“I don’t know. It will take some thought.”
Seeing the glum look on Dune’s ancient face, Ironwood changed the subject. “I was surprised to see the youth at your house. You haven’t had many apprentices in the past few cycles, have you?”
“Too many,” Dune snorted. “They come in droves, but few stay for more than a day or two.”
“Well, the hermit’s life is not easy, especially on young men. They have needs. At their age, pressing needs. Their bodies are just ripening—”
“Learning to be a Singer has its own pressing needs. Far more pressing than a penis against a breechclout, Ironwood. A Singer must become a world in himself for another’s sake—and it is a great undertaking.”
Ironwood sliced another curl of wood from his stick. “At Poor Singer’s age, I was a world in myself for my own sake. I wished to live, and love, and…”
“Many who come to me do, too. Remember the lessons taught by the Humpbacked Flute Players? Male and female are two halves of a whole. I try to show young Singers that our creativity, our fruitfulness, our very ability to love, are one. Fertility is sacred. It is the Creator.”
“The Creator?”
“Of course. The needs of the body and the needs of the Spirit aren’t different, Ironwood. Power is Power.”
“They feel different.”
Dune smiled toothlessly. “That’s why humans wage constant war upon themselves—and why you are at war with yourself. You must befriend fertility. Stop using it like a tool. The Creator only befriends those who befriend her first.”
Ironwood turned his flake over to use the sharper side. “I know of no god that I wish for my friend.”
“Well,” Dune sighed, “do the best with what you have. A god you hate is better than no god at all.”
Ironwood cocked a brow. What a strange statement! He did hate a few of the gods—especially those he’d prayed to in battle, begging them to take his life instead of one of his friends’ lives. But they’d let his friend die anyway. What sort of gods were those? “Is it really possible to end that internal war over fertility? We are humans, after all. Vain, boastful—”
“To truly love is hard work. And a lonely struggle. But it is possible. Singers understand that there is a mysterious fruitfulness in solitude.”
“Solitude?” Ironwood propped his stick on his knee and frowned out at the tendrils of mist rising above the canyon rim to become clouds. “I’m not sure I could stand that. I enjoy the company of others too much.”
“Solitude is a necessary preparation for living with others, War Chief. People, especially young people, get in trouble because they lack a foundation of solitude. Solitude, you see, is the heartbeat of the soul.”
“Hmm,” Ironwood grunted. “I thought they got in trouble because they lacked a foundation of themselves.”
“That’s what I said.”
Ironwood glanced at him. “Poor Singer is new to the shaman’s life. Aren’t you afraid he’ll get bored and leave while you are away? I would.”
Dune smiled sadly. “The only thing I fear, War Chief, is the pride lurking in his heart.”
“You mean he is too proud to be a good Singer?”
“I mean that pride is Poor Singer’s worst enemy.” Dune placed his walking stick across his knees. “For some Singers the villain is wealth, for others it’s the devotion of their people. For Poor Singer it is pride. Every time he speaks kindly, or touches gently, he feels very good about it. In fact, it makes him feel quite superior. He’s proud of himself for being kind.” Dune gripped his walking stick as if trying to wring the life from it. “If Poor Singer isn’t diligent and careful, that enemy will gouge out both his eyes and blind him to the real needs of others.”
Ironwood raised his stiletto again, but stopped with his obsidian flake hovering above the wood. He squinted at the road. A blurry form dressed in white raced toward them. “A messenger from Sternlight; he wears white.” He tucked his flake and stiletto into his pack and slung it over his shoulder.
Dune stood. “Coming for us?”
About fourteen summers old, with shoulder-length black hair and a moonish face, the boy had large dark eyes and was unusually tall-and muscular for his age. Snake Head had given the boy to Sternlight just after Mourning Dove had given birth to him.
Ironwood called, “Greetings, young Swallowtail. Do you search for us? Or others?”
The boy stopped and bent over to brace his palms on his knees while he breathed deeply of the crisp morning air. He kept his dark eyes averted from Dune, as though afraid the legendary Straight Path holy man would steal his Fire Dog soul. “War Chief, you must … come quickly. The Chief … he’s almost gone. My master wishes Dune to be there when it happens, so that the great Derelict might take over … and carry out the physical tasks of caring for the Blessed Sun’s body and soul.”