People of the Silence(64)

I am not alone anymore.

Over the past two days, I have found a strange world of endless horizon, where silence is the voice of forgiveness. I talk with the plants, and they answer in lilting tones as warm as a buffalo’s undercoat.

“We hunt silence not to know freedom,” Dune once told me, “but to know relatedness. From all living things, something flows into you all the time, and flows from you into them. Silence teaches us our dependence. By doing so, it washes the face of our soul clean, so we can see it better.”

The walkingcane cactus beside me whispers as Wind Baby shakes its blossom-laden arms. I study the delicate purple petals. When raindrops pat their faces, they nod.

And I know what they are saying.

Just as the rain started last night, I had a Dream.

I stood at a walled-up doorway, knocking gently at first, then slamming my fists against the stones, demanding answers, wanting reasons, screaming: “You can’t hide! Let me in! Tell me the truth! Let me in!”

In a deafening roar the wall crashed down, the stones crumbling before my eyes. Dust boiled up, and for a moment I could not see. Then …

I stood stunned, my raised fists trembling.

Because I had been knocking from the inside.

* * *

I sit very still.

And look out across the drenched land. Light winks on the surface of each wet pebble. The cliffs below are wavering sheets of silver. Sinuous threads of muddy water shine in the drainages.

I stretch out on the damp stone and open my arms to the weeping heavens. These tears are immaculate. I want them to soak clear to my bones.





Thirteen

Poor Singer straightened and winced. He’d been twisting gnarled sage out of the ground, and the small of his back stabbed him as if yucca leaves had been driven into it. His arms ached, and thirst plagued him. He glanced at Dune. The old holy man lay in the middle of the road, his mouth open in a toothless grin. Wind Baby playfully blew sand over his tan shirt and into his gaping maw. Dune didn’t seem to notice.

Poor Singer wiped the sweat from his forehead and gazed up at the crimson cliff and the large rock painting that hid beneath the jagged rim. The painter must have lowered himself by ropes and hung suspended while he’d created his design. Two Humpbacked Flute Players adorned the wall, one male, the other female. The male had an exceptionally long penis. The female’s blue head nestled beneath a large white spiral. The red paint came from crushed hematite, the white from gypsum, or maybe chalk, and the blue might be dried larkspur petals. Poor Singer smiled. If so, the female flute player would soon be headless—plant pigments didn’t last nearly as long as minerals did.

His gaze moved over the rest of the cliff face, searching for other paintings, then drifted southward.

Weathered sandstone ridges receded into infinity, glowing lavender and purple in the morning light. Gray shadows pooled at the bases. On the distant horizon, an unearthly golden gleam sheathed the spire of rock that Dune called Woodcutter’s Penis.

Poor Singer turned. Far to the west, the Thlatsina Mountains wore a misty crown of clouds. His eyes tightened with longing. Did a glimmering turquoise cave hide in that breathtaking blue?

Fragments of that Dream returned to him every night, and he relived the screams, the angry kicks, the strange woman …

He looked back at Dune. What a slave master the Derelict had turned out to be. He wouldn’t listen to any of Poor Singer’s stories about himself. He’d eaten all the food Poor Singer had brought, apparently without the slightest remorse. He’d ordered Poor Singer to go for days without eating or drinking, while he worked him brutally. Then the old man had smiled and claimed he was attempting to teach Poor Singer how to forget himself.

It was both annoying and amazing.

Only yesterday he’d been telling Dune how many Sings he’d been to, and how much he’d learned from them, and Dune had cocked an eyebrow and pleasantly observed, “It must be difficult to fill yourself up with divine Power, when you’re so full already.”

Poor Singer throttled another sage and twisted it, grunting, until it popped from the ground. He threw it on the huge pile to his left. As he bent for another, he spotted a dust cloud coming up the road from the south. He shielded his eyes against the morning glare.

Dune had ordered Poor Singer not to speak, not even to think. “Just gather sage,” he’d said.

The man sprinted closer, until Poor Singer could see his red shirt, belted at the waist, and the magnificent turquoise pendant around his neck.

Poor Singer squinted at the sleeping Derelict. He tried mouthing the word, Dune.

Nothing.

Poor Singer edged closer and whispered, “Dune?”

Still nothing.

He stood at Dune’s feet and rubbed his toe in the sand, making noise. Dune’s smile didn’t even dim. “Uh … Dune? There’s a man coming.”