Twenty-five

Tsilu

Crane tenderly picks up a pair of small moccasins. The predawn sky is shading from black to blue, but the footprints of the dead still sparkle across the vast bowl of the heavens. He places each moccasin against his lips, speaks to it, then carefully tucks it in his pack. Since he returned one half-hand of time ago, he’s been quietly moving around camp, packing up, and I wonder if he plans to sneak away and leave us. Perhaps he thinks we’re slowing him down and he wishes to go off to rescue Grandfather on his own. Or maybe he’s decided to abandon the mission altogether.

Kwinsi lies flat on his back on the opposite side of the dead fire. His bow and quiver rest beside him, at hand in case he needs them. When he lay down to sleep, he pulled his hood around his face for warmth, so all I can see is his long nose sticking out.

Very softly I say, “You were gone a long time, elder.”

Crane’s black cape swirls as he turns to look at me. Rolled in my cape, I’m sure he barely sees me. “Was I?”

“Almost three hands of time.” Only one pair of moccasins remains on the ground. It’s the tiny pair that he places over his head every night. The toes always point west. “Are you going to leave us?”

Surprised, Crane hesitates. “No, child. I’ll never do that. Not until we’ve rescued Tocho.”

“But you’ve been packing since you returned.”

The silver hair at his temples flashes as he shifts his weight to his other foot. “I guess I have, haven’t I? It’s not because I’m leaving you. I’m just anxious to leave this place.”

Mulling everything he’s told us in the last few days, I say, “Did you go to see your old enemy?”

“Yes. That’s why I’m anxious to leave. Crosswind is … unpredictable.”

“Crosswind?” Startled, I stare at him with my mouth open. “Grandfather says Crosswind is one of the most powerful witches in the land. Why would you go see a witch?”

“Because he’s very knowledgeable.”

“But he’s a witch. He’s evil.” My words become white clouds and trail away in the slight morning breeze.

“Very. But witches collect every rumor, story, or legend that speaks of a Power object. Mostly because they wish to steal them and use them for their own purposes.” Crane bends over to pick up the tiny moccasins, and holds them against his heart for a long time before he adds, “I needed to ask him about the jet fetish.”

“The serpent coiled in the cock’s egg? What did he tell you?”

Crane tucks the tiny moccasins inside his pack and pulls the laces tight, then he walks over and crouches in front of me. His face is dark and inscrutable. Down the valley behind him, the sky is shading bluer, shedding its cape of night. “He said the black serpent imprisons Leather Hand’s breath-heart soul, which means the Blessed Sun can’t travel to the Land of the Dead, unless the witch who imprisoned his soul releases him.”

“Who imprisoned him?”

Gazing at the night sky, he seems to be searching for something up there in the Land of the Dead. “The legendary Nightshade.”

“But she’s been dead for years.”

Crane looks back at me, silently gazing into my eyes, as though waiting for me to make the obvious connection for myself. Wind waffles his hood around his face.

As understanding seeps through me, I lower my voice even more, afraid old Crosswind might overhear our conversation. “Is that why Leather Hand wants her soul pot? He thinks he can convince Nightshade’s soul to remove the curse?”

“I think so.”

Behind my eyes, thoughts tumble over one another. “When you said we needed to know how to kill the Blessed Sun’s soul, did you mean the soul imprisoned in the fetish?”

He nods in the darkness. “Yes.”

“So you knew it held his breath-heart soul?”

“Not for certain.” His hand drops to his belt bag, as if the hidden serpent is calling him. “The woman who gave me the fetish could have been lying, though I could find no reason why she would.”

“Who gave you the fetish?”

He opens his mouth to answer, but instead rises to his feet and props his hands on his hips, debating with himself. “It would be dangerous for you if I answered that question, Tsilu. And the gods know I’ve lied to you enough.”

“You’ve lied to me?” My voice sounds small and weak, even to me. “Why?”

“To protect you. At least that’s what I tell myself. Someday, I’ll give you the whole truth and hope you forgive me.”

His expression is tormented, and there’s something in it that hurts me, and I don’t know why. “Grandfather says that forgiveness is like water. It can’t run uphill. You have to walk down to it.”

Crane smiles and, for a heartbeat, closes his eyes. “He’s right of course.”

As dawn approaches, the footprints of the dead begin to wink out, and a faint pink glow paints the drifting clouds. The scents of morning always seem stronger, the pines sweeter, the sagebrush more pungent.

“Did Crosswind tell you how to kill it?”

“No. He doesn’t know how.”

“I’m sorry, elder.”

“So am I.”

Crane looks around camp. “We need to be going, Tsilu. The farther we are from Crosswind the safer we are.”

“I’ll start breakfa—”

“No, let’s just leave. At noon, wherever we are, we’ll stop and eat. I promise. Why don’t you wake Kwinsi?”

“Oh, yes, I’m sorry. I’m surprised our voices haven’t already woken him.”

When I rise and start working my way through the brush and rocks that hide in the darkness, an owl hoo-hoos, and I see it flapping through the faint starlight over my head. It’s a big owl. A great horned owl. Its flight is elegant and effortless.

“Kwinsi?” I call as I walk. “Time to wake up.”

As I curve around the dead fire, a tornado of ash suddenly springs from the firepit, blasts into me, and careens through camp.

“What…!” Throwing up my arms to protect my face, I gasp, “What was that?”

When I turn to Crane, I see him staring hard at the black tornado flying away through the sky. “I don’t … know.”

I continue toward Kwinsi. As I kneel at his side, I say, “Kwinsi, I’m sorry to wake you, but we need to go.”

He doesn’t move. He’s sleeping very soundly. Reaching out, I gently shake his shoulder. “Kwinsi? It’s Tsilu. Everything’s all right, we just need to be on our way.”

My gaze moves over his body. He’s lying on his back with his cape tucked around him. “Time to wake up.” I shake his shoulder harder. “Kwinsi?”

Leaning closer to him, I pull his hood back to see his face.

At first I think he’s awake, and smile at him. His soft brown eyes are wide open, staring up at me. Then horror begins to tighten my shoulder muscles and filter through my veins.

“Kwinsi!” I scream and shake him with all my strength. “Kwinsi! Wake up!”

Crane rushes toward me with his black cape flying behind him. “Move, Tsilu! Let me see him.”

Falling backward, I scramble away on my hands and knees, panting for air.

Crane places two fingers against Kwinsi’s throat, then crouches and touches his eyeball. No response. When he bows his head, his shoulders heave with silent sobs. “Gods, no.”

“Is he…” I can’t say the words. “He can’t be! What happened? He was fine last night. He—he—”

Crane rises to his feet and turns to look back at the cliff, searching for a specific place in the darkness. As though speaking to himself, he whispers, “You fool.”

“What?”

An odd calm descends upon him. The pain and grief drain from his smooth face as his breathing slows down. It’s eerie. The air seems to shiver with certainty and purpose. He reaches down and picks up Kwinsi’s bow and quiver.

“Stay here,” he orders and points a stern finger at me. “Do not move from this spot until noon. If I’m not back by then, run away. Run as hard as you can. Do you understand? It means I’m not coming back, and you are in great danger. You must flee for your life.”

He slings the bow and quiver over his left shoulder, then unties his belt bag and hands it to me. “Strap it around your waist. Don’t let it out of your sight.” He stalks away through the darkness.

I can’t speak until he is too far away to hear me, then I shout, “Please, don’t leave me alone!”

Already he has merged with the twilight of dawn. I can’t see him any longer, though occasionally I glimpse movement among the junipers and think it’s him.

I strap his belt bag around my waist and go to Kwinsi, where I stretch out on the ground and lay my head on his chest, hoping to hear a heartbeat or feel him breathing. Anything to convince me Crane is wrong. He’s alive. Because he can’t be dead. He can’t be.

“Kwinsi,” I quietly sob. “Please come back.”