Twenty-Nine

Webworm stood in the doorway of Chief Snake Head’s chamber, waiting for Mourning Dove to leave. She knelt near the macaw’s cage, her tan-and-white dress dragging the plastered floor as she gathered and folded the Chief’s soiled clothes, then tucked them into her black wash sack. The macaw kept an eye on her while it ate sunflower seeds. Each time the bird cocked its head, its magnificent red, yellow, and blue feathers flashed wildly. The sound of cracking hulls grated on Webworm’s frayed nerves. He clutched his bloody pack against his chest and shifted to brace his feet. Heart sore, aching from the bruises he’d acquired in the battle, and desperately weary, he wished this were over. He wanted to go home and speak with his mother. Perhaps they would tell stories about Cloud Playing … and he could hear her laughter again in his soul.

Webworm straightened when Snake Head whispered something. The Chief stood on the far side of the room, stroking the Badger Thlatsina’s muzzled face. The black painted figure contrasted eerily with the white wall; its red-and-white striped muzzle gleamed in the crimson light cast by the warming bowl. Snake Head murmured, “Yes, I know … it’s all right.”

Webworm and Mourning Dove exchanged a glance, but neither said a word.

Mourning Dove finished putting clothing in her wash sack and rose to her feet. The macaw let out a low menacing whistle, but she didn’t look at it. “Is there anything else you require of me, Blessed Snake Head?”

Snake Head let his hand fall to his side. “No,” he answered without looking at her. His long yellow robe swayed with his movements. “Not tonight. You may go.”

Mourning Dove bowed respectfully and rushed by Webworm. He saw her dash across the rooftop for the ladder, probably wishing to get away as quickly as possible, in case Snake Head changed his mind.

Webworm inhaled a breath and held it in his lungs to fortify himself.

Snake Head turned and gave Webworm a haughty, irritated look. “What is it, War Chief?” When he tilted his head, his long eyelashes threw shadows over his cheeks. He wore his black hair loose tonight, and it hung to the middle of his chest. As though a fine patina of copper coated his straight nose and large dark eyes, they shone with an orange hue.

Webworm carefully removed the grisly prize from his pack and unwrapped the layers of bloody cloth. The fabric had mashed the boy’s nose to the side and pressed his mouth into a frozen cry. Blood clotted tangled hair to his cheeks. “As you instructed, Blessed Snake Head, I killed the boy. Here is the proof.”

Snake Head crossed the room with a smirk on his handsome face. He scrutinized the severed head. “He doesn’t look anything like my mother. Odd, isn’t it?”

Webworm longed to blurt out his suspicions that Sternlight had tricked them all, but he merely nodded and extended the prize to Snake Head. “He is yours, my chief.”

Snake Head took a step backward and flicked a hand uncomfortably. “Put it on the floor. I don’t wish to touch it until it’s been cleaned and purified.”

Webworm knelt and eased the head down. Memories floated in his mind—happy times around Beargrass’ fire, the wide-eyed little boy listening to the exploits of warriors. Forgive me, little one. My fault … all my fault.

“And what did Beargrass have to say for himself?” Snake Head asked.

Webworm stood. “He maintained until the very end that the boy was his son. He—”

“Well, that’s to be expected,” Snake Head interrupted. “I assume you taught him the price for betraying the Blessed Sun?”

“He is dead, yes.”

“And the rest of the village?”

“Burned. I left no witnesses—at least none we could catch. A few people escaped, but not many.”

Snake Head laughed gleefully. “Oh, I can’t wait until my mother hears the news. Perhaps I shall tell her myself, just to see her face. Do you think she truly believed she could hide the child forever?”

Webworm shrugged. “I cannot say, my chief.”

“Well, she will also pay the price for her treachery.” Snake Head narrowed his eyes like a hawk about to sink its talons into prey. He glared down at the boy’s head. “I’ll see her dead for this outrage.”

“But…” Webworm’s mouth gaped. “She’s your mother, Snake Head.”

“Yes, well, of that I’m certain, but as to who my father was, I’ll probably never really know.”

Webworm’s gaze went over Snake Head’s face in detail, tracing the arching brows, straight nose, and oval shape. Snake Head looked so much like Crow Beard that, if thirty summers had not separated them, they might have been twins. How could he make such a ridiculous statement?

Snake Head must have sensed Webworm’s incredulity, because he lifted his chin and ordered, “Go away, War Chief. I have many things to think about besides you.”

“Yes, I—I know.” Webworm bowed his head. “My heart aches with you over the loss of your sister. She—”

“Yes, yes, of course it does.” Snake Head turned on his heel and walked away to kneel before the glowing coals in his warming bowl.

Webworm backed out of the chamber. Starlight, reflected from the white walls of Talon Town, threw a pale bluish gleam over the cliff. He walked toward the ladder. Every muscle in his body hurt. He rubbed his tender shoulder. Beargrass had struck him with a war club before Webworm could lift his arm to deflect the blow. Deep fiery pain throbbed in the swollen lump; Webworm feared the blow might actually have cracked a bone. As he climbed down the ladders to the first-story roof, he inhaled the rich scent of frying corncakes.

Webworm walked around the curving roof line until he reached his mother’s chambers. The ladder thrust up through the roof hole. He stepped onto the first rung, and heard Creeper say: “Oh, Blessed Featherstone, let me help you with that.”

Webworm knew that tone. He couldn’t help but close his eyes briefly before he climbed down into the soft red light and stepped to the hide-covered floor.

Thlatsinas danced around the walls, leaping and spinning in time to some eternal drum that Webworm had never been able to hear. A tripod held a pot of tea suspended over the bowl of coals in the middle of the floor. The sweet fragrance of spruce needle tea rose. Corncakes and a bowl of pink-spotted beans sat near the coals, keeping warm.

His mother leaned in the northwestern corner, to his right, wearing a turkey-feather cape over her dress, her jaw slack, eyes focused on nothing. Gray hair straggled around her shoulders and framed her wrinkled face. Her prominent nose shimmered with beads of sweat.

Creeper sat next to her with a bowl of beans in one hand and a horn spoon in the other. Judging from the bean juice dribbling down Featherstone’s chin, he’d been trying to feed her.

Webworm looked away. Seeing his mother like this always brought him pain. How could a woman who had spoken to Sister Moon in the sparkling voice of a meteor have come to this end? Webworm would have given anything to go back to that time when the Fire Dogs had ambushed her. He would have killed every one of them with his bare hands—though it meant he’d never have been born.

“How long has she been like this?” he asked.

Creeper said, “Two or three hands of time.”

“What brought it on?”

“Who can say? We were speaking about witches and witchcraft. Featherstone was telling me about the witches Jay Bird executed when she lived among his people as a slave.” He made a helpless gesture with the spoon. The red glow coated Creeper’s plump face and flickered through his chin-length black hair. Short and pudgy, Creeper wore a buffalo cape around his shoulders. The kinky fur glittered with crimson highlights when he moved. “She just … drifted away.”

Webworm sank to the floor near the bowl of coals and gestured to the food. “Is this mine?”

“Yes. I made supper right after I brought Featherstone back. I hope the corncakes are still warm.”

“Doesn’t matter. Thank you, Creeper.” Webworm picked up the bowl and spoon and began shoveling the delicious beans into his mouth. The image of Cloud Playing’s face drifted in his soul, seeking to break loose and drown him with grief.

No, not yet. Keep it at bay, just a little longer. Weary relief filtered through his empty belly as it filled.

Creeper put another spoon of beans into Featherstone’s open mouth. After a few moments, she chewed and swallowed, though her unfocused eyes never moved. When her mouth gaped again and bean juice ran down her chin, Creeper lifted a piece of cloth from his lap and wiped her chin, saying, “That was good, Featherstone. Try to eat another bite.” And he lifted the spoon to her lips again.

Webworm finished his beans and picked up a corncake. It was cold, but good, flavored with dried bits of prickly pear fruit. He leaned back against the wall and extended his muscular legs across the soft deerhides. Webworm had watched Creeper feed Featherstone hundreds of times. Why did it still disturb him?

“You spoke with Snake Head?” Creeper asked as he ladled another spoonful into Featherstone’s mouth and waited for her to chew.

“If that’s what you call it.” Webworm finished his corncake and reached for another. Chewing slowly, he swallowed and added, “He didn’t have much to say. I gave him the boy’s head and he … he laughed, Creeper.” Webworm let his head fall back against the wall and stared up at the stars visible through the roof entry. He lowered the cake to his lap. He’d yet to change clothes, and old blood stiffened the fabric of his red shirt. He felt dirty—in many ways.

“It’s not your fault.” Creeper glanced sympathetically at Webworm. “You are the new War Chief. You had no choice.”

Webworm’s eyes tightened. “Maybe,” he murmured. “I’m not so sure. I think Ironwood would have asked for more proof before he went off to slaughter an entire village. I—I didn’t even consider questioning the order.”

And had I been here, perhaps Cloud Playing would still be alive. He struggled to force his thoughts away from her torn body. He should go to her, be there for her through the night. He pinched his eyes closed, afraid tears would betray his attempt at self control.

Creeper dabbed at the juice on Featherstone’s chin again. “When the great priest Sternlight tells people that something is true, who dares to doubt it?”

“I do!” Webworm replied sharply, happy to strike out. “He’s a liar, Creeper. You know it! Why did we believe him? My cousin is wicked! He’s never told the truth in his entire life. Yet all he has to do is say Night Sun’s child lives in Lanceleaf Village and warriors go to find the boy and kill him.… What’s the matter with us?” In a frail voice, he asked, “Have we all lost our souls?”

Creeper placed the horn spoon in the empty bowl and set them aside. His calm brown eyes peered at Webworm. “No one has ever found evidence of Sternlight’s wickedness, or he would have been killed for witchery many summers ago. Until such evidence comes to light, most people will continue to revere him as a great priest—and believe him.”

Exhausted, disheartened, Webworm smiled and bowed his head, resting his chin on his chest. “Yes, yes.”

Creeper leaned forward and dipped up two cups of tea. He handed one to Webworm, who took it gratefully.

“I’m sorry, Creeper,” Webworm said. “I know you do not relish hearing me complain all the time, but I—”

“You have good reasons.” Creeper leaned against the wall beside Featherstone and drank his tea. “May I ask you a question, though?”

Webworm looked up. “Of course.”

Creeper’s bushy black brows drew together over his small nose. “Do you recall the rumors in Talon Town about sixteen summers ago?”

“You mean about Night Sun being pregnant? Yes, I recall, but I never believed them.”

Creeper frowned down into his cup of tea. “I didn’t either, not fully. But after the accusations Crow Beard made just before he died, I began asking questions.”

“Of whom?”

“The slaves.” Creeper looked up and gave Webworm a stern look. “Mourning Dove was one of Night Sun’s chamber slaves when the Matron became ‘ill’ while Crow Beard traded with the Hohokam.”

Webworm shifted to lean his right shoulder against the wall, taking the pressure from his aching left shoulder. The pain had grown fiery. “So?”

Creeper glanced at Featherstone, as if worried that she might hear their conversation. He lowered his voice and said, “Mourning Dove told me that Night Sun had not bled in four or five moons. One of Mourning Dove’s duties was to wash and dry Night Sun’s bleeding cloths.”

“And there weren’t any during that time?”

Creeper shook his head. “None.”

“Perhaps she asked another slave to take care of them.”

Creeper glanced at Featherstone again. “Perhaps, but I suspect Night Sun was pregnant, and that she bore a child.”

Webworm massaged his forehead. The ache behind his eyes pounded in time to his heartbeat. Weariness, mixed with his grief over Cloud Playing, had drained his strength. He longed to sleep. “I don’t care anymore, Creeper. Even if she did—”

“Do you think it might have been a girl?”

Webworm glanced up. Deep lines carved Creeper’s plump face. He looked almost … frightened. “You mean you think Sternlight lied to shield the real child?”

“I think he might have.” Creeper set his teacup down on the deerhides and laced his fingers over his ample belly. “The only thing I can’t figure is…”

Featherstone suddenly leaned forward and heaved a tired sigh as though she’d been running for moons, and only just found a resting place. “You know why, don’t you?” she asked.

Webworm’s soul sank. Her eyes were still vacant. Only her voice spoke.

“No, Featherstone,” Creeper said gently. “Why?”

“He’s doing it for me.”

Webworm fumbled with his hands. Sometimes she droned on and on, speaking nonsense for hands of time without stopping.

Creeper brushed gray hair away from her face, and said, “Why is that, Featherstone?”

“Because!” she shouted. “He knows I am the rightful clan Matron!”

“I see,” Creeper said with a smile.

“No, you don’t!” she spat. “None of you do! But he does.”

Something in the way she’d said it made Webworm go cold inside. He stared at his mother. As though the words had taken every bit of her energy, she wilted, her muscles going slack. Creeper grabbed her before she could topple sideways and helped her to lie down on her sleeping mats. He pulled the blankets up around Featherstone’s throat and gently kissed her forehead.

“Sleep well, Blessed Featherstone,” he whispered, and patted her shoulder.

In a curiously detached voice, Webworm said, “Snake Head told me he’s going to kill his mother.”

Creeper jerked around to look at him in shock. “Even if she did bear a child, none of the First People leaders will wish her dead! I know it!”

Webworm rubbed his aching shoulder, feeling sick to his stomach. “I pray you’re right. But which of them will have the courage to defy the new Blessed Sun?”

Creeper shifted to sit cross-legged on the hides and his shoulders slumped forward. After thinking for a time, Creeper said, “Why don’t you sleep, Webworm. There’s nothing we can do about any of this tonight. And you’ve had enough blows in the last few days. I’ll sit up for a time and watch over Featherstone.”

Webworm gave Creeper a warm look. During her “vacant” episodes, she often choked after eating. At these times, she couldn’t raise herself to swallow or get a breath, so someone had to be there for her. “I thank the Spirits that you came into our lives, Creeper. I don’t know what we would have done without you.”

Creeper smiled. “Get some sleep, War Chief.”

Webworm nodded and stretched out on his side on the soft hides. His limbs felt like granite.

He heard Creeper rise and felt a blanket being draped over his shoulders. Webworm could not count the number of times Creeper had done that … and no matter what troubled him, that kindness always eased the pain.

Creeper returned to sit at the head of Featherstone’s sleeping mats, and pulled an exquisite malachite figurine and a quartzite graver from beneath his cape. He sat there in the crimson glow, carving quietly. But worry creased his forehead.

Sleep overwhelmed Webworm almost immediately.

… And he found himself back on the mesa top. Morning sunlight slanted down, splashing the tan stone with warmth, waking him where he lay rolled in the blanket with Cloud Playing. At his movements, she woke and smiled up at him. Love and joy filled her eyes. They had loved each other for the first time that night. Black hair spread around her beautiful face in a dark halo. He touched it reverently and bent to kiss her …

*   *   *

Creeper sat beside Featherstone long into the night, as he had a hundred times, listening to the broken words she spoke—words that left him numb:

“Voices shouting … pain. Pain in my heart. Young woman … village burning … coming … to hurt me … she brings such pain … on the back of a bear. She’s riding a huge bear!”

“The same girl?” he asked softly. “The one you saw last moon?”

Featherstone’s dark eyes opened wide, staring at something Creeper could not see. It terrified her. She started to shiver. Tenderly, he pulled the blanket up and tucked it about her wrinkled throat.

“I won’t let her hurt you, Featherstone,” he said softly. Then he glanced at where Webworm slept and cupped a hand to Featherstone’s ear to whisper, “And what about me? Do you see anything about me?”

Her lips moved.

Creeper bent down, leaning so close his ear almost touched her mouth.

“… The dead,” she murmured. “They’re calling for you.”