Thirteen

Poor Singer straightened and winced. He’d been twisting gnarled sage out of the ground, and the small of his back stabbed him as if yucca leaves had been driven into it. His arms ached, and thirst plagued him. He glanced at Dune. The old holy man lay in the middle of the road, his mouth open in a toothless grin. Wind Baby playfully blew sand over his tan shirt and into his gaping maw. Dune didn’t seem to notice.

Poor Singer wiped the sweat from his forehead and gazed up at the crimson cliff and the large rock painting that hid beneath the jagged rim. The painter must have lowered himself by ropes and hung suspended while he’d created his design. Two Humpbacked Flute Players adorned the wall, one male, the other female. The male had an exceptionally long penis. The female’s blue head nestled beneath a large white spiral. The red paint came from crushed hematite, the white from gypsum, or maybe chalk, and the blue might be dried larkspur petals. Poor Singer smiled. If so, the female flute player would soon be headless—plant pigments didn’t last nearly as long as minerals did.

His gaze moved over the rest of the cliff face, searching for other paintings, then drifted southward.

Weathered sandstone ridges receded into infinity, glowing lavender and purple in the morning light. Gray shadows pooled at the bases. On the distant horizon, an unearthly golden gleam sheathed the spire of rock that Dune called Woodcutter’s Penis.

Poor Singer turned. Far to the west, the Thlatsina Mountains wore a misty crown of clouds. His eyes tightened with longing. Did a glimmering turquoise cave hide in that breathtaking blue?

Fragments of that Dream returned to him every night, and he relived the screams, the angry kicks, the strange woman …

He looked back at Dune. What a slave master the Derelict had turned out to be. He wouldn’t listen to any of Poor Singer’s stories about himself. He’d eaten all the food Poor Singer had brought, apparently without the slightest remorse. He’d ordered Poor Singer to go for days without eating or drinking, while he worked him brutally. Then the old man had smiled and claimed he was attempting to teach Poor Singer how to forget himself.

It was both annoying and amazing.

Only yesterday he’d been telling Dune how many Sings he’d been to, and how much he’d learned from them, and Dune had cocked an eyebrow and pleasantly observed, “It must be difficult to fill yourself up with divine Power, when you’re so full already.”

Poor Singer throttled another sage and twisted it, grunting, until it popped from the ground. He threw it on the huge pile to his left. As he bent for another, he spotted a dust cloud coming up the road from the south. He shielded his eyes against the morning glare.

Dune had ordered Poor Singer not to speak, not even to think. “Just gather sage,” he’d said.

The man sprinted closer, until Poor Singer could see his red shirt, belted at the waist, and the magnificent turquoise pendant around his neck.

Poor Singer squinted at the sleeping Derelict. He tried mouthing the word, Dune.

Nothing.

Poor Singer edged closer and whispered, “Dune?”

Still nothing.

He stood at Dune’s feet and rubbed his toe in the sand, making noise. Dune’s smile didn’t even dim. “Uh … Dune? There’s a man coming.”

Dune opened one eye. “You are such a stupid boy. Didn’t I tell you a Singer’s purpose is to see, not to babble?”

“Yes, well, I thought I’d better babble before you got trampled.” Poor Singer pointed. “He’s coming fast.”

Dune lifted his white head and squinted at the man running toward him. “Ah,” he breathed. “Bad news.”

Poor Singer frowned skeptically. How could he know?

Dune sat up and waited.

When the visitor arrived, he bowed deeply. “I hope I find you well, holy Derelict.”

“You do, Ironwood. What—”

“Ironwood!” Poor Singer spluttered. “The—the great War Chief of Talon Town?”

Dune yelled, “You imbecile! Ironwood is a man like any other! Except you. You’re dog urine!”

Poor Singer winced with embarrassment. You couldn’t be certain that what Dune said was truly what he meant. He’d called Poor Singer “slimy packrat dung” last night, and then explained his joy that Poor Singer had decided to become a part of the cleansing process of his people.

Poor Singer edged forward and asked, “Was that an insult?”

Ironwood was a broad-shouldered muscular man, his face hardened by years of weather, worry, and war. Dust sheathed his red shirt, and his moccasins were grimy from travel. The stout black bow over his shoulder gleamed as if waxed, however, and the arrows in his quiver looked newly fletched. A slim bone stiletto hung from his belt next to a stone-headed war club. The large turquoise pendant had been carved in the shape of a running wolf.

The warrior peered at Poor Singer as though he might be dimwitted, and said, “Dune—”

“What’s wrong, War Chief?”

“The Blessed Sun is dying, and he wishes you to be there.”

Dune scowled. “In what capacity? I see you offer me no mixture of ground turquoise and blue cornmeal.”

Poor Singer listened intently. When a person was dying the family sent such a mixture to the Singer they wished to attend the dying. If the Singer took it, it meant he or she accepted the dangerous physical tasks of washing, dressing, and handling the body of the dead, as well as the spiritual tasks of Singing the soul to the afterworld. The mixture would later be sprinkled over the corpse to sanctify it before the burial procession left for the journey down the sacred road.

Ironwood hesitated, apparently judging Dune’s expression, then responded, “I do not, Elder. The Blessed Sun demands only your presence. That is all.”

“Are you certain of this?”

“My orders come from his lips, holy Derelict.”

Dune rubbed his wrinkled chin, as though considering. “But he’s not dead yet?”

“Very close,” Ironwood said. “When last I saw him—”

“Then go away.” Dune waved a translucent old hand. “There’s nothing I can do until he’s dead. Tell Crow Beard I said so.” He flopped back on the sand, clasped his hands over his stomach, and closed his eyes. Sunlight flowed into his wrinkles.

“Elder,” Ironwood said, “the Blessed Sun is dying. This is not a request. He orders you to be present.”

“He’s just worried about his relatives. Tell him that when he’s dead, I promise to bring my Bashing Rock. I will personally smack him in the face to free his soul. Unless, of course, his relatives have already thrown him facedown in a hole and dropped a slab of sandstone over him.”

Poor Singer gasped. Great Monster Slayer! Suggesting such a thing about a Chief would have gotten most men whacked in the head and unceremoniously left for the coyotes. And Dune had just said it to the greatest War Chief alive!

Ironwood propped his hands on his hips. “Gather your things, Elder. We must leave immediately.”

“You must leave immediately, War Chief. I—”

“But, Dune!” Poor Singer said. A swallow went down his dry throat. “You’ve taught me that we must be generous and kind. If the Chief needs you—”

“He doesn’t. Not yet.”

“Dune,” Ironwood said, obviously choosing his words carefully. “If you will not come for the dying Chief, will you come for the Sunwatcher? Sternlight may need you more than Crow Beard does.”

Dune braced himself up on one bony elbow. His expression changed. For the first time he looked sincerely worried. “Why? What’s happened?”

“One of my runners, Wraps-His-Tail, was murdered last night. He had a badger’s paw in his fist and corpse powder—”

“Witchcraft!” Poor Singer blurted, and took a step backward.

Ironwood shot him a glance. “Yes. The town has gone crazy with fear. They—”

“And your other runner?” Dune said.

“My other…” Ironwood’s expression slackened. “How did you know I’d sent—”

“Is Cone dead?”

Ironwood gestured lamely. “All we know is that he has not returned to Talon Town.”

Dune grunted as he got to his feet and walked off.

Confused, Poor Singer trotted after him. Ironwood brought up the rear, his footsteps light.

When they reached the sagging white house, Dune ducked under his door curtain. Poor Singer and Ironwood stood outside, glancing uneasily at each other. A single flute note blared, followed by the thump of a pack hitting the dirt floor.

“He’s packing,” Poor Singer said.

Ironwood ignored him, his hard gaze on the swaying curtain.

Awkwardly, Poor Singer added, “He’s a very holy man. I’m sure he’ll help in any way he can. He…”

Dune emerged from his house dressed in a clean brown shirt, his walking stick and pack in hand. He tossed the pack beside a sagebrush and headed straight for Poor Singer. He fell on his knees, bowed his head, and instructed, “This is going to be a grim journey. Sing for me.”

“Wh-which Song?”

“Sing! Before I lay a curse upon you and all your unborn children!”

Poor Singer’s arms shot heavenward, and he Sang the first Song that came to his mind:

“Far away in the north,

Lies the road of emergence

Cloud flowers blossom there.

And … uh … lightning flashes

Something … else … happens,

and

Raindrops fall—!”

“And,” Dune said as he got to his feet, “they have Singers who know all the words.”

Horrified, Poor Singer bit his lip.

Dune glared at him, grabbed his pack, and shouldered past Ironwood, saying, “Let’s hurry.”

“Don’t worry about anything, Elder!” Poor Singer called after them. “Have a safe journey. I’m not going home. I promise! I’ll be right here when you return!”

Over his shoulder, Dune yelled, “Remember what I have told you. Keep your tongue from waggling and practice being a bug. And don’t forget to feed the mice!”

Poor Singer muttered, “I hate mice,” but yelled, “I won’t!”