The Two Hearted: A Native American Historical Mystery Series (The Anasazi Mysteries Book 4) by W. Michael Gear & Kathleen O'Neal Gear

Author:W. Michael Gear & Kathleen O'Neal Gear [Gear, W. Michael & Gear, Kathleen O'Neal]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
ISBN: 9781639773954
Publisher: Wolfpack Publishing
Published: 2023-11-20T16:00:00+00:00

17

Flute music rose from the depths of the great kiva and streamed over Longtail village like colorful ribbons. Redcrop listened to it as she walked by the kiva and took the trail down to the river. The plaza bonfire had been stoked to a blaze. Waves of orange light washed the plastered walls and illuminated the faces in the crowd.

The farther she walked from the village, the lighter her steps became. She would not have to stand bravely while people patted her arms or took her hands to share their misery. She would be spared the torment.

Redcrop trotted down the leaf-choked trail. As the cold deepened, mist curled from the river and twined through the cottonwood branches. Her long white cape rustled as it trailed over the glistening bed of leaves.

She did not look across the river at the place where her grandmother had been tortured and killed. She paused only a moment at the spot where the murderer had attacked the Matron, then hurried on toward the grave. Somewhere out there in the growing darkness, Browser and Catkin watched her. She trusted them to keep her safe.

When the trail turned damp and slick, she slowed down and placed her knee-length white moccasins with care, bracing her hands on tree trunks to steady herself.

She felt no fear. In the past two days, she had eaten her own heart, leaving her chest hollow and numb. Tomorrow, when Straighthorn came to watch her, perhaps she would feel something. She would be able to look out across the rolling hills and imagine that she saw him standing tall and straight, his bow and quiver slung over his shoulder.

She would not actually see him, of course. He was much too fine a warrior to let anyone observe where he was watching from. But she would dream, and inside, he would be with her.

The thought comforted her.

Redcrop gathered up her cape to step over a log that lay in the path. The beautiful curving trails of worms decorated the bark. As she stepped across, she saw the heart-shaped prints that sank into the mud at the river’s edge. The doe had come down to drink, then bounded away into the brush. The tracks were fresh. Redcrop’s movements had probably spooked her.

A drum boomed, and Redcrop turned to look back at the village. She could picture the drummer emerging from the kiva and trotting into the plaza. He would be wearing a buffalo-hide cape painted with red wolves, coyotes, eagles, and ravens, the special Spirit Helpers of the Katsinas’ People. Two flutes joined the drumbeat, and a wave of coughing went through the crowd as people readied themselves to greet the sacred beings.

Redcrop turned back to the trail. Sister Moon perched on the eastern horizon. Huge and perfectly round, her pale gold face floated in a gauzy layer of clouds.

She rounded the final bend in the trail and noticed the fresh pile of dirt, darker than the other soil. But it wasn’t over the grave; it formed a hump to the right.

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