People of the Silence(95)

He inhaled deeply of the damp night, and his thoughts returned to Night Sun.

… Remembering the first time they’d had days alone together.

Before Crow Beard had left on his trading mission to the Hohokam, he’d given Ironwood specific instructions: “She is to go nowhere alone. Do you understand me, War Chief? Nowhere. Not on a walk to a nearby town, not to visit relatives, not even down to the wash to fill a jug of water. Do not let my wife out of your sight—ever!”

The words had been delivered with such utter gravity that Ironwood had vowed he would obey. He had escorted Night Sun everywhere—to her dismay.

Crow Beard had been gone for half a moon when Night Sun packed for one of her Healing trips to the neighboring villages.

The day before she planned to go, she and Ironwood had been standing in the middle of the plaza, surrounded by people weaving blankets, making pots, and knapping out stone tools, when he’d informed her that he would be accompanying her. Night Sun had grabbed three greenware pots from a potmaker and thrown them at Ironwood. He’d ducked the first one. The second had struck him in the shoulder. The last had missed—after which she’d called him unpleasant names.

She’d tried to sneak out of Talon Town in the middle of the night to avoid him.

Naturally, he’d anticipated her, and followed.

For three days, she’d refused to speak to him. Then, on the fourth day, they had been walking along the eastern end of the canyon, Night Sun in front, Ironwood guarding her back. He’d been studying the swirling patterns in the cliff. As though sanded by the hands of the gods, the designs felt as smooth as combed cotton. He ran his fingers over those he could reach, and marveled.

Night Sun strode along the trail, oblivious to the majesty, her tan-and-black dress dancing in the wind. She’d plaited her long hair into a single braid that hung to the middle of her back. Every so often, when she gazed into the distances, he caught sight of her triangular face with its pointed nose and large dark eyes. Her beauty stoked a hollow longing inside him.

As they rounded a bend in the trail, storm clouds rolled over the rim and engulfed the sky, rumbling and spitting rain. Thunderbirds roared. Ironwood jumped. Spring thunderstorms were common, but could be very dangerous.

“Blessed Night Sun?” he called. “We should find cover!”

Lightning slashed the heavens, so brilliant it blinded him, the roar almost deafening. Ironwood fell back against the cliff, his gaze glued to the sky. A searing web of light stitched the tortured heavens.

Night Sun also leaped back against the cliff, breathing hard, her eyes wide.

Ironwood started toward her, and a bolt of lightning lanced down, blasted a juniper tree less than two hundred hands from them, spraying wood and striking fire. Flames burst to life in the branches. Sparks blew, and grass and brush flared. Junipers torched as the wildfire rushed through the grass.

“Come on!” Ironwood yelled and ran for Night Sun. “We have to find cover! There’s a rock shelter up that talus slope!”

Grabbing her hand, he dragged her up the slope. Loose rocks and gravel made the climb difficult, but they reached the shelter, which sat about a hundred hands above the raging prairie fire. Smoke boiled into the air as the flames leapt and roared.

“We should be safe here,” he said as he sank to the floor of the shelter and leaned back against the cool sandstone.

The clouds opened and rain poured down in a shimmering opaque wall of water. The air smelled of burning cedar and rain. Blue smoke curled in the wind.

Night Sun sat down as far away from him as she could, which wasn’t far given the size of the rock shelter. The stone hollow stretched two body-lengths across and less than half a body-length deep—but if Wind Baby kept blowing from the north, it would keep them mostly dry.

Ironwood unslung his pack and pulled out his gut water bag. Tipping his head back, he took several swallows.

The rock shelter had a lovely view of the surrounding country. To the east, grassy flats stretched for half a day’s walk, punctuated by square buttes and weatherbeaten ridges. Far away, the Bearclaw Mountains etched a jagged blue line against the sky. Snow lay heavy on the peaks. Southward, and curving up toward the northwest, the cliffs of Straight Path Canyon gleamed wetly, as if washed with fresh blood.

Ironwood handed his water bag to Night Sun.

She looked at his extended hand, then into his eyes, and said, “I don’t like you.”

He shrugged. “You don’t have to like me to drink my water.”

Ironwood leaned closer, the bag almost touching her arm.

Night Sun took it and drank, but she glared at him.

She looked beautiful, slender and willowy in her sand-matted dress. She drew up one knee, but the other leg, long and tanned, lay exposed to the gray stormlight. Windblown rain beaded her skin.