People of the Sky (11 page)

“It is the Sun Chief,” said Nabamida, as if sensing Kesbe’s curiosity. Something made her ask if the speaker was male or female.

“We do not ask that,” answered Imiya’s uncle in soft rebuke. “One who becomes Sun Chief has gone beyond being either man or woman into becoming spirit.”

Next to her, Imiya was getting up, having been bidden to speak. He told first of the
wuwuchpi’s
attack and the reprisal that led to its death. He spoke not only of his own part in the incident, but of the other child-warriors’ and Kesbe’s.

“It is good that the son of a rain-priest has lived to speak this story,” said one elder, when the boy was finished.

“It is good that Haewi Namij was saved from death. Fliers are of great value to our village,” an old woman added.

“It is good that the meat of the
wuwuchpi
is hanging on our drying poles and will feed us this winter,” said another.

“Yet consider this,” said the Sun Chief, taking a pipe from a wizened mouth. “The killers of Hotopa Wuwuchpi did not ask permission. A life was taken in anger and fear. A balance has been upset. The son of a rain-priest should understand that.”

Nabamida spoke for the first time. “It is known to all here that one life must give way for another. That is the world’s way. The boy Imiya has told you that prayer-sticks were laid on the body after death and the proper words were said. Do these acts not restore balance?”

The Sun Chief’s benign yet powerful gaze swept across the row of child-warriors. “Did all whose weapons touched the flesh of
wuwuchpi
lay
pahos
and pray for the slain?”

The young voices replied in chorus. Yes, those things had been done.

“Were the
pahos
well made? Were they left for a full night before any meat was taken?” asked the Sun Chief.

Imiya and the other child-warriors answered that they were. Nabamida faced his nephew. “Do you believe that the spirit of Hotopa Wuwuchpi is now satisfied?”

Imiya thought for a while. “There may be a little anger left. We will make sacrifice to the spirit of Hotopa Wuwuchpi.”

“And the stranger, she-who-has-no-clan?” The husky voice of Sahacat was heard for the first time in the gathering.

“She is not of the Pai Yinaye,” said Nabamida. “She is not bound by our ways.”

“By coming among us, she has influenced us,” Sahacat answered. “She is bound by that.”

“Had she not come, Imiya and Haewi would have been food for the
wuwuchpi
,” countered Nabamida.

“The good resulting from her actions I do not dispute. I ask only if she understands the true meaning of what she did.”

Imiya glanced sideways at Kesbe. She knew she had been the last to place her prayer-feather and had come close to refusing. She had done it without belief, almost with condescension. Was this what the boy would say?

Imiya spoke slowly. “She made a paho and placed it beside mine. She chanted the right words and she finished the ceremony even though she was wounded.”

The Sun Chief fixed her with eyes made colorless by age. “You made a paho and prayed for the spirit of the slain?”

“I did what Imiya asked of me. I thought it was important to him,” she answered honestly. Murmurs went around the room, even though the stranger was not of the Pai Yinaye, she had prayed, made a
paho
.

“Have you done what you thought was right?”

Kesbe met the ancient eyes with a steady stare of her own. “Yes.”

“Then the spirit of Hotopa Wuwuchpi will be satisfied.” The Sun Chief settled back. “And we of the Pai Yinaye are grateful that you acted to save the life of Imiya and Haewi Namij” A smile broke the sternness of that infinitely wrinkled face that was neither man nor woman. “To the leader of the Aronan Kiva, I ask, shall we make celebration in honor of the death of Hotopa Wuwuchpi and the life of the hunters?”

A craggy man who looked to be in his late sixties arose, his gray-streaked hair flowing loose across his shoulders. “To the Sun Chief, I answer that the Aronan Kiva will prepare the celebration.”

“To me it seems that the Pai Yinaye have been given a gift by this stranger,” said Nabamida. “Should we not offer one in return?”

Again the Sun Chief’s gaze went to Kesbe. “I see in your eyes that we can give you something.”

An aronan
. The thought nearly shaped itself into words on her lips. She held the desire back, hoping the Sun Chief had not seen it. Instead she answered, “What I need, honored one, is the help of your people. My own flier sits on a distant clifftop. It was hurt in the thunderstorm that brought me here. I need your help to heal it and make it fly again.”

The elders murmured and gestured among themselves until they reached agreement. All of the village youths would be sent, along with ropes, tools or anything else required to rescue
Gooney Berg
. First, however, the tribe would perform a ceremonial so that Hotopa Wuwuchpi’s spirit might truly be put to rest.

After another round of pipe-smoking, the meeting concluded. People filed out, pausing to glance and nod at Kesbe as if she were not a stranger but a friend. Sahacat halted beside her long enough to say, “Keep to your choice. It is well-made,” before she disappeared into the night. Kesbe was too weary to answer or to object when Imiya and several of the other child-warriors lifted her and carried her back to Chamois house.

The next morning, Kesbe dozed, lulled into continued sleep by the dark of the windowless adobe room. But at last the variety of smells coming through the doorway teased her awake. There was the ubiquitous scent of baking
sapiki
waferbread, but other aromas blended in reminded her that this was a feast day. Once she had recovered her crutches, maneuvered herself upright and run one hand through her tangled hair, she hobbled across the clay floor, looking for Chamol. The smells led her outside.

Bright sun dazzled her after the dimness inside the pueblo. She had to squint tightly to see Chamol stooping beside a domed earth oven Nabamida stood by. Both offered her greeting. She answered, not letting herself be visibly startled by the grimace that appeared briefly on both faces. The
tewalutewi
expression she thought to herself, wondering what Chamol had meant by “the knowing sense.”

She leaned on her crutches, letting the sunlight bathe her. The wounded knee was stiff and still throbbed, but the pain was no longer acute. From where she stood outside Chamois doorway, she could see activity throughout the Pai Yinaye village. Women hurried toward the mesa trail, bearing steaming bowls on their heads. Masked dancers trotted past her in a rustle of feather-scale cloaks and ankle rattles. The sound of tools rang in the plaza, where workers were building the pieces of a great pavilion to be assembled on the mesa for the celebration.

With a welcoming smile, Chamol handed Kesbe a crispy piece of hot sapiki waferbread. She laid the rest in a basket and bore it into the house, followed by a hungry-looking Jolo and his small aronan. The sight of the creature made Kesbe think of Imiya and Haewi Namij.

“Where’s your nephew this morning?” she asked Nabamida through a mouthful of tangy waferbread.

“He is in his quarters at Aronan House, preparing for the Cloud Dance. You will see him in the celebration.”

“I thought he lived here, with Chamol.”

“No,” Nabamida answered. “One cannot keep a grown flier in the pueblo. Aronan House was built as a special place for the child-warriors and their mounts.”

“Is that the reason this village is called Tuwayhoima, The-Place-Where-Aronans-Emerge?”

The question seemed to take Nabamida by surprise, though he lost none of his genial manner as he replied, “No, that is not the reason.” He paused and changed the subject. “You are interested in the fliers.”

“We don’t have aronans where I come from. To me, they are very unusual and beautiful. I can’t help but be curious.”

“Of course, of course,” puffed the bowmaker. His lips still smiled beneath his goatee, though a spark of wariness seemed to have crept into his eyes. “And you are not of the Pai Yinaye.”

Kesbe felt her hackles rise at this, though she was sure Nabamida had not meant it as an intentional slight. He seemed to think it strange that she, as a grown woman, should be so taken by the flying creatures. He could only explain it by saying she was from the outside, where tribal rules and customs did not apply.

“Nabamida, I would like to visit Aronan House,” she said, trying not to sound too stiff. “Is it permitted?”

He smoothed his beard with a middle finger, a gesture she had learned was habitual. “Adults do not usually go there, but because it is your wish, and the council looks upon you with favor, I
will take you.”

He evidently assumed she meant now, for without further conversation he set off down the path to the lower part of the village. She followed, taking long crutch-steps to keep up.

Aronan House, unlike the other dwellings in Tuwayhoima, was not set back into the great cavern that sheltered the village, but placed right out on the cliff edge. It appeared to have two levels. The ground entrance was of the same block tee-shaped construction as the doors in Chamois house. The second level had large openings that Kesbe took to be windows until she saw a flier glide in through one. Nabamida spoke quickly to a boy at the entrance, then held the door hangings aside for Kesbe.

She was shown briefly about the ground floor, which contained quarters for the young child-riders. Each small cell held a lash-pole ladder leading to a corresponding stall above it where, Nabamida explained, the child’s mount lived. The aronans entered and left by flying through the large openings on the second floor. The only way up or down for the children was by means of ladders. She saw no ramps or stairways. She stopped and looked up a ladder. “May I?”

Nabamida and the boy exchanged quizzical glances. “I will go first,” said the bowmaker. The ladder bowed under the weight of Nabamida’s stocky frame. Kesbe passed her crutches to him, then hitched her way backwards up the ladder.

She found herself in a long clay-floored chamber divided into low partitions along one side. The room held the strong sage-odor of aronans along with the smell of stone and clay masonry. In each open stall stood a water jar. Hanging from the ceiling was a wooden framework, specially fashioned to allow a flier to hang upside-down while at rest, as one was doing in the end stall. Most of the other partitions were empty. Kesbe felt disappointed.

“They are probably in the courtyard,” said Nabamida, puffing a bit after his ascent. “There was no use in coming up here.”

A rising drone and the sound of scuffling drew her attention from him. At the end of the chamber was another doorway with woven hangings across it shouts and scraping noises came from beyond. Grabbing her crutches, Kesbe hoisted herself up. One of the voices sounded like Imiya’s though the angry buzz was not from Haewi Namij. She smelled something sharp and spicy that intrigued her. Before Nabamida could react, she made her way across the floor and threw back the hangings.

Four teenaged boys surrounded a struggling aronan, trying to leash it with ropes. The creature was losing, but it had put up a good fight, two of the youths were on the floor and one was nursing a bitten hand. But they were gradually forcing the flier into a latticework cage built in one corner of the room. A haze of scale-dust surrounded the combatants.

Kesbe’s appearance startled everyone except the aronan into immobility. The creature took advantage of the distraction to back into a corner, where it crouched, ragged wings lifted menacingly. She saw Imiya pick himself off the floor, his brows bent, his mouth a thin line. “You should not be here.” His gaze went beyond her to Nabamida. “Uncle, take her away.”

Kesbe ignored both of them. “Imiya, you surprise me. After riding and caring for Haewi Namij, how can you mistreat this creature? This has to have some explanation.” Some of the other young men looked startled. She gave them sharp glances.

“This is not something a guest should concern herself with,” said Nabamida mildly.

“When I see what I think is cruelty, I concern myself with it,” Kesbe snapped, feeling her face flush

“You should be sure it is indeed cruelty before you act.” Nabamida paused, faced the youths. “This appears unworthy of you as child-warriors of the Pai Yinaye. To make such a scene in the
presence of one who is a guest and looked upon with favor by the council…”

Imiya fidgeted until Nabamida finished. “Uncle, do you not remember? This is the creature that Mahana’s brother rode until he was killed by the wuwucbpi last spring.”

To Kesbe, that made no difference at all, but it seemed to influence Nabamida. He stroked his beard with his middle finger, his head to one side. “Ah, the troublesome one. Of course you must cage it before the Cloud Dance begins, but dragging it with ropes is not the best way.’

“Nabamida,” Kesbe said, baffled to the point of losing her temper, “could someone explain to me why this flier should be mistreated just because its rider was killed? Do the Pai Yinaye hold the aronan responsible for the young man’s death?”

“No, you do not understand,” interrupted Imiya almost frantically. “If this aronan is left free during the Cloud Dance, it will attack the others and disrupt the ceremony. That would disgrace us in the eyes of Hotopa Wuwuchpi and the rain-spirits. Such a thing nearly happened during the last ceremonial. We had to catch this creature and tether it.”

Kesbe glanced at the aronan crouched defensively in the corner. It had its mandibles fully extended, something she had never seen in the peaceable Haewi Namij. From the look of the wound it had given one of the boys, those mouthparts could be effective weapons. “Why would it attack its fellows during the Cloud Dance?” she asked, still disbelieving.

“Because the boy who flew it in the Dance is now dead,” said Nabamida softly.

“Then it grieves.”

“Yes. It also has lost its role in the ceremonial and mourns for that as well. Yet, were it left loose, the ceremonial would suffer.”

Kesbe was a bit skeptical about attributing such sophisticated understanding to a flier. Nabamida was being too anthropomorphic for her taste. She turned to Imiya. “Do aronans really have those feelings? Does Haewi Namij?”

She regretted her phrasing of the question as soon as she saw the flicker of pain across his face.

“Why should aronans not have such feelings? My Haewi Namij has flown the Cloud Dance for many seasons. The ceremonials are as important to the aronans as they are to us, even though you may think it strange,” the boy retorted.

“Imiya,” said his uncle, in a firm voice. “Though this is the last time you fly Haewi in the Cloud Dance, it is no excuse to be impolite to our guest.” Imiya flushed until he was as red-brown as the adobe of Aronan House. Kesbe wished she wasn’t there. She glanced around. The renegade flier still crouched in the corner.

Nabamida noticed it too. “Imiya, run to the Kiva of Brooding and get Nyentiwakay. Tell Sahacat I sent you. If we must do this thing, at least let us do it properly.”

Eagerly the boy scrambled down the ladder and disappeared. His absence left an awkward silence. “I apologize for my nephew,” Nabamida began. “I do not know why he is so upset. All Pai youths must pass from one life to another, yet it seems so difficult for him.”

Kesbe’s eyes were still on the feral aronan. Something was stirring in her mind that she knew would mean trouble, yet she couldn’t help herself. “It still doesn’t seem right that this poor creature should be caged. Can’t someone else ride it?”

Nabamida sighed while the remaining boys exchanged sideways glances. “Such a thing is not done among the Pai.”

“Then what will be done?”

“That is a painful question. We may be faced with having to drive the rogue away. That has happened before. If it will not go, it will be killed mercifully by poison. The council will decide.”

Kesbe was scarcely able to believe the bowmaker’s words but the solemn look in his round bearded face told her they were true. “Nobody wants this aronan?”

Nabamida was opening his mouth to reply when the ladder creaked and Imiya’s head appeared through the hole. “The
lomucfualt
follows,” he said to Nabamida. Kesbe peered over Nabamida’s shoulder, eager for a glimpse of Nyentiwakay and curious how the presence of this individual would solve the problem of caging the rebellious aronan.

When Nyentiwakay arrived, Kesbe wondered if Imiya had somehow summoned the wrong person. Nyentiwakay looked young, female, and apparently a few months pregnant. The
lomutfualt
, as Imiya had called her, was robed in dark purple, her head covered in a hood so deep that her face was shadowed. The beginning swell of her body was not hidden by the cassock, she walked erect with her head thrown back and her belly thrust forward, proud of her bearing.

Everyone drew aside, making a path for Nyentiwakay to the aronan. It was huddling close to the floor, its head extended in a way that spoke of pain and despair. Its antennae were curled it wanted no contact. It shivered.

To Kesbe, the situation made no sense. Sending a young woman with child to tame such a creature was an act akin to madness. Yet even as Kesbe thought of interfering, Nyentiwakay passed close to her and paused, as if she could sense a stranger’s thoughts.

In that brief instant, Kesbe knew that this girl was more than she seemed. The power of her walk, the length of her stride, the broad-shouldered body that seemed spare despite the beginning swell of pregnancy, gave forth an impression that demanded respect.

The aronan clacked its mouth parts and gave an eerie scraping hiss. Again Kesbe wanted to pull Nyentiwakay back, but the girl was too far away from her. She approached the flier from the side. It curved its head around to face her, lifting its wings. Nyentiwakay began to chant, in a voice that dipped unexpectedly into a tenor. She knelt beside the aronan and still it did not attack.

Kesbe noticed a scent growing throughout the room. At first it was the human smell of sweat and skin, but it quickly became more sexual, reminding Kesbe of the woman-odor that swirled about the healer Sahacat. She was sure that the source was Nyentiwakay. She felt acutely embarrassed and glanced sideways at Nabamida and the young men, wondering what they thought of this.

Though the smell was strong, it was neither unpleasant nor dirty and it did not seem to offend anyone’s nose except for her own, accustomed as she was to deodorized people and environments. It occurred to her that Nyentiwakay’s smell might be an essential part of the young woman’s power.

Nyentiwakay began to stroke the aronan, first gently, then rhythmically. Its antennae began to uncurl and its shuddering ceased. The sharp scintillations that had been crossing its compound eyes like lightning flashes against a thunderhead faded out. The odor emanating from the young woman changed, becoming richer and spicier, then developing a strong overlay that Kesbe could not identify. She found all sorts of thoughts coming unbidden to her mind as the scent flooded her olfactory nerves. Many were random, disconnected, yet loaded with such intensity that she feared she would break into laughter or tears.

Some of the strongest impressions were of aronans. She remembered how she had seen the Imiya’s mount from
Gooney Berg
. She imagined how it would be to fly aboard Haewi Namij, how the wind would sing in her ears and past the aronan’s wings as together they soared the vast spaces between canyon walls. Now, the regret that she would never take flight in that way brought sorrow up from a place inside her she hadn’t known was there. Her desire rushed to the fore, beating hard and hot inside her chest as she looked at Nyentiwakay stroking the aronan.