Forty-one

Tsilu

Every warrior in the pithouse scrambles to his feet. Iron Dog and Wasp Moth hurry toward Crane to see the pot. Only Weevil hangs back, perched on the balls of his feet, ready to pounce should something unexpected slither out of the soul pot.

I’m scared, too. All my life, Grandfather has told me to stay away from the pot. He’s never let me touch it, because he said the Power radiating from the pot might kill me.

Blue Dove examines Crane with a kind of wary respect. “By all means. Hand me the pot.”

Crane draws out a small black pot with a lid that’s been glued on with thick pine pitch. As he hands it to her, he says, “It’s very warm. I don’t know why.”

Blue Dove takes the pot and frowns at it. “It is warm. Body temperature.”

“Body temperature?” Weevil cries. “Is it filled with blood? Living blood? Wiggle it. See if it sloshes.”

Iron Dog gives him a skeptical sideways glance, and in a scary voice says, “It’s probably a tiny body. One of the little humans the Blessed daughter saw standing on Tocho’s crotch.”

Blue Dove scowls at him and turns the pot in her hands, studying the delicate spirals etched into the shiny black surface. “It’s more of a deep bowl than a pot. A black bowl with a lid. Somebody should jiggle the lid. Make sure it’s really sealed.”

Grandfather yawns as the far-off mournful howls of a wolf eddy around the pithouse, rising and falling like a distant ritual Song.

I look up at the roof entry, where sunset has turned the thin clouds into wisps of scarlet flame. The wolf howls again, sounding much closer, as though he’s charging across the desert at full speed to greet Nightshade when she steps into this world again for the first time in over thirty summers.

Blue Dove nervously licks her lips as she studies the pot. “Here,” she says, and hands it to Wasp Moth.

“What am I supposed to do with it?”

“Twist the lid. Just a little. See if any of the pine pitch cracks off. You know, see if it has any flaws, like Mother Mazanita talked about.”

“I will not!”

“You miserable coward. Give it back!” Blue Dove thrusts out a hand, and Wasp Moth immediately shoves it into her palm. “I’ll do it myself.”

Blue Dove frowns at the pot, takes a deep breath to prepare herself, then tries to turn the lid. Finally, she wrenches so hard her arms shake. She looks relieved. “That ancient pitch would have broken by now, if it was going to. Must be sealed tight.”

“Blessed daughter, you’re weak from your illness,” Grandfather says in a gentle voice. “Why don’t you let me make sure?”

Grandfather rises and pads slowly across the floor. He sits down beside me and protectively wraps an arm around my shoulders. Placing his mouth against my ear, he whispers, “Are you all right, Tsilu?”

The feel of his arm holding me is like a cool salve on a burn. I lean into his embrace and nod against his chest.

Blue Dove gives Grandfather a suspicious look. “Why would you offer to help?”

“Gods!” Wasp Moth says. “He probably wants her soul running around ripping out windpipes.”

“I heard about something like that once,” Weevil calls from the rear of the pithouse. “A stranger broke a soul pot by accident and the freed soul leaped out and strangled everyone in the house.”

“If it strangled everyone,” Iron Dog says, “who was left to tell the story?”

Weevil’s eyes narrow while he considers the matter. “Well, maybe—”

“Stop! I can’t bear to hear your answer.” Iron Dog makes a deep-throated sound of disgust and stamps over to his blanket where he stretches out on his back and covers his eyes with his arm. “I’m surrounded by buffoons.”

Grandfather watches them with a mild expression, then extends his hand to Blue Dove. “Please? This way you can all stop wondering—”

“I’m telling you! Don’t give it to him!” Weevil warns.

Grandfather extends his hand farther, asking for the pot.

Blue Dove hesitates, glances fearfully at the pot, but at last places the sacred object in Grandfather’s crooked fingers. “But don’t open it.”

“Of course not.”

When Grandfather reverently lifts the pot to his lips and whispers something against the black wall, a strange twinkling fills the air, as though the pithouse has been blown full of sunlit dust.

“Grandfather,” I murmur, looking around. “I’m scared.”

He whispers back, “Do you remember what I told you about death?”

“That it’s just a small step on the Blessed path?”

“That’s right.” He softly strokes my cheek. “Death is not a final act. It’s a link between worlds. For many summers I’ve been looking forward to seeing Dragonfly again. Can you keep watch on the roof entry for me? When you see her—”

“Hold on,” Wasp Moth says. “Why is the old man talking about death?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t like it one bit,” Weevil agrees.

My brother’s low laugh weaves through the shimmering haze like a golden thread. I close my eyes, listening to it reverberate around inside me. I remember that laugh. Hearing it again reminds me of wildflower meadows and my mother; it makes me happy.

I hear him rise and walk toward the fire.

Blue Dove watches him with an inquisitive expression. When he stops beside Grandfather, she says, “If you really are the Powerful and terrifying Maicoh, and the only one who can actually open the pot, then perhaps the old man should give it to you to test the seal.”

My brother’s pale face is like firelit glass. He laughs with dark amusement.

“May I, elder?”

“Of course.”

Grandfather carefully places the pot in Maicoh’s white hands.

A chill seems to run through my brother as he draws the pot up to his lips to lightly kiss it. “Forgive me for disturbing you.”

With barely any effort at all, he twists off the lid and tips the soul pot to the firelight, turning it so each person in the pithouse can see that it’s totally empty.

“You opened it!” Weevil cries.

Blue Dove seems to be holding her breath, watching the pot with wide eyes. “And nothing happened.”

“I knew it!” Iron Dog breaks out in loud breathless laughter. “You idiots have been hearing voices and seeing things … and the pot has nothing in it but air! What a bunch of mindless morons!”

“I never heard voices!” Blue Dove quickly declares.

I’m mesmerized by the glossy interior; it’s so black I could be looking down a tunnel that leads into the deepest underworld where monsters live. At the bottom, far, far away, tiny lights glint. “Is it a tunnel? It looks like a tunnel.”

My brother gives me a slight smile. “Yes. The Wellpot leads to the brilliant darkness of the Well of the Ancestors. That’s why she told Spots to use the Wellpot rather than an ordinary pot to catch her soul. I’m surprised that half-human creatures, like Bird-Man, haven’t already Danced their way up the tunnel and into this pithouse to pluck our eyes out.”

“Please?” Grandfather reaches for the pot. “We should put the lid back on before they do.”

“Of course, elder.” Maicoh hands it to him, then walks across the house and stares hard at the wall, his back to us, as though thinking about something.

Grandfather carefully holds the lid and empty pot over the fire until the pitch heats up, then he fits the lid back on and clamps it down hard to make certain it reseals.

Blue Dove’s face has turned an ugly shade of red with barely suppressed rage. “Do you realize how furious my father is going to be when he discovers the pot contains nothing? He will cut each of you apart piece by piece, eat your hearts, and feed the rest of you to the village dogs!”

Grandfather hugs the pot to his chest and rocks it back and forth. “He may, in the end, but we will have fulfilled our part of the bargain. We brought him Nightshade’s soul pot. In exchange for the pot, he promised a personal audience and to grant one request.”

“Yes. Well.” Blue Dove tosses her head imperiously. “In the heat of the moment, he may forget that bargain.”

My brother bows his head. He still has his back to us when he says in a chilling voice, “That may be exactly what she’s waiting for.”