Forty-three

Blue Dove

Glumly, I watch the old woman set up the tripod at the edge of the flames. Moments ago, she arrived carrying supper, a basket of bread and a steaming pot of venison stew—gifts from the chief of Flower Moon Village. Bony and sallow-faced, she is named Sunki. Given her snowy hair and wrinkles, she’s survived as least fifty really hard winters. Gods, kill me before I look like that. She hangs the pot on the tripod, and arranges the legs so that the stew stays warm over the flames. I’m still upset about the empty soul pot. If there’s nothing in it, why was I so sick? I was paralyzed! I couldn’t move a muscle. I know the weak-minded can talk themselves into death if they wish to, but I’m not one of those people. Even worse, I keep wondering what my father will do when he twists off the lid of the soul pot and discovers nothing. Someone is going to suffer. Maybe everyone involved in this fiasco. I need some kind of leverage. My gaze strays to the ugly girl again, wondering how she’s related to Maicoh, Crane, and Tocho.

“May I get you anything else?” Sunki asks with a bow.

“What kind of bread did you bring?” Pulling the lid off the ugly basket, I gaze inside at the circles of fry bread. The sweet scent of pine nuts rises and I see them dotting the bread.

“It’s a blend of ricegrass and goosefoot-seed flours, with a sprinkling of pine nuts.”

“Oh well,” I say disdainfully as I put the lid back on. “It’ll probably be all right.”

Apparently offended, Sunki gives me a cool look, bows again, and turns her attention to Tocho, who sits on the other side of the fire. The girl, Tsilu, sits between Tocho and Crane. They seem to be guarding her. The albino, however, has retreated to the far side of the pithouse, where he watches events with his blanket draped around his shoulders. Wasp Moth, Iron Dog, and Weevil hunch in a knot on their blankets, talking in quiet voices, drinking berry tea and waiting for supper to be served. If they think I’m going to serve them, they’ll be waiting forever.

Sunki quietly walks around the flames and kneels close to Tocho. “Elder, may I ask you a question?”

“Yes, of course,” Tocho says with smile.

“Is it true that you studied with the legendary hero Spots?”

“For a few days, I did, yes.” Tocho nods. “He came to our village to give my father a gift. Spots was the kindest man I’ve ever known.”

The woman gives him a radiant smile, and excitedly replies, “My grandfather met him. Spots and his wife traveled through Dark Pines Village when they escaped Flowing Waters Town thirty summers ago. They told strange stories—”

“What stories?” I lean forward to brace my forearms on my drawn-up knees and scowl at the old woman.

Sunki wets her lips as though reluctant to tell me. Lowering her voice, she whispers, “Spots told my grandfather that he was with her when the Blessed Nightshade died, and he saw Mud Head Dancing away with the legendary heroes Ironwood and Night Sun, headed to the Star Road.” Her voice is filled with reverence. “With her last breath, Nightshade asked Spots to capture her soul in her old Wellpot and take her back to Cahokia. She told him she’d decided she had one final task to perform.”

“What task?”

The old woman shakes her head. “Grandfather didn’t know. Spots never told him, I guess. Though Grandfather did say Spots carried a final message from Nightshade.”

“A message for whom?”

The snowy-haired crone shrugs. “Don’t know.”

“I order you to tell me the truth.”

“That is the truth!” the old woman objects. “If my grandfather knew the message, he never revealed it to me. Or anyone else for that matter.”

Scanning her wrinkled face, I can tell it is the truth. “Very well. What else did your grandfather tell you? After Spots captured her soul in the pot, what happened then?”

Sunki looks extremely uncomfortable now. She clearly never intended to have this conversation with me, the Blessed Sun’s daughter. When she gives Tocho a pleading glance, he softly says, “It’s all right to tell her.”

Sunki swallows hard. “After that Spots and Cactus Flower trotted off with Nightshade’s soul pot for the famed land of the Mound Builders far to the east.”

“That’s ridiculous. Why would he do that?” Reaching for a cup, I fill it from the stewpot and pick up a bighorn sheep spoon. As I plunge my spoon into the stew and stir it, I glare at the old woman. “I don’t believe it.”

Sunki shrugs again, and turns to Tocho. “Isn’t that the story you’ve heard, elder?”

Tocho reaches out and lightly places a hand on Sunki’s arm to pat it soothingly. “I know several versions of that story, but that’s the one I believe.”

After chewing a bite of venison, I make a face. “How long ago was this deer killed? The meat has a vaguely rancid taste, like the hunter left it hanging in a tree until it was covered with green mold.”

Horrified, Sunki says, “The chief’s son shot the deer just this morning! I saw him bring the buck down.”

“Hmm. All right. Just a nasty deer, then.” Scooping up another chunk, I blow on it and put it in my mouth. After chewing and swallowing it, I say, “Why would Spots journey all the way to the lands of the Mound Builders? He would have had to travel through hostile territory for moons.”

“Yes, I—I think he did. Grandfather told me Nightshade wanted them to carry her soul pot and the Tortoise Bundle to a great Priestess named Lichen, so that Lichen could renew the bundle and protect the pot. At least, to protect it until it was safe for Spots to bring it back to the Straight Path nation.” Sunki fiddles uneasily with her folded hands. “I don’t know if it’s true, of course.”

“What’s the Tortoise Bundle? Never heard of it.”

Wind gusts through the roof entry and whimpers around the pithouse like a horde of frightened children. As though oblivious to my dark mood, Iron Dog laughs at something Wasp Moth says, and Weevil cackles like a sage grouse that’s just been spooked off her nest by a bobcat.

“Will you be quiet!” I half-shout, and my headache thunders in my skull.

The warriors appear cowed. They lower their voices. Wasp Moth says, “Sorry, Blessed daughter.”

Turning back to Sunki, I repeat, “What’s the Tortoise Bundle?”

“Oh, I don’t really know the story very well,” the old woman says. “I guess the bundle goes all the way back to the beginning of the world, when Wolf—”

“Give me the short version,” I order in irritation. “I hate stories that drone on and on.”

Tocho tips his head deferentially. “If you don’t mind, Sunki, I’ll answer that.”

An expression of relief slackens her face. “Thank you, elder.”

Tocho thoughtfully steeples his fingers in front of his lips before saying, “Supposedly, the bundle was made by the greatest Dreamer of all time, Wolf Dreamer. But as the bundle was passed down from Dreamer to Dreamer over thousands of summers, it was renewed many times, changing names and being repainted until it was passed to Nightshade’s mother in Talon Town. By that time, it was painted with a yellow tortoise and called the Tortoise Bundle. When Lichen renewed it in Cahokia, she returned its name to the Wolf Bundle and repainted it with a blue wolf’s head.”

My attention is drawn to the far side of the house where the albino speaks softly to the bundle hanging from his belt. He’s been carrying on a subtle conversation with the soul pot since we returned here, and it mystifies me. The pot is empty. Which I find intensely annoying. I expected some grand mystical event to occur when the pot was opened. Instead, nothing happened. Nothing at all. Except that it has vexed me so much I gave myself a headache.

Tocho says, “Do you know who Wolf Dreamer was?”

Glowering, I respond, “Don’t be insulting, old man. Everyone knows the name Wolf Dreamer. He was the First Man. The First Dreamer who led humans through the dark icy tunnels of the underworld and into this world of light.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

I take another bite of my stew. Around a mouthful of mushy overcooked wild potato, I say, “If true, my father will want that bundle. He collects Spirit objects.”

“If the bundle agrees, I’ll be happy to present it to him as a gift.”

Waving my spoon in the air, I reply, “He’ll just take it, so don’t bother asking the bundle.”

“He can’t do that,” Tsilu says, and shakes her head so hard her chopped-off locks of hair flop around like dead appendages. “Only a bundle can decide its Keeper. If he just takes it—”

“Tsilu.” Tocho clasps her hand hard, as though begging her to stay quiet. “I’m sure the bundle will agree. Let’s discuss it no more.”

Chastised, the girl stares at the floor, but her teeth are grinding beneath her cheeks. She doesn’t like me. Which I find faintly amusing. I must have a private discussion with this girl about her relatives. If Crane, Maicoh, and Tocho are her family, my father will …

My head jerks up when I hear the soft scrape of scales across stone. “What was that?”

Tocho stares at me blandly. “What?”

“Didn’t you hear that? It sounded like a giant serpent slithering across rocks.”

The old woman, Sunki, struggles to her feet on knobby knees and fearfully glances around the pithouse. “I have to be going now.” She hobbles toward the ladder and climbs up into the starry night.

Crane, who has been sitting silently beside Tocho through the entire discussion, suddenly chuckles. “A giant serpent? Sounds like the beast in your father’s heart.”

“Do you really believe that old men’s tale?” My voice drips derision. “It’s a fabrication invented by Father’s enemies to make him seem inhuman. He has a man’s heart just like any other.”

“Not only do I believe it, I think the evil serpent drove out his breath-heart soul and it now coils in the hollow cavity like a beast waiting to strike.”

Leaning over, Crane picks up a cup with his left hand, dips it into the stewpot, and hands it to Tsilu, then he fills cups for Tocho and himself, and hands out spoons. The girl gobbles the stew down like she’s starving to death.

“Eat slowly, Granddaughter,” Tocho whispers. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

“Yes, Grandfather.” Forcing herself to slow down, she seems to chew each bite fifty times before swallowing.

When Crane lifts his cup to sip the broth, his sleeves pull back from his wrists, and I study the ugly scars. They resemble thick white worms.

Pointing with my spoon, I say, “How’d you get those scars?”

“What?” he looks down.

“On your wrists. Did you slash them yourself, or did someone do it for you?”

He pauses with his spoon halfway to his mouth. “Why do you care?”

“I’m bored, and I assume the story must be more interesting than wild tales about old dead legends and moldering gods.”

“No.” He puts the spoon in his mouth and chews a chunk of venison as he watches me. “It’s not.”

“But they’re curious scars. I’m not sure they were caused by a blade. They might have been made by cords repeatedly sawing into your flesh over a long period of time. Were you tied up for moons at some point in your miserable life?”

“My miserable life is my miserable business.”

“So you’re not going to tell me? Really, what could it hurt?”

Crane gives me a curious look, then cocks his head. “That’s an interesting tone of voice for you, Blue Dove. Reminds me of the yowling of a weasel in heat.”

My lips smile, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. “Shall I order one of my warriors to crush your skull with his club?”

“If I’m not mistaken, that’s going to happen anyway. Better now than later. I hate the waiting part.”

“Which, I gather, you know something about.” I gesture to his scars again.

“In fact,” Crane says in an insidiously soft voice, “I know a great deal about the long wait for death blows that never come.”

“And why do you keep those children’s moccasins? Four pair, as I recall. Are your children dead?”

Tsilu straightens and stares at Crane. The girl obviously knows more about the moccasins than I do, and my question has her on edge. Yes, a private talk soon.

I look back at Crane and, for a split instant, he is the frightening man I first met in that cave outside OwlClaw Village. He goes as rigid as a statue. Behind his eyes I see memories flare and die. His stillness is preternatural, spine-tingling. The feeling of threat intensifies, and my breathing turns shallow. When his hands subtly tighten around his cup, it’s a weightless movement. In the background, I see the albino shift, as though preparing to jump to his feet and stop Crane from some terrible act.

As though he senses it, Crane slowly turns to look over his shoulder at the albino. Their gazes lock and hold, both fierce, unyielding. Finally the albino eases back to the floor.

“Well,” I say.

“Well, what?” Crane snaps.

I laugh. “Slowly, ever so slowly, my vision is beginning to clear. I just realized that the albino is not the dominant man here. You are. I find that fascinating, given that you keep claiming you are not Maicoh.”

Crane’s ash-colored face and deeply set eyes flicker in the firelight. As though he has a thousand summers to complete the action, he lifts his cup to his lips and takes a drink of venison broth, then reaches for a horn spoon, dips out a chunk of meat, and leisurely chews and swallows it.

I find myself watching him intently, riveted by the too-slow motions of his emaciated body. After another bite, he places his cup on the floor and folds his hands in his lap. “I am not Maicoh.”

“That’s getting repetitive…”

A smell.

I sniff the air. It’s bitter and metallic. My heart suddenly hammers in my chest, and my gaze darts around the pithouse, to the shadows and the swaying disembodied heads, which now appear even more misshapen. Blood. That’s what the smell is. Blood and stale sweat.

And so close to me. Terrifyingly close.

I almost leap out of my skin when a filthy red-shirted warrior peers down through the roof entry and calls, “Finally! We’ve been searching for you for a moon! The Blessed Sun sent us to escort you and Maicoh back to Flowing Waters Town, Blessed daughter.”