Free People of the Silence by Kathleen O'Neal & Gear Gear Page B

cold.
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    Buckthorn’s yellow cape billowed in the dawn breeze that gusted along the sandstone cliffs and whimpered through the village. An azure halo swelled in the east, throwing the canyon walls into silhouette. One by one the stars twinkled out of existence, and the clay-washed walls of Windflower Village turned a soft robin’s-egg blue. Ladder legs extended from some of the roofs; pine poles poked out in lines along the ceilings, some hung with peppers and shocks of dried corn or yucca leaves. The square shoulders of the village seemed to dominate the beaten-earth plaza where he’d played as a boy. The sacred kiva on the rise west of the plaza still hid in its dark cloak of shadows.
    Buckthorn gazed at it longingly. His old life, the life of the child he had been, had been eaten away in there. A new man had been born in that boy’s place. He didn’t know this man, yet. But I want to, very badly.
    People began to wake. An infant cried, and a soft voice responded, soothing the child. Someone coughed. He could hear some elders now, their arms lifted as they Sang to greet the new day. Gentle wisps of smoke rose from the morning fires, lacing the air with the scent of burning juniper.
    Buckthorn tipped back his head, raising his hooked nose, and breathed in the cool earthy air. He’d plaited his black hair into two braids that covered his ears, protecting them from the wintry chill. The ends hung down on his chest. A new pair of yucca sandals adorned his feet. His mother had made them for him, and just looking at their fine workmanship made his soul ache. The weaving over the toes was tight and perfect. The shell bells tied to the ends of the laces clicked pleasantly with each step he took.
    Snow Mountain ducked beneath the door curtain of their house and walked across the plaza. Silver-streaked black hair hung loosely about the shoulders of her turkey-feather cape. Her feet in their tall moccasins passed silently over the frozen sand.
    She knelt on the ground at his side and tucked freshly-made blue corncakes into his top pack. In the soft gleam of dawn, she looked sad, but pride glowed in her dark eyes. Few youths received the village elders’ blessings to become Singers, and fewer still were sent off to the holy Derelict for training.
    Buckthorn couldn’t believe he had been one of the chosen. At any moment, the dream would vanish, and he’d wake up the same skinny youth he’d always been.
    His mother used a braided rawhide thong to tie his three packs together—one for himself, and two for Dune, the latter filled with gifts from Windflower Village. Buckthorn’s breathing went shallow when he looked at those packs. His relatives had contributed their finest belongings: beautiful flutes; two of the renowned Windflower pots, with their reddish-brown slip; decorated baskets, so tightly woven they’d hold water; a few precious turquoise fetishes; a masterfully carved set of the Great Warriors; and other things. They had parted with these treasures willingly, believing that when Buckthorn became a great Singer, he would pay them back tenfold.
    And I will. I’ll learn every lesson the holy Derelict wishes to teach me. I will memorize every Healing plant and Song.
    Dune the Derelict had a reputation for paradoxical instruction. Buckthorn had known two young Singers who had been sent to Dune and come running home after a single day of what they called “the holy Derelict’s madness.” Both of those young men had failed and taken up lives as farmers—but Buckthorn would not fail.
    A yearning lived inside him. He would speak to the Cloud People in their own language. He would be able to recognize fiendish witches and cure the sick. He would Sing and Dance for his people, bringing rain and bountiful harvests, giving them life itself.
    Hallowed thlatsinas, I promise to try very hard. I beg you to help me.
    He looked south, across the misty waters of the River of Souls, beyond the line of sandstone cliffs