Eighth Day

 

 

I lie on my back staring up at the swaying Ponderosa pine branches above me. The needles are long and curved. Moonlight coats them, turning them a ghostly silver. Through the filigree of twigs, the Evening People shine.

My body has gone numb. My soul is floating, barely tied to my flesh.

I am ready, I think. I did not feel ready until tonight, but I have done what I can to cleanse and purify my heart. Either she will accept my offering now, or she never will.

I only know that I must try.

I close my eyes, and listen to the wind soughing through the pines. The branches creak and groan. The air smells sweet with the scent of mountain wildflowers. I fill my lungs and hold it for as long as I can, then slowly let the breath out. I am tired, very tired … one last thing to do.

*   *   *

The Dream stole Poor Singer’s soul away.

He ran as Coyote, his padded feet parting the newly green spring grass and the first delicate wildflowers. From this height, he could see across the infinity of dark mountains that layered the distances. Each range etched the horizon in a lighter shade of hazy blue-gray. Behind him, buttes and mesas carved the lowlands. Ahead of him, jagged peaks punctured the bellies of the Cloud People. His breath puffed whitely. As he bounded higher, the air grew colder, burning his lungs.

He crested the hilltop and loped down a steep slope, scattering gravel and ducking under deadfall. He wiggled through a thicket of brush, leaped a narrow brook, and bounded up the next slope, his paws silent on the soft green grasses. His ability to see in the darkness amazed him. Mice darted through the grass in the meadows, and packrats skittered in the jumble of rocky outcrops. Their sight and scent stirred hunger in his empty belly.

He loped through a patch of wildflowers so tall they brushed his golden muzzle, then ran alongside a grove of aspen trees. Their white trunks glowed in the starlight. Eyes glinted from the densest part of the forest. He tipped his nose and smelled the air. Elk. Three of them: two cows and a calf. They watched him pass, then calmly went back to foraging.

The first sliver of Sister Moon’s face blazed over the shining peaks. Poor Singer hurried.

Racing up an icy slope, paws slipping, he stood on a windy knoll and slitted his eyes against the freezing gale. His fur ruffled up and down his back. He searched the jagged snow-covered peaks, until he thought he knew the right one, then headed for it.

Why doesn’t this look familiar? I know these are the right mountains, but this isn’t the trail I followed with my father. Am I lost?

He swerved around a lightning-struck stump and loped higher up the slick side of the mountain, his eyes on the lofty summit. He didn’t see the cave.…

Panic threaded his muscles, turning them shaky, making his breath come in shallow gasps. This has to be the way. It has to.

Snow had gathered in the fur of his paws and melted to clumps of ice that spread his toes until they hurt, but he refused to take the time to chew them out.

Poor Singer bulled through a snowdrift taller than his head, leaping and struggling to climb the steep incline. After the long days without food, he could feel what little strength he had draining away, being devoured by his trembling muscles. When he clawed his way up, he stood on a rocky ledge and shook snow from his coat. A haze of glittering white surrounded him. As it cleared, he looked up.

A tingle eddied through his veins. This was the peak. He could not be mistaken about that. It looked like an ice spear, white and jagged.

Poor Singer scrambled up the rocky ledge, and when he struck a shallow meadow, he ran with all his heart, his pink tongue dangling from the corner of his mouth. His muscles prickled now, as if starved for blood, but he charged up the last slope. Above him, the peak turned to solid rock. Snow filled every crevice, and a fog of windblown ice crystals haloed the summit.

There!

He almost missed it. Since the last time he’d been here, the creeping barberry bushes had grown up, covering half the entry—or disguising it. The holly-shaped leaves reflected the starlight with blinding intensity. No wonder he hadn’t seen the dark hole. Now it blended with the snowy slope.

Poor Singer shouldered through the bramble, his fur catching and tugging painfully. He left a trail of golden tufts on the branches. This time the narrow tunnel was pitch-black and foreboding.

He walked deeper, then broke into a trot, racing down the slope, calling, “Keeper of the Tortoise Bundle? Where are you? I used to be Buckthorn, of the Coyote Clan. I—”

“I know who you are, Poor Singer.”

Her voice came from everywhere, echoing off the walls, resonating in his soul.

Poor Singer licked his muzzle nervously and slowed to a walk. The air grew warmer, and he could hear the plopping of water as it dripped into the dark pool below. He edged forward, one breath at a time, his claws tapping the moist stone, creating a staccato like arrows upon rock.

His padded paws slipped into the water-filled hollows in the floor, soaking his feet, melting the ice between his toes. The cave smelled curious. He knew that odor; it clung to tumbled stone walls and dusty crevice burials: the scent of ancient destruction.

“Where are you?”

“Come closer. I’m here. Down here.”

Poor Singer edged forward, searching the blackness. The plop, plop of water grew louder. How close was he to the pool? He couldn’t be more than—

Like an explosion, silver light poured through the entrance, and the cave burst into blinding waves of blue flame. He collapsed on his haunches. Brilliant turquoise sparks tumbled and winked, surging across the roof and flowing down the walls to coat the floor of the cave. The wondrous pool turned luminous. Poor Singer focused on it, trying to still his hammering heart. The water looked so calm. In the midst of this blaze, it provided the single still point. Had he noticed that last time? Or had he been so stunned that fear had devoured his senses?

He saw her.

She walked from a hidden fissure in the rear of the cave, her long black hair draping around her, the folds of her red dress shining with a purple hue. Poor Singer’s whiskers quivered in awe. So … there was another chamber, the entrance perfectly hidden by the seamless appearance of the turquoise walls. She followed a narrow path around the curve of the pool and came to stand over him, her midnight eyes wide, her gaze penetrating. The fire in the cave surrounded her like a effervescent halo.

“What have you to offer me?”

Poor Singer inhaled a breath of the warm, damp air. “Myself.”

“In exchange for what?”

“The life of a man called Ironwood.”

“Your grandfather wishes to kill him?” she asked as she gracefully walked to the opposite side of the narrow tunnel and sat down, her back against the stone. The conflagration had turned so blinding Poor Singer had to slit his eyes and tip his muzzle to see her.

Was she human? Or a god? “Yes, and I—I can’t let that happen.”

Her gaze bored into him. “You would give up Cornsilk? You would sacrifice her happiness as well as your own?”

Poor Singer’s forelegs had started to shake so badly, he had to lie down on the warm floor. “I love her, Keeper. I love her very much, but she is young. She will find another.”

The Keeper just stared at him. “Why would you give up your life for a man you barely know?”

Poor Singer swallowed down his tight throat. “I just … I can’t see any more of them die. Please. This isn’t their fault. Don’t you understand? If I hadn’t been born, none of this would have happened! But I was. And these things have happened because of me. This is my responsibility!”

“Do you know how many innocent men and women Ironwood has killed? How many children he has taken as slaves? What makes you think his life is worth more than yours? Are you guilty of any of these crimes?”

Poor Singer lowered his muzzle to rest on his paws. “No, no, I’m not. But what does that matter?”

“It matters a great deal to the gods. They are fanatical about justice.”

“But Keeper, many of the gods were warriors. They are also fanatical about duty and responsibility. Ironwood is a good man. He was only doing his duty to his people and his Chief. And I am doing mine now.”

She drew back her head as if in disbelief. “You consider dying for no reason to be your duty?”

“But it isn’t for no reason. I’m offering my life for Ironwood’s because I believe the world will be better with Ironwood in it. So many have already died because of me. Please, let me do this?”

The magnificent blue fire began to subside. The walls went from a blazing azure to pale blue, and finally to an icy gray-white.

The Keeper’s black eyes seemed to grow in that tarnished gleam, huge as an owl’s, and just as wary. She asked, “Do you now understand what it means to have the heart of a cloud?”

Poor Singer’s mouth went dry. He bent to lap water from the floor, cooling his hot throat, calming his nerves. The moisture tasted sweet and warm. He licked his muzzle to dry it.

“I believe,” he answered through a long exhalation, “that the heart of a cloud is tears, Keeper. I’ve been thinking a lot about it. We often speak of the Cloud People shedding tears for us, to give us life. Rain is their tears.”

A bare smile touched her face. “And walking upon the wind? Do you know what that means?”

Poor Singer shifted uncertainly. He had been worried about this one. His tail brushed the stone wall as he thought about it. “If I lived in the heart of a cloud, I would be able to look down upon the world from high above the chaos, to see it more clearly. I think that’s what it means. If I could live inside the tears of others, I would see life more clearly.”

As though she found the rounded pits in the stone floor fascinating, she thoughtfully smoothed her fingers over them. When she looked up again, her dark eyes seemed to fill half of her beautiful face. “Your offering tonight proves you have grown the heart of a cloud. You are a Singer. Your people need you.” She rose to her feet and her red dress swayed about her tall body. “Now go and walk upon the wind. Tell your grandfather what you did here. What you saw here. He will understand.”

She started back for the trail that skirted the dark pond, and Poor Singer sat up. “But, wait! What about my offering? Do you accept it? Will you help me to save Ironwood’s life?”

The Keeper of the Tortoise Bundle bowed her head. “If you will do as I told you, you will be a very great Singer one day. Make your life an offering, Poor Singer. It will save far more people than your death. Someday, when you are able, return here. I will teach you what I know of clouds and tears.”

She walked around the trail and vanished into the crevice in the cave. The pond wavered from the breath of her passing, and fragments of light danced over the walls.

Poor Singer stood on weak legs. He started back up the tunnel, his head hanging low, feeling numb.

“Poor Singer?”

The call was faint. He turned to look into the maw of the cave, but saw only darkness.

As he pushed through the tangle of barberry and out into the bright moonlight, he felt something, like a hand upon his shoulder. Frightened, he whirled around, breathing hard, scanning the snowy meadow and the glistening peaks, but …

“Poor Singer?”

*   *   *

He jerked awake, gasping, staring wide-eyed at the coral gleam of dawn. Charcoal clouds drifted on the eastern horizon, their bellies clothed in the palest of golds. Cornsilk knelt beside him. She wore a clean black-and-white cape and buckskin moccasins. A thick black braid draped her left shoulder. Her wound had healed, but an ugly yellow bruise remained around the raw pink scar high on her cheek. His gaze drifted from the scar to her full lips, pointed nose, and the oval line of her jaw. He sat up and hugged her fiercely.

Heartsick and weary, he cried, “Oh, Cornsilk, I’m so glad to see you.” The feel of her slender body against his soothed him.

She slipped her arms around his waist and hugged him back. “I half-expected to find you spinning around and flapping your arms like a moth.”

“This time … well, I had to learn to be a cloud.”

She gently pushed back and looked him over in detail, as if checking to see what injuries he’d sustained during the transformation. Apparently satisfied he was all right, she unslung a small pack from her back and unlaced the ties. “I knew you’d be starving. Can you eat now? Did you learn to be a cloud?”

He nodded, feeling curiously floaty, and cold, terribly cold, deep down. “I’m starving. What did you bring?”

Cornsilk sat beside him on the gray limestone and pulled out two bags. “Your grandmother, Downy Girl, gave me venison jerky and ricegrass-seed bread.” Cornsilk’s dark brows drew together as she searched his face. “But you’ve been fasting for many days, Poor Singer. You’d better just eat a little. You might throw up.”

“I’m willing to take that chance.”

Cornsilk handed him a length of jerky and pulled out a gut water bag. “Drink this first, Poor Singer. It will cushion your empty stomach.”

Poor Singer took three sips and handed the bag back. “Thank you, that tasted good.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and took a small bite of the jerky. His stomach squealed and cramped.

Cornsilk watched him closely. Behind her an eagle soared through the morning sky. Its long wings flashed gold as it dipped into the wind and sailed westward. She said, “Are you all right, Poor Singer?”

He took another small bite. “So far.”

“Good. We have a long walk back to Gila Monster Cliffs Village.”

“We do?”

“Poor Singer,” she said with a frown, “it took me four days to find you. Fortunately you left a trail clear enough that a five-summers-old child could have followed. But, in your condition, it will take us at least three days to get back.” Cornsilk’s expression turned contemplative. “And I think, Poor Singer, that we should get back as soon as possible. Jay Bird is very worried about you.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t send ten men to drag me back.”

“Both Dune and I asked him not to.”

Poor Singer’s brows raised. “And he listened?”

“Dune had that look in his eyes, you know the one I mean? It’s like a shout, telling you that all the evil Spirits in Creation will be loosed upon you if you don’t obey?”

He nodded, and sighed. “Boy, do I know that look.”

“I pleaded with Jay Bird to let me search for you. He watched me for a long time with his eyes squinted. Then he nodded and said he trusted me—because you loved me. He gave me permission to find you.”

Poor Singer reached out and took her hand. Her fingers felt thin and delicate in his grasp. “Cornsilk, I do love you. I want to be with you always. If … if you want to be with me?”

She gave him a sad smile that broke his heart. “I want that more than anything in the world, Poor Singer.” And her smile faded. She turned away. “But I don’t know where we’ll ever find a home. My mother—Thistle—has decided to stay here, at Gila Monster Cliffs. But I can’t, Poor Singer. Nor can I go back to the Straight Path nation, and my father…”

Poor Singer lowered his jerky to his lap and frowned. He must be all right. The Keeper said … seemed to say …

“Cornsilk? What’s happened while I’ve been away?”

She shoved a rock out of the way and slid over next to him, as if needing his closeness. “Your grandfather regrets that he killed Sternlight in front of you.” She frowned at the ground. “I didn’t know Sternlight well, Poor Singer, but he was kind to me. I will miss him.”

“So will I.”

“Even though he murdered your mother?”

“I didn’t know her at all, Cornsilk.” Poor Singer took another bite of jerky. She clearly didn’t wish to speak about her father yet. He chewed slowly, giving her more time. The jerky had a tangy flavor he didn’t recognize, like cedar bark smoke mixed with phlox blossoms. “I’m still uncertain how to feel about Sternlight killing her to save me, but I know he did what he thought he had to. There is honor in that.” He glanced at her and found Cornsilk scooping the pine needles between her feet into a pile. “And the others?” he asked cautiously. “What has happened to them?”

“Your reaction to Sternlight’s murder seemed to temper Jay Bird’s anger. He freed Night Sun and Dune, though guards follow them wherever they go in the village.” She paused, her mouth open.

Fear charged his drained muscles. “And your father? Tell me about Ironwood.”

She sat quietly for several moments, watching the sky turn from pink to a rich shade of amber. Sunlight struck the highest peaks first, and the pockets of snow seemed to burn. Then, as Father Sun’s face peeked over the horizon, light flooded the lowlands, chasing away the last vestiges of night.

“Cornsilk.” His gut twisted. “Is your father still alive?”

“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “When I left, he was still locked in the pen. But I’d heard rumors that Jay Bird was planning on sending guards to drag him out.” She knotted her fists. Cool fragrant breezes blew up from the meadow below them, tearing strands of black hair loose from her braid and fluttering them about her pretty face. “To begin torturing him.”

Poor Singer dragged her pack over, tucked the remaining food back inside, and tied the laces. Then he slipped his arm over Cornsilk’s shoulders. “Could you help me up? We need to leave now, and I’m not very strong.”

Cornsilk put an arm around his waist and hugged him tightly. “I’ll carry you all the way back, if necessary.”

Poor Singer rose on weak knees, and they began picking their way down the trail.