, Elder! I am human, not a soulless rock! I deserve to be treated with a little dignity!”
“Dignity?” Dune said. He lowered the cake to his lap and gazed at Buckthorn with those strange shining eyes. “Listen to me. Look deeply into your soul. Look hard. Find that man who thinks he deserves to be treated with dignity, and ask him why. He will give you many reasons.” Dune’s voice softened to the same timbre he had used with old Wolf Widow. “That man will tell you all of the great deeds he has accomplished in his life, how kind he is, how deserving, and how many people love and have faith in him.” Dune took another bite of corn cake, working it slowly around his toothless mouth.
“Yes,” Buckthorn said. “Then what?”
Dune squeezed his eyes closed as though in great disappointment. “Each reason that man gives you is a stiletto in your heart. If you collect enough, you will kill your ability to love. Now, do not argue with me. Go to your place and sleep.”
Buckthorn went. Wrapping up in the blanket, he stretched out on the hard-packed dirt floor. He could still hear the Derelict gumming the corn cakes to mush, and his stomach growled.
Buckthorn tossed to his right side and faced the wall, concentrating on the flickers of firelight that danced across the smudged plaster.
Hallowed Spirits, what had he gotten himself into?
* * *
Cornsilk came up the southern trail and spotted Fledgling. He crouched behind a sagebrush three body-lengths ahead. The rise overlooked their house and the north half of the village plaza where children ran. Fledgling’s rabbit-fur cape and loose black hair glinted in the afternoon sunlight.
Cornsilk studied him thoughtfully. He had tilted his head, listening intently to their parents’ faint voices coming from within the house.
She cupped a hand to her mouth and softly called, “Brother? Fledgling?”
When he didn’t turn, Cornsilk picked up a rock and tossed it at him. She missed. He didn’t move. Disgruntled, she looked for a bigger one. A fist-sized chunk of limestone lay half-hidden in the sand. She dug it out, hefted it to test the weight, and heaved it.
It struck him in the middle of the back. Fledgling jerked around, startled, his thin-boned face pale, and saw her. As though relieved, he gripped the cape over his heart, then waved her forward.
Cornsilk grinned and walked to him, carefully avoiding clumps of prickly pear. She sank on her knees at his side. “What are you doing? Spying on our parents?”