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People of the Silence(59)

By:W. Michael Gear


For three days, memories had haunted Ironwood … voices of children begging him not to kill their parents … men and women screaming as they ran from burning villages. He had served Crow Beard for eighteen summers, faithfully and efficiently carrying out each insane order.

Because of that loyalty, hollow eyes crowded Ironwood’s soul, staring at him, cursing him—sparing Crow Beard the anguish.

“Night Sun?” Sternlight tried again. “May I bring you something? A cup of hot tea, perhaps?”

“No,” she murmured.

The frail sound of her voice struck Ironwood like a physical blow. He walked outside, hoping to lessen the pain.

The interplay of light mesmerized him. A yellow blur of reflected firelight tinted the smoke that hung over Talon Town. While starlight illuminated the barren fields in the canyon bottom, the snow that frosted the rimrock outlined every ledge.

Night chilled his skin as he raised his eyes to the sky.

Spider Woman had almost cleared the horizon.

“Sternlight,” he called. “It is almost time.”

“Is she up?”

“Soon.”

“I’m coming.”

The Sunwatcher picked up his conch shell horn. Conch shells came from the faraway ocean, a place Ironwood could barely imagine. Traders said the water went on forever. Ironwood had spent his entire life in the desert. Could such a place truly exist?

Sternlight swept by Ironwood. Just outside the doorway, the ladder to the roof leaned against the wall. He climbed it and stood on the highest point in Talon Town. The priest’s weight made the roof creak. A dark shadow against the starry sky, Sternlight lifted the shell to his lips. A shrill high-pitched blast split the darkness. Then another. Four in all.

At the call, people emerged from their chambers. Some filtered into the plaza. Others perched on rooftops. The elderly gathered to his left, along the eastern wall, sitting with blankets over their white heads for warmth. To his right, along the western wall, children huddled in their parents’ laps, eyes wide.

Sternlight descended the ladder. He stood beside Ironwood, his conch shell tucked beneath his arm.

Neither said anything for a time, then Sternlight whispered, “Have the runners returned from Lanceleaf Village yet?”

“Soon. I expected them today. Perhaps tomorrow.”

“You posted warriors at the signal towers, so we would know in advance—”

“Of course, Sternlight.” He exhaled wearily. “But with the snow, Blue Corn may not have seen the fires. He…”

Ironwood’s voice faded as, one by one, the Buffalo Dancers climbed from the kiva’s subterranean warmth and ghosted out into the cold plaza. They moved in the loose-limbed gait of dominant bulls, tossing their shaggy heads. Wisps of eagle down fluttered from the tips of their horns.

A buffalo’s skull was hollowed out to fit over the Dancer’s head, leaving the long bushy beard to warm his naked chest. Below that, the men wore kirtles and moccasins. As they trotted in front of the fires, their shadows bounced over the white walls like dark giants, and their feet kicked up puffs of snow.

When they reached the center of the plaza, the Dancers split into four groups and marched to the places marking the cardinal directions. They stood in silence, shaking their horns, their bodies swaying gently as if blown by the wind. The great Power of the buffalo banished illness and brought snowstorms to the mountains. In the spring, the snow melted, flooded the ephemeral creeks, and Brother Desert opened his eternal eyes. Buffalo gave life to the world, as they had since the emergence into this Fifth World.

“Sternlight!” Night Sun shouted.

Ironwood spun and saw Crow Beard lift a hand, as though to summon one of them.

Sternlight did not turn. Ironwood said, “He’s awake.”

Sternlight bowed his head. “I know.”

The Buffalo Dancers began the sacred Songs, cleansing, pleading with the Spirits for help. As though he had just enough strength to do it, Sternlight tugged his gaze away and plodded inside to kneel beside the Chief.

Night Sun smoothed a hand down Crow Beard’s wrinkled jaw. “Hello, my husband,” she said softly. “Are you—”

“Go … away,” the Blessed Sun ordered, and feebly glared at his wife. “Sternlight? I wish … only Sternlight.”

“I am here, my chief.”

Crow Beard’s head lolled sideways. He squinted as if having trouble discerning the Sunwatcher’s features in the pale glow. “Find Dune … bring him.” He coughed weakly. “He must be … here … before I die.”

“Yes, my chief. I will see to it.” Sternlight drew one of the deerhides up to Crow Beard’s chin. “Night Sun is here, too.”