A
S THE AFTERNOON WANED, SHADOWS STRETCHED ACROSS Longtail village and the world turned cold and gray. The scents of freshly split cedar logs and roasting corn cakes filled the air. People crowded the plaza, speaking softly to each other. Sobs occasionally broke through the general din of voices.
Catkin stood near the central plaza fire, guarding the village elders. The breeze flapped her long red war shirt around her black leggings. She’d coiled her braid at the base of her head and secured it with a shell pin. The style accented the oval shape of her face and her turned-up nose.
“I can’t believe it,” Springbank said and shook his white head. He looked so forlorn, as though utterly lost without Flame Carrier. “How could this happen to us?”
His toothless mouth sunk in over his gums. He kept turning his teacup in his hands. He had been with Flame Carrier since the beginning, and her death had devastated him. To make matters worse, less than a hand of time ago Browser had gathered the elders and told them the tale of Aspen village.
No one felt safe. All of the elders had blankets wrapped around their hunched shoulders, which they tugged at constantly, pulling them closed, then opening them, or readjusting them.
Wading Bird sat on the log beside Springbank. Bald, with a lumpy nose, he had severely bowed legs. Catkin couldn’t hear his words, but he spoke to Springbank in a soothing voice.
On the opposite side of the fire, Crossbill, the Longtail Clan Matron, hunched over the big, corrugated-ware stew pot propped on a tripod of rocks at the edge of the flames. She’d pulled her black-and-white blanket up over her head, but tufts of snowy hair stuck out around the edges. As she stirred the pot, the delicious fragrance of venison stew,
thickened with blue cornmeal, rose. To her left, a teapot sat in the ashes, surrounded by nests of pottery cups, bowls, and horn spoons.
Catkin’s stomach growled. She’d eaten a huge meal at noon, but after the long run home, her body couldn’t seem to get enough food. It didn’t help that her nerves still hummed. Like a war prisoner, she found herself waiting for the next blow to land.
Guards crouched on the walls, two to her left and two to her right. Another six stood on high points in the distance. Many people sat eating supper around the plaza, their voices low and somber. Others stood near the walls and the safety of doorways.
The elderly Trader, Old Pigeontail, had come through at noon. While he’d bargained for corn and pots, he’d reported the latest news from other villages and asked about happenings here in Longtail. Dozens of upset people had poured out their grief to him. The Trader had listened with wide eyes. Once word of Flame Carrier’s death reached the nearby villages, a flood of mourners would start arriving, and their enemies would be alerted. The death of a leader always caused confusion and internal strife. A wise enemy would take advantage of that.
Catkin turned when she saw Stone Ghost and Browser walk around the turkey pen at the southeastern corner of the village. Her eyes clung to Browser. Just seeing him lessened her worry, and allowed her to get a deep breath into her lungs. It did not matter that she could never tell him how she felt about him—her love for him sustained her; it gave her the strength and courage she needed to fight at his side. If his companionship was all he could ever give her, it would be enough.
Browser lifted his head suddenly, glaring over the heads in the crowd, and Catkin followed his gaze.
Five paces to Catkin’s right, Obsidian sat on a beautifully tanned elkhide surrounded by several other women and children from her clan. The dark blue hood of her cape covered her face, but the expressions of the other women told Catkin a great deal. Their eyes glittered like those of young warriors listening to a war chief’s orders. Obsidian and her people were a curious group. They claimed they’d lived here for ten sun cycles, but few of the rooms in the village had been lived in. Most had collapsed and fallen into disuse, and the members of the Longtail Clan had made no attempt to repair them, not even the beautiful great kiva. They never attempted to join activities, or help the Katsinas’ People clean up around the village. They seemed to prefer
their own counsel. They hunted, cooked, and prepared their own food. They skinned and tanned their own hides. They wove their own cloth.
Wind Baby whirled through the plaza, and Catkin’s knee-length shirt whipped around. She watched Browser clench his teeth and start forward again. He had changed out of his bloody clothing and wore a long buckskin war shirt. His fringed sleeves danced in time with his gait.
Browser’s thick black brows drew together over his flat nose as he came to her side. “How is everything?”
“People are grieving and frightened. As they should be. You checked on the guards?”
“Yes. Everyone is fine, holding their positions on the high points around the village. I searched the river again, too. Skink was right. The murderers’ tracks vanish a few body lengths from the torture site.”
Catkin heard the dread in his voice, and said, “They are experts at vanishing, Browser. They could have walked on the stones at the river’s edge. Perhaps they even braved the cold water and waded in the river until they could step out on a sandstone slab and escape. The lack of tracks does not mean they are flying about on rawhide shields.”
He propped his hands on his hips and bowed his head. “No, I know. It’s just that—”
When he did not finish, Catkin wanted to reach out and touch him to comfort him. But she said only, “Did you ask your uncle about ‘The Two’ coming home?”
Browser nodded. “He told me that sixty-five summers ago, our bathing pool was called the Witches’ Water Pocket.”
Catkin tried to figure out what that had to do with The Two. “What does that—”
“Your guess is as good as mine. I assume he was telling me that The Two are witches who lived here in Longtail village sixty or more sun cycles ago.”
Catkin frowned. “Then they must be as old as Our Grandmother Earth.”
“I’ve heard my uncle say that Two Hearts is at least sixty. No one really knows his age.”
That day outside Talon Town, before Browser rescued her, Catkin had spoken with the monster soul that lived inside Ash Girl. The
monster had called himself Yellow Dove. Yellow Dove had talked about Ash Girl’s father, a murderous witch who had killed over a dozen women and girls in Straight Path Canyon:
“He’s tricky. He disguises himself. He thinks you have his Turquoise Wolf. He has done so many things evil things in his life, he knows he will never find his way to the Land of the Dead without it. He’ll be drawn down the Trail of Sorrows, and Spider Woman will burn him up in her pinyon pine fire.”
Catkin said, “Then your uncle did not comment on the man’s tracks or the woman’s tracks we found this morning?”
“He did not say they belonged to The Two, if that’s what you’re asking. But I think he believes it, Catkin.” Browser’s shoulder muscles bulged through his leather war shirt, as if he’d just steeled himself against the truth.
Catkin’s gaze held Browser’s for a few heartbeats.
Then Browser’s eyes shifted to Stone Ghost. The old man had seated himself to Crossbill’s left and dipped a cup of tea. His shoulder-length white hair blew around his deeply wrinkled face.
As night settled upon the desert, the autumn leaves on the cottonwoods went from bright yellow to a deep indigo. The chill ate into Catkin’s arms. Stone Ghost threw more wood onto the fire, and fragrant coils of cedar smoke drifted into the dusk sky.
Browser said, “When do you expect the search parties to return?”
“Three or four hands after nightfall.”
Stone Ghost and Crossbill spoke in low, ominous tones. Browser seemed to be halfheartedly listening to their conversation. “I just saw Redcrop. She does not look well.”
“She is fourteen summers, Browser. I spoke to her before she went into the kiva with Cloudblower. She was shaking badly. She could barely walk, and her eyes had almost swollen shut.”
“Cloudblower is taking care of her?”
“As well as Cloudblower can, given her other duties. I don’t think Redcrop has eaten all day.”
“Well, I haven’t either. Have you?”
“Yes, but I’m still starving.”
“We are no good to anyone if we’re concentrating on our rumbling stomachs. Let’s see if we can share the elders’ pot of venison stew. Come.”
Catkin followed Browser around the fire. He crouched to the left of Stone Ghost, and Catkin sat down cross-legged to Browser’s left.
Springbank and Wading Bird looked up and nodded to them. From across the fire, Crossbill watched Catkin with wise old eyes. Skinny and snowy-haired, she clutched her teacup with knobby hands.
Stone Ghost reached out to touch Browser’s arm. “You must both be hungry. Let me fill bowls for you.”
Crossbill said, “I seasoned the stew with beeweed and dried onions, then added some blue corn flour to thicken it. It’s very tasty.”
“I’m sure it is, Matron,” Browser said and smiled in gratitude. “We thank you.”
Stone Ghost dipped up the first bowl, tucked a spoon into it, and handed it to Catkin. The sweet scents of roasted corn and venison bathed her face.
Stone Ghost handed the next bowl to Browser and continued filling and passing bowls until everyone around the fire had one.
Springbank ate a bite, then gestured at Browser with his spoon. In a strained elderly voice, he said, “Why is it that you two were spared at Aspen village? Don’t you think it strange that the white-caped men would kill an entire village and let you live?”
“Yes, Elder, I do,” Browser answered.
Wading Bird said, “It does seem curious. Catkin was standing alone at the top of the trail, and you were locked in the kiva. They could have killed either of you at any time.”
Browser nodded. “I cannot say why we are alive, Elders, except that I had the feeling they needed us alive, to tell the story.”
Springbank uttered a disbelieving grunt. “Even if you hadn’t lived, some Trader would have passed through in the next half moon and we all would have known within days.”
Catkin stared at the flames, but her souls were seeing the face of the wounded woman again, trying to gaze beneath the thick blood-clotted hair and white powder to get some idea of what she might really have looked like. She’d have been slender, with long black hair, but more than that Catkin couldn’t swear to.
Springbank pinned Browser again, shaking his horn spoon. “If these are witches, War Chief, why are they tormenting us? What is it they wish? Have we done something to them?”
Browser shook his head. “I will know more when our warriors return tonight.”
Springbank said,
“If
our warriors return. I pray they do not meet the same fate as the Aspen village warriors.”
Catkin’s stomach muscles clenched. She stared at the flames dancing around the bottom of the stew pot. The same worry plagued her.
Browser said, “My prayers are with them also, Elder.”
Stone Ghost blew on his stew and gazed across the fire at Springbank. “Why is it, Springbank, that you think the witches are tormenting us? I have always thought it curious that people see themselves as the tormented, never as the tormentors. Why do you suppose that is?”
Springbank stopped with his spoon halfway to his toothless mouth. A look of incomprehension rearranged his wrinkles. “What does that mean? Are you saying that our Matron tormented someone? Or that we, the Katsinas’ People, did? And that’s why our Matron was killed?”
Stone Ghost gummed a bite of venison, swallowed, and said, “Killing is a form of grieving, Springbank. The killer must have thought your Matron responsible for her pain. I do not know what the killer is mourning, but if we can determine that, we may be able to find her before she strikes again.”
Springbank dropped his spoon into his bowl where it clattered, and gave Stone Ghost a surprised look. “Our Matron was a woman of great charity and compassion. She never tormented anyone! It was not in her nature!”
Stone Ghost lifted a crooked finger. “Ah, that is the truth we see through our eyes, Springbank. I suspect the killer would not agree.”
Wading Bird studied Stone Ghost. His bald head reflected the firelight like a mirror. “You looked at the Matron’s body, yes?”
Stone Ghost nodded. “Yes, twice.”
“What did you discover?”
This time, Springbank leveled his spoon at Stone Ghost. “If you know something, you should have already told us. We have a right to know—”
Stone Ghost interrupted, “Springbank, have you ever wished to kill someone? I don’t mean in war or self-defense, but in anger or hatred? Have you ever watched yourself kill someone on the fabric of your souls?”
Springbank lowered his head. “I regret that I have.”
“What were your reasons?”
Springbank propped his sandal on one of the warm hearthstones, and his turkey feather sock shimmered in the light. “Oh, more than twenty summers ago, there was an old woman who liked to chase my
children around with a stick. One day she beat my ten-summers-old daughter severely. I wished to kill her. I never did, of course, except in my dreams. Why did you ask?”