People of the Silence(65)
Dune opened one eye. “You are such a stupid boy. Didn’t I tell you a Singer’s purpose is to see, not to babble?”
“Yes, well, I thought I’d better babble before you got trampled.” Poor Singer pointed. “He’s coming fast.”
Dune lifted his white head and squinted at the man running toward him. “Ah,” he breathed. “Bad news.”
Poor Singer frowned skeptically. How could he know?
Dune sat up and waited.
When the visitor arrived, he bowed deeply. “I hope I find you well, holy Derelict.”
“You do, Ironwood. What—”
“Ironwood!” Poor Singer spluttered. “The—the great War Chief of Talon Town?”
Dune yelled, “You imbecile! Ironwood is a man like any other! Except you. You’re dog urine!”
Poor Singer winced with embarrassment. You couldn’t be certain that what Dune said was truly what he meant. He’d called Poor Singer “slimy packrat dung” last night, and then explained his joy that Poor Singer had decided to become a part of the cleansing process of his people.
Poor Singer edged forward and asked, “Was that an insult?”
Ironwood was a broad-shouldered muscular man, his face hardened by years of weather, worry, and war. Dust sheathed his red shirt, and his moccasins were grimy from travel. The stout black bow over his shoulder gleamed as if waxed, however, and the arrows in his quiver looked newly fletched. A slim bone stiletto hung from his belt next to a stone-headed war club. The large turquoise pendant had been carved in the shape of a running wolf.
The warrior peered at Poor Singer as though he might be dimwitted, and said, “Dune—”
“What’s wrong, War Chief?”
“The Blessed Sun is dying, and he wishes you to be there.”
Dune scowled. “In what capacity? I see you offer me no mixture of ground turquoise and blue cornmeal.”
Poor Singer listened intently. When a person was dying the family sent such a mixture to the Singer they wished to attend the dying. If the Singer took it, it meant he or she accepted the dangerous physical tasks of washing, dressing, and handling the body of the dead, as well as the spiritual tasks of Singing the soul to the afterworld. The mixture would later be sprinkled over the corpse to sanctify it before the burial procession left for the journey down the sacred road.
Ironwood hesitated, apparently judging Dune’s expression, then responded, “I do not, Elder. The Blessed Sun demands only your presence. That is all.”
“Are you certain of this?”
“My orders come from his lips, holy Derelict.”
Dune rubbed his wrinkled chin, as though considering. “But he’s not dead yet?”
“Very close,” Ironwood said. “When last I saw him—”
“Then go away.” Dune waved a translucent old hand. “There’s nothing I can do until he’s dead. Tell Crow Beard I said so.” He flopped back on the sand, clasped his hands over his stomach, and closed his eyes. Sunlight flowed into his wrinkles.
“Elder,” Ironwood said, “the Blessed Sun is dying. This is not a request. He orders you to be present.”
“He’s just worried about his relatives. Tell him that when he’s dead, I promise to bring my Bashing Rock. I will personally smack him in the face to free his soul. Unless, of course, his relatives have already thrown him facedown in a hole and dropped a slab of sandstone over him.”
Poor Singer gasped. Great Monster Slayer! Suggesting such a thing about a Chief would have gotten most men whacked in the head and unceremoniously left for the coyotes. And Dune had just said it to the greatest War Chief alive!
Ironwood propped his hands on his hips. “Gather your things, Elder. We must leave immediately.”
“You must leave immediately, War Chief. I—”
“But, Dune!” Poor Singer said. A swallow went down his dry throat. “You’ve taught me that we must be generous and kind. If the Chief needs you—”
“He doesn’t. Not yet.”
“Dune,” Ironwood said, obviously choosing his words carefully. “If you will not come for the dying Chief, will you come for the Sunwatcher? Sternlight may need you more than Crow Beard does.”
Dune braced himself up on one bony elbow. His expression changed. For the first time he looked sincerely worried. “Why? What’s happened?”
“One of my runners, Wraps-His-Tail, was murdered last night. He had a badger’s paw in his fist and corpse powder—”
“Witchcraft!” Poor Singer blurted, and took a step backward.
Ironwood shot him a glance. “Yes. The town has gone crazy with fear. They—”