Three

Blue Dove

Light fog glows in the firelight streaming from the pithouses. A man with a young woman on his arm walks by.

Before Maicoh can completely close the door, I call, “I’m a messenger from the Blessed Sun Leather Hand, king of the Straight Path nation.”

The door stops a heartbeat from closing, and his fingers on the juniper poles go white and bloodless. He pushes the door open slightly wider. His face is a cold mask. I’m impressed, but not very. Of course, he’s a master of control. If he wasn’t, he’d be dead.

“Makes no difference to me.”

The door pulls shut.

“Would you really rather have warriors standing at this door? If that’s your wish, I’ll see to it immediately. The Blessed Sun has one hundred warriors camped near Finger Rock Village, less than a day’s run to the south.”

A few heartbeats, then the door slides open, leaving a narrow gap. Through it, I see the corner of his mouth twitch.

“My name is Crane. But tell me why the Blessed Sun, who controls the most powerful priests and priestesses in the world, would need Maicoh?”

Fiercely I rub my freezing arms. “It will take time to explain. Do you plan to keep me out here in the cold? You dragged me out so quickly, I left my rabbit-fur shawl by your fire. I’m turning to ice out here.”

The door slams shut.

Despite everything I know about him, everything I’ve witnessed in the dark villages he haunts, it occurs to me that I may have the wrong man. Maybe he is just an ordinary wandering Healer. If so, I can turn around and walk away. A strange relief leaves me feeling lightheaded. Walk away … Do it now.

Instead, I place my ear against the red-painted poles.

He’s talking with someone in a deep, foreboding voice. Or perhaps he’s arguing with himself?

Mesmerized, I can’t move away from the door. The fragrance of burning cottonwood seeps around the poles. I breathe it in while I scan OwlClaw Village. Fog blurs the firelight rising from the rooftops, creating thirty fuzzy yellow halos.

The door opens so suddenly, I stumble backward and throw a hand to my heart.

“Come in out of the cold while I get your shawl.”

“I can retrieve it myself.” I stride past him.

I want a better look at his cave. A man’s home reveals the inner workings of his soul. How does he paint his walls? Are they covered with exceedingly perfect geometric lines or paintings of animals and ancestor Spirits? Does he own a dog or a pet mouse? Some of the most terrifying witch hunters collect small unbaked clay figurines with the faces of their victims.

Four. Four small pairs of moccasins lined up along the wall, as though he expects the children to run into the room at any moment and slip them on.

Other than that, the cave contains nothing that, if examined by his enemies, will give away his identity or occupation. Just wall niches filled with offerings anyone might leave.

His footsteps pad less than a pace behind me, walking close enough that, if he’d wished to, he could slit my throat before I could scream. Quite frightening. Of course, he will not do that. That would be impulsive. And he is never impulsive. Nonetheless, my heart rate speeds up.

When I enter the small cave, the flames waver, and shadows like giant wings flap over the red sandstone walls and ceiling. Snatching up my shawl, I turn and find him less than two hand-lengths away, standing with his fists clenched at his sides.

“You’re so close! I didn’t realize—”

“Why are you here?” His dark eyes bore into me.

Swinging my shawl around my shoulders, I stumble backward and sit down hard on the thick sheep hide. “I’m here to hire you, Maicoh.”

“Crane,” he corrected. “I’m a simple traveling Healer. I work for myself, not others.”

I give him time to calm down before I say, “At the village of Yatki, did you really turn into a white wolf that blazed like the moonlight to hunt down the witches?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“After Yatki, chiefs everywhere clamored for your services. Why did you disappear? No one saw you, which means no one could describe you. If you’d accepted even half of the summons, you would be a very wealthy man by now. You could have retreated to some obscure village in the barbarian north and lived happily forever.”

His mouth pulls tight. “I’ll give you another one hundred heartbeats to explain your proposition.”

I smile. Maicoh hunts down killers, but not ordinary killers. He sniffs out those responsible for bizarre murders that stink of supernatural rage. And he does it by changing into animals. Or so the wild tales say.

“Maicoh, I’ve spent many summers studying you. I’m particularly fond of the way you tear out throats, or rip hearts from chests—”

“Why on earth would you study such horrible things?”

“Why, to navigate the soul, of course. You see, my father was once a war chief. A very good one. Father said I needed to examine every dark desire that occurred to me, because repressing the soul’s desires would turn me into a monster.”

He stares for long moments. “You are a monster.”

I smile. “Aren’t we all?”

Turning, he strides for the door. “I’m leaving. Stay as long as you wish.”

“I was there, you know? Two moons ago in Watovi. I saw you standing over the dying man. You fled before I could speak with you.”

He stops in the large cave with his back to me. “I’ve never been to the village of Watovi.” His deep voice has turned cultured and silken. Soothing in a terrifying way.

“The witch’s name was Hazhoni. He was a very powerful and dangerous person. He’d managed to terrorize the entire region. Yet you managed to kill him.”

The flames are guttering out, and the cave turns immensely darker. I can barely see him now, just a black silhouette in the other cave.

Almost too low for me to hear, he says, “What does the Blessed Sun want?”

He’s changing before my eyes, growing taller as he subtly squares his shoulders and draws his emaciated body perfectly straight.

“They say Hazhoni was very handsome. I wouldn’t know. I only saw his ghastly corpse.”

Slowly, he exhales the words. “You have only a few heartbeats now.”

“It isn’t the kill that thrills you, is it? It’s what comes after. I must say, in that regard, you’ve been very smart. I particularly admire the way you strangle them first so their hearts stop beating, which means there’s very little blood when you slit their throats and cut them open. Keeps you clean and tidy. That way you can just stroll by the villagers, smiling. Unless, of course, you actually do turn into a wolf and eat them all up. As the whispered stories claim.”

He might be carved of a gigantic lump of coal. I can’t even see him breathing.

Abruptly he turns and walks back to stand across the fire from me.

Ecstasy—very similar to the instant before sexual release—prickles through me. He is quiet for several heartbeats, as if considering what to say, then he lifts his head. It’s an almost weightless movement, as spine-chilling as the passing of a disembodied shadow. His stillness is unnatural; it lasts too long.

“What does the Blessed Sun want?”

“A simple item. An old black pot about the size of a man’s fist.”

His expression does not change, but I sense he’s engaged in some inner debate, though it never touches his unnatural calm. It’s a full ten heartbeats before he nods and says, “Nightshade’s Wellpot. The pot that contains her breath-heart soul.”

“Do you know where it is? The reward is extraordinary.”

“No one does. People have been searching for it for many summers. I’m not even sure it’s real.”

“According to the legends, Nightshade gave her pack—which contained her sacred Wellpot from Cahokia—to Spots, your father, just before she died, and he used the pot to catch her breath-heart soul as it left her body, which was staked to the floor in a room in Flowing Waters Town.” I watch him closely. He’s very calm now. So calm and immobile he seems slightly ethereal.

“My father’s name was Leaffolder. He was born—”

“Did Spots ever tell you that story when you were a child?”

“Everyone for a moon’s walk in any direction knows the story of Spots and Nightshade. To many, they were the greatest heroes in the history of—”

“What did your father do with her soul pot?”

Gracefully, he walks to the opposite side of the cave, and stares at the sandstone. Flames cast his shadow upon the walls, where it dances like a dark giant.

“If I tell you what little I know about the pot, will the Blessed Sun leave me in peace?”

Shrugging, I say, “Tell me, and maybe I can answer that question.”

Black strands of hair drag across his antelope-hide collar as he turns. “My knowledge is minimal. And there are many versions of what happened.”

“What’s your version?”

“I think two versions are possible: Either Spots buried it or he took the Wellpot with her soul back to Cahokia and gave it to a young priestess named Lichen. I have no idea which is true. Probably neither.”

Clasping his hands behind his back, he spreads his feet.

Long accustomed to judging men by the smallest details of their expressions and gestures, I think I see malice flare in his eyes, but it never reaches his face.

“Can you find it? That’s the only way the Blessed Sun will leave you alone.”

He stands resolutely a moment, then walks back into the other cave to stare down at the small moccasins arranged in a neat row along the wall.

His firelit profile is spellbinding. In the leaping shadows, he looks pale and strange, the silver at his temples like polished white shells.

“I asked you a question.”

He blinks. Half-turns. The tears suspended on his eyelashes glitter.

“What’s the reward?”

“A private audience with the Blessed Sun, where you may request one thing and, if it is in his power, he will grant your request.”

Wind must have penetrated the cave, for the fire flares and goes wild. Beneath the sudden roar of flames, I think I hear the faint voices of children echoing around the stone walls.

“A private audience where I may make one request.”

“Yes.”

“I can request anything?”

“Of course.”

Maicoh looks back at the moccasins and places a long forefinger against his lips as though warning them to keep quiet. A single tear trails down his cheek.

Finally he says, “I may be able to find it.”