Читать книгу The Height of Secrecy - J. M. Mitchell - Страница 6

Four hundred years ago . . .

It could have been a game trail. The young girl knew otherwise. This is where her clan mother had said she would find it. Warily, she scrambled through brush, past an outcropping of sandstone. She kept behind cover, cautious, checking repeatedly, making sure no one was following.

It seemed she was alone, but she could not be too careful. A Spanish soldier, maybe a suspicious priest, someone from another pueblo or tribe, even someone from another clan—it did not matter. None of them were to know. None were to be allowed to follow. Especially the Spanish—because of their intolerance of traditions—but it was little different for the others. If they knew, there could be consequences. They could inflict such damage. The reason she was here, the lessons she would learn, the blessings with which she would return, they were not to know.

She crept higher, toward a break in the canyon wall. Needing to catch her breath, she stopped in the shadow of a pine, dropped her parcel and sat. She watched for movement. She saw none, yet she continued to watch. Her heart began to slow and her breathing quieted, letting the songs of the wind fill her ears. Whispers, from Mother Earth. She looked around. The rock and ground, the pines, the jays, the seed-laden grasses—the Creator living in all of them.

She nodded.

She knew not what she would find on this journey and yet she did. Her clan mother’s clues were unfolding with answers. And insight. Into responsibility. Into role.

What she would find and gather would become offerings for herself and her clan. Those offerings and prayers would help bring rain and harvest, health and wellbeing, not just to her and her clan but to the pueblo. Would she remember the stories? Would they come to life? Enough to bring insight to do what she needed to do?

She had her prayer sticks. Would she know where to place them?

What of the collections needed by the medicine society? Would she know where to find them?

And the collections of pigment for sacred paint? The pigment she would grind, that priests would offer to others and back to her, to paint faces, hands and feet for ceremony. If she could not find it, what would happen? To the traditional dance? To rain and harvest?

And most important—the mystical flowers only a few were blessed to find. Would she remember the stories? Had she understood them well enough to return with the most sacred of blessings? Pollen—to bring the butterfly to the garden and carry prayers to the Creator.

She turned her mind from worry. She imagined her mother, standing before her, holding a small ceremonial pot, watching proudly as she prepared for ceremony, then painting dark streaks across both her cheeks. She was at that place in her learning, and, yes, her mother—her teacher and protector until now—would be there, proudly bringing her to this point in her life.

The girl picked up her parcel and stood. She followed the trail to a dry creek bed, then down, to the beginnings of a ledge. She stepped onto it, then followed it beyond a bend in the rock. She stopped, overlooking the canyon. Her eyes grew wide.

It’s real, not just a story!

She followed the ledge forward, knowing now where her journey would take her.

—·—

Present day . . .

Early evening moonlight bled into the room and onto the floor where elders, both men and women, sat around the glowing coals of a fire, discussing the welfare of their people. One space sat empty. It represented a clan that tradition said would provide a leader, one who had much to do with religious practice.

“We’ve known this day would come,” a white-haired man said.

“Yes,” another answered. “But Anna was certain another would follow her. Her death is unexpected.”

“But it is something we should have expected. If her clan is now extinct, we are left with a hole in our society . . . in our social fabric. Do we know why she thought another would come? Are we sure there is no one?”

A gray-haired woman sitting to the east nodded to herself, then spoke. “There are no men. None initiated into religious societies, none with teachings or authority. It is possible there is no one surviving who knows the traditions and secrets of the clan. But, there is a girl. One girl.”

—·—

A few miles away:

The moon peered over the canyon rim, casting light over the pool. A wall across the way stood in shadow, but flickers of light intruded even there from the shimmer of moonlight off water and travertine. The sounds were of water falling, of tree frogs and birds calling, of gentle down canyon breezes in the leaves of the cottonwoods. A man and woman floated in the shallows, giving attention to none of it.

The night was warm, as was the water, but in time the water would bring chill and they would need to escape it. When that time came, Jack Chastain swam to a flat-topped boulder, gave a kick, and hefted himself up on both arms and out of the water. No trepidation, he stood, tall, his lean shadow cast over the rock. He watched Kelly Culberson swim to water’s edge and emerge. She brushed her dark hair back and blew the water from her lips. Her skin glistened in the moon light, and droplets trailed down the length of her body. She noticed him watching. She smiled.

She came around to the boulder, climbed up and stood, and gave him another embrace, then lay down and sank into the warmth of the rock.

He sat beside her. She rolled onto her back and closed her eyes to the moon. He stole the moment to enjoy the sight of her.

She let minutes pass, then turned onto her side. “Tell me what happened in Montana.”

Jack looked away.

“You can’t keep secrets.”

“Don’t intend to. But I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Look at what’s happened in the last forty-eight hours, in the past few weeks, in the past year. The fire, the warring factions, the trust you lost, then regained tenfold. You’re past all that. Surely you can also get past what happened in Montana.”

“Hope so.” He stared into the shadows. “But I’m not sure all wounds heal.”

“Why can’t you let go?”

“Some things are harder than others. When there are those you count on, that you want to count on you, and things happen that tell you they’re in it for themselves. When it should be obvious, but isn’t. How do you get over that?”

“Who are you talking about?”

“No one you know.”

“Tell me about Montana. It might help you forget.”

“Forget? Sure, let’s forget it.”

“No, I mean, it would be good to talk about it, right?”

He kissed her forehead. “I do not want to talk about Montana.”