Sixteen

Blue Dove

The albino reaches out and lightly places his too-white fingers on the distinctive hump made by the pot, then he closes his eyes and whispers something unintelligible. The warriors around the fire have gone so motionless that the beads of rain on their leather capes reflect the firelight like diamonds.

“What language are you speaking?” I ask.

Very softly, the albino answers, “The language she grew up with. It comes from the Mound Builders who live along the Great River far to the east, where she was a very powerful priestess.”

“How do you know their language?”

“I learned it from an old woman named Orenda.”

“If the soul in that pot grew up with the Mound Builders, then it is not Nightshade. She was born here, among the Straight Path People. My father told me that, so I know it’s true,” I point out smugly.

The albino ignores me and returns to his soft conversation with the disembodied soul in the Spirit bag.

“But, Blessed daughter,” Wasp Moth says as he leans forward, “I heard that Nightshade did grow up far to the east among the Mound—”

“She was born in Straight Path Canyon!” My heart is beating as rapidly as a bird’s, and I have no idea why. “If that soul speaks Mound Builder language, it can’t be Nightshade!”

“All right, but—” Wasp Moth shrugs and looks away.

“But what?”

“Well, it’s just that my grandmother told me the Mountain Witch was born in Talon Town, but she was stolen away by a famous Mound Builder war chief named Badgertail and hauled to a palace far to the east of the Great River, where she—”

“That’s ridiculous. How could you have heard anything that I have not?”

Wasp Moth makes a conciliatory gesture. “I’m sure I’m in error, Blessed daughter.”

Rain gusts beneath the overhang, and the flames hiss and spit out sparks that whirl toward the low roof where tendrils of smoke crawl across the ceiling.

“Yes, of course,” the albino says and nods his head, as though in answer to a voice I do not hear, the same voice that Wasp Moth and FishTrap heard earlier.

“Who are you talking to?”

“Nightshade.” He picks up the bag, cradles it in his arms like a precious child, and walks to the rear of the rockshelter to hand it to Tocho.

The old shaman takes the bag in his bound hands and says, “I thank you.”

“What are you doing?” I yell in astonishment. “I didn’t give you permission to give the bag to the old man!”

When the albino swings around and glares at me, the bravest warriors in the Straight Path nation go as still and quiet as baby rabbits hiding in the brush when an eagle drifts overhead. The short warrior with broken yellow teeth—Weevil—starts shaking like a leaf. The other warriors subtly lower their hands to the weapons on their belts, as though worried they might have to defend themselves from this man.

The albino takes his time walking back to the fire. As he kneels beside me, he looks straight into my eyes. His luminous white face is less than four hand-lengths from mine. For the briefest of instants, his eyes resemble bottomless glacial lakes, too deep and blue to be real.

“I didn’t ask your permission,” he says in a low voice.

Panting as though he’s run for three days straight, Weevil scrambles to his feet and hurries across the shelter to go outside and stand in the pouring rain. I can see him out there, getting drenched.

“What are you doing out there?” I call. “You’re going to be sopping wet.”

“Just watching the river flood, Blessed daughter.”

FishTrap stares at Weavil, clearly wishing he had the courage to get up and go join him. To make matters worse, Iron Dog begins mindlessly pulling his knife half out of its sheath and shoving it back in, creating an irritating rhythmic rasping sound.

I break the spell by half-shouting in the albino’s face, “These fools are apparently scared to death of you, but I don’t think you’re Maicoh at all. Maicoh is supposed to have seen over forty summers, and you can’t be more than—”

“I’m aware of what people say about me.”

“You look twenty-five. Thirty at most.”

“Maybe all the things you’ve heard about me are wrong,” he says in a quiet voice.

“I doubt it. And Maicoh is supposed to have a blue halo of power wavering around him. I see nothing but a pale-skinned charlatan. A fraud in a fine cloak.”

“Charlatan.” The albino’s voice catches briefly on the word, as though he finds it difficult to pronounce. Lifting his hand, he makes a pale elegant motion in the damp air.

The rain stops. Just stops.

Several warriors gasp and stare across the river to the cliffs on the other side. Where instants before they’d barely been able to see anything in front of the shelter, now moonlight streams down through breaks in the clouds and fills the canyon with silver mist.

Weevil’s rapid steps can be heard outside, pounding away.

“That’s a coincidence, you fools! The storm just broke. That’s all.”

The albino clutches his hand into a fist and …

A kind voice comes from the rear of the shelter: “Maicoh?”

The albino hesitates for a long moment, as though deciding, before slowly lowering his fist. “Forgive me. I forget our purpose.”

“Quite all right,” Tocho replies.

“Our purpose?” I give each of them a wary look. “Do you two know each other?”

FishTrap sneaks off into the darkness without a word. I only notice his absence when I hear his sandals grating on the sand outside. Apparently, he’s running after Weevil.

“Wasp Moth, get those warriors back in here!” I order. “Or I will have you flayed alive when we get home.”

“Of course, Blessed daughter.”

Wasp Moth bows and disappears into the moonlit darkness.

“Now,” I say in an authoritative voice, “what is your true name?”

The albino smiles, and when I try to look away from him, I find that I cannot. The longer I gaze into those unearthly blue eyes, the brighter his translucent skin glows, as though it has absorbed the firelight.

“I told you my name,” he says.

“You did not. So I think I’ll call you charlatan, because I’m sure…”

He turns his back to me and walks over to sit down beside Tocho, where he respectfully says, “I’m honored to meet you, Keeper of the Wolf Bundle.”

Tocho places his bound hands on top of the albino’s head, as if blessing him. “I’m glad you’re here, Maicoh. I can use your help.”

The idea that the two shamans might combine their Spirit Power must have been too much for Chick. He scrambles to his feet and lunges out into the night.

“Find Wasp Moth and the others while you’re out there!” I shout.

“Yes, Blessed daughter.”

The last White Moccasin, maybe sixteen summers, remains sitting before the fire. The fact that he is so young, but has been accepted into the White Moccasins, means he’s shown extraordinary bravery and skill in battle. Hard to believe, for right now he looks like a frightened bird. He has a beaky face and a mane of limp black hair that brushes his shoulders.

“What’s your name?”

“Roost, Blessed daughter.”

His right hand grips the war club hanging from his belt, his eyes trained vigilantly on the two shamans in the rear of the shelter.

Turning, I say, “If you’re Maicoh, you’re Powerful enough to open that old bag.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Then do it. I want to see the soul pot.”

“No.”

Suddenly he frowns at the ceiling, as though he sees something descending from the sky beyond the soot-coated sandstone.

It’s so unnerving, Roost leans sideways to look up at the night sky outside, searching for whatever the albino sees. As clouds blow by, moonlight wavers across the canyon, and the dark shapes of owls swoop over the rushing river.

“What happened to Wasp Moth and the others?” I ask.

“Want me to go look for them?” Roost inquires hopefully.

“No, I do not. I’m sure the greatest warriors of the Straight Path nation are out there soaked to the bone, hiding from one unarmed albino and a tied-up old man. What a bunch of miserable cowards!”

When Roost’s gaze suddenly shoots to the rear of the shelter, I spin around.

The albino has both hands over his head, as though holding up the weight of the roof about to fall on top of them. I can’t help but search for cracks in the ceiling.

Finally he lowers his hands and turns to Tocho. “They’re on their way.”

Tocho squeezes his eyes closed. “I’m sorry. Truly I am.”

“Necessary.”

Tocho nods and heaves a tired breath. “Nonetheless.”