Twenty-one

Blue Dove

At nightfall, we throw down our blankets on the first terrace above the river. The flooded channel has shrunken to its normal size, but toppled trees and flotsam clog the channel, creating a series of gurgling waterfalls. Damp willows and junipers scent the air. To the east and west, the colossal canyon walls soar so high they seem to hold the brilliant Star Road in the circle of their arms. I don’t like it here. The Spirits that haunt the cliffs are never quiet. Small rumbles constantly echo from deep in their throats, and I see hundreds of faces appear and disappear in the folds and crevices of the stone. Watching me.

Iron Dog and Weevil stand together out in the darkness, keeping watch on the dark trails. A short distance away, Wasp Moth sleeps rolled in his cape with his jaws hanging open. Moonlight shines upon his teeth, turning his mouth into a silver crescent.

Rolling to my back, I blink at the footprints of the dead that gleam like a frosty roof over my head. The Meteor People are thick tonight, flying across the darkness in flocks, leaving shining trails behind them. I wonder what they see up there. The dead, of course, but …

I cock my head. Was that a voice?

Yes, it … it sounds like a voice.

Faint. As though it’s traveling across a vast distance to reach me. When I try to discern where it’s coming from, my gaze goes to the old painted bag that rests on the ground at my side. I’m sure it’s my imagination, but I listen harder.

Probably the gurgling and plashing of the river.

Tugging my blanket up beneath my chin, I study Maicoh and Tocho. The albino has deliberately placed himself between Tocho and the warriors, as if protecting the old man.

Which makes me wonder …

Let’s say the albino is Maicoh and my father hired him to find the pot. By the time he arrived, I already had the pot. The albino should have gracefully bowed out and returned to his witch hunting, or whatever else he did with his time.

But he didn’t.

That is a puzzle I need to figure out. Perhaps he imagines he will get the reward anyway? After all, he confirmed that the pot inside the Spirit bag is Nightshade’s soul pot. So he probably does deserve some small token for identifying it. I have no objection to that. But that’s all he deserves. On the other hand, I’ve heard the rumors that only Maicoh can open the pot.

As I watch the albino, however, I doubt he cares about a reward at all. No, it’s becoming apparent to me that he is here to guard the old shaman on our journey to Flowing Waters Town.

And that’s curious.

Perhaps tomorrow I’ll order my warriors to kill the old man just to see what the albino does. If he’s only here about the reward he ought to turn his back and allow it to happen. The old man is of no consequence. But if he leaps to defend Tocho, I’ll know for sure …

A ragged shriek rings out.

I scramble to my feet with my chest heaving. “What’s wrong?”

Wasp Moth screams, “Look at it! Look at it!”

Iron Dog and Weevil rush into camp with their war clubs clutched in tight fists, prepared to brain the threat, whatever it is.

Iron Dog shouts, “What the matter? Why did you shriek like that?”

Wasp Moth crabs across the ground on all fours, gets to his feet, and charges out into the darkness, where he stands quaking like a leaf in a gale. “Didn’t you see it? I woke when it crawled up on my chest, right over my heart!”

“What are you talking about?” Iron Dog yells.

“Oh no…” Weevil moans and extends a shaking arm to point. “The bag. Look at it! It’s lying right there where Wasp Moth was sleeping! It must have slithered across the ground—”

“You morons!” I shout at the top of my voice, blinking wide-eyed at the bag. Moments ago, it was right beside me. How did it … “Somebody picked it up and carried it over there.”

I whirl around to look at Maicoh and Tocho. The men sit side-by-side with their arms around their knees, watching events play out like the directors of a sacred Dance.

“Which one of you did it?”

The albino shakes his head. “I did not.”

“Then the old man did it!”

Tocho mildly suggests, “Perhaps the Spirit bundle has abandoned you as its new Keeper, and bestowed the privilege upon Wasp Moth.”

A howl rises from the darkness, and I glimpse my war chief pounding away across the desert.

Throwing up both hands, I scream, “Dear gods! I’m surrounded by dimwits. Can’t you see you’re being played for fools? This is all trickery!”

Weevil’s eyes, fixed on the bag, look like moonlit platters. “It’s alive. I just saw it move! Didn’t you see it?”

Tocho says, “I saw it.”

Iron Dog falls into a warrior’s crouch and creeps across the dirt on the balls of his feet, his club up, ready to bash the pot inside to dust. After several endless heartbeats, Iron Dog says, “It is not moving. Every time a cloud passes in front of the moon, the light on the bag flutters. That’s all it is.”

“Are you sure?” Weevil asks.

“Yes, I’m sure. Come over here and look at it.”

Weevil has his knees locked together, but he manages to mince across the camp and grab onto Iron Dog’s muscular forearm to support himself while he bends low to examine the old bag.

“See?” Iron Dog shakes his club at it. “Nothing. The Blessed daughter is right. We’re being played for fools.”

Tocho whispers, “It has arms.”

Weevil and Iron Dog almost knock each other over as they stumble backward with sharp cries, raising their war clubs high over their heads in preparation to kill it.

“Oh,” Tocho says in a small, apologetic voice. “Maybe it was just a cloud shadow.”