Twenty
Blue Dove
Dawn breaks cold and clear, with shreds of cloud blowing across an amethyst sky.
Sipping a cup of mint tea in front of the fire, I listen to the warriors in the shelter talking and laughing, boasting about their seemingly endless accomplishments in the affairs of war and women. It’s tedious and annoying. Infantile, to say the least. Is this truly the nature of the finest warriors in the Straight Path nation?
Wasp Moth laughs out loud at something Weevil says, and I set my jaw and stare at the rabbits roasting over the fire. They’ve just started to sizzle and pop. My own portion, a half rabbit, fries on a flat rock to my right.
Cradling my warm cup, I turn to look at Tocho, who is sleeping in the rear of the shelter rolled in his threadbare cape. Given his age, I suspect yesterday’s hike completely exhausted him. I’ll probably have to kick the old man awake when it’s time to leave. I don’t see his pack, but it may be hidden beneath his cape.
Sighing, I turn my gaze to the world beyond the rockshelter. The canyon rim has just begun to glow orange with the fires of sunrise. A few birds chirp in the sagebrush and junipers.
The charlatan, “Maicoh,” left before dawn and has not yet returned.
Throughout the night, I pondered everything I know about the great witch hunter. He’s very talented at deceit and misdirection—which is how he survives—but I simply cannot convince myself that the albino is Maicoh. For one thing, the charlatan is not left-handed, and the true Maicoh certainly is. But a man might train himself to switch hands at will, so that’s not good evidence. I try to imagine the albino disguised as a shabby, hunchbacked beggar, a full hand-length shorter, wandering villages mumbling to himself. That would actually be a harder role to feign than the white-haired man, one hand-length taller, who marches like a warrior in a spider mask and gray deerhide cape. Can it really be possible the charlatan is both men?
I take a long drink of tea as I consider the possibilities.
If the albino is Maicoh, then who is Crane? Surely they are not the same man. I’m certain of it. And that fact leaves me with one unsettling possibility: Crane may have told me the truth. He’s just a wandering old sallow-faced Healer.
The warriors standing in the mouth of the rockshelter turn in unison to look at the rear of the shelter, and shocked voices erupt, forcing me to turn around to see what so concerns them.
Tocho is sitting up with the pack in his lap, his cold hands tucked beneath his armpits. The rope that had bound his hands rests in a neat coil to the old man’s left.
Wasp Moth cries, “He’s free! Who did this? Weevil?”
“Me? Why would you accuse me? I didn’t untie him!” Weevil cries. “Why would you think I did it?”
“Roost?”
“It wasn’t me!”
The cacophony grows as the men begin talking over one another, each denying he had anything to do with it.
Iron Dog shouts, “Stop arguing and think about this! Must have been Maicoh. Who else—”
As though he’s been standing outside waiting for just this moment, the albino enters the shelter carrying a plucked grouse. His blue hood is pulled up to shield his pale skin from Father Sun’s wan light. Inside the hood, his face and long white hair glow with the soft sheen of morning.
I can’t help but think it’s a lovely combination, the icy blue eyes and dark blue hood. I’ve started to wonder what it would be like to bed an albino.
“What am I supposed to have done?” Maicoh asks in a clipped voice as he gracefully walks across the floor, skewers his bird on a stick of firewood, and props it over the flames to cook.
Wasp Moth says, “Someone untied the old shaman. Did you do it?”
Maicoh blinks at Tocho. “I did not. Have you asked Tocho about the matter?”
“Why would I? He’d never tell me the—”
“Keeper?” Maicoh calls. “How did you get your hands untied?”
Tocho’s wrinkled face is unnaturally calm. He uses one hand to push gray hair behind his right ear. “The rope untied itself and fell off.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Weevil declares. “I tied it myself. It was as tight as—”
I shout over him, “You incompetent fool! Do you realize he could have escaped in the night?”
Weevil helplessly flaps his arms against his sides. “I’m telling you, it’s not possible. I tied that rope so tight I figured his hands would be black this morning from lack of blood!”
Apparently bored by the discussion around the fire, Maicoh keeps his attention on Tocho. “What did you do to get the rope to fall off?”
Tocho draws the infamous pack from beneath his cape and says, “I placed my hands over the pack.”
“Over the pack?” Wasp Moth says incredulously.
“Yes, I wanted to hold the pack as I slept, and in the middle of the night, I felt the rope squirming like a nest of snakes as it untied itself, then it slithered out from beneath my cape and went to coil on the floor. Right where it is now.”
In horror, the warriors turn to look at the coiled rope.
Weevil is pale as ice. After several hard swallows, he chokes out, “I’m not touching that old man or his bag again! You can kill me for disobeying orders if you want to, but I refuse!”
Iron Dog rubs his chin, giving the matter due consideration, while he studies Tocho. The wings of the grasshopper tattooed on Iron Dog’s face seem to hunch up when he narrows his eyes. Chick and Roost are breathing hard, waiting for his decision.
I can tell that both men are about to bolt, along with Weevil, so I say, “Wasp Moth, you captured him, he’s yours.”
“Mine? Why me?”
I scowl. “What a collection of white-livered cowards.”
Rising to my feet, I stalk to the rear of the shelter and pick up the coiled rope, then carry it over to the old shaman and do my best to tie his hands again. I’m not an expert in knots, but surely these ought to hold. Tocho makes no attempt to resist. He simply watches me with a mild, slightly addled, expression.
Before I rise, I pull the pack from his lap, toss it on the ground, and kick it. It clinks and clacks as it tumbles over the sand. When I pick it up again, I shake it at the men. “It’s just an old bag! See, you fools? I’m still alive. Nothing happened.”
My father’s bravest warriors look like whipped dogs as they watch me march back to the fire.
Weevil runs his tongue over his broken yellow teeth. “I don’t care. Call me a coward if you wish.”
And he summarily snatches his rabbit from the fire and walks over to slump down against the sandstone wall to eat the half-raw meat.
Maicoh softly asks, “May I speak with you alone, Blue Dove?” Without waiting for my answer, he walks away, as though he plans to exit the shelter and expects me to follow him.
“I’m eating breakfast. I’ll speak with you afterward.”
The albino slowly turns to glare at me.
Ignoring him, I sit down in front of the fire and rest the ugly old pack in my lap. Then I cautiously grasp the ends of the stick that runs through the middle of my half-rabbit, pull it from the flat rock, and lift it to take a bite.
“Dear gods!” I cry and drop it in my lap on top of Tocho’s ancient pack. “It’s hot as fire! My mouth feels like it was seared with flame. Somebody get me some water!”
Weevil stares at my rabbit with wide eyes, then glances at the albino.
Weevil is the first who dares to move. He backs away. When a lock of sweaty hair blows over his eyes in the morning wind, he instinctively yelps and slaps at it, as though to kill it. “I-I’ll get it, Blessed daughter. Just have to find my canteen. Must have left it down by the river.”
He trots off down the slope.
Iron Dog rises to his feet.
Chick’s wide eyes glance off Iron Dog, then peer down the trail at Weevil. “Think I’ll fetch more firewood. Be right back.”
One by one, each of the warriors finds an excuse to vanish into the day, until only three people remain in the rockshelter. Tocho watches me with a bland expression, while the albino leans against the sandstone wall and stares out across the canyon.
I lift my half-rabbit, blow on it, and take a tiny bite to test the heat. The meat has cooled enough to be bearable against my burned mouth. “You may speak now, charlatan. I’m listening.”
For several moments, he frowns toward the river. Looks like he’s watching my warriors moving about.
Finally, the man deigns to walk across the floor, where he sits down before the fire, turns his grouse to cook on the other side, and says: “You overestimate your men.”
I keep my gaze on my rabbit. “How so?”
“How many do you think will return?”
“All of them. They’re too afraid not to. They know what my father will do to them if they abandon me.”
“Men are just men, Blue Dove. They can only take so much.”
I laugh and continue eating my succulent rabbit.
The albino stands up and his gaze drifts to Tocho, where it remains for quite some time. When he looks back out across the canyon, he says, “Two down. Four to go.”
Three hands of time later, I stamp around the shelter in a barely controlled rage. Wasp Moth, Iron Dog, and Weevil stand stiffly three paces away. Not one of them will meet my eyes. Instead, their gazes dart over the sky outside, or the ceiling, or their own feet.
I shout, “Did you at least find their trails?”
Wasp Moth spreads his hands in a gesture of surrender. “As you instructed, we did a thorough search, Blessed daughter. We did not find them or their trails. Keep in mind, FishTrap, Chick, and Roost are experts at hiding their tracks, so I doubt that, even if we spent another day here—”
“We’re not spending another day here, you fool! We have to get home. My father is waiting for the old witch’s soul pot.”
I glare at the bag resting on the ground beside the fire. The grease spot—from where I dropped my hot rabbit on it—has a curious shape that resembles an armless triangular-bodied monster with buffalo horns.
A little … disconcerting …
“Pack up! When we reach Flowing Waters Town, my father will dispatch a big search party to hunt down the cowards so he can eat them.”
“Y-yes, Blessed daughter.”
As though he finds the conversation tiresome, Maicoh retreats to sit in the rear of the shelter, where he leans against the wall and grimaces at the soot-furred ceiling. Occasionally, he says something to Tocho. The old shaman keeps yawning and nodding off, but wakes with a start each time there’s a loud sound.
Iron Dog and Weevil roll and stuff their blankets into their packs, along with their other belongings—cups, pots, small bags of dried berries and seeds—while Wasp Moth kicks dirt over the fire. A haze of dust rises that makes me cough.
Striding to the mouth of the rockshelter, I sit down to wait for the fools to finish packing up camp. I have a headache building. Who wouldn’t? Having to deal with these idiots would vex the Flute Player himself. At this rate, we’ll have to stop long before dusk so I can drink willow bark powder and go to bed early.
“Tocho.” Maicoh’s voice is tight, stressed. “No.”
I turn to see Tocho totter to his feet.
“All is well,” Tocho says as he walks to the fire to pick up the sacred bundle with his bound hands. In a loving voice, he whispers to it, then shuffles across the shelter toward me.
Instantly, Wasp Moth draws his club and leaps to place himself between me and the ancient shaman.
“Stay where you are, old man!”
“Get out of the way, Wasp Moth,” I order. “Do you really think he can hurt me? He can barely stand. I could cut him down with a stick of firewood.”
Reluctantly, Wasp Moth moves aside and allows Tocho to shuffle up to within a pace of me. The shaman bows and holds out the Spirit bag.
“For you, Blessed daughter.”
Maicoh has a shocked expression on his white face. “Tocho, why—”
“Not my choice. The bundle has chosen her to be its new Keeper.”
“Her?” Maicoh shouts. “She’s evil. I have seen it!”
“Yes, so have I,” Tocho says in a kind voice as he frowns down at me. “And that is a grave danger. Our eyes establish a relationship with the surface of things. But if we always accept surfaces, we will never grasp the true nature of anything, will we?”
Maicoh’s pale blue eyes narrow, as though he realizes he’s being taught a lesson. After a few moments, he nods and looks away.
Tocho’s gray hair falls forward as he leans closer to me, trying to get me to take the pack from his hands. “She wants to be with you now,” he says.
Glaring at the bag, I grab it from his hands. “Well, she doesn’t know what she’s in for.”
Tocho gives me a genteel elderly smile and hobbles back over to Maicoh, where he sits down and says, “Bundles are so humorous.”