People of the Silence(84)

Stone Forehead and Fledgling pulled further and further ahead. Breath tore in and out of Cornsilk’s lungs. She blinked her tears back as she vaulted dark spots in the trail. They might have only been shadowed depressions, but brush and rocks often tumbled into such hollows. She couldn’t risk a fall.

Her father had said that anyone who wished to harm the hidden child would do it immediately after the Chief died. Did that mean the Blessed Sun was gone? Or had the vicious Tower Builders or the cursed Fire Dogs attacked Lanceleaf?

“Mother?” she called. “Father?”

Maybe her parents weren’t even in the village. They could be out gathering cactus pads, or hunting rabbits.

Mother’s sad eyes formed in the darkness before her, filled with love and worry. “Oh, my daughter. You are my joy. Never forget that.”

Sobs choked Cornsilk as her sandals pounded over a hump in the road and down the other side.

The closer she came to Lanceleaf Village, the more the crackling flames swelled and roared. Thin cries wavered above the cacophony.

Panting, her lungs fevered for air, Cornsilk crested the last rise … and her legs went weak. She stumbled, catching herself just before she fell.

An inferno of flame rose from the village, earth trembling as one burning roof after another collapsed and fell into the houses. Torrents of sparks whirled into the sky and drifted lazily through blood-colored clouds of smoke.

Willow and bulrush mats had been thrown onto the blaze. Cornsilk locked her shaking knees. Black pitch streaked the walls. The warriors must have dragged out people’s bedding, tucked it around the bases of the walls, then thrown the pitch over the buildings and set them on fire.

Stone walls remained standing to outline the square of buildings that had surrounded the plaza, but the interiors of the houses blazed in fiery heaps. Charred pine poles, all that was left of the ceiling, thrust up against the orange glare like burned arms imploring the sky gods for help.

A whimper lodged in her throat. She pulled an arrow from her quiver, nocked it in her bow, and bent low, trotting along the tall dead grass that edged a cornfield, praying for a glimpse of her family’s home. Had it burned, too?

She drew closer—and saw her home.

Three of the walls still stood, blackened with soot, but the wall facing the village had toppled into a mound of rubble.

Frantically, Cornsilk’s eyes searched for people. No one stood beyond the halo of light. Where had they all gone? Where were her parents? And Leafhopper? Had the villagers seen the raiders coming and fled before they arrived?

She scrambled for the rise behind her home which overlooked the village. As she crept closer, she heard voices. An old woman wept bitterly; a man gave gruff orders.

Cornsilk got down on her belly and slid through the sand until she reached the big yucca where she had lain only a few short days ago and seen her brother eavesdropping on their parents. Oh, Fledgling, where are you?

Heart throbbing in her ears, she inched forward and stopped suddenly. The rear window of their house, which had originally been blocked by the front wall, now opened onto the plaza and people huddled there.

Little Snail, seven summers old, wailed, a soft and shrill sound, as she struggled to drag a small body away from a burning building. The body flopped onto its back and Cornsilk covered her mouth with her hand to stop its trembling. Brave Boy! One of his eyes was open and stared blindly at the sky.

Little Snail sobbed breathlessly as she dragged her brother away by the feet. His arms had spread and scooped sand every time she tugged. Throwing all of her weight into the struggle, Little Snail moved Brave Boy less than a hand’s breadth, then sank to the ground, sobbing. She buried her face against her brother’s chest.

When Little Snail dropped, Cornsilk saw her father … and Fledgling! They sat on the ground in the middle of the plaza. A tall, square-jawed man stood over them. He wore a warrior’s helmet, a close-fitting cap of buffalo hide. He swung a war club in his right hand, the stone head blood-shiny in the firelight.

Cornsilk squirmed to the left. Where was her mother? What had happened to her mother? Had she escaped? Blessed thlatsinas, let it be so! And Stone Forehead? Where had he gone?

Her stomach knotted. Stone Forehead would have run straight into the battle, firing arrows as quickly as he could, trying to defend his people. Was he dead? Perhaps he had known the battle hopeless and run away.

Her father put an arm around Fledgling, holding him close, and the act seemed to enrage the lanky warrior. His red shirt whipped about his legs as he paced in front of them.

“You must know, Beargrass,” the man shouted over the roar of the flames, “that I will kill you if you do not tell me.”