Poor Singer pulled his full jug out of the pool and rose to his feet. Water dripped from the curve to spatter on his toes. The damp ceramic felt cool and gritty. Twilight had deepened, turning the sky into a dove-colored dome. The red canyon walls had shaded purple. The shallow pool would be covered by a thin sheet of ice in the morning.
Poor Singer took a deep breath. The damp scent of water increased as darkness grew. Soon, the mountain lions, bobcats, and coyotes would be following the scent to drink from this shallow pool.
He started home.
A supernatural quiet came over the desert as evening fell. Birds perched on the cactuses, soft gray feathers fluffed out for warmth, their songs hushed. Wind Baby, who had been puffing unpredictably all day, had gone still. Poor Singer’s moccasins, patting on the dirt trail, gave a lonely voice to the night.
Perhaps, if the firepit would let him, he’d boil some venison jerky and make a nice broth for dinner. He’d add a little salt and maybe throw in some dried onions. He doubted his stomach could handle any blue corn dumplings, though the idea …
He tripped over the black rock and, let out a howl of dismay as he staggered to catch his wobbly balance. The pot seemed to weigh half the world. “What’s the matter with you?” he demanded of the rock. “Look at this! My toe has a big bruise! Why can’t you live somewhere else? You’re ugly and have sharp edges! I hate you!”
While he sucked in a breath, preparing to get really nasty, Poor Singer heard a voice, not words exactly, more like wind through dry grass:
Why do you insist on kicking me in the belly every day?
Stunned, he stood silent, mouth open.
“Bless the Spirits! Did you just say something to me?”
The rock glared at him, and Poor Singer blinked and straightened.
“I—I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
He continued up the trail toward Dune’s house, wondering if a lack of food produced delusions, or if it opened his soul to voices he would not otherwise hear.
The latter, stupid. That’s why shamans fast.
Poor Singer grinned and trotted through the darkness, trying to stroke each sage he’d ruthlessly kicked on the way to the pool. Unfortunately, they all looked alike, so he couldn’t be certain he’d apologized to the right ones. Well, no matter, tomorrow he’d Sing for them, and then they would all know.
As he approached the shabby little white house in the jungle of sage, Poor Singer spied a small round pebble glowing in the trail. He picked it up, and put it in his mouth, to remind him that if he kept his own tongue from waggling, he might hear some of the voices that called from the depths of the Silence.
He suspected Dune would approve.
Sixteen
Webworm knelt in the doorway of the Blessed Sun’s chamber, keeping guard, his gaze drifting over the land beyond Talon Town. Frost coated the fallow fields and lay upon the golden ledges of the canyon. Every flat rock shone. Down near the wash, the people bustled in Streambed Town. Like Talon Town, Streambed Town curved in a huge half-moon shape, but it was much smaller. About eighty people lived there. Priests dressed in white stood in the plaza, along with several brown-clothed slaves. Cottony tufts of cloud hovered just above the canyon rim.
What a magnificent morning—not that he could enjoy it. The Chief’s chamber overflowed with whispering dignitaries, all waiting for the Blessed Sun to breathe his last. Webworm secretly wished the Chief would just do it. Then he and everyone else in Talon Town could get back to their normal lives.
His gaze drifted to the empty plaza, where slender coils of smoke rose from the kiva roof entries. The smell of burning juniper wafted up to him. He inhaled deeply and shivered against the chill. What he would give to be down there.
Sternlight said something soft, inaudible. Creeper asked, “What? Is he waking?”
“No,” Sternlight answered. “It was just a moan.”
Creeper glanced at Webworm and they exchanged an exasperated look. Webworm liked Creeper, despite the fat little man’s peculiarities. Creeper had a bad habit of overhearing private conversations and repeating every word. But he had always treated Webworm with kindness and respect, probably because Creeper was in love with Webworm’s mother, Featherstone.
Badgerbow, of the Coyote Clan, leaned against the south wall, a blanket over his shoulders. His knee-length kirtle had been painted with thunderclouds and mountains. He had brought twelve bunches of prayer feathers to hang from the ceiling.
Webworm watched the sacred offerings trembling in the air currents of the room.
Creeper hunched forward like a small black bear, hissing in Badgerbow’s ear. Badgerbow nodded. He had a long misshapen face, deeply scarred in battle, and only half a head of black hair. He had been poorly scalped by the Mogollon many sun cycles before, leaving the pitted bone of his skull naked on the left side of his head.