by Jeff Posey
“What opportunities! They’re killing children! New recruits are tracking down the last flute player! Ráana is dead. Pók is more powerful than he’s ever been.” Chumana shook in rage.
“Finish your tea and I’ll make more,” said Nuva.
Chumana drained her mug and handed it to Nuva. “Tell me your opportunities.”
Nuva prepared kaphe trying not to feel despair. Chumana had enough of that for both of them. There had to be something they could do. She handed the full mug to Chumana.
“The regular warriors are men, right?” asked Nuva. “And like all men, they are weak for beautiful young women. Like the two beautiful young women we have in the cotton storage room.”
“We can’t do that to them,” said Chumana. “They want to be finished with that.”
“To save children, they will do it. You would do it yourself if you had to.”
Chumana gripped her mug and rocked as Nuva continued.
“Because we have two beautiful young women in the cotton storage room, and because regular warriors are mere men, we can send them out with messages. We are not stuck. We can make things happen.” Nuva leaned over Chumana’s mask and began separating the broken pieces.
“I’m sorry I broke it,” said Chumana.
“It’s just bluestone, my dear. There is plenty in the rooms below.” She smiled and stood. Chumana’s anger and despair had finally dissipated. “Before the regulars set their noose around this place, we will visit our girls and figure out how they can carry an urgent message to the Sisterhood—get all children out of the canyon, and gather all members here for the Summer Council with their sharpened sacred sticks.”
“What if it’s too late?”
“We can only do what we can do.”
“What about the flute player? And the red-hat man?” Chumana whispered.
Nuva prepared to go down to where the two girls were hidden in the cotton room. “They’re on their own, I’m afraid,” said Nuva. “For now.”
New Recruits
At the top of a ridge, Tootsa slapped a smooth-worn boulder with both hands as he passed. Tuwa smiled and also slapped the stone. Choovio did the same, followed by every orphan, all the way down the line, even The Pochtéca. The younger children laughed. Twenty-two hands, Tuwa thought, plus Tootsa’s and The Pochtéca’s. That’s twenty-six total hands. Against an army of warriors that counted as many bells as The Pochtéca’s shirt. Maybe double. Maybe even more. That made Tuwa chew his lip.
He bumped into Tootsa when he stopped near the canyon edge. Tuwa held up his hand and the orphans behind him stopped with their heads down, exhausted from running at a slow trot for half the night and half the day. The sun had moved two hands past high.
Tuwa crept forward to peer into the canyon. The Pochtéca removed his red hat and crawled to the rim to look down. Choovio, Sowi, Kopavi, Natwani, and some of the eldest boys scooted to the edge and joined them.
“What is that?” Tuwa asked.
“Pók’s guard,” said Tootsa. “Three patrols. That’s Chief Dog Poop in front.”
A single man trotted ahead of three groups of warriors, each wearing breechcloths that hung below their knees, hide shields and long bows bouncing on their backs, clubs swinging from their waistbands. They ran in lockstep, the pounding of their feet echoing off the canyon walls like low thunder that rose from the ground, like Másaw grumbling.
So that’s Pók, thought Tuwa, squinting at the man. An eerie feeling crept into him as he watched the distant figure, who ran with his hands low at his waist. Just like Tuwa ran. He shook his aching head to tell himself no. The way the man ran didn’t prove anything.
“Where are they going?” asked Tuwa, hoping no one else noticed the similarity.
“New Star Town I guess,” said Tootsa.
“Why?”
“Summer Council I guess.”
Annoyed, Tuwa looked at Tootsa. “Do you guess about everything?”
Tootsa shrugged. “I guess.”
“Where is the Summer Council held? And don’t guess,” said Tuwa.
“At The Builder’s giant house.”
“Then why are they going to New Star Town?”
“To get Tókotsi and all the little chiefs that make the Southern Alliance. They like to come marching through the canyon so everybody sees how important they are.”
The Pochtéca cleared his throat. “So does this mean The Builder’s palace is unguarded now? And is that where they store their bluestone?”
Tootsa squinted at him. “I haven’t seen any bluestone, except on the lady with the mask. Can I have my bell for today?”
“If this is their Palace Guard, then it must be unguarded, right?” The Pochtéca leaned close to Tootsa.
“These are just the flashy ones,” said Tootsa, sliding down onto his back and blinking at the sky. “There are still the regulars and the new recruits. They’re worse than these ones. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere near the giant house now. Can I have my bell?”
The Pochtéca nodded curtly and Kopavi cut a bell off his shirt and gave it to Tootsa, who put it into his pouch that bulged with pointed teeth he’d pulled from the mouths of the warriors the evening before.
“So how many of those stupid pointy teeth you have now?” asked Sowi.
“Fifty-seven last I counted. I’ll count ’em again tonight and see how many there are then.”
“Won’t it be the same?” asked Sowi, looking around for others to join in making fun of Tootsa.
Tootsa shook his head. “Of course not. It’s different every time.”
Tuwa whispered for them to be quiet. “They’ve stopped,” he said.
Dust rose among the warriors as they stood restlessly in their ranks. The leader, Pók, dashed off the trail into the brush and pulled a small boy out of hiding by his hair. Other warriors ran into the brush searching, and they dragged another four children back to Pók.
“Are those your Wild Boys?” asked Tuwa.
“Oh no,” said Tootsa. “They’d never hide that close. And even if they did, Pók would never see them. He never sees us.”
“Are you sure?”
Tootsa watched as Pók marched back and forth in front of the children as if he lectured them. Warriors held the children’s hands and hair from behind as they squirmed. “That’s the bean kids,” Tootsa said
Pók raised his hand and then swiped it at a child’s throat, who collapsed. Kopavi gasped. Pók had cut his throat. He went down the line and killed each child. Tuwa’s mouth hung open. That man must die. As soon as possible.
“Why?” asked The Pochtéca. His face trembled.
Tuwa looked at Tootsa. He couldn’t believe it. “Why would he do that? Has he ever done that before?”
Tootsa shook his head, his eyes wide and watery.
A woman appeared and grabbed frantically at the warriors. They pushed her down and kicked her. Five warriors picked up the dead children and carried them on their backs, holding their ankles, the children’s knees bent over their shoulders. The bodies flopped and blood soaked the backs of the warriors’ legs.
Tuwa looked at Tootsa. “You knew them?”
Tootsa nodded.
“But they’re not your Wild Boys.”
Tootsa shook his head.
They watched and listened as the warriors trotted up the canyon and disappeared.
“You were right about this place,” The Pochtéca said to Tuwa, his voice hoarse. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”
Tuwa wanted to reach with long arms into the canyon and slice Pók’s throat with a palm knife. And all his warriors. He wanted to pound them with his fists until they were as bloody and limp as the children they’d just killed. He heard Grandfather’s voice like a strong wind. When your will directs your anger, no man can match you. He had to focus his will or his anger would make him do something stupid.
“Where now?” Choovio asked Tootsa. He always became practical when others lost their balance.
�
�I was taking you to the bean family for food,” Tootsa said. “But I don’t want to go there anymore.”
Tuwa shook himself and forced his mind to work. They needed eyes and ears in the canyon. They needed to know what was happening and where the warriors were moving. They needed a place to hide.
“How do you find your Wild Boys?” he asked.
Tootsa shrugged. “I just do. They run all over the place.”
“Don’t you have a meeting place? A hideout?”
“The Canyon of Last Trees,” Tootsa said. “When it’s protected by flute music, that’s where I usually find them.”
“Where is that? How long to get there?”
Tootsa pointed across the wide, scrub-covered floor of the canyon to a dark side canyon. “There,” he said.
“And where is The Builder’s palace?” Tuwa asked.
Tootsa pointed the direction Pók and his men had come from.
“How far?”
“You can’t see it from here. Even if you were twice as high.”
“Why did you call those children who were killed the ‘bean kids’?”
“Their father’s a farmer,” said Tootsa, “and he doesn’t grow anything but beans. So when you eat with them, it’s just beans, beans, beans.”
Tuwa looked at Choovio. “We go to the flute canyon with the last trees to find the Wild Boys.” Even The Pochtéca nodded.
“Wait,” said Tootsa. “It’s dangerous to cross over. They have watchers and sentries. We’ve got to sneak. And not follow each other. Keep hidden. Stop a lot and listen. Warriors are noisy. I’ll show you,” and he took off. Then he stopped and returned. He went to The Pochtéca. “Can I have my bell for tomorrow? In case you don’t make it?”
The Pochtéca looked angry, but then his face softened and he tousled Tootsa’s hair. He nodded and Kopavi cut a bell from The Pochtéca’s shirt and handed it to Tootsa.
Tuwa watched Tootsa scurry across the open places and then wait, hidden, in thickets of sunbaked yellow grass and brush. When Tootsa arrived at a line of greenery that marked a shallow stream halfway, Tuwa gave a younger orphan instructions to cross as Tootsa had. “Look where you’re going,” he said, pointing to the opening of the canyon where they headed. “Memorize it. Get there no matter what.”
Finally only The Pochtéca, Choovio, Sowi, Kopavi, and Natwani remained with Tuwa at the overlook.
“I want you to go now so we can watch you,” he said to The Pochtéca. He nodded and stuffed his red hat inside his jingle-bell shirt, then set out, lumbering across the open places with no grace, but a respectable speed.
“You,” Tuwa said to Natwani. “Follow him. Don’t let him out of your sight.”
Natwani nodded. “I will not see him without looking,” he said and left.
“He may as well not even try to talk, the sense he makes,” said Sowi.
“We know what he means,” said Tuwa. “Most of the time.” They watched until The Pochtéca, with Natwani not far behind, crossed the creek.
“What about us?” asked Sowi. “Who’s going to be last?”
“We’re all going at the same time,” Tuwa said. “We’ll spread out. And keep an eye out for each other.”
“Let’s get it over with then,” said Sowi. “I’m all stiffed up from the waiting of legs. I will not move without walking my feet.”
Tuwa shook his head at Sowi, and they set off together. Choovio went far to the left where Pók and his guard had disappeared. Sowi and Kopavi held to a more middle course following The Pochtéca and Natwani. And Tuwa went wide right on the palace side. Being alone felt refreshing. He kept looking to his right to catch a glimpse of the giant structure where Grandfather had been sacrificed on the public altar three summers ago by the same man who had just murdered the bean kids. Tuwa cringed and shuddered, clenching his fists so tightly his knuckles popped in pain.
He glanced often in the direction of the palace, but saw no structures or any activity, but he imagined a permanent cloud over the spot, that the darkness he felt toward the place in his heart showed itself as a physical shadow. He lingered and moved slowly, watching for movement other than his own people, but he saw nothing. He scanned the cliffs, the many places watchers might hide, but saw and heard nothing that alarmed him.
Near the entrance to the side canyon, he hid and watched. He saw Choovio, also outside the canyon in a similar hiding place. Waiting for him, he knew. Inside the canyon, he caught a glimpse of The Pochtéca as he labored up a narrow trail, followed by Natwani, Sowi, and Kopavi. He would wait a few heartbeats, and then dash in himself, Choovio behind him.
He heard something and cocked his head. Flute music. It came and went in snatches with the stirrings of the breeze. Someone inside the canyon played the flute. He remembered what Tootsa had said: Chief Dog Poop and those warriors are afraid of the flute music. They think it casts spells over them.
The warriors would openly kill children, in front of their mother, but they were afraid of a flute. He wanted to see and hear a flute player with that kind of magic.
A noise like a stamping of feet alarmed him. He looked up and down the canyon but saw nothing. Choovio nodded at Tuwa and pointed in the direction of the palace. Tuwa turned and saw five men trotting toward them. At first they looked like the Másaw Warriors they’d seen in Black Stone. But they weren’t the same. Their hair, rather than carefully sculpted and piled on the tops of their heads, was unkempt, matted and twisted, jutting in all directions. And their faces were caked in something black and sticky. Tuwa could see the five of them clearly now.
Before they arrived at the side canyon, a chipmunk scurried across their path. A warrior shrieked and dove after it, digging frantically in the rocks where it had hidden. He shouted in victory, pulled it out by the tail, and held it over his head. He squeezed his fist. Blood and mangled body parts dripped onto his head, a stream of liquid running down his face. Tuwa realized the black on their faces was blood. Baked and blackened by the sun. The warrior laughed, and then tied what was left of the chipmunk to his tattered vest.
Tuwa scooted back into shade to better hide, and pulled his flake-knife to hold in his left hand and a throwing stone for his right. These men must be the new, untrained Másaw Warriors. Human animals. He swallowed and felt shaky. They might be able to kill one each, unless Choovio got off a lucky arrow. But even then, not this many. He wondered if any of the Pochtécans watched from hiding places above them. He hoped Sowi and Kopavi had archers ready. But maybe they’d be lucky and the men would pass, distracted by more chipmunks.
Instead, they stopped at the mouth of the side canyon. The flute player still played, and the men obviously heard it.
“Look,” one of them said, pointing to the ground. They scattered, examining tracks. “Children have been here. And a man whose feet turn in.” The Pochtéca. His bowed legs made the tips of his toes turn in. Tuwa had stepped in his tracks countless times and knew them well. “They went in there.”
They gathered at the mouth of the side canyon where Tootsa and the others had gone. “That flute player is in there. And children and a tough old man, too.” The warrior laughed. “We’ll have a feast. And that Pók fellow will make us all captains!”
“Shouldn’t we wait on the others?” asked one.
“Do you not see the tracks? These are children and an old man. It’ll be like catching turkeys in a pen!” Even the reluctant one nodded and they ran into the side canyon.
Tuwa popped his head up and looked at Choovio, who ran to a rock at the side canyon’s entrance and peered around it. Tuwa went to his side.
“Did you hear?” whispered Tuwa.
Choovio nodded and charged up the canyon. Tuwa stayed close.
The warriors moved quickly and kept together. When they paused, Choovio and Tuwa ducked behind rocks.
“They’re up there,” said the lead warrior in a hoarse whisper, pointing over a small rise that angled across the canyon.
Tuwa heard flute music from over the ridg
e. And the laughter of boys. He and Choovio looked at each other in alarm. The Pochtécans had their guard down. And more warriors might arrive behind Tuwa and Choovio soon. They could be trapped.
The lead warrior sent two men to his left and two to his right. He turned with a smirk on his face and looked back down the canyon. Choovio stepped into view, club in one hand, bow and arrow in the other. Choovio’s move surprised Tuwa, but he immediately saw what he intended to do. Attack the lone warrior and drive him over the ridge so the Pochtécans would see and be alerted. Tuwa didn’t look at Choovio, but kept his eyes on the lead warrior. His expression changed when he saw Choovio, but only slightly. He motioned for Choovio to come to him, and Choovio did.
Tuwa knew he had to do something. When Choovio was halfway to the warrior, Tuwa stepped out. This time the lead warrior’s face flickered to worry. His eyes went back and forth, Tuwa to Choovio, as he slapped his war club in his open palm. Tuwa couldn’t see the other four warriors, which meant they probably couldn’t see him. They would be wondering what their leader was doing, faced the wrong direction. But they didn’t appear to be rushing back. When Choovio was close, the man raised his club to strike and Choovio charged. He slammed his head into the bottom of the warrior’s rib cage. The man clearly didn’t expect that and the swing of his club lost its power. Choovio drove him up and out of sight over the low rise. Tuwa saw the four other warriors run over the rise when their leader went over.
Tuwa ran as fast as he could. When he reached the top and looked down he saw a group of boys he didn’t know circled around a bent-over flute player as if they’d been dancing. The Pochtéca stood to one side, his red hat square on his head again, a surprised look on his face. Sowi and Kopavi and the Pochtécan archers stood on rocks around the dancing boys, arrows fitted to their bows. The warriors had stopped, staring in deadlock at the archers surrounding them. No one moved except Choovio and the lead warrior, who wrestled and grunted on the ground.
Tuwa rushed to them and swiped his knife at the man’s wrist until his club fell away. Tuwa picked it up and swung it onto the man’s head, twice, then a third hard time until he stopped moving.
