Fifty-One

Nauseated, trembling, Ironwood sagged in the arms of the guards who dragged him down the rocky trail. His knees raked the ground, leaving blood trails. They threw him into the plaza, facedown, and left him lying there. It took several moments before he could muster the strength to turn his head. Mogollon Fire Dogs crowded around him, forming an irregular circle. He couldn’t see them very well, except for their clothing. They had dressed in their finest for this grand event. The red, yellow, and blue fabrics tinkled with shell bells and glittered with polished stones. Ironwood blinked to clear his blurry vision. The crack on the skull he’d received just before Sternlight’s death had left him blind for … for how many days? Five? Six? His sight was returning slowly—not that it mattered. He would only need his physical eyes for a short time longer.

Rolling to his side, he tried to breathe. His entire body had become an open wound. They’d taken turns. Some of the villagers had stabbed him with sharp sticks; others had tied him down and used their stone knives to slowly slice open the muscles in his legs, arms, and on his face. Jay Bird never let them go too far. If the blood flowed profusely, he ordered it stanched with glowing stones. If Ironwood appeared thirsty, Jay Bird personally held a water jug to Ironwood’s lips. They’d kept him well-fed, to fortify his strength. They wanted him to live and suffer for as long as possible, believing that his pain would comfort all the friends, husbands, wives, and children whom Ironwood had killed.

He bowed his head and gazed at the tight leather thongs binding his bloody hands and feet. He did not fear death, not really. He had seen too much of it to be afraid. He knew its course, and its character. Indeed, at this point, he would see death as a friend.

He feared only the aftermath.

The Mogollon would make certain his soul did not reach the afterlife—just as they had with Sternlight’s. Jay Bird had forced Ironwood, Night Sun, and Dune to watch the burial. And though he hadn’t been able to see, Night Sun had told him what followed. The Fire Dogs had thrown Sternlight into a hole, covered him with a stone slab, and laughed. The news had withered Ironwood’s heart. All of his life, Sternlight had stood by him, helping him, covering for his errors. Sternlight had deserved better.

Neither of them would sit with their ancestors and discuss the old times, or hunt and fish to their hearts’ content. Jay Bird would assure that Ironwood’s soul remained locked in the earth for eternity, too, lost and wailing. He who had spent his life seeking the companionship of others, longing for it, would never enjoy it again.

But it’s a punishment I deserve. Sternlight did not.

An odd burning filled his chest. He lifted his eyes and tried to find Night Sun through the blur of shapes and colors. There. Standing tall and straight. Jay Bird stood on one side and Dune on the other. Two guards flanked them. She must know he did not have much time left, yet she made no sound. She would not shame the Straight Path people by begging for Ironwood’s life when she knew already it was lost. Nor would she give the Fire Dogs the satisfaction of seeing her weep.

Pride welled inside Ironwood. Though he could barely see her, he gave her a smile.

Ironwood heard the guards coming, closing in around him, their sandals scuffing the ground. Blurry figures loomed against the blue sky.

He cocked his head. “What now?”

They didn’t understand his language, and wouldn’t have answered if they had. Their gazes were riveted on Jay Bird. The Chief slowly walked through the crowd, his black shirt with white designs swaying around his legs. Jay Bird knelt and gripped Ironwood’s chin, twisting his mutilated face up so that he could peer into his eyes. Ironwood could make out the Chief’s thin face and black splotches of eyes. The elder’s hair resembled a fuzzy gray halo.

“Are you seeing better?” Jay Bird asked.

“A little.”

“Good.”

“Why?” Ironwood asked hoarsely. “What is it you wish me to see?”

Jay Bird got to his feet and stood over Ironwood like a wrathful god. “I wish you to know the moment the world goes completely dark.”

Ironwood braced himself. “Is it time to die?”

“No, my old enemy. It is time for you to walk the lances.”

“The…” Ironwood swallowed. He had heard of it from warriors who’d been forced to watch their comrades do it. The Mogollon formed two parallel lines. Each person lifted an obsidian-tipped lance and held it poised to strike as the enemy captive was shoved down the corridor. The game was to see who could blind the prisoner first.

“Let’s get it over with,” Ironwood said, and struggled to rise, but he couldn’t seem to get his feet under him.

The guards dragged him up. Ironwood saw people moving across the plaza, getting into position. His legs trembled badly. A pang of fear went through him, fear that he might not be able to meet this last challenge. The Fire Dogs would roar with laughter if he failed, and then they would treat him as a coward. So far he had been accorded the torture worthy of a great warrior, but if he weakened, they would stuff his mouth with dry dung, force it down his throat, then heap it around him and set it afire.

It will be said that War Chief Ironwood died screaming like a frightened child. The Traders will carry the story everywhere. The men and women who fought at my side will hate me for humiliating them and all Straight Path warriors.

Ironwood fixed his blurry eyes on Night Sun, locked his knees, and lifted his head. I can do this. Just a little longer. If I stay on my feet for another hand of time, they will reward me with death.

The guards cut Ironwood’s bonds and he spread his shaking legs to brace himself up. Jay Bird turned and marched away, going to the head of the two lines of warriors.

“Walk!” one of the guards ordered, and shoved Ironwood into a shambling trot.

As he entered the gauntlet, he heard Night Sun let out a small cry, and glimpsed the lance from the corner of his left eye. Ironwood instinctively flung up his arm to deflect the blow, and the onlookers exploded with shouts and cheers. The crowd surged forward, laughing and stamping their feet. The acrid odor of their sweat filled the air. Ironwood stumbled on down the line, desperately trying to pick out lances in the gyrating multicolored smear …

The game had begun.

*   *   *

Poor Singer stopped on the winding mountain trail, panting, his legs rubbery. Exhaustion weighted his limbs. What should have been a three-day trip had taken them only a day and a half—and he felt it in every strained muscle. Propping his hands on his hips, he gazed out across the basin. It looked almost flat, like a smooth green blanket rumpled around the edges. Jagged blue peaks hovered above the ground in the east, but the Thlatsina Mountains in the west had vanished. Poor Singer frowned. A hazy band of smoke stretched across the northern sky. It had grown darker and even more ominous since yesterday.

Cornsilk came up beside him, her pretty face stained with perspiration. “Do you think it’s a forest fire?”

“Maybe. But it’s early for a fire so large. The grass is still green. Snow covers the mountains. What could be burning?”

Wind Baby sighed through the trees around them, carrying the scents of juniper and sage buttercup. A small herd of deer trotted through a meadow below, white tails up, signaling danger.

“They must have seen us,” Cornsilk whispered.

“Or scented us. Wind Baby is blowing right down our backs.”

Poor Singer watched the deer lope into the forest and disappear without a sound, then he turned his gaze back to the thick black smoke. “Perhaps the thlatsinas are trying to tell us something, Cornsilk.”

She exhaled tiredly. “Probably that we need to push ourselves even harder. Come on. The village can’t be more than a finger of time away. It’s just down there at the base of the mountain.”

“You go ahead. I need a little longer to catch my breath.”

She squeezed his shoulder, said, “I’ll wait for you at the bottom of the meadow,” and headed on down the slope.

Poor Singer stared out across the basin. An odd sensation tingled his stomach. As if … as if somewhere deep inside he knew the ground was getting ready to split wide open and swallow everyone and everything that meant anything to him, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

“You’re being foolish,” he whispered. “The Keeper told you that if you talked with your grandfather, told him what happened in the Dream, that he would—”

He cocked his head when he heard a voice. It seemed to ride the wind like a falcon, soaring and diving over the slope—a low voice, the words indistinct.

“Cornsilk?” he called, and gazed down the trail she’d taken, squinting through the weave of sunlight and shadow that made up the juniper grove. “Did you say something?”

A sharp cry rang out …

And was suddenly silenced.

Poor Singer’s heart thundered. “Cornsilk?”

He ran with all his might, swerving around the twists in the trail, rushing headlong through the trees, his arms up to protect his face from the overhanging branches. “Cornsilk? Cornsilk, where are you?”

*   *   *

Swallowtail kept his left hand clamped over Cornsilk’s mouth as he shoved her before him into a dense growth of currant bushes that clustered between four tall junipers. The branches scratched his arms and her face as he forced her to the ground. He knelt behind her with the tip of his knife pressed to her silken throat. He could feel her heartbeat pounding against his wrist, and his distended manhood strained at the fabric of his shirt. The excitement of the chase, the thrill of catching her completely by surprise, all of it had stoked an insane need to hurt her.

Poor Singer thrashed through the forest no more than twenty hands away. Swallowtail fought to still his breathing.

Poor Singer cried, “Cornsilk? Cornsilk, answer me? Where are you? Are you hurt? Cornsilk!”

She squirmed, and Swallowtail hissed, “Don’t!”

As a warning, he pricked her throat with his blade. Cornsilk jerked to look at him, her dark eyes terrified, and he smiled as her blood ran warmly over his fingers.

“Cornsilk? What happened? Where are you!” Poor Singer shouted and flailed his way down the trail, out of sight.

Swallowtail could follow his path from the loud cracking of branches and the snapping of deadfall. When Poor Singer had run far enough, Swallowtail lowered his knife and wiped the bloody blade on the shoulder of Cornsilk’s dress. “If I remove my hand from your mouth, will you promise not to cry out? I just want to be inside you, Cornsilk. You are one of the First People, and I need to be inside you.”

He could feel her jaw tighten as understanding dawned.

She hesitated, and Swallowtail ran his hand down her arm, caressing it. “I will do it anyway. The only difference is this: if you cry out and Poor Singer comes running, I’ll shoot him dead before he can get near you. Do you understand? I will kill him. And then,” he added with a smile, and kissed her hair, “I will have to kill you to keep you from telling Jay Bird that I murdered his grandson.”

Cornsilk started shaking and it made Swallowtail chuckle. She nodded against his hand.

“You promise?” he said. “You will not cry out?”

She nodded again.

Cautiously, Swallowtail removed his hand. Cornsilk turned to face him. Red spots, left by his fingers, marked her face. They were exciting.

“Swallowtail,” she whispered. “Why are you doing this? I have never hurt you! Why—”

“Lie down and get ready for me!” he ordered. “And remember—” he slipped his bow and quiver of arrows from his back and laid them on the forest duff, within easy reach “—if you make a sound—”

“I—I won’t. I won’t, Swallowtail. Just don’t hurt Poor Singer. Please, I—”

“Do as I say!”

Cornsilk lay back on the soft cedar-scented ground and pulled up the hem of her green dress, revealing long brown legs.

Swallowtail pulled up his hunting shirt, eagerly crawled forward and shoved her knees apart. She was dry, and tight, when he forced himself inside. The only other woman he’d been with had been Cloud Playing, and she’d been so close to death that all of her muscles had been slack. Cornsilk’s body held him like a firm hand. He stretched out on top of her and placed his knife against her throat again.

Hatred burned in her eyes, and he smiled. He would wait. Savor each moment of this. Then, just before ecstasy overtook him, he would kill her and watch the life drain from her eyes while the semen drained from his body—just as he’d done with Cloud Playing.

“Move,” he ordered in a hoarse whisper. “Move!”

Cornsilk made a feeble attempt, and he thrust violently against her hips.

“Blessed gods,” he whispered, “keep moving. Move faster!”

He felt the first prickling in the root of his penis—more quickly than last time, the sensation overpowering him, as if he were a hawk swooping through fire, soaring, ablaze! He pressed the knife against Cornsilk’s throat and gazed directly into her horrified eyes. The thrill nearly made him laugh out loud. Just a moment longer, not long now, and he’d slash through that thin veneer of skin …

Something struck the side of his head, the force strong enough to blast lights through his eyes and knock him sideways, off of Cornsilk. Swallowtail scrambled to his knees. “Who—”

He heard as well as felt the sickening thunk as a rock slammed into the back of his skull. Dazed, in shock, he knew he had to get to his feet to fight. He dragged himself up, staggering, and looked into the horrified face of Poor Singer. The youth stood in front of him with tears streaming down his narrow face and a huge round rock gripped in both hands. Swallowtail roared in angry defiance and lunged for Poor Singer …

Cornsilk kicked his legs out from under him. Swallowtail toppled to the ground, rolled, and grabbed for Cornsilk, but Poor Singer fell upon him, screaming, “Don’t you hurt her! Don’t you ever hurt Cornsilk!”

Swallowtail heard, more than felt, the next blow. His skull cracked, and lights, like a thousand splintered stars seared his vision. Lights … fading into the grayness …

*   *   *

Powered by terror and rage, Poor Singer barely realized it when Swallowtail slumped to the ground like a clubbed dog, his limbs twitching. Poor Singer kept beating, lifting the rock and bringing it down hard, screaming, “I won’t let you hurt her!”

Swallowtail’s body had grown flaccid, but the rock came down again, and again. With each blow, the boy’s rubbery limbs shook and flopped.

“Poor Singer? Poor Singer!”

Poor Singer blinked. He vaguely heard Cornsilk, but he kept grabbing up the bloody rock and bashing it down. Killing Swallowtail for what he’d done! He—

“Poor Singer!”

Cornsilk tugged the rock out of his hands and threw it into the forest, where it rolled and thumped against a tree trunk. Poor Singer sat with his fists suspended in midair, trembling, crying like a child. He looked up into Cornsilk’s face and saw the blood trickling from her throat.

“I—I had to make him s-stop.” Then he glanced at Swallowtail. Only red pulp and bone fragments marked the place his nose had been. The boy’s shirt was still pulled up, twisted around his torso to expose the wet penis, like a dead slug across his thigh. “Cornsilk, I … oh, gods…” He squeezed his eyes closed, trying to blot the sight from his soul. “I can’t believe I—”

Cornsilk knelt and embraced him, drawing Poor Singer against her as if she would never let go. “He was going to kill me, Poor Singer,” she said in a shaking voice. “I could see it in his eyes. He wanted to kill me.”

“But why! Why would he attack you? He had no reason! You hardly even knew him!”

Cornsilk pushed back and gazed into his blurry eyes. “I don’t know why. But he wanted me dead. The…” She swallowed. “The rape … I think that was just an afterthought.”

“You mean, you think he came up here to kill you?”

Her shaking was getting worse, as if now that it was over, the truth had begun to sink in. Cornsilk released Poor Singer to rub her arms. She clamped her jaw to still her chattering teeth.

“Oh, Cornsilk.” Poor Singer stroked her hair. “It’s all right, Cornsilk. You’re safe now. Everything’s going to be all right. Do you hear me? I won’t let anybody hurt you. Not ever.”

“If you hadn’t c-come when you did, I—”

“But I did come,” he said, and thought about how he’d almost missed Swallowtail’s trail. The boy had been very careful. His moccasins had barely scuffed the dust. When Poor Singer saw the faint prints, he’d immediately whirled and started back up the trail. That’s when he’d heard Swallowtail’s voice … and panicked.

“Are you all right, Cornsilk?”

She wiped the tears from her face and smeared the drops of blood. They streaked her cheeks in ghoulish patterns. “Let’s hurry,” she said as she scanned the forest. “I won’t feel really safe until we’re out in the open—away f-from here.”

Poor Singer went to pick up Swallowtail’s bow and quiver of arrows. As he slipped the quiver over his left shoulder, he looked again at the dead boy. Poor Singer had never killed a human being before. He had killed animals for food and hides, but this … Flies crawled hungrily over Swallowtail’s crushed face. What should have sickened him left only a hollow sensation in the pit of his gut.

Clutching the bow in his right hand, he walked back, placed his left arm around Cornsilk, and hugged her as they headed downhill.

*   *   *

Night Sun forced herself to watch, her heartbeat sickeningly loud in her ears. Watch! So you can tell the story … someone must tell the story.

Ironwood stumbled, and fell to his knees. The crowd went wild. They rushed forward, jeering and throwing stones at him. He futilely lifted his arms to protect himself, but the rocks battered his bloody flesh. Soft grunts escaped his lips as he groped about, seemingly in a daze. Then his hand curled around a stone, and with a quick pitch, he lobbed it back at his tormentors.

An agile warrior ducked, but the stone thumped hollowly against an old woman’s breast, toppling her backward amidst shrieks of pain.

Some of the Mogollon roared, relatives of the old woman, no doubt. Others hooted in approbation of a warrior who still fought back.

Night Sun couldn’t breathe. As Father Sun rose toward noon, he poured a harsh white light upon the plaza. How long has it been? Two hands of time. More? Blessed Ancestors, let this end!

“Get him up!” Jay Bird shouted, and gestured to the guards. The elderly Chief’s eyes had taken on a monstrous gleam of delight. He was smiling. “Howler! Drag him to his feet! And be mindful of the stones he throws!” Jay Bird gripped his own lance, ready to deliver the final blow when the time came.

Howler and another warrior broke from the line and hauled Ironwood to his feet. He braced himself on wobbling legs and wearily lifted his gray head to face his executioners.

Night Sun looked into that tormented face and the whole world died around her. She was remotely aware of the shrill laughter and war whoops, of the stench of sweating bodies, the coppery odor of Ironwood’s blood …

Her throat went tight. One of his eyes had swollen shut from a nearly fatal lance thrust. The rest of his body looked worse. Every time he’d deflected a blow downward, the lance point had driven into his chest, stomach, or legs. Blood drained from dozens of punctures and gashes.

Dune took Night Sun’s arm in a frail grasp, as if he needed something to hold on to. His voice came with difficulty. “How can he stand? How?”

She lifted her head and stiffened her spine. “He’s showing them how a Straight Path warrior dies. Never let anyone forget.”

“So long as I live, the story will live.”

The guards spun Ironwood around and shoved him down the corridor again. Shrieks of joy rose from the Fire Dogs. They leaped and danced and struggled to get close enough to see what was happening.

Howler’s lance flashed, and Ironwood let out a small, wretched cry. He staggered, holding both hands over his left eye. Another lance shot out, striking him in his right cheek … his legs went weak. Ironwood collapsed. But this time, he did not try to rise. He lay on his side in the dirt, his chest heaving.

Night Sun’s eyes burned with tears. She lived his every heartbeat, his every breath. Images flitted: laughing together … loving each other … the pain that had lived in his eyes all those summers. A thick band of rawhide had tightened around her chest. No matter how much air she drew into her lungs, they felt starved. Panic gripped her. Would his pain never end?

Night Sun glanced at the two guards. One stood to her left. One to Dune’s right.

Night Sun strode forward, her sandals sinking in the sandy plaza. The guards shouted at her in the Fire Dog tongue, but she didn’t stop. She headed for Jay Bird.

“End it!” she shouted. “Ironwood has proven himself! It is time you acted like a Chief, Jay Bird! Be done with this!”

A guard ran up and gripped her arm, jerking her backward so hard he almost pulled her off her feet. Without thinking, Night Sun backhanded him. The guard’s head snapped back, and the crowd roared, half cursing, half laughing.

The humiliated guard tore the stiletto from his belt, and came at her …

“Stop it! Stop!” a terrified voice cut through the din. “Grandfather, make him stop!”

Poor Singer shoved through the crowd and ran toward Night Sun, his black hair flying. Cornsilk came through behind, started to follow … then saw Ironwood. She let out a cry and rushed to her father’s side.

The guard glanced between the two youths, hesitating, his stiletto hovering above Night Sun as she glared at him.

Jay Bird threw up a hand and shouted something in Mogollon. The guard scowled, cursed her, and lowered his weapon.

Poor Singer stopped in front of Night Sun. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Night Sun hurried by him, chancing that she would have one last opportunity to see Ironwood.

Poor Singer caught up and kept pace with Night Sun, escorting her across the plaza. As they approached, the villagers shoved each other out of the way. Wide eyes examined them. People whispered behind their hands.

Cornsilk had thrown herself over Ironwood. He lay unmoving. Blood rushed in Night Sun’s ears. She knelt beside Cornsilk, but looked up at Poor Singer. “Please, speak to your grandfather. Perhaps you can convince him—”

“I’m going!” He ran, shoving through the crowd.

Night Sun cataloged the wounds leaking the very life out of Ironwood, and whispered, “Hold on.” She took his bloody hand in hers. “Hope just walked into camp.”

His left eye was a blood-clotted hole. He looked up at her through his right eye, and a fleeting smile crossed his face. “Too late … I think.”

Cornsilk wrapped her arms around Ironwood’s gory chest and wept. “Don’t die! Don’t die, Father.”

Ironwood smiled weakly and struggled to look at Cornsilk. The effort seemed to drain his last reserves. His face contorted as he slowly sank back to the ground. He heaved one final deep breath, and his head rolled to the side, his eye closing.

“No!” Cornsilk wailed.

Frantically, Night Sun reached for the big artery in his neck … and found a pulse. Weak, but there. “He’s asleep … or unconscious. But he’s alive.”

She spun as a roar went up from the crowd and people began shuffling back, opening a lane for Jay Bird. The Chief tramped down it with his eyes blazing, Poor Singer running at his heels.

*   *   *

As Jay Bird raised his spear over Ironwood, Poor Singer leaped in front, and knocked it aside. “I must speak with you!”

“Move! I’ve an old score to settle, and I’ve waited too long to—”

“Just a few moments! That’s all I’m asking!”

“To say what? To beg for his life?” Jay Bird yelled. His elderly face glowed bright red. “I told you days ago that I would not release Ironwood. And I will not. How dare you run in here and demand that I stop this! Can’t you hear the souls of your murdered ancestors calling for his blood!”

“Grandfather, please.” Poor Singer spread his arms in a gesture of surrender. Tears streaked his face. “I must speak with you. Just let me speak with you. I bring you news.”

“News? From whom?”

Mustering all of his courage, Poor Singer said, “From the gods.”

Jay Bird’s enraged face tightened. “What do you mean?”

“I had a vision, Grandfather. The god who spoke to me gave me a message for you.”

Jay Bird shoved him aside. “This is a trick. You are telling me this to keep me from killing Ironwood, and I have already made it clear—”

“As the gods are my witness, Grandfather, I swear to you this is not a trick! I’m telling you the truth! If you will only give me some time to explain—”

“No!”

Jay Bird lifted his lance again, and Poor Singer leaped, slamming into his grandfather so hard that Jay Bird stumbled sideways. Spinning in rage, Jay Bird lifted a fist to strike Poor Singer.

The instant seemed to freeze.

The crowd went deathly silent. Jay Bird’s furious face turned to stone.

As if his entire life had been leading to this moment, Poor Singer shouted, “You would refuse to listen to the words of the gods? What sort of leader are you? All of my life I have heard stories of the great Jay Bird, and now I find a man who considers himself above the gods.”

“If the gods wished to send me a message, why would they not come in person to tell me? Why send a skinny youth—”

“I am a Singer, Grandfather! And, before these people, I tell you, you will listen to me!” He turned then, raising his hands to the gawking Mogollon. He cried, “I bring word from the gods! They are angry at this foolishness!”

Howler and some of the other former slaves translated the words, and they passed through the assembly like a hissing snake. Some of the Mogollon spat at Poor Singer. Others eyed him fearfully.

Jay Bird grabbed Poor Singer’s arm and spun him around to glare into his face. “I’ll deal with you later, boy. For now…” His words abruptly dried up as his eyes shifted. He searched the crowd and then the heavens. “Do you hear that?”

“What?” Poor Singer cocked his head at the distant roar, like a violent thunderstorm out over the desert … except it seemed to be growing louder, riding the very air.

“Kill Ironwood!” Howler shouted. “Let us get this over with!”

But Jay Bird didn’t move. He stood listening. Finally, he whispered, “Blessed gods…” threw down his lance, and grabbed for Poor Singer’s arms.

At first, Poor Singer did not understand what was happening. Then the thunderous roar struck like a mountain falling down around them. One of the Mogollon guards screamed and threw himself to the quaking earth, his arms protectively covering his head.

A sick, lightheaded feeling overcame Poor Singer. He struggled for balance, began to stumble, his feet weaving, and grabbed for Jay Bird to keep standing.

Jay Bird shouted, “Why are the gods angry with me? They should be venting their wrath upon the Straight Path dogs for all they have done! Not me!”

Yells and shrieks split the air as dust seemed to dance out of the earth of its own will. Frightened dogs yipped shrilly and darted between the buildings.

As the shaking grew more violent, Jay Bird lost his hold on Poor Singer, careened sideways, and toppled to the ground. Poor Singer fell backward, desperately clutching sprigs of grass, as if they could save him. In the sky above, the Cloud People bounced around like hide balls thrown against rock.

Roof timbers cracked in the village. Dirt cascaded down, and a wall of dust gushed over the plaza. People crawled across the shuddering earth, trying to get to the collapsing houses where children wailed.

The roar grew to deafening booms, like the footfalls of giants. Poor Singer closed his eyes and prayed.…

Then, suddenly, the roar dropped to a grumble, and the ground stilled.

Stunned silence held the village. Then someone shouted, and people began running across the plaza, heading for the line of rooms that had collapsed. A new roar rose as people pawed through the wreckage, screaming and calling out the names of loved ones.

Poor Singer sat up. Ten hands away Jay Bird braced himself on his elbows. They stared at each other. His grandfather looked like a man who had just seen the Creator, Hummingbird, dive out of the heavens and alight before him.

“Let us go somewhere and talk, young Singer,” Jay Bird said, breathing hard. “I will hear your message.”