Her contractions had begun before dawn. At sunrise Sternlight had picked up his conch shell horn, climbed to the roof above Crow Beard’s chamber, and called the people out. He’d announced that he’d had a horrifying Dream. Everyone had to leave Talon Town! The gods themselves had commanded it! He would send word when it was safe to return. Terrified, the people had gone. Ironwood had led them to Kettle Town for the day.
Night Sun had been free to cry out all she wanted. Only Sternlight and the empty town could hear her.
Sternlight had never left her side. At dusk, the baby had slid out. Sternlight had wrapped it in a beautiful blanket and disappeared. On his return, he told Night Sun that the baby had never made a sound, that it must have died in her womb.
Ravaged with guilt, certain the gods were punishing her, she had been very ready to believe him. By the time Crow Beard had returned from his trip to the Hohokam, Night Sun had recovered and could greet her husband as if nothing had happened.
But her life had crumbled.
Frightened and lonely, she had longed for Ironwood. They had shared each other’s hearts, begotten and lost a precious child, and only in his arms could she find comfort for her grief … a comfort she dared not seek.
They passed each other every day without a word or a glance.
As the moons swept by, that “dead” baby had called her name endlessly in her dreams, drawing her into a netherworld of doubt and pain.
Night Sun folded her arms over her chest and hugged herself. Sternlight’s words had opened a door in her soul that she couldn’t seal again.
Could the child be alive?
“Blessed thlatsinas,” she prayed. “If my son is alive, I beg you to kill him.” Tears traced warm lines down Night Sun’s cheeks. “Kill him before the warriors get there.”
* * *
Sunset flamed across the sky and lit the high mountain peaks to the north and east with fire. The brassy gleam penetrated the window behind Thistle, coated the white walls, and dyed her yellow dress a deep rich amber. Beargrass, lost in thought, sat opposite her. His expression seemed curiously calm.
She bent over the line of pots along the west wall of her small house, removed the lid on the buckwheat, and scooped a handful into the bowl she held. Next she dipped out dried currants and beeweed leaves, and added a dash of ricegrass flour.
Outside, robins jumped from cactus to cactus, uttering lilting mating calls. The shrill cries of a red-tailed hawk carried on a cool wind that blew through the window. Damp mossy smells wafted up from the creek below Lanceleaf Village.
Thistle returned to the fire, set her bowl down, and poked the low flames with a juniper stick. Sparks rose and blinked out before they reached the soot-encrusted ceiling poles. A pot of boiling water sat at the edges of the flames.
“They must be all right,” she said to Beargrass, who was sipping from a cup of dried yucca petal tea. “If they weren’t, we would know by now, wouldn’t we? I mean—”
“Thistle, they’re fine,” Beargrass repeated for the fifth time that afternoon. Exasperation lined his narrow face. He wore a long red shirt and had twisted his black hair into a bun at the base of his head. “Stone Forehead would have come back to tell us if anything had gone wrong. I’m certain he found Cornsilk happily chattering to Deer Bird, and Fledgling driving my father crazy with questions about making stone tools. You must stop worrying. You’ll wear yourself out.”
She wet her lips anxiously. The fringes on the hem of her yellow dress swished on the bulrush mat as she sat down. “I’ve been annoying you, haven’t I?”
Beargrass smiled gently. “Both children have never been away at the same time before, and never for such a length of time. Your worry is understandable. But you seem to be tearing yourself apart. There’s no reason for it, Thistle. They’re safe. That’s what we wanted. And it’s only for a moon or so.”
Thistle dumped her bowl of currants, flour, and beeweed into the pot of boiling water and stirred the mixture with a horn spoon. A pleasantly tangy aroma rose. The currants would add sweetness to the buckwheat stew, while the ricegrass flour would thicken it. The soup would go well with the squash roasting in the coals. Perhaps later she would take some of her hoarded store of popcorn, place it in the popping pot with a little fat, and salve her worry with the treat.
Thistle’s nostrils flared as she leaned over to smell her bubbling stew. Her stomach growled in anticipation.
Placing her spoon on a hearthstone, Thistle sat back and lifted her own cup of tea. As she sipped, her gaze went to the stacked sleeping mats on her left. Fledgling’s personal basket sat beside them, holding every precious thing he owned. The antelope hoof rattle—the one he’d received after his first kiva initiation—stuck out on top. Cornsilk’s basket sat on the right side. Two beautiful olivella-shell necklaces lay coiled on a bed of colored waist sashes. Terrible longing swelled in Thistle’s chest. She missed them so. They’d only been gone for four days, but it seemed …