The Last Sundancer (22 page)

“Mine.” Kaichen spoke with a finality that held him in thrall. 

Amara did not look back as he stood watching her walk toward his friend.   Kaichen turned to stare at the place where Amara had battled death and his grip tightened around his weapon in silent challenge.  Death would not find Amara while she was in his care.  

It was only at that moment
that Kaichen realized that the walls of stone that he had built around his heart had slowly broken down.   Amara rested in the place where his heart used to be and he had never known such hope or peace before in his life.  

The sun crested the red rock canyons that rimmed the land in all directions.  Denoa worked along with the other women of her band, just as she had from the time that her legs could carry her until now.  They toiled over the land as they fought to sow the seeds that would ensure
another season of life for their people.

“Perhaps we will be blessed this time and the land will produce a bountiful harvest.” One of the women murmured her hope with fervent ardor. 

Each day the women formed gathering groups as they climbed into the high forests in search of berries, roots, pinecones, bloom stalks and seedlings.  Nothing was overlooked or wasted.  Each woman carried a basket, which had been formed by her own hands.  What woman did not know the sound of her grinding stone as she deftly turned the small round stone in her hands? 

Such things had been passed down to the women of her band for generations.   Denoa’s own grinding stone had belonged to her mother and her mother before her.  At
times, she could almost hear her mother’s voice as she worked so deep was the harmony of stone as passed down from mother to daughter. 

In better
times, one of their dwellings would be used simply for the purpose of grinding grain into fine powder.  Work was traded amongst those that were able, sometimes even the younger men joined in the task along with the very old.  All were welcome, but it was not the way that able-bodied hunters wanted to spend their time.

Some of Denoa’s best memories had come from shared stories and laughter during the morning’s work.  Those times were long past and had not come around again since the time of their passing.   

Perhaps this would be a bountiful harvest and their people would have enough to eat and feed to their growing children.  

Denoa continued to work without stopping.   Wishing for dreams to come true was not her way.   If such a thing was possible then she would have her heart’s desire and she would have her sons with her always.  Both of her sons.  

How was it that her heart still ached for Siada?  Her son was gone and had rested in the red ground for more seasons than she cared to count.   Yet her heart was a mother’s heart and she could not forget the shining eyes of her second son. 

She could not forget that she had argued for his right to life, only to lose him so many seasons later.   She had not even been able to mark his grave with the antler bones used by her people for such purposes.  How was it that her husband and her son had come to be buried in a secret place? Tears formed in her eyes and she did not bother to brush them away.  

Her grief was a deep well in her heart and at times she wondered if she would ever see an end to the tears that came unbidden to her eyes.  

She had been able to remember the good times shared with Siada and at times it brought her comfort.   But not now.  Not today.  

The moon was full.  If Cohtzen had made it to Azin’s band in time, then Kaichen would surely come.   Denoa raised her head even as she ignored the pain in her back from bending at the waist time and time again.  

She gazed at the land that flowed around her.  This was the land that her people had cultivated for generations.  This was the land that her mother and father had been born to and had died upon.  Their bodies were clothed in the red earth around them as they rested side by side.  This was the land where her husband had walked with her hand in hand.   Shale. 

His name was like a breath on the wind and at times when she closed her eyes she could almost feel his touch.  She could almost see him.   The passage of time had not dampened her love for her husband, though he no longer lived.  She treasured his memory and she would honor him.  

Denoa’s hands clenched in determination.   She was a strong woman and she would not bend under the threat of starvation or the challenges her people faced as they tried to coax grain, squash, corn and beans to grow.  Yet the flooding that came each season had not allowed them to save over enough food to feed so many.  

Each day the women walked in a single path behind the men as they ventured into the forests and meadows.  They carried their gathering baskets upon the hip or the head. 

They walked with determined steps, eager to bring food back to their people.  At times they were successful and at other times they could not find enough to fill even one basket.  

Denoa’s throat ached and she could almost touch the shape and outline of the desire she had to save her people.  It was a living, breathing thing. 

She could not draw the many delicacies of the land to her as some in her band might hope.  She remembered the many treasures held by the gathering baskets of the women in her childhood. 

There had always been an abundance of acorns, nuts and mulberries.  When had her own mother ever returned from searching for food without a basket full of the roots of the yucca plant and the pads of the prickly pear?  

When had the first woman returned to their people without the wild growing beans of the honey mesquite? Who was the first to notice the lack of the acorns that grew abundantly and fell to the ground at the slightest gust of wind? 

Denoa did not have answers to her questions.  She only knew that as she closed her eyes and stood to her full height she could see more clearly with her eyes closed than if she held them wide open.  

She
pretended that she was the sacred eagle soaring over the red land.  She saw stark red sandstone and steep canyons that were more present in number than any person could claim to know. 

She saw the deep earthy spires, ridges and buttes of the place that she called home and she knew what was missing.  Flooding came to the places that her people had chosen as their
central place, washing away their only hope for survival. 

Drought came to the land all around them.  Fresh water was scarce even though they were surrounded by tepid pools of long standing water and never ending mud.  

Denoa opened her eyes as one of the women cried out.  For a moment, she refused to look, she refused to be disappointed.  Finally, Denoa looked to the ridges for her son.  The other women began to point and some even stepped back in fear. 

Marauding bands that raided and pillaged the land were common and all present knew that such a thing was a constant threat.  
However, that was not what caught the attention of the women and men that worked under the hand of the burning sun. 

Up high, on the ridge above them, a lone figure stood lo
oking down upon their people. He stood proudly, with the stance of a warrior and the lithe movements of a hunter.  

If the dust-
filled wind had not caught hold of his long black hair then Denoa was certain that all would think he was made of stone itself, for he appeared to be standing as still as the rocky ridges around them.  

His skin was the color of the
land and his eyes were fiercely lit from within.  Denoa could feel the cold touch of his gaze and she knew that he looked only at her.

She was glad that she was standing with her knees locked into position.  If she had looked upon this powerful man at any other time, perhaps she would have simply crumbled to the ground and wept
, but she could not give in to the temptation to weep.  Her people watched her closely, seeking her reaction. 

Denoa kept her face free from any show of emotion.  She could not let them see that she had felt even a moment of doubt. 

Her heart knew a moment of despair as the man finally moved.  He turned away.  But then as she held her breath, he turned to face them and held his hands with his palms raised to the sky in greeting. 

“Do no simply stare!  Make ready!  Make ready!” Several of the women crowded around Denoa seeking her wise counsel.  “What shall we do, how should we welcome him?”

Denoa stared at the women around her, they were well known to her and she understood them far better than they would ever imagine.  Relief was evident upon many of their faces.  They had doubted that the man on the ridge would heed her plea.  They had doubted that he would return to them at all.

“You should remember that the man that you greet
is my son and he is also the future of our village.” With those words Denoa turned away. 

She would greet her son alone
, away from the prying eyes of her people.  She needed time to compose herself and calm her heart which beat furiously within her breast.

Kaichen had returned.  He had honored her plea for his help.

She should feel relief, but instead her body quaked with fear and trepidation.  She knew what her people did not. 

Her son, the only child left to her, hated her with an intensity that could shake the world. 

Kaichen looked down at the band of his birth.  They were a people bathed in red from the dust and mud that caked their legs and hands.  Childish giggles did not bubble up from the children present.  They were subdued and quiet.  Hunger was plain to see on the faces of those that he had called uncle, aunt and cousin during his own childhood.  

In the midst of a group of women, Kaichen caught sight of the one woman that he could never forget.  His mother, Denoa, stared up at him. 

Her chin was held at an obstinate angle and her eyes were shadowed with fatigue but she did not look away.   Her figure was slim and reed thin, though he had always known her to be more fully curved. 

Her long black hair hung in a braid to her waist and she had a beautifully woven basket upon her back.  She was clothed in a well worn dress that fell to her knees.  She did not wear coverings upon her feet. 

He caught no sign of jewelry or any other adornment.  Even though she was dressed much like the other women
he recognized her at once. 

Kaichen was not moved by the fragile set of her shoulders.  He was not assaulted by the pain of having been away from his mother for so many seasons. 

He felt only a burning hatred for the woman that stared up at him as if she was not surprised by his presence.  She had summoned him, leaning upon his responsibility to the band of his birth. 

Worst of all
, she had invoked the name of his father in her demand that he return to their people.  For as long as he could remember, he had never heard his mother utter his father’s name, not even when she repeatedly told him the stories of his father’s life.  Kaichen realized that there had been a time when he would have forgiven her anything, but that was before she had given them over to Narin and that was before she had knowingly sacrificed her son, his brother and twin, Siada.  

He glanced at his horse and Antuk’s donkey. 

The animals were on their last legs, having been sorely treated, though he did his best to tend to them, they needed rest. 

Kaichen turned to
look at Antuk and Amara.  They were nervous, tired and weary from long days of travel without enough to drink and with little to nothing to eat. 

Amara did not utter a word of complaint, but her body showed signs of fatigue and her eyes
lacked the lustrous shine that had become familiar to him.  

He could not simply turn to them and say that he had changed his mind, that he had made a mistake.  

Kaichen set his jaw and made a decision that he hoped he would not regret.  He turned back to face his people and took in the sight of his mother and father’s loved ones watching him in return.  Kaichen did not speak; instead he raised his palms to the sky in greeting. 

He made a powerful sight standing against the outline of the heavens with the red rocks of the land set before him.   He heard the word that the people whispered as they
looked up at him.   He knew that his mother had stirred their belief that he alone would be their salvation.  Kaichen turned away from the seeking eyes of his people as the weight of their combined hope threatened to force the air from his lungs with every inhalation of breath.

Amara could barely stand.  Her strength had deserted her two days ago and since that time she had moved forward with the aid of her will and the last of her strength.  Kaichen and Antuk gave her water and hunted for food, but she could not seem to regain
her strength.  Amara knew what caused her spirit to waste away, grief for her mother and for her band churned inside of her with every footstep.  

Kaichen returned to them silently, as was his way.  Amara saw the rigid line of his jaw and the way that his shoulders were held tight with tension.   She could not understand why he had reason to be angry or upset.  He had returned to his people.  It was reason for rejoicing and happiness.  Yet, Amara had come to trust Kaichen’s instincts and his unease translated itself to her.  She noticed that Antuk and the animals were subdued as well.  Perhaps she was not the only one that looked to Kaichen for reassurance.