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People of the Weeping Eye(2)

By:W. Michael Gear


“You are lost in the past,” the old woman said, breaking into his thoughts. “What brought you back to me after all of these years?”

He took a deep breath and looked around the walls of her little house. Cane posts had been planted upright in a square trench, soil piled around the bases, and the uprights tied together like an oversize mat to make the walls. Overhead, batches of moldy thatch had turned gray, most covered with soot. Her few possessions consisted of cooking pots and net bags that held her herbs, dried corn, and Spirit Plants. Two plucked ducks he’d brought with him slowly roasted in the ash of the firepit. Tantalizing odors rose to his nostrils as fat sizzled and spit. The skin had begun to brown just right.

“The Katsinas, out west at Oraibi Town, told me to go home,” he told her. “Then, when I reached the western Caddo, I had a Dream. It has plagued me. Over and over, I see her.”

“Her?”

He nodded. “A young woman. Maybe a girl. I don’t know. She watches me. Sees through me. When I really look at her, I see fire reflected in her eyes. Not just a cooking fire, but a conflagration. A huge roaring fire. It spins out from her fingers, and where it touches me, my skin freezes. Then she laughs and turns off to the south, pointing. But when I turn to look, I can’t see any way but north. Upriver.”

The old woman watched him thoughtfully. “Still the Seeker, aren’t you?” A bitter pout lined her mouth. “What I would have given to have kept you all those summers long ago.”

“I had to go. The Dreams …”

“I know.” A wistfulness lay behind her faded eyes. “Only a fool loves the Seeker.”

“Or a witch.”

She nodded. “You were the only fool in my life, Seeker.”

He cocked his head. “But I heard you had a son.”

She gave him a flat stare. “He was born six moons after you left.”

A cold understanding flowed through his gut. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“It wasn’t the time … or place.” The ghost of a smile on her lips conveyed no humor. “Power had other plans for you.”

“And my son?”

“What boy wants to live in a forest with a witch? My sister took him after several years. He likes living in the society of men. He comes through every couple of summers. Lives down on the coast. He’s married. His wife has children. For all I know, the children have children.”

“I would like to know him.”

“He doesn’t know about you.”

He stiffened in response to her serene expression.

“Stop it,” she said softly. “Would you have given up your quest? Hmm? Ceased to punish yourself, or—pray the gods—actually have forgiven yourself?” A pause. “That’s what it takes to be a father. And, perhaps, even a husband. No, old lover, don’t look at me like that. You made your choices. All of them, knowing full well the consequences. It’s too late now to change them.”

“I would know what he—”

“You didn’t come here to find a son you didn’t know existed. You came to find a girl.”

He opened his hand, staring down at the callused palm. Old scars had faded into the lines. Her words echoed between his souls. “I have lost so much, in so many places.”

In a gentle voice, she asked, “Did you find the ends of the world?”

He shook his head. “It’s not like the stories the Priests tell. The gods alone know how big the world really is. I can’t tell you the things I’ve seen. You wouldn’t believe the different peoples, the forests, the deserts, the lands of ice and snow, the endless seas. I’ve seen an eternity of grass that ripples like waves in the wind, buffalo herds … like black cloud patterns as far as the eye can see. Mountains, thrusting spires of naked rock into the heavens so high that you would believe the very sky was pierced. Rivers of ice that flow down valleys like …” But he could see that he’d lost her. He lowered his head. Even she, who knew everything, couldn’t conceive the reality behind his pitiful words.

“That was the Trade you made,” she told him. “The manner in which you insisted on punishing yourself.”

“Why did I come back here?”

She laid a hand on his shoulder. “So that I could tell you it was time. The circles of Power are closing.”

As she spoke he could see the Dream girl’s face. She was young, barely a woman. Her long black hair gleamed in the light, waving as if teased by wind or waves. Reflections filled her large dark eyes. The images seemed to shift and beckon, mocking in their mannerisms. Smooth brown skin, unmarred by wrinkles or scars, molded to her bones; and her smile was a darting and tempting thing.