Twenty-two

Tsilu

“Tsilu? I’m sorry to wake you. Crane wants to be on the trail soon.”

At the touch of a light hand on my shoulder, I ask, “Is it so late?”

“No, it’s still early, we just need to be on our way,” Kwinsi says.

In the chill of the autumn morning, the smell of frying bread is almost painful. I sit up and comb my hair out of my eyes. Kwinsi leans over me, smiling. The vista behind him is glorious. As cloud shadows flow up and down over the buttes and hills, yellow flares of sunlight strobe the canyon, turning the landscape into a red, yellow, and deep gray mosaic.

“Breakfast is almost ready.”

“Forgive me for sleeping so long. I should have been up hands of time ago to help with breakfast.”

Rising to my feet, I dust off my cape and follow Kwinsi to the fire where Crane sits cross-legged with a cup of tea in his hands. The soft breeze flutters the black hood around his face.

“Pleasant morning to you,” Crane greets me.

“Thank you, elder, and to you, also.” I kneel to Crane’s right. “Forgive me for sleeping so long.”

“It made me happy to see you sleeping. We have long days ahead of us.”

The sweet earthy fragrance tells me the fry bread is made from ground ricegrass seeds. The dough cooks on a ceramic plate at the edge of the fire. Crane must have added ash from burned saltbush to the dough, because the bread has risen slightly. The edges have just started to brown.

“Where did we get the ingredients for bread?”

A thin smile touches Crane’s lips. “I carry small bags of flour in my pack, so that all I have to do is add water to make the dough. Unfortunately, this is my last bag.”

Kwinsi crouches across the fire. “Crane also made dried yucca blossom tea. Want some?”

“Yes, Kwinsi, thank you.”

He reaches for one of the cups resting beside the fire, dips it into the gray pot, then hands it to me. “It’s hot. Be careful.”

The sweet flavor of yucca blossoms coats my mouth as I take a sip. “That’s good. Thank you, elder.”

Crane nods his head. All his gestures are so remote and distant, I wonder if he long ago decided that expressing emotion, any emotion, reveals too much. His sunken eyes appear dark within the frame of his black hood.

“I dreamed of home all night,” I say. “We were sitting around the plaza fire eating antelope steaks with people we love.”

“I dreamed of home, too,” Kwinsi says in a faint tormented voice. “But we must remember that our families wouldn’t want us to dwell upon the past. We—”

“Just be glad you two are alive,” Crane says. “If Leather Hand’s warriors had not destroyed your village, you would be dead along with all your loved ones.” He uses a stick to flip over the fry bread.

“How can you say that?” I ask in shock. “We were fine before—”

“Do you remember the doll the dead priestess carried to Chief Seff? The personal gift from the Blessed Sun?” Crane gives me one of his cold looks.

“Yes. It scared me.”

“They’re extremely fragile. Sooner or later, Seff or someone else would have accidentally knocked it over. When it broke open, corn or beans, or other seeds, would have spilled out, along with strips of dirty rags. Evil Spirits live in the rags. Whoever touches them is infested, and the evil moves through the village like lightning. Within a matter of days, everyone is sick. Death generally follows quickly, unless it’s the coughing sickness, and that can take many summers to kill.”

“But why would the Blessed Sun wish to kill our families? We are nothing to him. OwlClaw Village has never been a threat to anyone.”

Crane uses his spoon to shove the fry bread to a hotter spot on the platter. “It’s easy to believe in his innocence,” he says after a moment. “I did, myself, if for no other reason than he seems too powerful to stoop to such petty entertainments. But this is about survival.”

“What do you mean?”

Crane fills our bowls with bread. As he hands out the bowls, first to me, then to Kwinsi, he says, “The great witch knows his kingdom is about to collapse. By wiping out regional villages, he’s creating space and freeing up resources, so that the remaining First People will have enough room to run when the time comes.”

Around a mouthful of delicious fry bread, I say, “Will the First People survive?”

Crane’s narrow face and silver temples faintly flicker orange in the flames. “They are not as adaptable as your people, Granddaughter. I suspect they will dance on the threshold of death for many summers before they cross over.”

Kwinsi, who has been uncharacteristically silent through the entire dreadful discussion, whispers, “Will they learn to fly?”

“Who?”

“The survivors? Will they learn to fly?”

Crane gives him a confused look. “That’s a strange question. Why would you ask that?”

“When the breath-heart soul leaves the body at death, it transforms into a cloud and learns to fly. Souls that are afraid to fly remain on the earth as homeless ghosts, forever wandering and alone. I am hoping they learn to fly.”

Crane stares at Kwinsi for a few moments, then blinks his suddenly tear-filled eyes and looks away. “They will learn to fly. I’m sure of it.”

Despite the recent rain, a huge cloud of dust whirls and careens across the sandy desert in the distance.

Crane says softly, “We should be going. If we leave now, we will reach WhiteBark Village by nightfall. There’s a man who lives in a cave a short distance away I need to see.”

“Who?”

“An old enemy. He knows more about the Blessed Sun than anyone else alive.”

“What do we need to know, elder?” I ask.

Crane reaches for his pack, slips it over his left shoulder. Oddly, he turns toward Kwinsi, as though Kwinsi asked the question, not me. “We need to know how to kill his soul.”

Kwinsi says, “His soul? I don’t understand.”

“Don’t you?” When Crane bows his head and smiles, his hood falls over his face. “That’s good. You’ll live longer.”