People of the Silence by Kathleen O'Neal & Gear Gear & Kathleen O'Neal & Gear Gear

Author:Kathleen O'Neal & Gear Gear & Kathleen O'Neal & Gear Gear [Gear, Kathleen O'Neal & Gear, W. Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates

Twenty-Eight

Ironwood sat on the bottom step of the stairway that led down into the First People’s kiva, his head in his hands. Wind Baby raged outside, shivering the bones of Talon Town and breathing cold down his back. The worn softness of his red cotton cape did little to block the chill. A fire burned at the opposite end of the kiva, one hundred and four hands away, but almost none of the heat reached him.

He pulled his cape more tightly closed and gazed around the beautiful chamber. Four square pillars, painted red, supported the pine log roof, and three levels of benches ringed the kiva; the lowest was painted yellow, the next red, and the highest level blue. On holy days they seated all of Straight Path Canyon’s three hundred First People. Thirty-six small crypts sank into the white walls, holding bowls of cornmeal and precious ceremonial objects such as dancesticks, yucca whips, and antelope hoof rattles. Above each crypt hung a magnificent thlatsina mask.

He should have felt safe here, surrounded by the gods, with two great holy men, Dune and Sternlight, standing in front of him, and the sacred scent of cedar filling his nostrils. But as he listened to their low voices discussing Cloud Playing’s murder, deep weariness settled in his muscles.

“Why would someone do this?” Sternlight said in an agonized voice. “I don’t understand.”

The light of the flames dyed Sternlight’s taut face orange, and reflected from Dune’s faded old eyes. Both men wore white ritual shirts and knee-high white moccasins.

Dune said, “Killing is a form of mourning, Sternlight. It is an expression of grief. To find the murderer we must discover the source of the pain.”

On either side of the chamber stood large rectangular foot drums. Hollow masonry structures, fifteen hands long and eight hands wide, they had been plastered and painted white, then covered with rawhide. During ceremonials musicians sat on the edges of the masonry boxes and beat the drums with their feet.

Cloud Playing’s body rested on the drum to Ironwood’s left, Crow Beard’s on the drum to his right. Turquoise-studded Death Blankets covered them.

Dune and Sternlight had removed Cloud Playing’s blood-soaked dress, and washed her flesh and long hair with yucca soap. Her silver temples shone. The four spirals tattooed on her chin looked very black against her pale face.

“Here,” Dune said as he handed Sternlight a wooden comb. “Let us finish this last task, so we can both rest. It’s been a long day.”

Sternlight took the comb and carefully separated Cloud Playing’s hair into three parts, then began braiding it.

Dune’s white bushy brows knitted. “The source of the pain,” he repeated.

Sternlight glanced at him. “You mean an old wound?”

“Yes. One that has never stopped bleeding.”

“But this is not simply murder, Dune,” Sternlight said. “She was mutilated! This was a terrible, violent—”

“Everything violent is, in its heart, something helpless, reaching out for help.” Dune’s eyes drifted to the thlatsina masks. “Our task, Sternlight, is to offer help.”

“Help the murderer?” Ironwood asked too loudly. His voice seemed to ring in the firelit stillness.

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