Nine

Buckthorn dressed in the predawn glow, quietly slipping on his long plain-weave shirt, buckskin leggings, and yucca sandals, trying not to wake Dune. The holy man slept on the opposite side of the house, wrapped in a faded gray blanket. Just the white top of his head showed. He’d snored all night—the sort of snores that shook the very earth. Buckthorn had gotten little sleep.

As he laced his sandals, he yawned and looked around. The fire had burned down to a bed of charcoal. Leftover tea from last evening sat in a clay pot at the edge of the coals, probably still warm. But Buckthorn couldn’t have any, just as he hadn’t had any for three days now. Dune had ordered him to fast for four days and climb the mesa every dawn. And, to Buckthorn’s amazement, he had found that hunger kept his mind clear and his heart open to the faint voices of the thlatsinas who lived on the mesa top.

Buckthorn reached for his yellow cape, dyed a rich hue with a mixture of sunflower petals and ground lichen. As he slung it over his shoulder, a field mouse sneaked under the door curtain and sniffed the air. Every mouse for a day’s walk knew Dune left crumbs of cornbread at the head of his sleeping mats. The mouse bounded across the floor and began munching happily, its whiskers quivering.

Buckthorn watched in fascination as the mouse clawed through Dune’s hair to get to more breakfast. Dune shifted, shoving his blanket down so that his toothless smile showed. Buckthorn had seen it before, but it continued to astound him. He’d concluded that Mouse must be the old holy man’s Spirit Helper. That was the only reason he could see for not swatting the creature and throwing it into the stew pot.

Buckthorn tiptoed to the door and stuck his hand around the ratty curtain, testing the air outside. Cold. Very cold. He would need his blanket. He tiptoed back and grabbed it.

“Shielding yourself against the light?” Dune asked sleepily.

Buckthorn frowned. “Are you awake?”

“No, this is my departed soul speaking to you from the underworlds. Of course, I’m awake! Answer my question.”

“Shielding myself? Why, no. When I reach the mesa top each morning I stand with my arms open so I am vulnerable to the light, so I can feel it the instant it is reborn.”

Dune rolled to his side. The field mouse kept eating, its eyes bright. “Is that your goal? To stand in the light all of your life?”

“Yes, Elder,” Buckthorn said serenely, “that is why I came to you. To learn how—”

“Then you will be forever in the darkness. Alone. Troubled.”

Buckthorn shifted. “What does that mean?”

Dune extended the tip of his finger to stroke the mouse’s silken back. The little animal barely seemed to notice. Deep wrinkles criss-crossed Dune’s ancient face as he smiled. In the faint light streaming through the roof’s smoke hole his white hair had a tinge of lavender. “You cannot be reborn on your feet, boy. You’ll never be the light if you insist on keeping your eye on it.”

Buckthorn stammered, “But I—I don’t wish to be reborn. I want to be a great Spirit Singer, like you. So that I may help my people.”

“A great Singer?” Dune threw off his blanket and scowled at Buckthorn. His long tan shirt shone darkly. “What arrogance. Do you know where such pride leads? To the kind of selfishness that will make you a terrible Singer.”

“But, Elder…” He spread his arms helplessly. “I’m a terrible Singer now. I can’t even recall the words to some of our most sacred Songs! If I can’t look forward to being a great Singer, what can I look forward to?”

“Scorn,” Dune said. “Occasionally contempt.” He rolled up his blanket and tucked it in the corner near the baskets. “And a good deal of disbelief.”

“Scorn?” Buckthorn whispered in horror. “But, Elder, I can’t accept that. Why would the very people I’m struggling to help—”

“You can’t accept it?” Dune’s white brows drew down into a solid bushy line. “Well, then, I must prepare you better. Let me see. I know!” He slapped his palms on his knees. “You wish to have a new name, don’t you?”

Buckthorn’s eyes widened. “Oh, yes, Elder. Very much. I’ve been thinking about something like—”

“As of this instant, then, you are Poor Singer.”

“Poor … Poor Singer! But that’s insulting! Why would you do that to me?”

Dune’s reedy voice grew gentle. “Because we do not strive for greatness here. We strive to be so small that no one notices us at all. If you must strive for something, strive to be a rat’s tail, or a bird’s toe, or a slimy drip of buffalo spittle. That’s why you are here, Poor Singer.”

“To learn to be buffalo spit?”

“Yes.” Dune waggled a knobby finger. “And it’s not easy. The first thing you must do is hack away at your heart; it’s filled with too much of you. Carve it down to a speck, then seek out all of the other infinitesimally tiny things in the world. Ants that live beneath rocks. Grains of sand. Worms on plant stems. Strive to be one of them. See life through their eyes. Forget the big things.”

“Carve up my heart,” Buckthorn said sarcastically. “I imagine that will be painful.”

Dune grinned like Bobcat crouched before Packrat’s nest. “You have no idea.”

The old man rose on rickety knees and made a sweeping gesture toward the door. “Go outside where the blood won’t make a mess all over things. I’ll take the first chop. And I want you to start thinking of yourself by your new name.”

“I think that is the first chop, Elder.” He reached for his blanket.

Poor Singer. I am Poor Singer. It is my name now. I am Poor … How can I go through life with a name like that? Poor Singer. Poor Singer. Blessed gods, only an idiot would hire someone with that name to do an important Sing for them! Which means I’ll starve, or be forced to throw myself on the mercy of my family. No woman will marry me. I’ll never have children. Wolf, help me! I’ve been cursed!

Angry, he roughly swung his blanket over his shoulders and started for the door.

“No,” Dune said. “Leave your blanket.”

Poor Singer threw it down, ducked beneath the door curtain, and stepped out into the frigid morning. The cliff towered over the house, two hundred hands tall, casting a long cold shadow. Beyond the rim, Brother Sky glistened a deep translucent blue. Two ravens flapped and circled on the wind currents. Poor Singer rubbed his freezing arms.

And waited.

When the old holy man didn’t come out, Poor Singer yelled, “Dune? I’m out here freezing! Where are you?”

“In here … sipping warm tea by the fire.”

“I thought you were coming out.”

“Eventually.”

“How soon is that?”

“Plenty soon enough for a poor Singer.”

Glumly, he studied the heavens. Crimson dyed the drifting puffs of cloud. The long mesa that curved around Dune’s house gleamed as if fresh blood oozed from pores in the rock.

Poor Singer sighed. Had Dune not interrupted his morning ritual, by now he would have reached the mesa top. Father Sun’s light struck there first, and Buck … Poor Singer liked to witness that timeless moment when the world glowed to life again.

Yes, get used to it. Your name is Poor Singer.

He feathered his long black hair around his shoulders, hoping it would help warm him up. Despite his shirt and cape, shivers taunted his body.

Why does the old man have to torture me so? He treats me worse than a slave.

To keep the shivers at bay, he trotted in place, his feet sinking into the red soil.

“Blessed thlatsinas, I’m turning to ice!” he shouted at the house, and a white fog of breath condensed before him. “If you’re not out here in—”

Dune drew back the door curtain and stepped out stark naked.

Poor Singer’s feet rooted to the ground. The old man resembled a walking skeleton. Ribs barred his chest, and his arms and legs might have been knobby sticks. Scraggly white hair hung to his bony shoulders.

Dune shivered.

“Cold?” Poor Singer smiled.

In answer, Dune walked to the corner of the house and urinated. He did it with flare, so that the stream spiraled out, amber drops glimmering in the dawn. When he saw Poor Singer watching, he smiled back. “Stupid?” he asked.

Poor Singer’s smile drooped.

Dune finished and strolled out beyond the cliff’s shadow to look eastward. A rosy halo enveloped him. “We still have time.”

“For what?”

“For you to learn that you are truly Father Sun’s child.”

“I already know that.”

“That’s the problem. You know too stinking much.” Dune propped his hands on his pointed hip bones. “Take off your clothes.”

Poor Singer’s mouth gaped. “How will my turning blue show—”

“Are you afraid to face Father Sun as a newborn?”

“A … a newborn?” Poor Singer thought about it. “No. I’m not afraid.”

Timidly, he pulled off his cape and shirt and dropped them to the ground. He had to sit down to remove his buckskin leggings and sandals. Red sand sheathed his exposed skin. While he untied his last sandal lace, he watched his scrotum shrivel. “Now what?”

Dune waved a clawlike hand. “Go climb the cliff. Be there when Father Sun rises. But today, Poor Singer, face him as an infant. Do not speak, or stand, or walk. Pretend you know nothing. That you don’t even know how to crawl.”

“But if I’m going to get there, I’ll have to run.”

Dune gave him a sidelong look. “Given your pride, boy, I suspect you’ll have to run a very long way before you discover there’s no ‘there’ to get to. But,” he sighed, “I’ll be praying for you.”

Dune turned and went back into his house. The teapot rattled.

Teeth chattering, Poor Singer broke into a run, dodging brush, leaping rabbit holes, until he reached the steps cut into the red cliff wall. One body-length wide, the steps felt smooth to the touch. Hundreds of feet had sanded them to a texture as sleek as kit fur.

Poor Singer concentrated on his climb. He took deep breaths and let them out slowly. Wispy blades of dry grass clung to each ledge, smelling brittle and earthy. Halfway up, his irritation with Dune dissipated. He loved this dawn ritual, the solitude, the stunning desert silence, the sensation of joy as the darkness ran away, secreting itself in deep crevices in the rocks.

He climbed out onto the barren mesa top just as the horizon turned from lavender to a gleaming gold.

“Be a newborn,” he muttered. “An infant. How in the world do I do that?”

He considered the words a moment, then shrugged, lay down on the cold sandstone, and curled on his side into a fetal position, facing east. The chill ate into his naked flesh, but as he gazed out across the buttes and ridges rising from the sage-covered flats, he felt curiously calm. The land possessed an unearthly tranquility. He let the stillness soak into his soul.

“Hack away at my heart.”

Dune thought him conceited and vain. He knew the old holy man was trying to teach him to purge himself of his self-love, but his own longings and dreams were all he had ever had to keep him company. How could he let them go?

A meadowlark’s voice carried in the quiet, its flutelike call melodious. As wind drifted over the mesa, he caught strains of whispers and thought he heard softly placed steps.

“What do you think he meant, thlatsinas?” Poor Singer whispered. “How do I face Father Sun as a baby would? A baby with no knowledge of the world. He told me not to speak, or…”

Realizing he had already violated Dune’s orders, he hushed, and fought to quiet his internal dialogue, focusing his attention on the luminous sky.

Bright white spikes punctured the horizon. Beneath them, quiet as mouse, Father Sun peeked, warily checking the world before rising. His gleam washed the land, driving away the last shreds of darkness, flowing over Poor Singer like warm honey. The black hair on his body prickled. Awe surged in his heart.

Never before had he experienced the suddenness of the transfiguration from coldness to warmth.

He rolled to his back and spread his arms and legs, baring himself to Father Sun. His head rested on a small rise in the stone, and as he gazed over his skinny body, past the mound of dark hair between his legs, and beyond to the sculpted red-gold land, he felt a joy he had never known.

His clothing had shielded him!

Euphoric at the revelation, Poor Singer laughed out loud.

The sky blued above him while he thought: So this is what Dune was trying to tell me. Newborns came from a solitary world of constant night, expecting nothing, comprehending nothing. When the sunlight flooded over them for the first time, it must have filled them with wonder—as it had him this morning. Indeed, the light felt as much a part of him as the warm blood in his veins.

“Blessed thlatsinas. That’s what Dune meant about being the light. Oh, yes, gods, please. I want to be sunlight, too.”

He filled his lungs with the chill air and the rich fragrances of juniper and dew-soaked earth.

I can’t wait to tell Dune! I understand! I really understand!

The frail scratching of bird feet made him turn toward the cliff’s edge.

A sage thrasher perched on a rounded hump of sandstone, its brown head cocked to scrutinize him. Love swelled Poor Singer’s chest. Once, long before the First People emerged from the underworlds, before the Made People walked the earth as animals, the bird and he had lived as one in the brilliant star that formed Spider Woman’s heart. Sparkles, they had laughed and twinkled together. Only when the Creator named them did they become different. The instant they knew their names, they had fallen to earth, and become bird and coyote.

“Brother,” Poor Singer whispered as he slowly extended a hand to the sage thrasher. “Come with me. Let us be one again in the sunlight.”

The bird uttered a sweet lilting call, and flew away.

Poor Singer smiled.

It took effort to rise to his feet. He tingled all over.

As he climbed down the rock steps, he Sang, “Our daylight fathers. Our daylight mothers. It comes alive. It comes alive, alive, alive.” His words echoed across the canyon like soft thunder, Sung in the deep voice that had brought him renown at Wind-flower Village.

When Poor Singer reached the bottom stair, he saw two men trotting down the trail that wound around the base of the cliff. Big men, burly and coated with sweat. They wore red shirts, belted at the waist, and had coral pendants around their necks.

Poor Singer loped for the house, calling, “Dune? Dune, two men are coming!”

Sunlight had driven back the cliff’s shadow, leaving Dune’s house sitting in a puddle of yellow. The sage growing up around the clay-plastered walls glimmered green.

Dune pulled the door curtain aside and stuck his white head out. “Who?”

Poor Singer trotted up, breathing hard. “I can’t say. I’ve never seen them before. But they are important men. They wear beautiful coral pendants—”

“Coral?” Dune asked, and stepped outside, still naked.

Both of them stood staring down the trail.

The men trotted up, squinted curiously at their nakedness, and exchanged knowing glances. Then the taller man bowed respectfully. “A blessed morning to you, Elder.”

“And to you, Wraps-His-Tail. What—”

“Wraps-His-Tail!” Poor Singer blurted. “The—the great deputy to the War Chief of Talon Town?”

Wraps-His-Tail inclined his head humbly, but Dune growled, “Great, great, great! Is reputation all that concerns you?”

“F-forgive me, Dune.” Poor Singer hung his head in shame. Whatever his soul had learned on the cliff, his mouth had immediately forgotten.

Dune glanced at the other man, shorter, but just as stout, with a round face and small eyes. “You are looking well, Cone.”

“And you also, Elder,” the man said with a smile. “It has been a long time since you graced us with your presence at Talon Town. We have missed you.”

“Umm,” Dune said, and carefully examined Wraps-His-Tail. “What are you doing way out here?”

“The Blessed Sun is sick again, Elder,” Wraps-His-Tail answered. “We have been carrying the message around.”

Dune’s bushy brows plunged down. “That hardly seems the sort of duty Ironwood would give his two best warriors.”

Wraps-His-Tail shrugged. “We were at hand.”

Cone added, “Ironwood wished to ensure that we beat the rumors. You know how people panic when a Chief falls ill. They always say he is dying.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“Well,” Wraps-His-Tail bowed again, “we must be going. We promised Ironwood we would be back by tomorrow.”

“Be off, then.” Dune waved a hand. “Tell Crow Beard I wished him well.”

“Indeed, we shall, Elder!”

Both men trotted on up the trail, heading toward the main road which led south. Dune watched them go, his eyes slitted suspiciously.

“What is it?” Poor Singer asked. “Is something wrong?”

“Not according to them.” Dune fingered his sagging chin.

The old man ducked back into his house and Poor Singer heard him talking to the mouse. The door curtain swung, flashing in the sunlight.

“Dune!” Poor Singer said. “I have something important to tell you! Wait until you hear what I did this morning. You won’t believe it!”

Poor Singer pulled back the curtain and saw Dune slipping on a tan shirt. His white hair shone in the firelight. Crouching, he added more wood to the fire, and asked, “What?”

Poor Singer swelled his chest. “I learned to be a newborn! On my first try!”

“Did you?” Dune’s bushy brows arched.

“Yes, but you were right,” Poor Singer quickly added, “it wasn’t easy. Not at all. I had to work very hard.”

“I see.”

Poor Singer shifted uncomfortably. “See … what?”

Dune got to his feet. The wrinkles around his small round nose twitched. “I see that you and your pride are still standing tall in the light.”