People of the Silence(41)

Her brow wrinkled as she recalled the argument Cloud Playing and Webworm had been engaged in the morning they’d left on this journey. Half of Talon Town had come running at the sound of loud voices just outside the walls. Night Sun had stood numbly, watching the disagreement progress to a shoving match—which Cloud Playing won by accident. She’d pushed Webworm backward and he’d tripped over a rock and fallen to the ground. As onlookers burst out laughing, Cloud Playing had stamped away. She’d been silent and moody for two days afterward. She’d only begun to brighten late last night as they’d sat around their campfire talking of old times—times when they’d both been happy. Why had they been arguing?

Six summers ago, Webworm had asked to marry Cloud Playing, but neither Night Sun nor Crow Beard had approved. Since the deaths of her family, Cloud Playing had been very lonely, accompanying Night Sun on her Healing rounds, carrying the pack of sacred herbs, roots, and tools. The argument hadn’t been over Cloud Playing’s other “prospects,” had it? Webworm had a reputation for jealousy.

Hallowed Ancestors, I hope not.

Over the past two summers, Cloud Playing had become Night Sun’s best friend and closest confidante.

Despite the fact that Night Sun possessed considerable power and wealth, for most of her life her soul had been completely empty. A cavernous darkness lived inside her—as it had all the women in her family. Her mother and older sister had both spoken of that darkness as if it were a terrible ghostly lover; a specter whose shadowy arms often tightened around them until they felt so alone they wished to die. When the daily misery of Night Sun’s wedded life became too much, she understood—and feared—what they had experienced, because the desperation turned her into a violent stranger.

A tall willowy woman of forty-four summers, gray glinted in Night Sun’s black hair as it fluttered about her triangular face. She brushed the hair away and tipped up her pointed nose to sniff the air. Cedar smoke rode the wind. Her black dress whipped about her red leggings, creating a pleasant sound.

As she rounded a bend in the trail, she saw Deer Mother Village. The square dwelling had been built beneath the overhanging canyon wall. Just beyond, the canyon turned shallow, the rim sloping to sage flats. Few families dared to stay in such isolated areas. With the raiding, it took real bravery, but these people of the Coyote Clan had always been brave. They had survived here for centuries—though only about ten members remained.

For that very reason Night Sun visited here once every four moons—always during the full moon. She feared that this small village might not exist much longer, and despite her dislike of the village Matron, Sweetwater, she loved the five slaves. They always greeted her with such affection.

“Mother?” Cloud Playing called. “There’s someone coming.”

“Where?” Night Sun shielded her eyes against the slant of sunlight, but saw nothing.

“Wait. He just vanished around the base of the rise. You’ll see.”

A breathless silence had gripped the desert. Birds sat fluffed up in the spiny arms of cacti, or huddled beneath rock overhangs. Coyotes quietly loped through the drainages, hunting mice and rabbits. Eagles circled through blue skies.

An old man appeared on the hilltop and waddled toward her. He wore a tattered gray cape and worn moccasins. When he met her, he murmured, “May the Blessed thlatsinas look over you this day.”

“And you also, Elder.”

He dipped his white head and continued on.

Night Sun followed the trail up the low hill. By the time she reached the top, she was panting. She untied the water jug from her belt, removed the ceramic lid, and drank deeply. Each swallow went down crisp and cold. She silently thanked the thlatsinas.

Water was the most precious of all resources in this high desert country. People filled jugs from potholes in the rocks, or larger sinks in the canyon bottom freshened by rain and melting snows. In the heat of the summer, when no reliable surface water could be found, people scooped out holes along drainages. Sometimes, they filled. Sometimes they remained dry and dusty, as empty of water as the supplicants were of hope.

Night Sun tied her water jug to her belt again and gazed back down the hill.

Cloud Playing had stopped to speak to the old man. Wind Baby billowed her blue dress around her legs. Her voice rose in soft lilting tones. The man answered, but Night Sun caught only a few words.

Cloud Playing smiled at something he said. She was a pretty young woman, with brown eyes and red-brown skin. Four black spirals tattooed her pointed chin—the mark of all the women in their family. Night Sun had them on her own chin.