Thirteen

Tsilu

At dusk, we make camp in a juniper grove on the terrace above the river, where the breeze keeps autumn’s last mosquitoes at bay.

Still shaking, I sit before the fire listening to the sleepy twilight calls of the nighthawks as they hunt in the darkening sky. The terror of the morning has not yet left my body. Each muscle feels like a clenched fist. Kwinsi kneels across the fire beside his pack, staring into his teacup, apparently fascinated by the reflections of the footprints of the dead that keep flaring to life in his tea.

I pull my knees against my chest and try not to remember the faces of the White Moccasins.

We hugged the canyon wall for most of the day, following Grandfather’s moccasin prints, distinctive by the holes in their soles. He’s traveling with a small woman and two men. The men’s sandal tracks sank deeply into the wet dirt along the river, which means they’re big men. Heavy men.

“Feeling a little better?” Kwinsi asks, looking up from his teacup. His long ears stick out through his black hair like odd mushrooms.

“Can’t seem to … stop shivering.”

“It was a terrible day.” Kwinsi rises and walks around the fire to sit down next to me with his shoulder pressed against mine. “But you’re safe, Tsilu. I promise.”

“I’m still afraid.”

The ghost of a forlorn smile comes to his face. “That’s all right. According to your grandfather fear can be a good thing.”

“When did he say that? He never told me that.”

Kwinsi looks down at the river where it splashes over rocks twenty hands below us. The black water glints with reflected firelight. “A while back, I told Tocho I was afraid to become a sacred clown. He said he certainly hoped so because fear turned people into human beings.”

Annoyed, I say, “I’m already a human being, Kwinsi.”

“That’s good. Most people aren’t.”

I give him a curious sidelong look.

For a time the flickering shadows cast by the boulders seem to creep closer, as if to listen to our voices.

“Tsilu,” Kwinsi says hesitantly. “I need to tell you something.”

“You need to tell me everything, Kwinsi. Start with the pot. You told Grandfather they knew he had the pot. What pot?”

His wide, sensitive mouth presses into a line. For a time, his gaze drifts over the terraced ledges of the canyon, then lowers and seems to trace the winding length of the river. “You know that shiny black pot Tocho carries in his Spirit bundle?”

“Of course. He won’t even let me touch it. He says it could kill me.”

“It’s a soul pot. It holds the breath-heart soul of the legendary priestess Nightshade.”

Awe makes me lean back slowly. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. He told me that an old friend gave it to him long ago, along with a last message from Nightshade.”

“What message?”

Kwinsi lifts a shoulder. “Tocho never trusted me with that. Perhaps Ahote knew, but—”

“I doubt it. If he’d trusted anyone, it would have been you. He once told me that you were the most talented young shaman he’s ever trained.”

Kwinsi smiles. “He’s always been kind to me. That’s probably why he loaned…”

Kwinsi stops as though suddenly realizing he almost revealed a secret.

“What?”

Kwinsi’s shoulders hunch.

“It’s all right. You don’t have to tell me.” I pull a branch from the woodpile we made to place it on the flames. “I know shamans are trained in the ways of hidden knowledge.”

The cold is settling in my bones. I wish I had a blanket to wrap around my shoulders, but neither of us does. Tonight, we’ll sleep huddled together rolled in our capes. That’s the best we can do. I’m just grateful that Kwinsi had time to stuff a few basic things into his pack. Otherwise, we’d have no cups, canteens, or pots to cook with.

Looking at the trail ahead, I note how it curves erratically along the base of the cliffs, then straightens out as the canyon widens and runs like an arrow into the star-silvered flats beyond the river.

“Hold the tripod, would you, Tsilu?”

Steadying the legs of the tripod, I watch Kwinsi use two sticks to lift a hot rock from the fire and drop it into the teapot. Steam boils up into the air, bathes my face with the fragrances of dried raspberries and sage leaves. The Canyon People sprinkle powdered sage leaves over berries, roots, and seeds to preserve them—sage also heals rashes and a variety of infections—but a hint of sage always filters through and leaves a slight tang on the berries, which I find delicious.

“It’s going to be a long cold night.” He tries to smile. “We need to drink as much hot tea as we can hold. It’ll help keep us warm.”

I find myself hanging on his every word, waiting for him to tell me what to do next. I don’t seem to be able to decide for myself.

“Why do they want Nightshade’s pot?”

Kwinsi dips my empty cup into the steaming teapot to refill it, and hands it back, quietly ordering, “Drink.”

Clutching the warm cup in both hands, I take a tiny sip. “It’s too hot to drink.” I blow on it to cool it. “Why do they want the pot?”

“Not sure, but they have their task cut out for them. Tocho pretends to be a helpless old man, but he’s anything but. I’ve seen him—”

“No, Kwinsi. He is helpless. Often. I mean, I have to help him up every day, and he stumbles a lot because his knees always ache. After a day of walking he can’t sleep for the pain.”

His dark eyes are sympathetic as he listens to the fears buried in my words. “He may be weak in body, Tsilu, but not in Spirit Power. Trust me. I know.”

“He gave you the pot? The soul pot?”

“Just for one night. That’s all. I was having such a hard time understanding the way of the sacred clown, he thought she might help me.”

“She?”

He nervously licks his lips. “I’m not as strong at Tocho. For me, the sound of her voice was overwhelming. She has a powerful personality.”

“You heard her? The Blessed Nightshade actually spoke to you?”

“Oh yes.”

I lower my voice, not sure I want even the rocks to overhear this conversation. “What did she say?”

Kwinsi gives me a pained look. “She told me if I wanted to ease the pain of others, I had to stop hiding my head in the hole I’d dug inside my heart.”

“You have a hole inside your heart?”

“Big one. I’ve spent fifteen summers digging that hole so I can bury my head when I’m scared. It’s not so easy to give it up. I feel safe there. I’m sure that sounds foolish to you.”

“No. No, it doesn’t.” I look at the far canyon wall across the river, where owl eyes blink on every ledge. “There are times when I don’t want to leave the Sleeping Place, because I feel safe with the dead children. Unlike the living, they never try to hurt me. That’s what you’re afraid of, isn’t it? Being hurt?”

Kwinsi regards me as though surprised by my understanding. “Being laughed at, actually, but perhaps it’s the same thing. People have laughed at me and called me cruel names since I was a child: Rabbitface, Beavertooth, Dimwit, Ugly Boy. So learning the way of sacred laughter has been difficult for me.”

I feel the sharp stab of my own summers of striving to endure the merciless taunting of the canyon children. Every time Grandfather took me to the village, the children chased me and threw things at me. They hated me—hated my accent, my mannerisms, hated the moon shape of my face. I tried so hard to erase who I was so I’d fit in. But they still rejected me. Which means I never made friends … except for Kwinsi, and to some extent, Ahote.

I frown up at the night sky. The brightest footprints of the dead hang in the streamers of pale blue and dirty rose smoke that continue to blow down from OwlClaw Village.

“Kwinsi? Do you think that really was Maicoh?”

The curve of his nose shines in the firelight. “Maybe. No one really knows what Maicoh looks like, or how old he is, so it could have been.”

“I thought he was in his forties?”

“Maybe he is. I’ve heard that it’s hard to tell the age of an albino, because their strange skin ages differently than ours.”

“But why would the Blessed Sun, the most evil witch in the land, hire a famous witch hunter? Sounds like suicide to me.”

Kwinsi toys with a pebble he found on the ground. “I suppose the best person to find a witch’s pot is a witch hunter.”

“What’s he going to do with the pot? Use Nightshade’s Power against his enemies? People like us?”

He gazes up at the rim of the canyon, where the wind-carved pillars stand silhouetted against the glittering footprints of the dead. The tallest pillar has a squat body and lumpy arms that seem to be reaching for the Star Road. “I don’t think she’d like that.”

“But she can’t do anything about it. She’s locked in a pot.”

“Well, there is that,” he agrees, as if I just commented on the unseasonably cold weather.

There’s a long silence, filled only by the distant howls of coyotes and the green smells of the river. The more I think about Maicoh and the Blessed Sun, the more the muscles bunch in my shoulders. My fear, which briefly abated, is returning with a vengeance. I clutch my cup hard to keep my hands from trembling.

Kwinsi notices and leans closer to whisper, “Did you know that all the knowledge in the world is written on the walls inside soul pots?”

“How do you know?”

“Tocho told me. You see, trapped souls have a lot of time to ponder things like truth and justice. Of course, anyone with an inquiring mind has to shatter the pots to see the messages, and that’s a little dangerous, because you never know if the suddenly freed soul is going to grab you by the throat, mistakenly thinking you’re responsible for capturing—”

“Kwinsi.” I’m worried he’s about to launch into a long, completely irrelevant tale.

“Most souls are happy when you smash their pots, though.”

He’s concentrating so hard on my eyes that it’s unnerving.

“I’m sure that’s true,” I say. “But I need to talk to you about something more important.”

“What’s more important than disembodied souls?”

“Help me figure this out, will you? If Grandfather carries the pot in his belt bag, why didn’t the White Moccasins just kill him and take it?”

“Oh, well.” He draws in a breath. “I’m sure he’s more useful to them alive. After all, he’s been speaking to Nightshade for summers. There must be many things, vital things, they need to know about the pot before they deliver it to the Blessed Sun.”

Tears tighten my throat. “Will they hurt him to get that information?”

“Would you hurt a man who might be protected by the legendary Nightshade? I wouldn’t. Besides, Tocho is more Powerful than you know.”

For a while, I listen to the musical sound of flowing water and try to imagine where Grandfather is tonight, and what’s happening to him. Did they take the pot away from him? Did he fight them? “He’s so frail, I—”

Against the black wall of the riverbank, there’s a tiny wink of light, like star-gleam reflecting from a white pendant.

I ease my cup to the ground.

Kwinsi glances at me, then spins to look out into the darkness past our small fire, following my gaze. Orange firelight glazes the river. For twenty endless heartbeats, I see nothing else out there.

“Did you see something?” He breathes the words.

“For a moment, I thought—”

A shadow moves against the bank. A misshapen thing, it seems to undulate over the bulges and dips in the eroded earthen wall.

Must be Iron Dog or one of his warriors. They’ve found us.

When I scramble to my feet to flee, Kwinsi grasps my hand to hold me still. “Someone’s coming.”

“I s-see him.”

Firelight illuminates the billows of a dark cape as the figure climbs the bank toward us.

When he gets closer, I realize it’s the patches of silver hair at his temples that catch the starlight. He’s dressed exactly as he was at the council meeting. Black cloak, black leggings, reddish knee-length shirt. A buffalo-hide bag hangs from his braided leather belt.

“The man with the dead face,” Kwinsi whispers.

“He must have followed us.”

The stranger walks to our fire and extends his hands to the flames to warm them. His sunken eyes are pools of shadow. Softly, he asks, “Mind if I join you?”