The People of the Black Sun (16 page)

“What do you think of him personally?”

Sindak shrugged. “He's not innovative, but he's competent. Once he gets settled into the position, I think he's capable of being a good War Chief. However, you should be aware that it won't really matter who Atotarho's war chief is … because Atotarho gives most of the commands himself.”

She listened, processing the information, trying to determine how she might be able to use it. Below, High Matron Kittle and Gonda exited the council house, carrying teacups, and wearily tramped across the plaza toward the Deer Clan Longhouse, undoubtedly praying they could finally get some sleep. Every few paces, someone stopped and demanded to speak with them. The Ruling Council had ordered Jigonsaseh to lead the fight for as long as necessary, which excused her from council meetings—at least until she was sent for. She wondered what decisions had been arrived at, and how it would affect the fight.

“Who do you think was promoted as the leader of Atotarho's personal guards?”

Sindak shrugged. “That's more difficult. I don't think the chief really liked any of his other guards, though they were all good men. Honestly, I can't even guess.”

“Try.”

Suspiciously, he cocked his head. “Why?”

“I need to know if he can be bribed, or convinced that his chief is insane and leading his people to destruction.”

“What you're really saying is you want to know if we can convince him to kill the evil old man. Correct?”

“Yes.”

Sindak unfolded his arms and, as he turned toward her, his dark, deeply sunken eyes reflected the wavering firelight. “Well, he might have opted for a young, strong warrior like Lonkol, or a seasoned veteran like Nesi, his War Chief of many summers ago.” Sindak's brows plunged down over his hooked nose. “If it's Nesi, there is no chance whatsoever of swaying him in our direction. He is a man of great integrity. Loyal to a fault.”

“And if it's Lonkol?”

His head waffled. “Maybe.”

In the plaza, Kittle finally made it to her longhouse, said a few final words to Gonda, and ducked beneath the curtain, disappearing into the warmth. A line of people followed her inside, calling questions.

Gonda took a drink from his teacup and surveyed the village. No one had remained to question him. He was merely a refugee, the Speaker for the Warriors from White Dog Village, a village destroyed by the man standing next to her, War Chief Sindak of the People of the Hills. When Gonda saw Jigonsaseh and Sindak standing together on the catwalk, he tiredly walked toward them.

“If you were still in charge of Atotarho's army, how would your warriors be lined out?”

Sindak's gaze roamed the surrounding hills, then he knelt on the catwalk and started drawing lines in the snow. “Keep in mind, after he left here, Atotarho probably split his army down the middle. He wanted to punish the rogue villages, so I suspect he dispatched three war parties to each village—Coldspring, Riverbank, and Canassatego—with orders to burn them to the ground. He—”

“Explain why you think he would split his army. It would be sheer foolishness.”

Sindak looked up at her. Snowflakes melted on his cheeks. “He's insane. The fact that his daughter Zateri led the betrayal will be eating him alive.”

“If you're right, that means there are only two thousand out there.”

Sindak didn't even blink. “Yes, so we're only outnumbered eight to one. Are you telling me you feel better?”

Gonda's steps crunched the snow as he came up behind Sindak and, teacup in hand, peered inquiringly over Sindak's shoulder at the sketch. His long red cape had an orange tint in the firelight.

Sindak continued, “He has two thousand trained warriors—not children carrying their childhood bows, as fill your ranks. Atotarho's forces will be bedded down on every high point around this village. They'll be concentrated here”—he sketched the position—“here and here. In addition, substantial forces will have been deployed to cut off the trails, to isolate you. Lastly, a thin line will fill in the most vulnerable gaps. Over here in this drainage, and up here where the trail cuts through the cap rock.” He stared for a time at the lines he'd made in the snow, nodded, and stood up again. “At least, that's what I'd do.”

As Gonda handed the warm teacup to Jigonsaseh, he said, “I thought you might be cold.”

“I am. Thank you.”

Gonda glanced back at the lines Sindak had sketched in the snow, and pointedly asked, “Why do we care what Atotarho's
former
War Chief would do? He's not out there. He's in here with us.”

“Because he trained those warriors, you fool,” Sindak defended. “Even you should grasp that. You once trained warriors when you were War Chief Koracoo's deputy—before she removed you in favor of War Chief Cord.”

The lines of Gonda's round face drooped. “Not very subtle, Sindak, pointing out that we both qualify as ‘former.'”

“I thought you'd appreciate that.”

A small amount of her distrust had seeped away as Sindak talked. He didn't appear to be holding anything back, or trying to deceive her. “I heard that Gonda offered to adopt you and your warriors into his clan.”

Gonda nodded. “I did. He refused.”

Sindak knocked off the snow that had accumulated on the shoulders of his cape. “My warriors are considering it. But you know as well as I do that they believe themselves patriots. They desperately want to go home to their families.”

Bluntly, Jigonsaseh said, “Atotarho is going to kill their families, Sindak. They may already be dead. If not, their relatives need to get out now and make their way here. Perhaps you should dispatch one of your warriors with that message? I give you my oath that the Standing Stone nation will adopt any member of their families who—”

“I'll tell them.”

Jigonsaseh turned to watch the enraged sobbing people in the plaza. The circle broke up and men and women sauntered away in different directions.

“Now, Matron, I want you to tell me something,” Sindak said.

Gonda scowled. “That sounded like a command, not a request. You are addressing a member of the Ruling Council, you pusillanimous insect. You will keep a civil tongue—”

She cut Gonda off, “What is it, Sindak?”

Sindak gave Gonda a disgruntled look, then propped his hands on his hips. The motion caused his tan cape to flare out around his body. The white geometric designs on the bottom flashed in the firelight. “We've heard a thousand versions of Sky Messenger's vision. I want to hear it from you. I assume you memorized it to make sure you could repeat it exactly. You wouldn't want to make an error before an enemy council that Sky Messenger would later have to correct.” He pointed a stern finger at her, a warning gesture. “Word for word, Matron.”

She chuckled at his audacity. This was the man she remembered from twelve summers ago. Too brash for his own good.

Gonda's mouth opened to say something vituperative, but she replied, “I did memorize it.”

“Good. I'm listening.”

Images from the vision flared behind her eyes. Brilliant and dark, and reverence filtered through her exhaustion.

 

Thirteen

“Keep in mind, I don't tell it as well as he does.”

“I suspect no one does,” Sindak answered.

Jigonsaseh shook the snow from her hood. Clumps of white fell onto the catwalk. “It will probably help if you imagine his deep voice, not mine.”

Sindak sank back against the palisade again, his intent gaze upon her, totally ignoring Gonda. Snow lilted through the air around him, the big flakes falling slowly. “I'll try.”

She took a drink from the cup of spruce needle tea, and steam curled up around her face. The sweet tangy flavor didn't soothe her taut nerves, but it warmed her belly.

“When the dream begins he can't feel his body, just the air cooling as color leaches from the forest, leaving the land strangely gray and shimmering. As he watches, the blue sky goes leaden, and the rounded patches of light falling through the trees curve into bladelike crescents. That's when he first senses his skin … but it's a faint, not really there, sensation. He has the overwhelming urge to run, but he can't feel his legs at all. His fingers work, clenching into hard fists, unclenching. A great cloud-sea swims beneath him. He says it's a dark restless ocean, punctured by a great tree with flowers of pure light.”

“The sacred World Tree? Whose roots sink through Great Grandmother Earth and plant themselves upon the back of the Great Tortoise floating in the primeval ocean below?”

As images from the Creation Story filled her, she clutched Gonda's teacup more tightly. “Yes.”

Her gaze briefly fixed on Gonda's, then focused on the palisade at the opposite end of the village, behind the Snipe Clan longhouse. Through the veil of snow she saw a group of four warriors talking, their bows slung over muscular shoulders.

“As though the birds know the unthinkable is about to happen, they tuck their beaks beneath their wings and close their eyes, roosting in the middle of the day. Noisy clouds of insects that, only moments ago, twisted through the forest like tiny tornadoes, vanish. Butterflies settle to the ground at Sky Messenger's feet and secret themselves amid the clouds. An eerie silence descends.”

Sindak didn't seem to be breathing. He watched her with slightly narrowed, unblinking eyes.

“Morning Star flares in the darkening sky and, as though she's caused it, fantastic shadow-bands, rapidly moving strips of light and dark, flicker across the meadow. He—”

“So…” Sindak interrupted, “now he's standing in a meadow. The cloud-sea is gone?”

“Let her finish,” Gonda said.

“It's complicated,” she added. “Spirit Dreams have a logic of their own.”

“But where is the meadow? Has he ever seen it before?”

“At this point in the Dream,” she replied, “it nestles in the heart of the cloud-sea.”

“Ah, I understand.” He sank back against the palisade.

As Jigonsaseh told the story, she could hear Sky Messenger's voice, filled with awe and foreboding. “Dimly, he becomes aware that he is not alone. Gray shades drift through the air around him, their hushed voices like the distant cries of lost souls. He knows that they are the last congregation. The dead who still walk and breathe. Then he hears Hiyawento call, ‘Odion?' and he turns to see Hiyawento standing in the meadow beside him. Hiyawento points out beyond the cloud-sea. At the western edge of the world, an amorphous darkness rises from the watery depths and slithers along the horizon—”

“Horned Serpent? The Spirit beast who almost destroyed the world at the dawn of creation?”

Annoyed, she said, “Will you let me finish?”

Sindak's mouth pursed then he said, “But it's hard not to ask questions.”

“Endeavor,” Gonda said.

“I apologize.”

Jigonsaseh sighed. “When strange black curls, like gigantic antlers, spin from the darkness and rake through the cloud-sea, Elder Brother Sun trembles in the sky. Right beside him, a black hole opens in the universe and Elder Brother Sun slowly turns his back on the world to flee. There is a final brilliant flash, and blindingly white feathers sprout from his edges. Sky Messenger is certain that he's flying. Flying away. And he knows that if Elder Brother Sun leaves us, the world will die … unless he does something.”

She swiveled her head to peer at Sindak. He stared at her fixedly. His narrow beaked face was beaded with melted snow.

“Just as Sky Messenger realizes that it is up to him to stop the death of the world, a crack—like the sky splitting—blasts him. He looks down and sees a great pine tree pushing up through a hole in the earth, its four white roots slashing like lightning to the four directions. A snowy blanket of thistledown blows toward it like a great wave, spreading out all over the world.”

Sindak stood so still, he resembled a stuffed man-skin.

“Sky Messenger staggers as his body comes alive in a raging flood. When he turns to speak to the Shades, a child cries out. The sound is muffled and wavering, seeping through the ocean of other voices. It sounds like the little boy is suffocating, his mouth covered with a hand or hide. Fear freezes the air in his lungs. As though the man has his lips pressed to Sky Messenger's ear, he orders, ‘Lie down, boy. Stop crying or I'll cut your heart out.'”

Sindak moved, shifting his back to a new position against the palisade. Clearly, he longed to ask a question, but he held his tongue.

“Then the Dream bursts. For a time, there is only brilliance. Then Sky Messenger sees the flowers of the World Tree, made of pure light, fluttering down. They're all around him, fluttering down into utter darkness … and he's falling, tumbling through nothingness with tufts of cloud trailing behind him.”

When she'd finished, she lifted the teacup, and took another drink. Each telling was like a journey to another world, a place where time ran more slowly, as though the Creator himself were dragging his feet, afraid of what was to come.