The Next Skywatcher: Prequel to The Last Skywatcher Triple Trilogy Series (The Last Skywatcher, Anasazi Historical Thrillers with a Hint of Romance Book 1) (22 page)

“I not think I could anymore,” whispered the girl.

Nuva smoothed her hair. “You speak just fine. What is your name?”

“Wooti.”

“Ah,” said Nuva. “Wooti. That means ‘to get old.’ You have a very long life ahead of you, Wooti.”

The girl clenched her hands together. “Grandmother Haki, Haki-don-muya.” She struggled to speak.

“Yes, I know Haki. Do you know Haki? Did she send you?”

Wooti nodded. “She gave words for to say.”

Nuva smiled. “I would love to hear those words.”

Wooti relaxed a bit. “I try.” She closed her eyes and in halting words, as if speech came to her with the utmost difficulty, she said, “To Nuva, albino woman, great grandmother of all wise women, from Hakidonmuya of Three Waters. I remember your sweet breath. I am in Black Stone Town where a miracle of the gods has occurred. The grandson of Grandfather Skywatcher is here, Tuwa, from your home village, from your own house at the Twins. He has returned to set things right for our people. With him are Choovio and Sowi and Kopavi, and a man wearing a red hat called The Pochtéca, and a dozen orphan children who fight like warriors. I can tell you no more. Ihu and his men are coming. Please take care of this lovely girl. She is to me as a granddaughter.”

The girl opened her eyes.

Nuva sat with her hands clasped to her throat. Chumana’s hands covered her mouth and tears filled her eyes.

“Do you want me to speak it again?” asked Wooti.

Nuva barely nodded her head. Wooti closed her eyes once more and repeated the words, a little more smoothly this time.

Lying at the rim
of the canyon wall overlooking Pók’s camp, Tootsa assured Tuwa that the man with the bloody bandage on his right hand was indeed Pók, the top warrior in Center Place Canyon. The small, wiry man who had murdered Grandfather. Who had tried to murder Tuwa by tossing him into a trash pile. If Nuva hadn’t saved him, he would not be here.

Tuwa watched the beaten and demoralized warriors make camp on a small rise in the canyon floor as if night approached, even though the sun had climbed only two hands high.

They had been lucky to withstand the attack of Pók’s men. Sharp-eyed Natwani had noticed a commotion at first light near where the bean kids had been murdered and began shouting, “Warriors all over the beans!”

The Wild Boys scattered and disappeared as if by magic, and the Pochtécans hid just beneath the rim, below where Peelay stood looking down, dancing and playing his flute. The Pochtéca watched from near Peelay.

It had been truly remarkable. Tuwa still had trouble believing it had happened. The most well-trained warriors in the canyon, at least so said Tootsa and Lightfoot, climbed up the stepped canyon wall with their fingers in their ears as long as Peelay kept a tune going. It had been easier than shooting the new recruits in the narrow canyon. Some of the younger Pochtécans got excited and wasted their arrows by shooting too high, but Sowi and Kopavi took down a warrior with each shot.

When Tuwa looked over the side and saw a man with a bandaged hand, he thought it looked like Pók, but the wounded hand didn’t seem right. Tuwa lobbed stones and very nearly got him. He wished he had.

Even the skittish Wild Boys reappeared to watch. They emerged before Pók retreated, and stood behind Peelay with looks of awe on their faces. Peelay danced and played without pause while the Pochtecans settled to watch and wait, and Pók and his warriors made day camp.

Tuwa lay beside The Pochtéca on the gritty sandstone rim rock and watched Pók’s camp. The Pochtéca had stuffed his red hat into his shirt so he wouldn’t be so easy to see.

“How many did we…?” asked The Pochtéca.

“Why did they do that?” interrupted Tuwa. “Why did they put their fingers in their ears? It’s like they
wanted
to die.”

Lightfoot ran around to stay out of sight from below, and crawled on all fours beside Tuwa. “I’ve never seen anything like that before,” he said. “You guys are like real warriors.”

Tuwa smiled at that. It felt good to be held in awe.

“Tell us why they attacked like that, with their fingers in their ears,” said The Pochtéca.

Lightfoot looked at Tuwa as if The Pochtéca had asked a stupid question. “Because of the flute music.” He looked from The Pochtéca to Tuwa, who raised his eyebrows to emphasize that he, too, wanted to know. Lightfoot shrugged. “The flute music protects us.”

“Except against the raw recruits,” Tuwa said.

“Yeah. It’s no good against them.”

“So why do their trained warriors fear flute music so much?”

Lightfoot sighed. “Because the Bluestone Lady gave a prophecy that said flute music puts a witch spell on you, so they plug their ears, but she doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

“Why did she do that?” Tuwa asked, wondering if the Bluestone Lady could be Chumana. Did she do that on purpose to help? Did she somehow know he was here?

“I don’t know. Maybe she wanted to protect the last trees. Or make people scared of Peelay.”

“When was this prophecy?”

“After the Day Star faded, but you could still see it at night.”

“Why did that make the
warriors
afraid of flute music?” asked Tuwa. The Pochtéca listened with great attention.

“Sometimes they camp where they are now, just a few of them,” said Lightfoot. “And if they hear anybody inside the canyon and Peelay is asleep or something, they’ll run in and grab anyone in here. They cook them and eat them. Sometimes they’ll stay there for an entire moon cycle trying to catch us. But they never go into the canyon when Peelay protects it with flute music.”

“Why?”

“Because of what the Bluestone Lady said.”

“She has that much power?” Tuwa still couldn’t understand. But if it really were Chumana, what a wonderful thing. If she could do that, she could help them if he could get a message to her.

“How many of your Wild Boys did they get?” Tuwa asked.

“Too many.”

No wonder they hid so well and so quickly. Tuwa looked back at Peelay, still twirling and playing his flute. “He’s going to wear himself out.”

“He’ll stop and sleep soon,” said Lightfoot. Tootsa ran up and lizard-walked toward them.

“What else has the Bluestone Lady told these warriors to do?” asked The Pochtéca. “And how much bluestone does….”

“Seventeen,” said Tootsa, interrupting.

“Seventeen bluestones?” asked The Pochtéca.

“Seventeen dead warriors. Can I get their teeth?”

The Pochtéca shook his head
no
and then shrugged. “Sure. Why not. Somebody should get some treasure from all this.”

“Look at me,” said Tuwa. Tootsa faced him. “When we leave, we’re not going to wait on you, so pay attention. Don’t get too far away that you can’t see and hear us.”

Tootsa nodded. “I’m not stupid like most people.”

Lightfoot scooted away with Tootsa and they ran off.

Tuwa stared at Pók and his men. They rested without much movement. Even their sentries didn’t range far.

“What do you think?” asked The Pochtéca.

“We could run in right now and kill every one,” said Tuwa. He imagined the surprise on Pók’s face. Telling him who he is. Slicing him with his best knife, cutting off a piece at a time. Making him die slowly. Make him know why.

“Victory has made you bold,” said The Pochtéca.

“If we sneak as close as we can and Peelay starts playing at the right moment, and Kopavi and Sowi have all the arrows they need, we could get rid of them.”

“You might lose some of your younger ones. They’re trained warriors. They won’t go down easily.”

“We’ll leave the young ones here.” Tuwa stared at The Pochtéca in challenge, but The Pochtéca looked away and didn’t take it.

“Just you and the older ones, then. With Peelay.” The Pochtéca looked quietly over the canyon floor while the wind stirred. He nodded. “You might have a chance. They’re still warriors, though. Some will put up a strong fight. Are you willing to lose one or two?”

“I would give my life to kill Pók.”

The Pochtéca eyed Tuwa. “You’ll get that chance, I think. Maybe more than once. And you are young and impulsive. Think about Nuva. And the girl Chumana. Yes, I’ve heard you say her name. I know what she means to you. And never forget the power of patience. And negotiation. And trade.”

Tuwa felt surprise that The Pochtéca knew of Chumana. When had said her name out loud? Did Choovio tell him about her? “What is there to negotiate?”

“That’s just it, Tuwa. There is always something to negotiate. Everyone is willing to make some kind of bargain. You just have to make them see the wisdom of what you want them to do.”

“And if they don’t?”

“You always have an escape plan.”

“You have an idea, don’t you?”

“Tootsa and Lightfoot have been telling me about the Fat Man. He runs the house of pleasure in the canyon. If Tootsa and the Wild Boys can get me in to see him. And if my loyal orphans can keep a back door open for me. And if the Fat Man wants to get rich like I think he will. Then maybe I have an idea.”

“You have very many ifs. Sounds as risky as rushing Pók’s camp.”

“Yes. Probably so. But instead of just getting Pók, we’ll turn this entire canyon upside down.”

Tuwa looked at The Pochtéca in the same way Lightfoot had looked at Tuwa earlier. Surprise with a little awe. Tuwa had become so focused on Pók, he forgot about any larger mission. The Pochtéca didn’t seem like a man who only wanted to trade for bluestone. Something had changed in him.

“How will you find out about all the ifs? How are we going to know it might work?”

“We have to get down to the palace. And blend in. And watch. Somehow.” The Pochtéca looked up at the sun, his eye then going to the horizon. “We need a place to hide tonight. Somewhere closer to the Fat Man.”

Tuwa felt torn. He wanted to kill Pók, but at the thought of getting close to the palace and to Chumana and Nuva, he realized he wanted that even more. He glanced at Pók’s camp, and nodded. “It’s worth a try. But I hate letting him go when he’s weak.”

The Pochtéca smiled. “Your grandfather would be proud of you.”

They decided to rest for the day where they could keep an eye on Pók’s camp, let the Pochtécans have a rare day off after their two freak battles. Tootsa led them to a nearby cozy meadow surrounded by craggy rocks with a drip-spring. They left Natwani and another boy with the tricky job of watching for foot patrols on the canyon rim at the same time they watched Pók, with instructions to send an alert if the encamped warriors made a move.

Tuwa and the others dragged their shirts or vests behind them to obscure any tracks. A gusty wind helped, and soon they settled down for a midday rest.

Tuwa awoke to the crack and skitter of a pebble landing near him. He opened his eyes and saw Natwani running toward him. “Black lines of long people,” said Natwani. He began shaking everyone awake, repeating the same phrase.

Tuwa’s heart leaped in his chest when he climbed to an overlook. A long procession of people wound as far back as Tuwa could see. A patrol of warriors had broken away from the main column and trotted toward Pók’s camp. Guardsmen were on their feet pointing toward the mouth of the Canyon of Last Trees.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Tuwa said, running back in a slide of pebbles.

“That’s what I’ve been telling you all along,” said Sowi.

“Follow us,” Lightfoot called as the Wild Boys sprinted away.

Tootsa woke Peelay, who jumped up and ran without looking, but then stopped and stared back in a stupor.

“Spread out,” called Lightfoot. “Follow game trails. Confuse trackers. Like herds of deer. Go like we go.”

Tuwa called for the Pochtécans to follow, and they began a mad dash. Lightfoot and his Wild Boys turned in sudden, unexpected directions, staying away from anything that looked like people trails and rarely following each other. They juked and turned and backtracked in loops, and even The Pochtéca followed. Everyone concentrated on running over the rugged ground while leaving no coherent tracks. They jogged until the sun hung low in the sky and orange light streaked the tops of the canyon walls. Shadows pointed east toward the sacred places, and still they ran.

Finally they stopped and blew their lungs and quieted. Lightfoot pointed over a rise, and Tuwa crept with him to the top and looked down. Below ran a well-worn footpath along a bare rock that spilled smoothly over the edge of a sheer drop into the canyon below. The other Pochtécans joined them, and Lightfoot motioned for everyone to keep quiet and watch.

A man wearing a wide headband sauntered up the trail. He carried an absurdly long bow, a small quiver of arrows strung over his back, and a short club that bounced from his belt. He stopped, looked around in all directions with a hand behind an ear, and then continued. He strolled out of sight.

“One more,” whispered Lightfoot.

They waited. Tuwa began to think there would be no more. But another sentry, shorter and more bow-legged than the last, appeared at a trot. He stopped and put both hands behind his ears, looking straight at Tuwa and the others. He crept forward, and then dashed toward them. He stopped, listening again all around. After a few tense moments, his shoulders slumped. He kicked at a clump of grass, and trotted after the other sentry.