People of the Silence(47)
Buckthorn tiptoed to the door and stuck his hand around the ratty curtain, testing the air outside. Cold. Very cold. He would need his blanket. He tiptoed back and grabbed it.
“Shielding yourself against the light?” Dune asked sleepily.
Buckthorn frowned. “Are you awake?”
“No, this is my departed soul speaking to you from the underworlds. Of course, I’m awake! Answer my question.”
“Shielding myself? Why, no. When I reach the mesa top each morning I stand with my arms open so I am vulnerable to the light, so I can feel it the instant it is reborn.”
Dune rolled to his side. The field mouse kept eating, its eyes bright. “Is that your goal? To stand in the light all of your life?”
“Yes, Elder,” Buckthorn said serenely, “that is why I came to you. To learn how—”
“Then you will be forever in the darkness. Alone. Troubled.”
Buckthorn shifted. “What does that mean?”
Dune extended the tip of his finger to stroke the mouse’s silken back. The little animal barely seemed to notice. Deep wrinkles criss-crossed Dune’s ancient face as he smiled. In the faint light streaming through the roof’s smoke hole his white hair had a tinge of lavender. “You cannot be reborn on your feet, boy. You’ll never be the light if you insist on keeping your eye on it.”
Buckthorn stammered, “But I—I don’t wish to be reborn. I want to be a great Spirit Singer, like you. So that I may help my people.”
“A great Singer?” Dune threw off his blanket and scowled at Buckthorn. His long tan shirt shone darkly. “What arrogance. Do you know where such pride leads? To the kind of selfishness that will make you a terrible Singer.”
“But, Elder…” He spread his arms helplessly. “I’m a terrible Singer now. I can’t even recall the words to some of our most sacred Songs! If I can’t look forward to being a great Singer, what can I look forward to?”
“Scorn,” Dune said. “Occasionally contempt.” He rolled up his blanket and tucked it in the corner near the baskets. “And a good deal of disbelief.”
“Scorn?” Buckthorn whispered in horror. “But, Elder, I can’t accept that. Why would the very people I’m struggling to help—”
“You can’t accept it?” Dune’s white brows drew down into a solid bushy line. “Well, then, I must prepare you better. Let me see. I know!” He slapped his palms on his knees. “You wish to have a new name, don’t you?”
Buckthorn’s eyes widened. “Oh, yes, Elder. Very much. I’ve been thinking about something like—”
“As of this instant, then, you are Poor Singer.”
“Poor … Poor Singer! But that’s insulting! Why would you do that to me?”
Dune’s reedy voice grew gentle. “Because we do not strive for greatness here. We strive to be so small that no one notices us at all. If you must strive for something, strive to be a rat’s tail, or a bird’s toe, or a slimy drip of buffalo spittle. That’s why you are here, Poor Singer.”
“To learn to be buffalo spit?”
“Yes.” Dune waggled a knobby finger. “And it’s not easy. The first thing you must do is hack away at your heart; it’s filled with too much of you. Carve it down to a speck, then seek out all of the other infinitesimally tiny things in the world. Ants that live beneath rocks. Grains of sand. Worms on plant stems. Strive to be one of them. See life through their eyes. Forget the big things.”
“Carve up my heart,” Buckthorn said sarcastically. “I imagine that will be painful.”
Dune grinned like Bobcat crouched before Packrat’s nest. “You have no idea.”
The old man rose on rickety knees and made a sweeping gesture toward the door. “Go outside where the blood won’t make a mess all over things. I’ll take the first chop. And I want you to start thinking of yourself by your new name.”
“I think that is the first chop, Elder.” He reached for his blanket.
Poor Singer. I am Poor Singer. It is my name now. I am Poor … How can I go through life with a name like that? Poor Singer. Poor Singer. Blessed gods, only an idiot would hire someone with that name to do an important Sing for them! Which means I’ll starve, or be forced to throw myself on the mercy of my family. No woman will marry me. I’ll never have children. Wolf, help me! I’ve been cursed!
Angry, he roughly swung his blanket over his shoulders and started for the door.
“No,” Dune said. “Leave your blanket.”
Poor Singer threw it down, ducked beneath the door curtain, and stepped out into the frigid morning. The cliff towered over the house, two hundred hands tall, casting a long cold shadow. Beyond the rim, Brother Sky glistened a deep translucent blue. Two ravens flapped and circled on the wind currents. Poor Singer rubbed his freezing arms.