Six

Blue Dove

“That’s it.” Crane—as he insists upon being called—points to a huge rockshelter in the towering canyon wall in the distance. “It’s called the Sleeping Place.”

Lifting a hand, I shield my eyes against the morning glare. The high red cliff to the west shines orange in the morning sunlight, but the Sleeping Place is still in shadow. One hundred hands above the canyon floor, the rockshelter is shaped like a giant clamshell.

“It’s a lonely haunted place,” Crane continues, “filled with the souls of children who, for one reason or another, chose never to be reborn.”

“You’ve been there?”

A faint expression crosses his pale face. “Long time ago.”

“Why? Did you carry a dead child there? Did you live in this canyon at one time? You don’t strike me as a dirt farmer, or anything ordinary, for that matter. Not even a Healer. Everyone with eyes senses something amiss about you.”

Crane turns to give me a long quiet stare. “Then we share something, you and I.”

I smile. “Perhaps we do.”

He stands a good head taller than me. Today he wears deerhide leggings and a drab knee-length shirt the color of the red dirt. Worn around the elbows and collar, it drapes his emaciated body like a baggy second skin. His ribs show through the fabric. A buffalo-hide bag is tied to his braided leather belt, and a black cloak hangs over his arm.

All in all, he resembles a shabby refugee from the war-torn south.

I, on the other hand, look regal in my magnificently woven white dress covered with intricate black-and-red geometric designs. Seven turquoise-and-coral necklaces encircle my neck. The longest hangs to my stomach and sports a large abalone shell pendant the size of my palm. Everyone in the village knows I am not from around here. Thank the old gods.

“Are you sure that’s where he is?”

“Chief Seff told me he’d taken the dead infant there, but he’ll return for the council meeting this afternoon.”

“I see. And who is this Tocho?”

Lightly, Crane shakes his head. “Don’t know much about him, though he’s a legend among the Canyon People. He’s performed many miracles here.”

“Miracles?” I scoff. “Nonsense.”

Crane does not turn. “I hear he routinely brings the beloved pets of children back to life. Others have seen him clap his hands over eggs and watched fully grown birds crack through the shells and flap away. He once brought a little girl back to life after she’d been dead for two full days.”

“Trickery.”

“Perhaps.” He lifts a shoulder. “Perhaps not.”

My gaze drifts. Drying racks, covered with strips of meat from rabbits, deer, and bighorn sheep, stand to the south of the village. Nearby, women sit gossiping in the shade of a three-sided ramada—a thin-walled structure made of sticks and mud. Tools and supplies dangle from the roof: winnowing baskets, fire-hardened digging sticks, tongs for lifting hot rocks or cooking pots from fires, and several bundles of sinew for sewing moccasins and other hide garments.

To the north, the pithouse they burned last night is little more than a circular depression in the ground filled with smoldering debris. The acrid smell stings my sensitive nostrils. All around the plaza, people from different nations walk about with cotton scarves over their noses and mouths.

“And why would this Tocho know the location of the Wellpot that holds Nightshade’s soul? Did your father, Spots, give it to him?”

Crane folds his arms, a gesture that barely stirs the thin fabric of his shirt. “It’s said that Tocho studied the shamanic arts with Spots. I don’t know the truth of it. Perhaps Spots told him where he’d buried the pot.”

“There are so many things I do not understand about your curious father. Stories say—”

“He’s not my father.”

I continue as though he hasn’t spoken: “Stories say he was a dear friend of Nightshade’s, but if so, why didn’t he take her pot to the Great North Road and break it open to release her soul onto the path to the afterlife? Any true friend would have done that soon after he’d captured her soul.”

“Yes, he would have, wouldn’t he?” Crane starts walking across the plaza toward the council house beside the river, where birds perch on the cattails at the edge of the water. “If he could have.”

I keep pace at his side. “Are you saying your father could not take her pot to a high place?”

For a time, I think Crane will refuse to answer. He doesn’t even look at me, just continues walking at a slow steady pace, his pale face inscrutable in the mane of black and silver hair.

Finally, he says, “I’ve heard that her pot is impossible to break. An old Trader told me that once. A man who had supposedly known Spots personally.”

Does he think me a fool or merely want to impress me with this tidbit of secret knowledge? “By the way, where is your son this morning?”

“Who?”

“Your son. I caught barely a glimpse of him in your cave last night. I’m not even sure I’d recognize him today, especially if he’s changed his hair or clothes. And you both do that, don’t you? Wear disguises? I’ve always assumed ‘Maicoh’ is two, or even three, different people.”

With an expression of tired distaste on his face Crane turns away, as though growing bored of me calling him Maicoh.

Without a hint of inflection he says, “Tell me why I need you?”

“What?”

“You’re an errand girl. A messenger from the Blessed Sun who wants a Power object. If I am Maicoh, as you believe, why wouldn’t I simply kill you, find the pot, and take it back to the Blessed Sun to claim the reward?”

My cheeks dimple with a smile. “I doubt my father would give you the reward if you killed me.”

“Your father?”

“Yes. I’m his only daughter. My death would make him very sad. And angry.”

Crane lowers his gaze to the ground, and I wonder what he’s thinking. He must be terrified.

When he laughs, it so startles me, I stop dead in the trail. “What are you laughing at?”

“Oh, just thinking that it would work out well for Maicoh in either case. If he killed you, or made it known that he had the pot, the Blessed Sun Leather Hand would demand that Maicoh be brought before him. Once Maicoh was close enough, he’d kill the Blessed Sun. Which would secure, for all time, Maicoh’s reputation as the greatest witch hunter who has ever lived.”

Irritated, I reply, “Of course Maicoh would also be dead.”

“A minor point, I should think. Your father must be the greatest prize of all for a man who lives to kill witches.”

Amusement glitters far back in those jet black eyes.

“Is Maicoh that foolish? That he would throw away a lifetime of wealth and status just to kill the Blessed Sun?”

His deeply sunken eyes are hooded in shadow now. “Why would the Blessed Sun send his only daughter after Maicoh, when any messenger could have delivered—”

“So many people have tried to trap and kill Maicoh that my father supposed he would not come without proof that the offer was genuine. I am that proof. It is genuine. I bring my father’s true words.”

“But, surely, if you are the Blessed Sun’s child, you’d have an armed escort. Where is it?”

I toss my head coquettishly. “Do you really think I’m alone?”

Crane glances around the village at the people from many nations, as though searching for my armed escort, then gives me a cold smile and leisurely walks away down the trail.