Nineteen

Ironwood stood in the doorway of Snake Head’s personal chamber, arms crossed, watching Swallowtail deliver the new Chief’s supper. The Mogollon youth set the long wooden platter down beside the bowl of warming coals in the middle of the floor, then checked to see that the teapot suspended from the tripod was heating properly. As he backed away, he laced his fingers before him, awaiting instructions. He stood almost as tall as Ironwood. When Swallowtail gazed at Snake Head, hatred glinted in his dark eyes.

Snake Head stood with his back to them, preening before a pyrite mirror. Every now and then the mirror would flash and Ironwood would catch Snake Head watching him with a gloating smile.

Arrogant young fool. He knows the people have been talking to me. That’s why he’s keeping me waiting, as a reminder that I no longer have the right to speak to him of these things.

A torch of shredded cedar bark burned on the wall to Ironwood’s right, casting a wavering amber glow over the chamber. Four-by-five body-lengths across, the room had a high ceiling and gloriously painted walls. Swallowtail’s gaze was riveted on the northern wall to his left, where the dangerous Badger Thlatsina stood. The god had a black body, long muzzle, and sharp teeth. A circle of enemy scalps—mostly Mogollon—encircled him. Now that they were water and seed beings, these scalps gave Snake Head more Power than any young man his age deserved.

In its large cage, a bright red macaw walked back and forth on its foot pole, plucking piñon nuts from a small clay bowl and cracking them noisily with its big sickle-shaped beak. It had blue-and-yellow wings, a white face, and a long blue-and-red tail. Six hands from the tip of the tail to its head, it shimmered in the wavering torchlight. The bent willow cage stretched from the white-plastered floor to the ceiling and covered a space about fifteen hands square. Cracked nut hulls littered the floor of the cage.

Ironwood kept an eye on the macaw. Slaves whispered that it could speak in a human voice, but he had never … The bird cocked its beautiful head, gave Ironwood a malevolent look, and let out a low screech. Swallowtail went rigid, and Ironwood’s eyes narrowed. The macaw threaded its way back across its pole, picked up a sunflower seed and crushed it—but it watched Ironwood the entire time.

Swallowtail’s chest rose and fell rapidly beneath his shirt. Ironwood knew that the Fire Dogs believed macaws had human souls. Was the boy wondering whose?

The Straight Path people, on the other hand, feared that macaws might have human souls. Though gods occasionally adopted bird form to soar down from the skyworlds and check on human activities, witches frequently flew about as birds. Only the greatest shamans could tell the difference.

The macaw made a soft mournful sound, and Snake Head turned to see the bird watching Swallowtail through one eye. He said, “Even my bird hates you, boy. Get out of here. Go back to the slave chamber. And tell your mother I want her. Now.”

Swallowtail hesitated, his nostrils quivering, but said, “Yes, Blessed Sun,” ducked past Ironwood, and ran away.

Snake Head wore a buckskin shirt decorated with dyed porcupine quills. The flattened quills had been sewn down the sleeves in zigzagging lines of red and yellow lightning bolts. Shell bells clicked on his sandals. A bun of black hair decked the top of his head.

Snake Head studied Ironwood through slitted eyes, then walked across the floor and dipped himself a cup of pine sap tea. The sweet tangy scent filled the room. It had become a rarity. Once, many summers ago, there had been so many pines in the canyon that all of the First People could enjoy the treat every day. But now only a few could afford such luxuries.

Snake Head straightened, took a drink of his tea, and smacked his lips appreciatively. In a cold voice, he said, “What are you doing here, Ironwood? You are no longer War Chief. What business could you possibly have with me?”

Ironwood dropped his arms to his sides. “I had hoped, out of consideration for my many summers of loyal service to your father, that you might help me to understand what happened while I was away. People tell me that you sent Webworm—”

“Yes, I did.” A small gloating smile touched his lips. “And I gave my War Chief instructions to find my mother’s wretched spawn and kill it. I think that’s all you need to know, warrior. Now, if you’ve nothing more pressing, I’m very busy.”

“But I don’t understand why you would wish the boy dead. How could he possibly be a threat to you?”

Snake Head swirled the tea in his black-and-white cup. “My ‘wishes’ were not considered, Ironwood. It was my father’s last order.”

“And what of your mother? How long do you plan on keeping her imprisoned?”

“That is none of your concern.”

“I live here, Snake Head. Of course it is my concern. Don’t you realize that—”

“I realize everything that I need to, Ironwood!” Snake Head spun and crouched, suddenly looking like his namesake. “Now, leave!”

Ironwood impassively crossed his arms again. “Every moment that she’s locked up, the people grow more restless. I don’t believe you’re prepared to put down a revolt, Snake Head—not with your War Chief and thirty of your best warriors away on a raid.”

Snake Head glared.

“Please,” Ironwood pleaded, “listen to me. The people have stopped protesting in the plaza, but all that means is that they are at home, whispering over supper, telling each other everything they know and wondering what the truth is. If you don’t end this soon, the people will fill the gaps with speculation and create a whole new story. One that could tear this place apart.”

Snake Head brusquely sat down on the mat before his supper platter. He picked up a horn spoon and half a melon, and began eating. Their people buried melons, eggs, and certain types of gourds in deep piles of sand to preserve them through the cold winter. The melons grew sweeter, and the flesh of the gourds didn’t dry out as fast. Eggs would last seven or eight moons kept that way.

Ironwood shrugged. “If it comes to that, they’ll tear you down along with Talon Town. Is that what you want?”

Snake Head spooned more of the melon into his mouth and chewed, making no attempt to answer.

Ironwood sighed and gazed out the doorway.

As darkness settled over the desert, the jagged edges of the cliffs smoothed, and the color drained from the world. Evening People crowded the clear sky. Ironwood studied them and inhaled a breath of the cool breeze that roamed the canyon. It smelled of dry grass and dust. Once, it would have been tinged with the perfume of sage. The far-off whimpers of coyotes drifted in with the wind. No wonder the land was tired and refused to produce anymore.

“Did you know that my mother was a whore?” Snake Head asked.

For a long moment, Ironwood refused to take his gaze from the Evening People, then he looked back at Snake Head. The youth had finished his melon and picked up his teacup again. He had an odd expression on his face, curious, or testing.

“I pay no attention to gossip, Snake Head. I never have.”

“Well, it’s just that I know how often you talk with the slaves of Talon Town, and such vile people chatter. I thought perhaps you had overhead one of them—”

“No.”

Snake Head rose and walked toward Ironwood. A silver sheen of torchlight flowed into the folds of his buckskin shirt. The shells on his sandals clicked. He stopped one body-length away and cocked his head. “So you really have no idea who the father of my misbegotten half-brother is?”

“No idea.”

A secret smile, taunting and promising, curled Snake Head’s lips. “That is all I have to say to you, Ironwood. For now.” He walked back to his supper platter and picked up a cold corn-cake. “You may go.”

“Your new War Chief will see that the child is killed. You will have fulfilled your duty to your father. What use is it to keep your mother imprisoned? It only stokes the anger—”

“And what do you suggest I do, former War Chief? Let her go? She betrayed my father!”

Ironwood clenched his fists and stepped toward Snake Head. A crawling sensation had invaded his gut. Fear flashed in Snake Head’s eyes before he regained control of himself, and the new Chief haughtily lifted his chin.

“If that’s true, Snake Head, then your duty now is to decide her fate quickly. For the sake of your people. Either banish her, or kill her. But be done with it.”

An odd gleam lit Snake Head’s dark eyes. He bit into his corncake and chewed while he searched Ironwood’s face. Looking for … what?

“I think I shall kill her,” Snake Head announced emotionlessly, crumbs sticking to his lips. “Yes, that will resolve the problem.”

“Then do it.”

Snake Head held Ironwood’s fiery gaze for several instants. “I’ve never trusted you or your judgment, Ironwood.”

“That’s unfortunate. Your father did.”

“Yes. I know.” He laughed softly. “But then he never knew about my mother’s fondness for you.”

Ironwood’s stomach knotted. “Are you suggesting—”

“I’m suggesting she was fond of you at one time,” Snake Head answered through a mouthful of food. “That’s all.” He finished his corncake and brushed purplish blue crumbs from his hands onto the floor.

“Snake Head—”

“I have finished with you. I am the Blessed Sun. Leave, now! Or I shall call the guard and have you removed!”

Snake Head turned his back and walked to the macaw cage. He spoke softly to the bird. It answered him in a low hostile squawk.

Ironwood ducked out into the sharp night air and strode across the fourth-floor rooftop, his sandals rasping the plaster surface. He knotted and unknotted his fists as he went, jaw clamped tightly.

What could he know? Nothing … nothing at all. It’s a bluff, a baiting game, a way of toying with people to see what he can flush from cover.

He climbed down the ladder to the fourth story and walked warily to Sternlight’s chambers. Every nerve prickled, the way they did on a high ridge just before lightning struck.

He ducked beneath the door curtain. Sternlight glanced up from stirring the hot coals in his warming bowl. His white shirt flowed around his feet. Crow’s feet pinched the skin around his weary brown eyes, and loose black hair draped his hunched shoulders.

The room was painted with thlatsinas, and one of the beautiful masks—the Badger Thlatsina, with its raven feathers—hung over Sternlight’s bedding, as if gazing down fondly on him. Baskets and beautifully painted pots stood along one wall. Overhead, sacred herbs hung from the roof poles, bathed now in the dry incense of cedar smoke.

“Well?” Sternlight asked softly. “Does he know?”

“About the child? No. I don’t think so.”

Sternlight slowly rose to his feet. He had known Ironwood for far too long not to hear the unspoken words. A frown lined his brow. “But he knows about … what?”

Ironwood exhaled hard. “Perhaps about his mother and me.”

Sternlight’s facial muscles went slack. “Hallowed thlatsinas, then he might be able to guess the rest.”

*   *   *

“He shoved me into his warming bowl!” Mourning Dove turned to look over her naked shoulder at Creeper and damp black hair framed her round face. “He was like one of the Wild Men, throwing things, shouting, beating me!”

As soon as she’d been released by Snake Head, she had begged the warrior standing guard over the slave chambers to bring Creeper. He’d thrown on a blue shirt, gathered some Healing supplies, and run across the plaza.

Ten slaves in tattered brown clothes sat on the floor encircling Creeper and Mourning Dove, watching in silence. A few small bags, containing their pitiful belongings, rested beside their sleeping mats on the floor. In its wall holder, a single cedar bark torch sputtered, coating their worried faces with reddish light, highlighting knitted brows and clamped jaws. One old man, Lark, buried his face in his hands.

Swallowtail sat to Creeper’s left, hugging his knees to his chest, rocking back and forth like a wounded animal. The tall boy’s face resembled a wooden mask, but the look in his eyes, which had fixed on his mother’s injuries, was like a bludgeon. Creeper kept glancing at him. He could see the hatred growing darker, more violent by the moment; it was probably eating the boy alive.

“You’re safe now, Mourning Dove.” Creeper smoothed a salve of mallow and fat over the burns on her back. The fist-sized blisters oozed. He had to fight to keep his hands steady. Rage ate at every nerve in his body.

Snake Head is becoming more and more unpredictable and arrogant. For the sake of the Straight Path nation, someone should …

Mourning Dove flinched when Creeper suddenly rubbed too hard. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, Mourning Dove.” He patted her shoulder.

She hung her head and sighed. “It’s all right. Thank you.”

Creeper concentrated on gentleness, covering each blister, each open wound.

The faces around him had gone dour, hopeless. These were slaves. They knew the futility of objecting to brutality. As did Creeper, as one of the lowly Made People. Creeper would bring this incident up at the next council with the First People elders, but it would do no good. Someone might chastise Snake Head, or mention in passing that he shouldn’t have hurt Mourning Dove. Snake Head would just laugh—Creeper had seen it before. Many times.

Swallowtail leaned back against the white wall and serenely closed his eyes, appearing to have gained control of himself. His face was slack. Then Creeper saw his arms. The knotted muscles bulged and twitched beneath the fabric of his brown shirt—as if he were dreaming of beating someone to death with his bare hands.

As his own indignation built, Creeper nodded. He smoothed more salve on a particularly bad burn where the blister had burst and left raw meat beneath.

Mourning Dove moaned through gritted teeth.

“I’m sorry,” Creeper repeated. “Did I hurt you again?”

“Oh, Creeper,” she whispered hoarsely, “why would he do this to me? I know he was upset about something, but I did nothing wrong! I swear it! I obeyed his every order, I—”

“He did this,” Creeper said in a shaking voice, and clenched his fist to still it, “because he’s one of the First People, and he could.”

*   *   *

When the flames died and the cloak of night wrapped the hills, Thistle crawled out of the sage thicket and stood, trembling, looking up toward Lanceleaf Village.

Black smoke curled into the air. Wind Baby dragged it over the desert, stretching and tangling the smoke like slender lengths of rope. The stench of burned pitch stung her nose.

As silent as Hawk’s shadow, she took three steps up the hill, then stopped to look and listen before taking another three. She dared not watch her feet. She kept her eyes on the dark shapes that surrounded her: brush, rocks, juniper trees. Prickly pear punctured her moccasins and stabbed her feet. Blood warmed her cold toes.

And all the while, her heart thundered with fear. Beargrass?

Occasionally smoldering wood cracked and hissed. Other than that, deathly quiet had settled on the hills like a smothering embrace.

Thistle climbed up to the scorched shell of her house and her throat constricted. “Blessed gods…” she whispered.

Movement caught her attention in the blackened remains of the village below. Faint whimpers carried.

Cautiously, she edged down the slope, trying not to lose sight of the person moving in the plaza. She found she could see him better if she didn’t look directly at him, but slightly to the right. Squat and short, the individual walked as if hurt, favoring the left foot. The cries grew clearer.

Thistle entered the plaza through the ruined gate, stepping around fallen roof timbers and stone rubble. A live turkey huddled in the shadows, but when Thistle stepped near it, the bird let out a squawk and darted away in a flurry of wings.

“Who’s there?” a girl called frantically.

“It’s Thistle.”

“Oh, Thistle…”

“Leafhopper?”

“Yes. I found my aunt.” The whimpers became suffocating sobs. “She’s dead.”

Thistle stopped. All across the dirt, bodies lay sprawled. The coppery scent of blood clung to the back of her throat. She steeled herself and walked toward Leafhopper, but her eyes searched every corpse. Her terror mounted as she whispered their names, “Clover. Birdtail. Old man Blackruff…”

Leafhopper gathered her aunt’s body into her arms and rocked pathetically, crying, “She’s gone. My aunt’s gone.”

Thistle knelt and stroked Leafhopper’s short hair. “I’ll help you bury her. We’ll make certain she finds the way to the underworlds.… Leafhopper, have you seen—”

“Yes,” she answered, and nodded. “Over there.” Leafhopper pointed with her chin and her voice grew shrill. “Both of them.”

Thistle gazed into her round face uncomprehending. As though moving in a nightmare, Thistle slowly rose to her feet and turned.

She saw Beargrass’ red shirt …

And the entire world went cold and gray around her. Leafhopper’s cries no longer shrilled in her ears. The reek of scorched wood vanished. She saw Beargrass’ wide dead eyes, shining with starlight.

Her legs moved with cold efficiency. They lay so close she only had to take seven small terrible steps. She stood over them, staring down. A bloody puncture wound ripped her husband’s shirt over his heart. They’d carved off most of his scalp, and an arrow, the feathers broken off, transfixed his blood-caked thigh.

For an eternity, she tried to fit what she saw on the ground with an image of Beargrass, but the pieces, like sherds from two different pots, didn’t fit.

Then it occurred to her that the headless body sprawled across Beargrass’ stomach was that of a youth.…

Her ears heard the insane scream that split the night, but she did not realize it had come from her own throat.

From an incredible distance, Thistle heard running feet, then vaguely felt arms go tight around her waist. Some detached part of her soul saw Leafhopper staring at her and talking—the young woman’s mouth moved—but Thistle couldn’t understand the words. Had she taken a sharp blow to the head?

Leafhopper led her a short distance away and sat her down gently. Then she vanished for a time and returned with a blanket, which she draped over Thistle’s cold shoulders.

Leafhopper sat beside her, put an arm around her, and leaned her head against Thistle’s shoulder. As if from another world, tears dropped onto Thistle’s hand. Cool, so very cool on her skin.

The trembling began in Thistle’s jaw and spread to her whole body.

“Oh, no,” Leafhopper whispered.

She got to her feet and ran. Thistle saw her go down the ladder into the kiva. She emerged carrying some blankets. She draped another two around Thistle’s shoulders and sank to the ground again. Hunching forward, Leafhopper Sang softly. The Death Song.…

Thistle watched unmoving: a woman in a Spirit trance. After several moments, she pulled Leafhopper against her.

Thistle rocked the young woman in her arms.

… Rocked and rocked.