Eight

As the chill of winter deepened, the sunlight grew feeble and pale; it fell through the drifting clouds in streaks of fallow gold and slanted across the canyon.

Night Sun clutched her black-and-white cotton cape closed with both hands and descended the winding deer trail that ran along the west side of Straight Path Wash. Small garden plots dotted the flats. Filled with the withered corpses of frosty bean and squash vines, they were also scattered with corn stalks and tiny immature corncobs. They’d had a very wet spring and autumn, but cold had come much earlier than normal. Many of their crops had frozen on the vines. It had been a hard winter for smaller villages. In another moon, when the last supplies disappeared, raiding would intensify. No matter how much peace men and women held in their hearts, when their children cried for food, weapons filled their hands.

She shook her head and said a soft prayer to Spider Woman, begging for spring to come early. When people could gather enough tubers and tender plants, it staved off violence.

Her daughter’s steps pattered behind her. Night Sun turned to look at Cloud Playing.

Though she had seen only nineteen summers, gray already touched her temples, highlighting the two long braids she wore. Her life had not been an easy one. Cloud Playing had borne four children and lost all four. They had died, along with her beloved husband, Tassel, from a strange wasting sickness that had swept the canyon two summers ago. Night Sun diligently pushed her to remarry, but Cloud Playing maintained she hadn’t the heart for it, not yet. But her daughter also said she had “prospects.” When Night Sun had seriously said, “Not Webworm, I hope,” Cloud Playing had replied, “He is my friend, Mother. Nothing more. Though I do love him. He has been kind to me since I was a little girl.” Still, it worried Night Sun.

Her brow wrinkled as she recalled the argument Cloud Playing and Webworm had been engaged in the morning they’d left on this journey. Half of Talon Town had come running at the sound of loud voices just outside the walls. Night Sun had stood numbly, watching the disagreement progress to a shoving match—which Cloud Playing won by accident. She’d pushed Webworm backward and he’d tripped over a rock and fallen to the ground. As onlookers burst out laughing, Cloud Playing had stamped away. She’d been silent and moody for two days afterward. She’d only begun to brighten late last night as they’d sat around their campfire talking of old times—times when they’d both been happy. Why had they been arguing?

Six summers ago, Webworm had asked to marry Cloud Playing, but neither Night Sun nor Crow Beard had approved. Since the deaths of her family, Cloud Playing had been very lonely, accompanying Night Sun on her Healing rounds, carrying the pack of sacred herbs, roots, and tools. The argument hadn’t been over Cloud Playing’s other “prospects,” had it? Webworm had a reputation for jealousy.

Hallowed Ancestors, I hope not.

Over the past two summers, Cloud Playing had become Night Sun’s best friend and closest confidante.

Despite the fact that Night Sun possessed considerable power and wealth, for most of her life her soul had been completely empty. A cavernous darkness lived inside her—as it had all the women in her family. Her mother and older sister had both spoken of that darkness as if it were a terrible ghostly lover; a specter whose shadowy arms often tightened around them until they felt so alone they wished to die. When the daily misery of Night Sun’s wedded life became too much, she understood—and feared—what they had experienced, because the desperation turned her into a violent stranger.

A tall willowy woman of forty-four summers, gray glinted in Night Sun’s black hair as it fluttered about her triangular face. She brushed the hair away and tipped up her pointed nose to sniff the air. Cedar smoke rode the wind. Her black dress whipped about her red leggings, creating a pleasant sound.

As she rounded a bend in the trail, she saw Deer Mother Village. The square dwelling had been built beneath the overhanging canyon wall. Just beyond, the canyon turned shallow, the rim sloping to sage flats. Few families dared to stay in such isolated areas. With the raiding, it took real bravery, but these people of the Coyote Clan had always been brave. They had survived here for centuries—though only about ten members remained.

For that very reason Night Sun visited here once every four moons—always during the full moon. She feared that this small village might not exist much longer, and despite her dislike of the village Matron, Sweetwater, she loved the five slaves. They always greeted her with such affection.

“Mother?” Cloud Playing called. “There’s someone coming.”

“Where?” Night Sun shielded her eyes against the slant of sunlight, but saw nothing.

“Wait. He just vanished around the base of the rise. You’ll see.”

A breathless silence had gripped the desert. Birds sat fluffed up in the spiny arms of cacti, or huddled beneath rock overhangs. Coyotes quietly loped through the drainages, hunting mice and rabbits. Eagles circled through blue skies.

An old man appeared on the hilltop and waddled toward her. He wore a tattered gray cape and worn moccasins. When he met her, he murmured, “May the Blessed thlatsinas look over you this day.”

“And you also, Elder.”

He dipped his white head and continued on.

Night Sun followed the trail up the low hill. By the time she reached the top, she was panting. She untied the water jug from her belt, removed the ceramic lid, and drank deeply. Each swallow went down crisp and cold. She silently thanked the thlatsinas.

Water was the most precious of all resources in this high desert country. People filled jugs from potholes in the rocks, or larger sinks in the canyon bottom freshened by rain and melting snows. In the heat of the summer, when no reliable surface water could be found, people scooped out holes along drainages. Sometimes, they filled. Sometimes they remained dry and dusty, as empty of water as the supplicants were of hope.

Night Sun tied her water jug to her belt again and gazed back down the hill.

Cloud Playing had stopped to speak to the old man. Wind Baby billowed her blue dress around her legs. Her voice rose in soft lilting tones. The man answered, but Night Sun caught only a few words.

Cloud Playing smiled at something he said. She was a pretty young woman, with brown eyes and red-brown skin. Four black spirals tattooed her pointed chin—the mark of all the women in their family. Night Sun had them on her own chin.

Cloud Playing patted the old man’s shoulder and unslung her pack. She rummaged around inside and handed him something, then ran up the hill to Night Sun, the pack swaying on her back.

Cloud Playing said, “He’s from Yellow Moth Village in the south. He says the Mogollon raided there three moons ago.”

Night Sun looked down the trail after the elder. The fact that he walked alone, and his ragged appearance, told her a great deal. “Was his family killed?”

Cloud Playing nodded. “He says he thinks he has a great-granddaughter in the Green Mesa villages. He is on his way there. I gave him jerked venison for the trip.”

Night Sun smoothed her daughter’s hair. “Thank you. I should have asked. It’s a long journey for such an old man.”

“He has nowhere else to go, Mother. I pray his relatives are still living in the Green Mesas.”

She didn’t wish to dwell on sadness, not today. It would make her think of her despicable son, Snake Head, or worse, her husband Crow Beard. Crow Beard had been cruel to her the morning she and Cloud Playing had left—accusing her, once again, of infidelity with one of his slaves. She shifted the pack she carried and let out a breath. If Crow Beard so much as suspected her of smiling at another man, he punished her with silence. He couldn’t cast her out, because she owned everything, his chambers, his lands, even his children. But he could make her feel like an outcast—and did it with great skill.

As she walked down the rise, she heard a shrill voice Singing the Mogollon Migration Song, the sacred Song about the Hero Twins’ destruction of the second underworld.

They went out,

Now they went,

They crushed, crushed, crushed it,

they killed all the people,

all the people are dead,

Now they cry,

they cry and cry …

A sharp voice split the silence: “Shut up that Singing! You hear me, Catbird?”

A sullen, “Yes, sister,” drifted on the wind.

Night Sun saw the six-summers-old slave girl come from behind a fallen boulder; the stick dragging behind her was making wavy patterns in the dirt. As she looked up and saw Night Sun and Cloud Playing, her mouth gaped, revealing missing front teeth. The girl shouted: “Mite! They’re here!”

“Who?”

“The Blessed Night Sun and her daughter! Just as Mother said!” Catbird threw down her stick and raced up the trail, her brown dress flying about her legs. She threw her arms around Night Sun’s waist with such strength it made her stagger. “Mother said you were coming. She told us last night! Oh, she will be so glad to see you. She’s having the baby!”

“The baby?” Night Sun felt weak. “But it isn’t supposed to be coming—not for another two moons.”

“Just the same, she’s having it.”

Night Sun disentangled herself from the child’s grasp and hurried down the sandy slope.

Mite stepped out of the house. Sixteen, and plump, she filled her faded green dress. She had her black pigtails tied together at the nape of her neck. “Thank Wolf,” she said. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you.”

“Is your mother all right?” Night Sun asked as she approached the low doorway. The dwelling had no more than eight contiguous rooms, including a granary, and storerooms built like human swallow’s nests into the overhang. The layered sandstone construction of the wall could be seen through gaps where the plaster had spalled off. Two paintings of the Humpbacked Flute Player, one male, the other female, adorned the dwelling. The twin images of fertility added to the ironic neglect of fields, people, and structures.

A framed ramada stood in the flat that served as a plaza. Corn shucks and shreds of juniper bark rattled in the wind. Four young women sat beneath the shelter, grinding corn. To the right of the plaza, a small kiva had been dug into the ground, the roof sagging around the two legs of the ladder that stuck up from the roof entry. Soft male voices carried from inside. The familiar songs pled for health and well-being, imploring the female Flute Player to ease the labor and allow a healthy birth.

“I’m not certain.” Mite’s shoulders slumped, mirroring the worry in her plump face.

Night Sun ducked inside the living quarters. The sloping rock of the overhang itself served as the roof, leaving just enough space to stand up. The villagers mixed their clay with local dirt before plastering it on the face of the building, which made the village almost invisible. Except for the three small windows and single doorway, it seemed to be part of the golden canyon wall.

Night Sun blinked in the dimness. A fire crackled in the pit in the middle of the floor. The paintings covering the walls jumped out at her. Half-beast, half-man, the thlatsinas Danced around the room. The White Wolf peered directly at her, ears pricked, a rattle in one hand, a dancestick in the other. He had his teeth bared, warning all those who dared enter with evil thoughts to cleanse their hearts before taking another step.

Night Sun breathed deeply of the smoky air. A blue haze moved over the ceiling, trawling for the window, where it seeped outside. Next to the door on Night Sun’s left sat a water jar, clay cups, pots of dried meat and cornmeal. A pile of juniper wood stood stacked along the wall to her right. And … an old woman. She crouched there on a folded blanket, her gray hair awry, eyes dark and foreboding.

“Sweetwater? Are you well?”

“I’ve been better.” Perspiration matted her gray hair into tiny curls across her wrinkled forehead. Her black eyes glistened like obsidian beads. As Matron, she owned the lands and almost all the possessions in the village, including three of the five slaves.

Along the north wall, straight ahead of her, Star Hunter lay on bulrush sleeping mats, a red blanket covering her swollen belly. In her bloated face, her eyes had sunken into twin blue circles. Soaked black hair spread around her.

Night Sun leaned out the door, and called, “Cloud Playing, where is my pack?”

“Oh, Mother, forgive me,” her daughter answered, unslinging it and handing it over. She and Mite had been speaking in low voices. Mite’s expression had turned grave. “I was talking with Mite, and I—”

“Do as I say, quickly. Get a pitcher and fill it with water. Pour half into a pot and set it to boiling, then fetch me some fresh yucca roots. I don’t care how far you have to go to find them, do it, and do it now.”

Cloud Playing said, “Yes, Mother,” and ran back to Mite and Catbird, relaying her instructions. All three split in different directions.

Night Sun ducked inside again, removed her cape and tossed it on the floor, then set her pack down beside the water jar and cups. She unlaced the pack’s ties, pulled out a bag of dried mugwort leaves, dropped a pinch into a clay cup, and poured water over the top.

As she set the cup at the edge of the fire to warm, Star Hunter opened her eyes. “Hello, Blessed Night Sun.” A soft smile lit her face.

“Hello, Star Hunter. I wish you’d sent word to me. I could have been here before dawn.”

“Birthing always takes me so long, and I knew you would be here sometime today. You’re never late.”

“Besides,” old Sweetwater’s reedy voice broke in, “she doesn’t need you! The child is going to die. It’s too soon for it to be born. It should die. If it lives it will be a weak and worthless slave.”

Night Sun glared at the old woman. Sweetwater knew better than anyone how much Star Hunter loved this unborn child. From the first moon she had realized her pregnancy, she had been convinced it would be a boy—her first son. She had been weaving blankets and clothing, tanning rabbithides and sewing tiny moccasins. Four moons ago, Star Hunter’s husband, Whitetail, had showed Night Sun the little bow and arrows he had constructed for his son.

Night Sun went to kneel by Star Hunter’s side, feeling her fevered cheeks and forehead. Star Hunter leaned into the coolness of her hands. Firelight flickered over her face. “The child may die,” Night Sun said straightly, “but I will try to save it. When did the pains begin?”

“Last … night. Late,” Star Hunter replied.

“She took a fall yesterday,” Sweetwater said. “A bad fall. The gods tripped her. It was twilight and she went to dip melt water from the cistern in the sandstone. She tripped over nothing! And toppled face-first across the stone. It’s little wonder she’s birthing today. The gods wished her to lose the child. It probably has a very bad speck of dust in its head.”

Wickedness, bad dreams, and evil acts came from a tiny grain of dust that Spider Woman placed in the back of a baby’s head just before birth. It remained there forever.

“Have you checked the baby’s position?” Night Sun asked.

“Why should I? The sooner it dies, the better.”

“My mistress,” Star Hunter said, “will not even let my daughters touch me. I had a lonely night.”

“Well, I’m going to touch you. Let me see how the baby is lying. Raise your knees.”

Night Sun pulled the red blanket away from Star Hunter’s bulging belly and gently probed inside. “The child hasn’t turned. Its head isn’t down,” she said, and tried not to show her alarm.

“I know.” Star Hunter reached out and clasped Night Sun’s arm, tugging feebly. “I’m sorry. It’s my fault.”

“It’s no one’s fault. Your fall was an accident.”

Sweetwater said, “The gods did it!”

“My gods are not so cruel,” Night Sun replied. “I’m sorry if yours are.”

Sweetwater’s ancient eyes slitted. “Are you saying that you don’t believe—”

“Please,” Star Hunter interrupted, tugging on Night Sun’s arm. “Tell me the truth. I am so tired. Is my baby going to die?”

“Not if I can help it,” Night Sun said, gripping Star Hunter’s hand firmly. “Stop thinking such thoughts. I need you to be strong.”

“I’ll try, but I…” Her body convulsed.

Night Sun watched and waited. When the contraction eased, she ordered, “Sweetwater, please come over here. Take Star Hunter’s left arm. I’ll take her right.” Then to Star Hunter she said, “Your womb is wide enough. It is time you got into a birthing position.”

Sweetwater folded her arms, refusing to move.

Night Sun snapped, “Get up, blast you, before I—”

“You do not order me!” Sweetwater yelled. “Not in this village. Your status means nothing here! What you are doing is forbidden! When a child comes early, no help should be given. We do not wish the baby to live!”

Night Sun shot a hot glance of promise into the old woman’s eyes: I’ll deal with you later!

Star Hunter held tightly to Night Sun’s arm and panted, straining to rise. Her legs shook.

“For now, just sit up, Star Hunter. That’s enough. When the next contraction strikes, I will support you so you can squat. The birthing will be easier. Mother Earth will be pulling while you are pushing.”

Star Hunter smiled tiredly. “Yes, all right.”

Cloud Playing ducked through the doorway with Mite and Catbird following. “I’ve brought the yucca roots, Mother. I cut them up outside first, and Mite has the boiling pot on the tripod.”

“Good. Set the pot over the fire, then throw in the chopped roots. When suds begin to pour over the top of the pot, remove it from the heat and soak several lengths of cloth in it for me.”

“Yes, Mother.”

Cloud Playing tossed in the roots while Mite arranged the pot over the low flames. Catbird stood in the doorway, a finger tucked into her mouth. Her soft eyes followed her mother’s every movement.

Star Hunter gave her youngest daughter a smile. “It’s all right, Catbird,” she said. “The Blessed Night Sun is here. You needn’t worry now.”

“But I heard our mistress shouting. You’re not going to die … are you?” Her young mouth puckered.

Star Hunter glanced at Night Sun, eyes bright with worry, but she said, “No. I’m not,” and bit her lip as the next contraction hit. Her face wrenched with pain.

“Cloud Playing, take Star Hunter’s other arm. Help her up.”

Cloud Playing hurried to obey. They lifted Star Hunter into a squatting position, where she wept and groaned through clenched teeth. Her grip tightened on Night Sun’s arm until her fingers dug into Night Sun’s flesh.

Catbird stood in the doorway, crying, “Mother! Oh, Mother!”

Night Sun craned her neck, anxious for any sign of the baby.

A violent hiss made everyone jerk around as the pot boiled over and great tufts of suds plopped into the fire.

Mite grabbed a folded cloth to move the tripod away from the flames.

Star Hunter twisted and moaned, then stared at Night Sun. “Don’t let my baby die. It’ll break Whitetail’s heart. He wants this baby so badly. Even more than I do.”

“You’re doing well,” Night Sun said. “Everything is fine.”

Star Hunter collapsed weakly, breathing hard, when the contraction subsided.

Sweetwater leaned forward, her wrinkled face taut, and hissed: “Have you ever seen an early baby that was any good? To anyone? Why do you wish to burden our clan with a useless runt?”

Night Sun ignored her and turned to Mite. “Please, drop in four lengths of cloth, then use a stick to stir and remove them. While they cool, bring me the cup at the edge of the fire.”

“Yes, Blessed Night Sun.” Mite found a worn dress in a pile by Sweetwater’s blanket, ripped off the sleeves, tore them in two, and grabbed a long stick from the juniper pile. She dropped the cloths in, stirred them, and brought them up steaming. Propping the stick against the wall to cool, she reached for the cup.

Night Sun took it from her hand and sniffed it. The mugwort leaves smelled pungent enough. To test the temperature, she dipped her finger into the brew. Very warm, but not too hot.

“Star Hunter,” she said, “try to drink this. It will help hurry the birth.” Slipping an arm around Star Hunter’s shoulders, Night Sun put the cup in the slave’s hands and held her steady while she gulped the liquid. “There, that’s good.” She took the cup back and set it on the floor behind her. “Now, rest for as long as you can.”

Star Hunter nodded and hung her head between her knees, breathing in swift shallow gasps. A branch broke in the fire, throwing a wavering carnelian veil over the room.

Sweetwater rose to her feet and stood over Night Sun, peering down hatefully. “Why aren’t you tending to the Healing of your own family? You’re supposed to be the great Healer of Talon Town. Go home! Stop wasting time on a worthless slave baby!”

Night Sun spent part of every day Healing the people in Talon Town, but she truly needed the time away. “Other people need me, too, Sweetwater.”

Sweetwater’s eyes narrowed skeptically. “You would abandon your own family to Heal slaves?”

“What?” Night Sun said in confusion. “My own family?”

Sweetwater blinked. “You don’t know? A Trader came by yesterday morning, from Talon Town. He told us Chief Crow Beard was very ill. He said that Sternlight told him the Blessed Sun might by dying.”

Speechless, Night Sun could only stare. Crow Beard had been ill often in the past sun cycle, but—

Cloud Playing rose. Her blue dress shone purple in the gleam. “When did my father fall ill? We have only been gone for three days. He was fine when we left!”

“Do not shout at me, girl!” Sweetwater retorted. “That’s all the Trader said. I know no more.”

“Mother? Could this be?” Cloud Playing whispered, her eyes frantic. “Do you think Father needs us?”

Night Sun’s pulse quickened. Despite all the things Crow Beard had done to her over the years, she still cared for him, but he hadn’t let her touch him in summers. He shunned her cures, refused her his bed, tormented her at every opportunity. Still … she had been his wife for thirty summers. How will I survive without him?

“Yes,” Night Sun said softly. “He needs us. But I cannot leave until Star Hunter and her baby are safe. Then we will go—”

“The baby’s coming!” Star Hunter cried. She grabbed Night Sun’s arm, struggling to get into position.

“Cloud Playing!” Night Sun said sharply. “Help me hold her up!”

Cloud Playing lunged to grab Star Hunter’s left arm.

Star Hunter’s whole body shook and her moans became helpless cries. She twisted to one side, then to the other, and rocked back and forth, tears trickling down her face. When she screamed, little Catbird put her hands over her ears, and shrieked, “Oh, Blessed Father Sun, don’t let my mother die! Please don’t let her die!”

“Sweetwater, for the sake of Our Mother Earth,” Night Sun called, “take Catbird outside and away from here!”

The old woman grudgingly hobbled across the floor, grabbed Catbird by the hand and dragged her outside. A slap sounded. Catbird’s wails grew shrill, like an animal with an arrow in its belly.

Star Hunter sagged back against her arm, gasping, “Please, make the baby come … please … please…”

Cloud Playing peered at Night Sun imploringly—did she, too, believe Night Sun could say a prayer and make the pain end? Cloud Playing’s children had come into the world in less than a hand of time and she’d been on her feet in two hands. Such agony must terrify her.

“Cloud Playing,” she said gently, “let us ease Star Hunter back to the sleeping mat. I must check the child.”

Star Hunter groaned when Night Sun reached inside, rolling back and forth on the mat, saying over and over, “Help me, Wolf. Help me, Wolf. Blessed thlatsinas…” Then she cried out and grabbed for Night Sun’s and Cloud Playing’s arms, hauling herself forward.

“Good, Star Hunter,” Night Sun said, watching the fluids that leaked from her womb. “The child is coming. I can see its bottom. It’s coming out first. Cloud Playing, help me to lift her higher.”

Star Hunter half-stood, legs spread and trembling, her whole weight supported by Night Sun and Cloud Playing. Like a boat riding waves, Star Hunter bobbed up and down, sobbing, clawing at Night Sun’s arm.

The baby boy slid out onto the soft blankets in a pool of blood.

Night Sun said, “You have a son, Star Hunter. You were right.” Night Sun examined the wet, blood-streaked infant and her heart went cold. “He’s … he’s very beautiful.”

Star Hunter laughed and cried as they lowered her to the mats, and Night Sun reached for her pack. She pulled out a sharp obsidian flake, severed the baby’s cord, and knotted it.

“Let me see him!” Star Hunter panted. “I—I want to look at him.”

“Just one moment,” Night Sun said. “Mite, hand me those pieces of damp cloth.”

“Yes,” she said and pulled them from the stick where they had been cooling.

Night Sun tenderly cleaned the gore from the boy, then lifted him by his ankles and shook him. Star Hunter, smiling, stretched out her arms, wanting the baby.

Night Sun shook him again. And again.

Cloud Playing put a hand to her lips. Mite edged forward, staring. As though time had ceased, both of their faces froze. Their expressions might have been carved from wood.

Night Sun slapped the boy on the back and buttocks, turned him right side up and shook him back and forth. His tiny head hung limply.

She held him by the ankles and shook him once more.

“Night Sun?” Mite asked. “Is he…”

Night Sun hesitated. “Yes.” Biting back her own sorrow, she cradled the dead baby in her arms and rocked him gently.

Star Hunter wept. The sound tore Night Sun’s soul. She had lost three newborns herself: two boys and a girl. One of them had been taken from her before she’d even had a chance to see it. She had heard it calling to her for moons, calling and calling …

It was a woman’s trial. Something no man could fully understand. After moons of speaking to the child, feeling it move inside you, seeing it grow up in your dreams, a powerful love, like no other, developed. The shock of losing that child, of suddenly realizing you would never look into its living eyes—it stunned the soul.

“Oh, Mother,” Mite whimpered. She ran to kneel beside Star Hunter and gathered her mother’s drenched body in her arms, holding her tightly.

“Cloud Playing,” Night Sun said, “soak these cloths again and wring them out.”

Cloud Playing took the soiled lengths of fabric, dipped them in the warm yucca water and squeezed them out.

Night Sun washed the baby thoroughly and gestured wearily toward the folded blanket where Sweetwater had been sitting. “Fetch me that blanket. This little boy is getting cold.”

Star Hunter suddenly put a hand on the floor and gasped, moaning as the afterbirth flooded out. Mite supported her during the contractions.

Cloud Playing brought the blanket and Night Sun carefully wrapped the boy, so that only his face showed, making certain his soul would stay warm over the long cold night ahead.

Tomorrow his clan would dress him and Sing over his body. Relatives would offer gifts and their finest blankets, then bury him beneath the floor of a room, a place where his mother frequently walked, in the hopes that his soul might someday wish to enter her womb again and be reborn.

Night Sun prayed it would be so.

She walked to Star Hunter and laid the dead baby in her arms, saying, “Hold him for a time, Star Hunter.”

Star Hunter tenderly kissed her dead son’s forehead.

Night Sun said, “Cloud Playing, please rinse those cloths out again. Mite and I will wash Star Hunter and clean up here. Then she must sleep.”

The Singing stopped in the kiva outside. Perhaps the men had just realized that the birthing cries had ceased.

Blessed sky gods, Night Sun had forgotten about Whitetail, the father. He would be eager to know how his wife and child were doing.

A clamor rose, feet clacking on the kiva ladder, then soft thuds as a man ran across the plaza.

“Star Hunter?” Whitetail called. “Sweetwater?”

Night Sun ducked out the door into the glare of winter sunlight to meet him halfway.