Twenty-eight

Tsilu

As he comes closer, the elder gives me a strange gloating smile.

“Oh yes,” he calls. “Now I see the resemblance. It’s all in the eyes. I always thought you were a boy.”

Shifting Kwinsi’s pack on my shoulders, I say, “Forgive me, elder, but who are you?”

He shakes a knobby finger at me. “I remember when Maicoh carried you to the Sleeping Place. That was ten summers ago. It was a hot summer. War raged everywhere in Straight Path country.”

I don’t know what to say to this. “You must have me confused with someone else. I don’t know Mai—”

He chuckles. “I do not have you confused with someone else, child. He was desperate to save you.”

“Who?”

“I suppose he thought Tocho was the only one powerful enough to do it. After all, you’d been dead for two days. I could have done it, of course, with a wave of my hand.” He makes an airy gesture, as though to demonstrate.

Hobbling forward, he sits down near the smothered fire and pulls the hide tightly around his shoulders. A tendril of smoke spirals upward and the aroma of smoldering juniper reaches me. A terrible bubble of suspicion is swelling in my chest. He resembles a helpless old man, but I’m sure that is an illusion. Crosswind has killed more people in his long life than I will ever know. And he must be Crosswind.

“What is the name you go by, child?”

It takes a few instants before I find my voice. “Tola. I am of the Bear Clan.”

“Do you remember anything of the terrible night when you died?”

“I’m alive, elder. I’m not dead.”

He gives me a paternal smile. “Someday, it will all come back. The worst memories live deep in the body-soul, locked in your muscles and bones, unforgettable no matter how hard we try. Yours are dangerous, waiting to crawl up through the darkness and eat you alive.” He rubs his right knee and winces. “I’m curious. What story did they tell you?”

“Story?”

“About how you came to be with Tocho.” He’s watching me like an eagle does a baby rabbit. “The stories I’ve heard are so intricate and contradictory they are hard to unravel.”

“I don’t understand.”

Why didn’t I flee the instant I saw him? Crane told me that if he wasn’t back by noon I should run for my life. Why didn’t I?

Smiling, the old man says, “You, dear girl, are a lost soul. A child cut off from the world of light, forced to wander in eternal shadow, because your soul has crossed the Star Road into the Land of the Dead, and you do not know it. That’s why you hear Spirit voices. Your body is here, but your breath-heart soul is not. I find it strange that Maicoh has not told you these things. I’m sure he loves you.”

“I don’t know Maicoh.”

Frowning, he says, “Really? He must be using another name. Not surprising, of course. Why wouldn’t he? He doesn’t want you to know. It would be perilous for you. And for him. What’s the name of the man you are traveling with? The older man.”

“You mean … Crane?”

“Crane,” he repeats as though it is a great illumination.

“Are you saying that Crane is Maicoh?”

“Yes, my dear girl, you’ve been sleeping next to a murderer. A man who has killed more people than I have.” He gestures to the other side of the fire. “Now, sit down and let us talk seriously.”

“No, I—I don’t want to sit down.” I step back from him, and think about turning and running. But the truth is I couldn’t leave now if I wanted to. I’m riveted by what he’s said so far. I must listen to the rest.

He cocks his head and the few wiry gray hairs on his scalp glimmer with sunlight. “There must be times when you see flashes of memory—say, when you are sitting in front of a fire. Doesn’t your heart ever start to race for no reason, or maybe pain seizes you? Even a smell can trigger your bones to recall your worst moments. The scent of a warrior’s sweat, say. Or burning pithouses. That’s because the body-soul recalls, even though the mind does not.”

“I’m afraid of burning houses. How did you know that?”

“I live death, child. I journey to the campfires of the dead and come back with stories that terrify the most powerful shamans. For example, I know there are shadowy men who stalk the canyons of your nightmares, because I’ve met them. I’ve talked with them about you.”

He points to the sky, and suddenly the fear in my chest is like a nest of insects chewing through my ribs.

“Do you want to know what they say about you?”

Before I can answer, I see flames rising and my mother, Golden Quill, lying naked and dead, her clothes torn off. Dark shapes of warriors flit in the rain at the edges of the vision. The shadowy men who haunt the canyons of your nightmares. Someone has my hand. He’s dragging me toward the burning house. I can’t bear to remember what he will do when we get there. I hear a little girl’s voice, screaming. Then blackness. No memory … until I hear a man singing to me. A soft lullaby. And I find my limp body in his arms, being rocked to sleep. His teardrops are warm on my face.

“Ah.” An understanding sigh from the old witch. “The memories are unbearable, aren’t they?”

I feel stripped bare, as though my soul has been sliced open and the evil witch in front of me can see every sinew. “How do you do that? How do you make people remember?”

Crosswind leans back. “Does it matter?”

“I would like to know. Please tell me.”

“One day, perhaps, I will train you as a witch and all your questions will be answered. But just now there’s a more important issue we must discuss.”

His gaze wanders to the pack on my back. Kwinsi’s pack. He stares at it for far too long.

“Is it in there?”

I turn my head to glance at the pack. “What?”

“The black fetish.”

My scalp is tingling. “What fetish?”

An impatient groan from the old witch. “Maicoh did not have his belt bag with him. He may have hidden it out in the sagebrush somewhere, but I suspect he left it here. With you. He’d want you to have it, in case anything unfortunate happened to him.”

“You saw him? You saw Maicoh? Crane?”

He sweeps a hand toward the fresh grave, and his words puncture my heart like bone stilettos: “Do you want your friend to live again? I will make that exchange.”

“Live … I don’t … understand.”

Exaggerated sympathy creases Crosswind’s face. “A simple trade. The fetish for your friend’s life.”

Turning, my gaze lands on the fresh dirt, and grief rends me in two. “He … he’s dead.”

“A temporary inconvenience.” He holds out a gnarled hand. “Give me the fetish, and I will bring him back to life.”

Two steps. Back away from him. “Did you kill him?” I sound as if I’m choking.

The old man shrugs. “It was an accident. I meant to kill you.”

“Me?” I whisper. “Why?”

“Maicoh has become arrogant and vain. He’s killed so many he’s come to believe he has Power over the forces of the dark. He needed a reminder that he is nothing more than an annoying gnat to us.”

I ball my fists with all my strength and will time to stop, to go back, to take me to the beautiful autumn day when Kwinsi was clowning at the council meeting, making people laugh. But that’s impossible, and I know it.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to kill you now. We need each other. Just give me the fetish and your friend will walk away from here at your side. Don’t you want him to live again?”

Sobs shake my chest. “Yes, I do.”

“I know you do. You’re a good girl.” He extends his hand farther. “Give me the fetish.”

“Bring him back to life first. Then I’ll give it to you.”

“Then you do have it?”

“I do,” I say, even though I am not sure that’s true. Is it in Crane’s belt bag? I have no idea.

His toothless mouth opens in a broad grin. “I thought so.”

“Bring him back to life now. Right now!” My heart is breaking when I turn to look at the grave. I will give anything to see Kwinsi live again.

“That is not wise, child. He will awaken buried by earth and unable to breathe. Just do as I say and give me…”

I blink when the desert transforms into white shafts of light, pouring through the clouds, the junipers. Everything else vanishes … except the blinding light. What’s happening? The air is growing hot. An unnatural shimmer envelops me like a golden halo—

“No!” The hoarse shriek rings through the eerie radiance.

I snap back to this world.

Crosswind sits in the same place, but blood bubbles at his lips. As though curious, he reaches down to finger the arrow shaft that pierces his chest right above the heart, then looks up and gives me a ghastly inhuman smile. His lips move, trying to speak, but his throat is blocked by the blood welling in his lungs. When he tilts backward and collapses to the ground, I run around the fire, breathing hard, trying to figure out …

“Tsilu, get away from him!”

I don’t even think, I whirl and run twenty paces before I look back. My heart is on fire, burning inside me as I pant for air.

Crane emerges from behind a juniper with Kwinsi’s bow in his hands. His black hood has fallen back and his smooth face runs with streaks of red paint. Or is that blood? Cautiously, he moves toward Crosswind, one step at a time, the bow drawn, the next arrow ready to fly.

There’s a flash flood roaring in my veins. Faces, Grandfather’s laugh, counting colorful beads on a mat, the feel of sunlight on my skin, all tumbling through my mind. I remember the taste of venison cooked over oak, the rough texture of a dog’s tongue licking my cheek, the scent of wet willows after a rainstorm.

Warriors talk about this. The point in the battle where you know you’re going to die. That’s when it hits you. Your whole life, everything that has ever been important to you, is right there. Right behind your eyes, staring you in the face one last time.

Crane veers wide around Crosswind, watches for a time to make sure the old witch is dead, then releases the tension on the bowstring and trots over to where I stand still shaking, breathing hard.

Tenderly, he asks, “Are you all right?”

All I can do is nod.

“Forgive me. I knew he’d come looking for the fetish as soon as he thought I was dead.” He uses his sleeve to wipe the blood from his face, but only manages to smear it further across his cheeks and forehead.

“I was bait?”

“Yes. When I discovered you were still here, I used you as a distraction. Now hurry, we must get away from this place.”

“Are you…” In shock, I can’t feel my hands. They are numb lumps of flesh hanging at my sides. “Are you Maicoh? He said you were Maicoh.”

“No, I am not. He lied, Tsilu. He was very good at lying.”

Crane takes my arm, turns me around, and leads me south at a brisk walk. He keeps casting glances back over his shoulder, as though he expects the old witch to spring back to life at any moment. I feel the sagebrush raking my moccasins, but I don’t hear it. The pounding in my ears is too loud. And the sunlight is so bright it hurts.

“Would you tell me if you were Maicoh?”

His gray-shot brows lower. As he shoves me ahead of him, around a boulder, he says, “No. I suppose I wouldn’t.”