People of the Weeping Eye(16)

“Oh, yes, Grandfather.”

“Does Sister Datura Dance in your blood now?” He shifted his gaze to the gray paste still visible on Whippoorwill’s temples. He had watched uneasily as she had scooped the mixture of ground datura seeds and bear grease from the brown pot and rubbed the concoction onto her temples. Sister Datura was a dangerous Spirit, one whose very touch could kill. Nevertheless, among those who courted Power, she granted the most awesome of visions.

“We are clinging to each other and swaying in time.” The girl’s eyes enlarged, as if to take in the entire world. She wrapped her arms tightly over her breasts, her hips moving slowly side to side. The virgin’s knot began to gyrate in a sensual manner.

“Take the Well Pot,” he coaxed gently, offering the bowl.

“Are you sure you wish me to do this? Seeing into the worlds of Power is fraught with danger. The very act of looking can unleash terrible consequences. The balance between order and chaos will be shifted, changed. Once I have looked, there is no going back.”

“I must know.”

When Whippoorwill finally nodded, her face had gone pale, her eyes glassy with fear. Her arms trembled as he placed the bowl in her hands. He would remember how her long thin fingers embraced the smooth sides of the gleaming black pot. She seemed unbelievably fragile as she sank gracefully to her knees and gently laid the Well Pot on the cushioning mat of leaves. A low Song began deep in her throat, and she leaned over the bowl, looking down into its depths.

She froze, as if locked in place, her wide eyes staring down into the black water.

For long moments Paunch waited, his anxiety growing. Whippoorwill didn’t seem to breathe. Her hair swayed with the breeze, but even the pulse in her neck had ceased.

“Child?” he asked tentatively, only to reach for her in concern.

“Leave me!”

He drew back with a start, sure that the snapping voice had barked from beside him. He glanced back at the girl, fully aware that her lips had not moved. Who called? From where? But he and the girl were alone in the clearing.

Slowly, carefully, he retracted his hand and reseated himself on the rotted log to wait.

Hands of time passed. Daylight had begun to drain away. Still the old man waited. As many winters as he had lived, he knew how to conjure patience. Whippoorwill might have been a pretty statue, so motionlessly did she stare into the Well Pot.

The old man snapped his head around, catching the faintest of whispers by his right ear. Nothing. He reached out, fingering the empty air. Moments later he heard a woman laughing, but when he turned only the lonely clearing met his eyes. Nervous, he began rubbing his hands together.

A disembodied scream curdled his blood. He bolted to his feet to peer this way and that. It had been so loud, so close.

“Where are you?” he whispered frantically.

Silence filled the forest as late-afternoon light filtered through the trees.

Close by a baby bawled in frustration and fear. He stiffened, back arched as he gaped. Close, so very close. I should be able to reach out and touch the child. No squalling infant lay on the flat leaf mat. He shook his head and clamped hands over his ears.

Someone laughed at him, the sound coming from down in the trees below. The sound pierced his flesh and echoed inside his skull. He turned, craning his neck as he peered through the trees.

“Where are you?” He lowered his head, cocking it to hear better.

“Right here, Grandfather,” Whippoorwill said behind him.

He whirled, seeing Whippoorwill, straight as a rod before the Well Pot, her eyes like shining lakes in the soft brown of her delicate face. The sounds stopped as if cut off, the world grown oddly silent.

“What … what have you seen?” His throat had gone oddly dry.

She fixed him with her eerie eyes. “The circle is coming full. Dreams are about to be shattered. I have seen murder and death. In the end, despite the blood, rape, and treachery, our schemes shall all come to naught. My sister is the key. She will Dance with Power and draw the monster into the coiled grasp of the Horned Serpent.”

Sister? She has no sister. What monster? And how is the Horned Serpent involved? Paunch stared down into the gleaming Well Pot, trying to see into its depths. From his angle, only a crescent of tree-furred sky reflected from the surface. “Then the Albaamaha shall be free?”

“We’ve always been free, Grandfather. That’s the divine joke.” She paused, pointing down the hill. “There, can’t you see them laughing?”

The old man turned, half-afraid he’d finally discover the source of the whispers and cries. Far down the slope, winding through the trees, he could make out a line of warriors trotting past in single file. They had painted their bodies in red and black, the colors of war. The sides of their heads were shaved, the tops roached high, forelocks beaded. Gleaming copper ear spools caught the light. All carried bows, but their quivers were mostly depleted of arrows. Wooden and wicker shields hung from their backs. They hurried along, some sporting blood-soaked bindings on their arms, heads, and legs, obviously wounded.