Fifty-one

The Blessed Sun

Leather Hand watched Stinger, who stood outside calling orders to organize night patrols. The High War Chief had assigned four men instead of the usual two to guard Leather Hand’s chamber, which was good thinking after the unsettling day he’d had. The rest of the warriors divided into two groups. The first group trotted away across the roofs to stand watch for the night. The second, larger group waited in line to climb down the ladder to the plaza. While the men bided their time, they laughed and talked.

One gangly youth said, “Old man BearBack says when her soul is loosed from the pot the world will end. Mother Earth will heave up and the footprints of the dead will tumble out of the skies—”

An older warrior snickered. “That’s ridiculous. Anyway, BearBack is demented. Last week he told me he’d seen turkeys roosting on clouds. Kept grabbing me and trying to point ’em out.”

“So?” The youth shrugged. “He may have been wrong about that, but that doesn’t mean he’s wrong about the end of the world. I’ve heard tales about the legendary Nightshade, and she could call gigantic flocks of Thunderbirds from the air—”

“Quiet! Both of you,” Weevil growled and stepped away from Leather Hand’s door with his war club up. “Stop talking about her. She’ll hear you! You have no idea what we’ve been through—”

Iron Dog gruffly interrupted, “Yes, do stop, Fisher. Can’t you see these tales terrify Weevil?”

“I am not terrified!” Weevil objected in a shaky voice.

“What happened out there on the trail?” Fisher walked closer to them. “Stories are already circulating about how giant monsters stalked you and ate the other warriors who were with you—”

“Where’d you hear that nonsense?” Iron Dog whirled to give Weevil an enraged look.

“I didn’t say a word!” Weevil insisted. “All I said was—”

Leather Hand, irritated beyond endurance by their frightened voices, yelled, “Deputy Iron Dog, lower my door curtain, and cease your mindless babbling!”

“Yes, Blessed Sun.” Iron Dog hastened to pull the door curtain from the peg and let it fall closed.

The warriors continued to murmur to each other, but Leather Hand ignored them. Instead he watched the curtain sway while his eyes adjusted to the gleam of the firebowls. The wavering reddish hue dyed the air and the faces of the wicked thlatsinas on the walls. Swiveling around on the pallet, he turned his back to the door so he could see his enemies looming over him. Or perhaps the thlatsinas were bending down to examine the pot in his lap?

“I told you I’d get it,” he crowed triumphantly. “See? I hold it in my hands.” He lifted the pot for the false gods to get a good look.

How strange that they made no rejoinder. After all their beastly chatter recently, now they were silent? He heard only the hushed speculative voices of his warriors outside.

Cold Bringing Woman’s white face had a curious pink glow, as though blood were seeping up into her cheeks. He knew it was just the gleam of the firebowls. Still, it bothered him.

The Black Ogres, on the other hand, stood like simple paintings. Dead. Nothing more than minerals and fats brushstroked into gods.

“Why are you all so silent? You’re acting like field mice hiding in wall cracks. Are you afraid of her?”

Utter stillness filled the chamber. Even the red coals in the firebowls stopped sputtering, which never happened. Wind constantly seeped around the door curtain and fanned the coals.

But he felt no wind …

And heard not a peep from his warriors outside.

Probably just gone quiet to listen to Leather Hand’s conversation with the gods, he thought, but a spine-tingling sensation rippled through him. Inexplicably, he felt his chamber had been transformed into a soundproof cocoon to prepare it for a strange and wondrous hatching.

When he shifted to study the soul pots perched on their shelves, he sucked in a sudden breath.

“What…”

Beside each of the four pots lined up on the left of the middle shelf stood a small figurine about the length of his hand. Where had they come from?

Setting Nightshade’s soul pot down near his tea cup, Leather Hand staggered to his feet and walked across the chamber to examine them.

What curious and repugnant objects.

Made of unbaked clay, they had thin pinched noses and slits for eyes, as though the figurines were sleeping or perhaps meant to represent the closed eyes of the dead. Their bodies were painted with red, buff, blue, and black paint, and each wore a necklace and belt made from hand-rolled beads of clay, which he assumed were supposed to be shells or stone ornaments. All were clearly female, for they had breasts.

Reaching up, he lifted down one of the figurines to examine it. Fragile. Very fragile. Carefully, he turned it over in his hands. The triangular shape of its body and the stylized hair buns that rested upon the figure’s shoulders told him it was likely fashioned by the Canyon People. Their rock art was similar.

Despite their otherworldly appearance, he sensed no souls in the objects. They were merely cold clay, and it occurred to him that they must have been constructed as children’s toys. Bizarre dolls.

“Who placed you beside these soul pots?” he asked the figurine in his hand and then looked into the painted faces of the three other dolls.

None responded. But, of course, they had no mouths, so perhaps they could not speak. Nor did they have ears, at least not that he could make out with his failing vision.

Why would anyone fashion a child’s doll without ears or a mouth? Did the figurines represent deaf mutes? Or possibly the creatures did not need ears or mouths because they had supernatural hearing and voices?

In any case, he found them disturbing. In the morning, he’d have his White Moccasins hunt down the culprit who’d placed them on this shelf, and order the man or woman slowly cut apart so he could eat them alive, a piece at a time.

But for now he was tired and fuming from a long day of unsettling events. He put the figurine back on the shelf and hobbled over to his pallet to lie down.

As he stretched out on his side, facing the firebowl, he picked up Nightshade’s soul pot and twisted the lid. When it didn’t budge, he put all his strength into twisting it off, twisted so hard his arm shook, but still it was glued on tight. Defeated, he decided he’d do it tomorrow morning, when he was fresh and stronger.

With a sigh, he rested the pot upon the coyote hides less than a single hand-length in front of his eyes. He could see himself in the shiny black surface. Right over his head, the reflection of Cold Bringing Woman’s red eyes appeared. He must be more tired than he thought, for he swore he saw them blink …

He did not feel the beast’s presence, though.

The paintings and soul pots remained as quiet as the dead when he closed his eyes.