Thirty-One

Thistle and Leafhopper secreted themselves behind a thorny wall of greasewood and peered down into the drainage channel that cut through the rolling hills like a jagged wound. People walked below. They moved like black ghosts, their bodies consumed by the lengthening evening shadows. Not one of them so much as looked up as they slogged through the trickle of water in the drainage, seemingly too weary to hurry or to care about the mud, and so silent that had it not been for the steady hiss of their breathing, each might have been a weightless earth spirit. Clothing hung in tatters from their bodies. Heavy packs bent their backs. Many walked barefoot and, here and there, a dirty bandage wrapped an arm or leg wound. Guards marched beside them, hemming them in.

Thistle brushed her dark hair away from her fine-boned face and crawled closer to get a better view through the screen of branches. She bumped Leafhopper’s arm. Despite being twice Leafhopper’s age, Thistle stood about her height. They looked strange lying side-by-side, Thistle’s thin childlike body next to Leafhopper’s squat pudgy frame.

“They must be slaves,” Leafhopper whispered bitterly.

Dirt streaked Leafhopper’s round face and green dress. Twigs and old leaves tangled with her chin-length black hair. The hatred in her eyes chafed Thistle’s heart. Where once a little girl in a woman’s body had looked out, now a crone glared. Leafhopper had grown up in a single night of horror—and Thistle didn’t have the heart to try to find the girl and bring her back. Nor did she think it wise. Hatred had a way of giving purpose to even the most defeated person. With the difficulties ahead, Leafhopper might very well need that resolve.

Hatred had, after all, become Thistle’s nourishment. It gave her strength and fed her will to survive, allowing Thistle to smother her overwhelming desire to lie down in the sand and weep. For the past four days, as they’d headed south, she’d been fighting with herself, forcing her feet to walk, struggling against the sobs that lodged like a white-knuckled fist in her throat. Without hatred to feed that fire in her soul, she knew she would yield to grief and be no good to anyone.

“Yes,” Thistle murmured. “When the next guard goes by, look at the tattoos on his right wrist—a red star, a crescent moon, and a handprint. These warriors are from Starburst Town, northwest of Talon Town. They’re Straight Path warriors.”

Southward, in the direction of Starburst Town, the towering sandstone-capped walls of Straight Path Canyon butted against the clouds. Though shadows cloaked the lowlands, Father Sun’s fading rays flamed over the highest cliffs and ignited the drifting Cloud People. A luminescent red-orange halo arced over the western horizon. Buttes stood like dark blocks in the distance, their shadows stretching across the desert. Eastward, behind broken slabs of uptilted sandstone, lavender hued the sky. It would be night soon. And cold. Already the chill ate at Thistle’s bones. She needed to find a campsite for them.

But she didn’t move. She only stared down at the despairing slave women. How strange. A few days ago, she would have run down into the drainage with open arms, seeking shelter and food among the Straight Path warriors. Now, they were her enemies. Her own people were her enemies.

Her fingers tightened on her bow. I couldn’t carry them down the sacred road, so I buried my husband and son with my own hands. I piled rocks on their graves. I Sang their souls to the underworlds … and I will never forget who killed them, or why.

“Stay down!”

Thistle grabbed the top of Leafhopper’s head as she lifted it above the greasewood for a better look. Leafhopper grunted when her chin struck the dirt. Her eyes widened. “Sorry,” she whispered.

“Wait just a moment. They’re almost gone.”

As the last women and children passed, a little girl, dragging her injured left foot, stumbled. Dirty black hair framed a thin starved face. She stopped and stared at the people in front of her like a sleepwalker. Tears traced lines through the dirt on her sallow cheeks. “Mother…” the girl cried weakly. “Mother?”

Slowly, the girl’s knees buckled and she crumpled to the dust. Her torn yellow dress flared around her skinny body. Without making a sound, two older girls turned and walked back. One, tall and slender with a beautiful triangular face, silently handed her pack to the other shorter girl, who had a long hooked nose. Kneeling, the tall girl slipped her arms under the child’s body and lifted her.

Leafhopper stayed so still she did not seem to be breathing.

The little girl whimpered, “Where’s my mother? Moth, have you seen my mother?”

Not new slaves. They speak the Straight Path language. These women have been slaves for generations. They must be moving them from one work location to another.

It was time to begin preparing the fields for the planting moon. First the fields had to be cleared, then they were usually burned, and the soil turned with stone hoes. In the outlying villages, the clans completed these chores, but the First People—who could afford them—used slaves.

Moth patted the child and exchanged a look of mourning with the shorter girl. “Shh, Lambtoe. Your mother has gone ahead. It’s all right. She’s just up ahead.”

Thistle’s heart clutched up. She knew from the tone of Moth’s voice that Lambtoe’s mother would not be up ahead, not ever again. Many slave women died from blows to the head, or broken bones. Thistle had seen it. When the time came to leave a work location, the guards rounded up the slaves, killed those too slow, and trotted the rest off as quickly as possible, leaving the dead where they had fallen. By now the coyotes had shredded the remains and hauled the bones off to their dens. Ghosts would wail tonight, roaming the earth, alone and frightened.

Thistle’s fingers dug into the soft tan dirt of the hillside. Cornsilk? Where are you? What happened to you?

The ache in her chest made breathing difficult. Her daughter should have been with Fledgling. Thistle had searched through the smoldering remains of Lanceleaf Village, and Cornsilk’s body had not been there. What had happened that night? Had Fledgling seen the flames and come running home, leaving Cornsilk behind somewhere? Or had the Straight Path warriors brought Fledgling with them and kept him outside the village until they’d captured Beargrass? Had they found Fledgling in Standing Gourd’s village and dragged him back to use against Beargrass—to force Beargrass to give them information about Cornsilk?

Thistle gripped her bow harder and let her rage swell until it quashed the despair. Perhaps all of her fears about the identity of Cornsilk’s father were misplaced. Had Crow Beard sent out warriors because he’d discovered the identity of Cornsilk’s grandfather? Of course, Beargrass had told them nothing. He’d loved Cornsilk with all his soul. Fledgling had probably died first, as a warning to Beargrass. Blessed Spirits, watching his only son die before his eyes …

But if the Straight Path warriors had captured Fledgling to use against Beargrass, Cornsilk was still free. Somewhere. Alone and aching.

Thistle’s gaze wandered the sunset sky, the dark hills hemming them in, and Leafhopper’s strained expression. She studied the new lines in Leafhopper’s young face; her fears had coalesced and stared out from the depths of her soul like dark hunching monsters.

“They’re gone,” Leafhopper said as the slaves and warriors disappeared around a curve in the drainage. “We should go.”

“Yes,” Thistle whispered. “We will go.”

Leafhopper sensed the double meaning. “You mean to find a campsite?”

Thistle sat up, put her arrow back in her quiver, and slung her bow over her shoulder. “No, to find Cornsilk’s grandfather.”

“We’re going to Standing Gourd’s village? I thought you said we had to go to Talon Town, to speak with the great priest Sternlight, and try to—”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

Thistle rose to her feet, made certain no one could see her, and started down the hill, veering away from the road that led to Straight Path Canyon, heading southeast instead. As she walked, the Evening People twinkled to life. The Road of Light which led to the highest skyworld dusted the belly of Brother Sky.

Leafhopper followed dutifully until it grew too dark to see, then stopped dead in her tracks. “Thistle, shouldn’t we make camp? Where are we going?”

Thistle turned. Leafhopper stood ten paces away, silhouetted blackly against the choppy gray desert. The fragrance of damp earth carried on the cool night wind.

Thistle walked back and gently touched Leafhopper’s tangled hair. “We’ll camp here. Then, tomorrow morning, I’m heading for Gila Monster Cliffs. I think I can make it in five days, if I push myself and don’t—”

“Why?” Leafhopper’s mouth hung open. Her white teeth gleamed in the starlight. “The Fire Dogs will kill you! They’ll know you’re Straight Path and they’ll enslave you and—”

“No, they won’t.” Thistle stroked Leafhopper’s hair to calm her. The young woman had started clenching and unclenching her fists. “Not if I can reach their Chief. And it may be the only way I can protect Cornsilk—if she’s still alive. You see, Chief Jay Bird and Matron Moondance’s only daughter was Young Fawn—and I’m almost certain Young Fawn was Cornsilk’s true mother.”

“Cornsilk’s true mother? But, I thought you were?”

“No, Leafhopper. I’m not.”

“Why didn’t Cornsilk ever tell me!”

“She didn’t know. It’s a long story. One I’ll tell you on the way south, if you wish to go with me. You don’t have to. As a matter of fact, it might be better if I leave you at a small Straight Path village along the way. You’ll be safer—”

“I—I don’t know,” Leafhopper stammered. “I’ll think about it tomorrow, but finish telling me what you are thinking.… You plan to tell Chief Jay Bird that his granddaughter is alive?”

Thistle unslung her pack and dropped it silently to the sand. “I do. Jay Bird married Moondance’s sister, Downy Girl. That union only produced sons. If I’m right, Cornsilk is heir to Gila Monster Cliffs Village and all its surrounding lands. Jay Bird won’t be happy that the Blessed Sun is holding his granddaughter captive at Talon Town.” She left the threat dangling.

Leafhopper whispered, “Is Cornsilk being held in Talon Town?”

“That’s where I told her to go if something happened and she needed help. If she did as I told her—” Thistle took a deep breath, praying that for once Cornsilk had obeyed her “—she’s there and safe.”

“Not a captive, then?”

Thistle massaged her aching shoulders. “I don’t think her real father would allow such a thing. I suspect he’s the one who paid for her rearing for so many summers. But maybe not. And her father may even be dead by now. I can’t be sure of anything, Leafhopper.”

“Yes, you can. There is one thing you know.”

“What?”

A tiny dagger of flame entered Leafhopper’s eyes. Her voice cut like finely flaked obsidian. “If Jay Bird thinks that his granddaughter is being held in Talon Town, he’ll want to get her back.”

“If Jay Bird and Downy Girl believe me. And they’ve no reason to. I just think I can—”

“Many of the warriors who attacked Lanceleaf Village will die in the war.” A grim smile curled Leafhopper’s lips. She lifted her face to the heavens and closed her eyes. “I want to be there. To see it.”

Thistle stared at her. Could this be the same fun-loving young woman who had romped with her daughter only a half moon ago? Thistle’s soul turned cold.

Kneeling, she pulled her blanket from her pack and drew out two lengths of pemmican: meat, fat, and berries stuffed into a tube of deer intestine. They’d killed a yearling fawn two days ago, eaten as much as they could hold, and made pemmican from the rest. She handed a length to Leafhopper. The girl took it.

Thistle wrapped up in her blanket and curled on her side, facing south. As she untied one knotted end of the tube and squeezed pemmican into her mouth, wind flapped her blanket about her feet. She caught the waving corner and pinned it beneath her ankles. The delicious tang of venison and juniper berries soothed Thistle’s raw nerves. She snuggled deeper into her blanket, ate more, and listened to the night. Wind Baby whistled as he skipped through the drainages. Sagebrush rustled. Almost too far away to hear, a lone coyote yipped.

She pictured Jay Bird’s village. Though she’d never been there, she’d spoken to Traders who had. It sat near a pine-covered mountain and a river. Cottonwoods choked the water.

Cries of outrage would go up when she and Leafhopper boldly strode into a Mogollon village. It would be a miracle if they lived long enough to find someone who spoke their language. But if they did, Jay Bird would have to see them, out of curiosity, if nothing else.

Then, my husband and son, your brutal murders will not go unpunished.

Images of Fledgling’s headless body tortured her. Thistle’s throat suddenly ached. She lowered her pemmican to her blanket and closed her eyes.

She didn’t want Leafhopper to hear her crying.