People of the Silence(86)

She saw a firelit war club lift and slam down, and heard the meaty snap of a skull.

Cornsilk rolled to her back and gasped for breath. The Evening People glimmered and twinkled. Her muscles began to spasm, limbs twitching like a wounded animal’s. She chewed her sandy fist while tears streaked her face.

Inside the shell of her body, her soul let out a silent scream.





Nineteen

Ironwood stood in the doorway of Snake Head’s personal chamber, arms crossed, watching Swallowtail deliver the new Chief’s supper. The Mogollon youth set the long wooden platter down beside the bowl of warming coals in the middle of the floor, then checked to see that the teapot suspended from the tripod was heating properly. As he backed away, he laced his fingers before him, awaiting instructions. He stood almost as tall as Ironwood. When Swallowtail gazed at Snake Head, hatred glinted in his dark eyes.

Snake Head stood with his back to them, preening before a pyrite mirror. Every now and then the mirror would flash and Ironwood would catch Snake Head watching him with a gloating smile.

Arrogant young fool. He knows the people have been talking to me. That’s why he’s keeping me waiting, as a reminder that I no longer have the right to speak to him of these things.

A torch of shredded cedar bark burned on the wall to Ironwood’s right, casting a wavering amber glow over the chamber. Four-by-five body-lengths across, the room had a high ceiling and gloriously painted walls. Swallowtail’s gaze was riveted on the northern wall to his left, where the dangerous Badger Thlatsina stood. The god had a black body, long muzzle, and sharp teeth. A circle of enemy scalps—mostly Mogollon—encircled him. Now that they were water and seed beings, these scalps gave Snake Head more Power than any young man his age deserved.

In its large cage, a bright red macaw walked back and forth on its foot pole, plucking piñon nuts from a small clay bowl and cracking them noisily with its big sickle-shaped beak. It had blue-and-yellow wings, a white face, and a long blue-and-red tail. Six hands from the tip of the tail to its head, it shimmered in the wavering torchlight. The bent willow cage stretched from the white-plastered floor to the ceiling and covered a space about fifteen hands square. Cracked nut hulls littered the floor of the cage.

Ironwood kept an eye on the macaw. Slaves whispered that it could speak in a human voice, but he had never … The bird cocked its beautiful head, gave Ironwood a malevolent look, and let out a low screech. Swallowtail went rigid, and Ironwood’s eyes narrowed. The macaw threaded its way back across its pole, picked up a sunflower seed and crushed it—but it watched Ironwood the entire time.

Swallowtail’s chest rose and fell rapidly beneath his shirt. Ironwood knew that the Fire Dogs believed macaws had human souls. Was the boy wondering whose?

The Straight Path people, on the other hand, feared that macaws might have human souls. Though gods occasionally adopted bird form to soar down from the skyworlds and check on human activities, witches frequently flew about as birds. Only the greatest shamans could tell the difference.

The macaw made a soft mournful sound, and Snake Head turned to see the bird watching Swallowtail through one eye. He said, “Even my bird hates you, boy. Get out of here. Go back to the slave chamber. And tell your mother I want her. Now.”

Swallowtail hesitated, his nostrils quivering, but said, “Yes, Blessed Sun,” ducked past Ironwood, and ran away.

Snake Head wore a buckskin shirt decorated with dyed porcupine quills. The flattened quills had been sewn down the sleeves in zigzagging lines of red and yellow lightning bolts. Shell bells clicked on his sandals. A bun of black hair decked the top of his head.

Snake Head studied Ironwood through slitted eyes, then walked across the floor and dipped himself a cup of pine sap tea. The sweet tangy scent filled the room. It had become a rarity. Once, many summers ago, there had been so many pines in the canyon that all of the First People could enjoy the treat every day. But now only a few could afford such luxuries.

Snake Head straightened, took a drink of his tea, and smacked his lips appreciatively. In a cold voice, he said, “What are you doing here, Ironwood? You are no longer War Chief. What business could you possibly have with me?”

Ironwood dropped his arms to his sides. “I had hoped, out of consideration for my many summers of loyal service to your father, that you might help me to understand what happened while I was away. People tell me that you sent Webworm—”

“Yes, I did.” A small gloating smile touched his lips. “And I gave my War Chief instructions to find my mother’s wretched spawn and kill it. I think that’s all you need to know, warrior. Now, if you’ve nothing more pressing, I’m very busy.”