Three

As the flames of sunset dwindled, the drifting clouds turned a somber gray, smudging the heavens like oily smoke. The shadows of the canyon lengthened until they blended with the night. Owls sailed over the sage, their calls echoing. The evening fires from fourteen large towns and over two hundred small villages gave the canyon an eerie glow and a pungent smell. The massive cliffs seemed to flutter and dance.

Ironwood, War Chief of Talon Town, paced back and forth within the confines of the rock shelter. A deep hollow in the sheer-walled sandstone cliff, the smooth buff-colored overhang rose barely a hand’s width above his head. On the rear wall, the carved images of the Spiral, Evening People, and various gods watched him. This rock shelter lay midway between Talon Town and Kettle Town. When Ironwood looked to the east, he could just see the hanging porch that ran high along Kettle Town’s second story. This late in winter, with the chill in the air, no one stood there.

A fragrant whisper of wind blew through the stubble of last summer’s cornfields, across the cold dirt, and flicked the hem of his red warrior’s shirt. Ironwood shivered. A muscular man, he had an oval face and flat nose. Unlike most of the Bear Clan, his eyebrows did not arch neatly over his eyes, but slanted upward as if with mischievous intent. He had lived forty-five summers, and gray had overpowered his once jet-black hair. He wore it in a single thick braid that fell to the middle of his back.

Ironwood glanced at Sternlight, who leaned on a chunk of fallen roof back in the shadows. Dust puffed from beneath Sternlight’s restless sandals and coated his long white ritual shirt. His brown eyes held a strange light, as though Father Sun breathed inside his tall, lean frame. Ironwood’s backbone prickled. Yet he trusted this man. Trusted him like no other.

“The Blessed Sun, Chief Crow Beard, is dying,” Ironwood said.

Sternlight’s beautiful lips pressed into a bloodless line. “Maybe. None of us can say for certain. He—”

“You know it.”

“No,” Sternlight corrected. “I believe he’s dying. But he has fooled us so often in the past, I hesitate for fear he will prove us wrong again.”

“I hesitate, too, my friend.” Ironwood glanced uneasily at the carved gods behind Sternlight. They seemed to be watching them. “But if he is dying, we must act quickly.”

Sternlight steepled his fingers over his lips. “This is not a decision I can make, Ironwood. You must make it.”

“I know that, old friend. It is just as much my responsibility today as it was almost sixteen summers ago.”

Sternlight glanced up, pinning Ironwood with sober eyes. Against the darkening sandstone, his pale face and white shirt seemed to blaze. “You truly believe the child is in danger?”

“Yes.”

“Does this mean you suspect treachery?”

Ironwood needed to phrase his next words carefully. “No. But if the Blessed Sun dies, there is no longer a reason to hide the child. And Talon Town with its massive defensive walls and trained warriors is certainly safer than a little village.”

“You just want the child close to you, is that it?”

“Sternlight, I—”

“That was not a reprimand, Ironwood. Just a question. If you truly mean to do this, be smart. I don’t think it’s wise to go and drag the child away from the only family—”

“I wouldn’t do that.” Though that was precisely what he longed to do. Ironwood folded muscular arms over his aching chest, as if he could protect his heart. “I was thinking about sending Wraps-His-Tail, my deputy, to the village with some story about how much I need Beargrass to return to Talon Town.”

“And hope he brings the child with him?”

“Yes, and I think he will. If I tell him that the Mogollon are raiding and I fear for his family’s safety, he’ll come.” Ironwood resumed his pacing, his yucca sandals soundless in the rock shelter’s powdery soil. Far out in the desert a pack of coyotes yipped, then broke into a beautiful lilting chorus.

“But, Ironwood, the Fire Dogs have been raiding for many sun cycles.” Sternlight used his fingertips to massage his temples, as though a headache had just started behind his dark eyes. “Why would such a message make him come?”

“I’ll add that the northern barbarians, the Tower Builders, are slinking about like wildcats, just waiting for a chance to slip into Straight Path country and kill us all.” Ironwood caught Sternlight’s sidelong look. “It’s true, you know. If Chief Crow Beard dies, the Tower Builders will look upon it as an opportunity to sweep down and steal whatever they can lay their dirty hands on.”

“I suppose so.”

“And they may be able to take advantage of our confusion. After all, Snake Head will become the new Blessed Sun when his father is gone. People are certain to feel despondent for a time.”

Sternlight nodded. “I certainly will.”

“It is a burden we must bear—at least for a time.”

“Night Sun—”

“Snake Head’s mother is not here,” Ironwood pointed out. “She is off on one of her Healing trips, caring for the people in the neighboring villages. Cloud Playing, her daughter, is with her. Snake Head has no other relatives who will stand up for him. He is hated by everyone.”

Sternlight looked up. The crow’s feet around his eyes pulled tight. “We play a dangerous game, you and I. I fear we may tangle ourselves in our own complicated web of deception and forget why we’re doing this.”

“I will never forget.”

Sternlight fell silent.

Ironwood lifted his gaze to the canyon.

Across the wash, hundreds of fires sparkled to life, sprinkling the flats like tangled necklaces of copper beads. Most gleamed around Sunset Town, which sat at the base of the western canyon wall, but many lit small villages where those of low status lived, enjoying their closeness to the elite First People of Straight Path canyon.

Several fires glowed on the mesas, including one on the summit of Spider Woman’s Butte.

Ironwood studied it while he thought. Must be a priest. No one else would dare visit such a strong Power place.

On top of Spider Woman’s Butte stood the Sun Stone. Etched with spirals, it allowed Sternlight to measure the exact cycles of the sun. When the summer solstice arrived, a dagger of sunlight lanced between two upright stones and split the spiral down the middle, enabling Sternlight to count the exact number of days until they could harvest the rice grass, corn, beans, and squash, and organize the communal hunts for deer and rabbits. Spider Woman herself guarded the Sun Stone.

The Straight Path people had long lived by rigid schedules. They planted and harvested, collected pine nuts and juniper berries, and ran their hunts on the days Sternlight said they must, for fear that they would offend Our Mother Earth and Father Sun if they did not.

But people had grown more disobedient over recent summers. When the rains fell and the crops grew, people believed in Sternlight’s Powers and did everything he asked. But when no rains came and the crops withered in the fields …

Ironwood glanced at the empty cornfields, remembering the last poor harvest. Those plants that had born fruit had been stunted, the ears of corn short, with poorly formed kernels. It was as if the ground in this valley no longer nourished the plants that had fed the Straight Path people for generations.

People worried that the gods had turned against Sternlight—or he against the gods. Ridiculous rumors about Sternlight being a witch had become common.

“Are we finished?” Sternlight asked.

“Yes, for now. I will send Wraps-His-Tail to Beargrass tomorrow.”

“And I,” Sternlight said softly, “will pray for him. If anyone discovers—”

“No one will.”

Sternlight braced a hand against the carved wall of the rock shelter and rose to stare at Ironwood eye-to-eye. His white shirt whipped around his legs. “Someday soon, someone will. We cannot keep this hidden forever. You realize that, don’t you?”

Ironwood let his folded arms fall to his sides. “The vigil is almost over, my friend. I promise you.”

Sternlight vented a tired breath, whispered, “Yes,” and walked past Ironwood, following the deer trail that ran close to the cliff.

Where once sage had grown, weeds now raked their legs and snagged at their long shirts. The sage had long ago been twisted out to feed ravenous hearths. People needed to cook and heat their houses.

They dared not take the main road that ran between Kettle and Talon Town. Someone would mention that he had seen the War Chief and the Sunwatcher walking alone after dark. Snake Head’s suspicions would wake. He would ask them what they had been doing. Why they couldn’t speak to each other in town. He would suspect betrayal.

And he would be right.

“Sternlight,” Ironwood murmured, “forget the trail. Let’s walk as close to the cliff as we can. The overhanging rock and darkness should hide us completely.”

The chill deepened as they passed the jumble of individual square structures—poorly plastered, the roof poles raggedly finished—set against the cliff. Dark now, the doorways were covered, awaiting the visitors who only came to the canyon for the solstice festivals. The Evening People woke to light the night sky. Ironwood’s breathing created a misty blur in the starlit darkness.

Talon Town loomed ahead, gigantic even after summers of familiarity. The rear wall rose over one hundred hands tall. Propped Pillar, the giant sandstone column that leaned out from the cliff, tilted threateningly toward it.

On the fifth floor, Crow Beard lay dying like some ancient and malignant spider. Filaments of webs spun long ago whirled out of the past, drawing all of them into some hidden trap. Even now Snake Head might be looking out from his little square window. Ironwood’s steps faltered, and he shivered.

But not entirely from cold.

*   *   *

Buckthorn’s yellow cape billowed in the dawn breeze that gusted along the sandstone cliffs and whimpered through the village. An azure halo swelled in the east, throwing the canyon walls into silhouette. One by one the stars twinkled out of existence, and the clay-washed walls of Windflower Village turned a soft robin’s-egg blue. Ladder legs extended from some of the roofs; pine poles poked out in lines along the ceilings, some hung with peppers and shocks of dried corn or yucca leaves. The square shoulders of the village seemed to dominate the beaten-earth plaza where he’d played as a boy. The sacred kiva on the rise west of the plaza still hid in its dark cloak of shadows.

Buckthorn gazed at it longingly. His old life, the life of the child he had been, had been eaten away in there. A new man had been born in that boy’s place. He didn’t know this man, yet. But I want to, very badly.

People began to wake. An infant cried, and a soft voice responded, soothing the child. Someone coughed. He could hear some elders now, their arms lifted as they Sang to greet the new day. Gentle wisps of smoke rose from the morning fires, lacing the air with the scent of burning juniper.

Buckthorn tipped back his head, raising his hooked nose, and breathed in the cool earthy air. He’d plaited his black hair into two braids that covered his ears, protecting them from the wintry chill. The ends hung down on his chest. A new pair of yucca sandals adorned his feet. His mother had made them for him, and just looking at their fine workmanship made his soul ache. The weaving over the toes was tight and perfect. The shell bells tied to the ends of the laces clicked pleasantly with each step he took.

Snow Mountain ducked beneath the door curtain of their house and walked across the plaza. Silver-streaked black hair hung loosely about the shoulders of her turkey-feather cape. Her feet in their tall moccasins passed silently over the frozen sand.

She knelt on the ground at his side and tucked freshly-made blue corncakes into his top pack. In the soft gleam of dawn, she looked sad, but pride glowed in her dark eyes. Few youths received the village elders’ blessings to become Singers, and fewer still were sent off to the holy Derelict for training.

Buckthorn couldn’t believe he had been one of the chosen. At any moment, the dream would vanish, and he’d wake up the same skinny youth he’d always been.

His mother used a braided rawhide thong to tie his three packs together—one for himself, and two for Dune, the latter filled with gifts from Windflower Village. Buckthorn’s breathing went shallow when he looked at those packs. His relatives had contributed their finest belongings: beautiful flutes; two of the renowned Windflower pots, with their reddish-brown slip; decorated baskets, so tightly woven they’d hold water; a few precious turquoise fetishes; a masterfully carved set of the Great Warriors; and other things. They had parted with these treasures willingly, believing that when Buckthorn became a great Singer, he would pay them back tenfold.

And I will. I’ll learn every lesson the holy Derelict wishes to teach me. I will memorize every Healing plant and Song.

Dune the Derelict had a reputation for paradoxical instruction. Buckthorn had known two young Singers who had been sent to Dune and come running home after a single day of what they called “the holy Derelict’s madness.” Both of those young men had failed and taken up lives as farmers—but Buckthorn would not fail.

A yearning lived inside him. He would speak to the Cloud People in their own language. He would be able to recognize fiendish witches and cure the sick. He would Sing and Dance for his people, bringing rain and bountiful harvests, giving them life itself.

Hallowed thlatsinas, I promise to try very hard. I beg you to help me.

He looked south, across the misty waters of the River of Souls, beyond the line of sandstone cliffs that blocked the southern horizon. As if he could see the distant Thlatsina Mountains rising against the sky, he visualized the gods there, leaping, spinning, their heads thrown back, voices rising like wings into the star-spotted dawn. Terrible longing filled him. I’ll see those mountains one day. I promise.

He’d heard that leaden clouds clung to the tallest peaks, holding on for their lives against Wind Baby’s torments. That’s how Wind Baby had gotten his evil reputation: he blew away the clouds and sucked every drop of moisture from the land, leaving both Our Mother Earth and Brother Sky parched and thirsty. When that happened, the children of the Straight Path nation begged for food, and parents grew frantic.

During the summer, Singers Danced and prayed for days, but not just for themselves. They prayed for everyone who was thirsty: animals, plants, even the dry stones that rested in the drainage bottoms. Power lived everywhere, beneath cactus thorns, secreted in sparkles of dew, and hidden in the flecks of moonlight that silvered the sage. By calling upon that Power, Singers could pull clouds together and awaken the soaring Thunderbirds.

Snow Mountain stood up and peered soberly at Buckthorn. Her face was full of love for him. “Black Mesa drew you a map, yes?”

“Yes, Mother, last night. I know exactly how to find the Derelict.” He knew she wanted him to repeat his instructions. “I’ll follow the trail from the river crossing up through the cap rock and turn east until I hit the Tower Road. It’s a good road that will take me south to the Derelict’s canyon. Black Mesa said that if I run it is only four or five days away. I’ll find it. Don’t worry.”

“I know you’re a man, and protected by the gods, but there has been so much raiding this winter by those northern barbarians … Perhaps I should find a runner to go with—”

“Mother,” he said with a smile, “I must go alone. That is the way of it. A Singer goes alone to his destiny.”

“I know, but I—”

“Don’t worry.” He put a hand on her cheek and bent down to look directly into her anxious eyes. “If I cannot go by myself to Dune’s house, Mother, how will I ever be able to make the lonely journey over the sacred roads to find the gods?”

Snow Mountain squeezed her eyes closed for several moments, and nuzzled her face against his hand. “Learn all that you can. I’ll be waiting for your return, my son.”

“I will make you proud of me, Mother. I promise. I will come back a Singer.”

She smiled. “I know you will, Buckthorn. I’ve known that for many summers.”

Buckthorn picked up his three packs and slipped his arms through the shoulder straps, testing the weight. Heavy. But not too heavy. Wood clattered against stone in one of the gift packs.

“Mother?” Buckthorn said softly. “May I…” He hesitated. “If I ask you a question, will you promise to tell me the truth?”

Snow Mountain wet her lips, as though afraid what he might ask. Wind ruffled through the feathers of her cape and tossed her long graying black hair about her face. “I will tell you what I can, my son. Ask.”

The pain in her eyes told Buckthorn she had phrased that carefully.

He shifted the weight of his packs and gripped the shoulder straps, holding them to steady himself. “My father…”

She seemed breathless. “Yes? What about him?”

“Was he truly a Trader?”

“… Yes.”

“His name really was Sitting-in-the-Sky?”

In toneless words, she said, “Yes, my son.”

Buckthorn frowned at the kiva where his vision had come to him. The Spirits had no reason to lie. That meant his mother did. She was a good, loving woman. The truth must hurt her very much. He couldn’t twist it from her soul, like a rabbit from a hole. He would not even try. People had the right to keep secrets if they needed to. Besides, he knew that she would tell him someday, and that was enough.

Buckthorn kissed her on the forehead, and whispered, “Thank you, Mother. For caring for me. For loving me. You are the most important thing in my life.”

Snow Mountain’s eyes blurred, and she hugged him, awkwardly putting her arms around his heavy packs. Hoarsely, she said, “I love you, Buckthorn. I always have.”

“I promise I won’t disappoint you.”

She released Buckthorn and gazed up through swimming eyes. “Black Mesa asked me to give you a message.”

“What?”

She spoke the words slowly: “He said to remind you that ‘You must have the heart of a cloud to walk upon the wind.’”

A smile warmed Buckthorn’s face. He touched a hand to his chest. “Please tell him I will not forget the many kindnesses he has shown me. I carry the words inside my heartdrum.”

Snow Mountain nodded and stepped back. “Have a safe journey, Buckthorn. Save some of the blue corncakes for your first dinner with Dune. I put in extra pine nuts. I’ve heard he likes those.”

“Thank you, Mother. I wish…” He stopped himself. “I wish I didn’t have to go, but I will return as quickly as I can. Goodbye.”

Time after time, he turned to wave at Snow Mountain as he followed the familiar path down to the river. Once he’d been ferried across, he’d really be on his way.

He glanced back at the Great Warriors, the twin pillars of rock. Watch over me, please. At least until I reach the holy Derelict. They jutted up in silence, stern guardians of Windflower Village, and of the lush bottomland they surveyed.

Buckthorn’s next landmark would be World Tree Mountain. Her roots sank deep into the First Underworld, and her trunk twisted up through the other underworlds until it popped through Our Mother Earth’s skin. The branches spread out through the four skyworlds, but they were too great and powerful to be visible to humans, though, now and then, a shaman claimed to have seen misty green limbs wavering through the clouds above the jagged peaks.

Buckthorn trotted past the waiting fields, remembering the sweet voices of the gods that had thrilled his soul. However this journey ended, it would be marvelous.