People of the Silence by Kathleen O'Neal & Gear Gear

that blocked the southern horizon. As if he could see the distant Thlatsina Mountains rising against the sky, he visualized the gods there, leaping, spinning, their heads thrown back, voices rising like wings into the star-spotted dawn. Terrible longing filled him. I’ll see those mountains one day. I promise.
    He’d heard that leaden clouds clung to the tallest peaks, holding on for their lives against Wind Baby’s torments. That’s how Wind Baby had gotten his evil reputation: he blew away the clouds and sucked every drop of moisture from the land, leaving both Our Mother Earth and Brother Sky parched and thirsty. When that happened, the children of the Straight Path nation begged for food, and parents grew frantic.
    During the summer, Singers Danced and prayed for days, but not just for themselves. They prayed for everyone who was thirsty: animals, plants, even the dry stones that rested in the drainage bottoms. Power lived everywhere, beneath cactus thorns, secreted in sparkles of dew, and hidden in the flecks of moonlight that silvered the sage. By calling upon that Power, Singers could pull clouds together and awaken the soaring Thunderbirds.
    Snow Mountain stood up and peered soberly at Buckthorn. Her face was full of love for him. “Black Mesa drew you a map, yes?”
    “Yes, Mother, last night. I know exactly how to find the Derelict.” He knew she wanted him to repeat his instructions. “I’ll follow the trail from the river crossing up through the cap rock and turn east until I hit the Tower Road. It’s a good road that will take me south to the Derelict’s canyon. Black Mesa said that if I run it is only four or five days away. I’ll find it. Don’t worry.”
    “I know you’re a man, and protected by the gods, but there has been so much raiding this winter by those northern barbarians … Perhaps I should find a runner to go with—”
    “Mother,” he said with a smile, “I must go alone. That is the way of it. A Singer goes alone to his destiny.”
    “I know, but I—”
    “Don’t worry.” He put a hand on her cheek and bent down to look directly into her anxious eyes. “If I cannot go by myself to Dune’s house, Mother, how will I ever be able to make the lonely journey over the sacred roads to find the gods?”
    Snow Mountain squeezed her eyes closed for several moments, and nuzzled her face against his hand. “Learn all that you can. I’ll be waiting for your return, my son.”
    “I will make you proud of me, Mother. I promise. I will come back a Singer.”
    She smiled. “I know you will, Buckthorn. I’ve known that for many summers.”
    Buckthorn picked up his three packs and slipped his arms through the shoulder straps, testing the weight. Heavy. But not too heavy. Wood clattered against stone in one of the gift packs.
    “Mother?” Buckthorn said softly. “May I…” He hesitated. “If I ask you a question, will you promise to tell me the truth?”
    Snow Mountain wet her lips, as though afraid what he might ask. Wind ruffled through the feathers of her cape and tossed her long graying black hair about her face. “I will tell you what I can, my son. Ask.”
    The pain in her eyes told Buckthorn she had phrased that carefully.
    He shifted the weight of his packs and gripped the shoulder straps, holding them to steady himself. “My father…”
    She seemed breathless. “Yes? What about him?”
    “Was he truly a Trader?”
    “… Yes.”
    “His name really was Sitting-in-the-Sky?”
    In toneless words, she said, “Yes, my son.”
    Buckthorn frowned at the kiva where his vision had come to him. The Spirits had no reason to lie. That meant his mother did. She was a good, loving woman. The truth must hurt her very much. He couldn’t twist it from her soul, like a rabbit from a hole. He would not even try. People had the right to keep secrets if they needed to. Besides, he knew that she would tell him someday, and that was enough.
    Buckthorn kissed her on the forehead, and