People of the Silence by Kathleen O'Neal & Gear Gear Page B
Authors: Kathleen O'Neal & Gear Gear
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fires burned all year long in the kiva, in honor of the Grandmother of Life: flame. At the core of the universe and in the hearts of people a flame burned always—until the day a person’s soul escaped and returned to the underworlds for good.
The flute stopped, but the pot drum continued to boom in its rhythmic bass.
With thuds and creaks his relatives on the roofs stood up, their blanket-wrapped bodies silhouetted against the translucent blue of Brother Sky, faces joyous. Little children stared at Buckthorn in awe. They would watch, he knew, until he vanished from sight completely.
The Bear Thlatsina’s deep voice began:
The Creator calls you,
The divine Mother has seen you on your journey,
She has seen your worn moccasins,
She offers her life-giving breath,
Her breath of birth,
Her breath of water,
Her breath of seeds,
Her breath of death,
Asking for your breath,
To add to her own,
That the one great life of all might continue unbroken.
Buckthorn gripped the pine-pole ladder, the use-polished wood smooth under his fingers. Then, swallowing hard, and vowing to be brave, he climbed down into the warm firelit womb of the underworlds.
The ceiling represented the Fourth World through which the First People had journeyed, known as the Feather-Wing World. The Fog World, or Third World, was represented by the bench that encircled the chamber. The floor level, or Second World, was called the Sulfur-smell World; lastly, the masonry-lined hole in the floor, the sipapu, represented the tunnel to the First Underworld—the Soot World. Sacred cedar smoke purified him as he descended, bathing his frail human body, and stinging his eyes.
Two old men and two old women sat on the low Fog World bench that curved around the great circular chamber. A flute nestled on the bench between the men, a drum between the women. All wore long turkey-feather capes. Not one of them looked at Buckthorn. They had their gazes fixed on the four massive masonry pillars that supported the weight of the roof, which represented the four directions. For them, servants of the unseen Powers that hid at the corners of the world, nothing else existed.
The Bear Thlatsina stood silently beside Buckthorn.
Waiting. But for what?
Buckthorn’s gaze took in the softly gleaming chamber. A fire burned in the middle of the floor; honeyed light danced over the breathtaking thlatsinas painted on the white walls. Some Danced around, bent forward, a foot lifted, ready to stamp down. Others stood with their feet planted firmly on the sacred earth, their awesome beaks and muzzles tipped toward the Blessed Evening People, howling their praises.
He tried to draw himself up straighter, but his stomach felt as if it were shriveling.
Twenty-eight wall crypts filled with magnificent offerings separated the thlatsinas, one for each day of the moon. Macaw and parrot feathers gleamed in the crypts, along with ritual pots and painted dance sticks. A wealth of shining black obsidian glittered around the base of each offering.
From the mouths of the elders, the most eerie of all the sacred chants began in a whisper: “Hututu! Hututu!”
Buckthorn whispered the name of the Rain God with them, knowing that by the end of this evening, that name would rise to a cry so hoarse and piercing it would sunder the skyworlds. Rain would fall tonight. It always did.
He had sat on the roofs through many long nights listening to this ritual, his heart aching to know how the young Singers-in-the-making felt.
Now I know. They all wanted to faint.
The Bear. Thlatsina quietly pointed to the floor, his hand indicating the slender line of cornmeal. The Road of Life. It ran eastward, linking the firepit to the sipapu, the dark opening to the lowest underworld.
Buckthorn walked the Road, placing his feet carefully.
Hututu! Hututu! Hututu!
What would he see when he gazed down that black tunnel into the First Underworld? Legends said that all of his dead ancestors would be gazing up at
The flute stopped, but the pot drum continued to boom in its rhythmic bass.
With thuds and creaks his relatives on the roofs stood up, their blanket-wrapped bodies silhouetted against the translucent blue of Brother Sky, faces joyous. Little children stared at Buckthorn in awe. They would watch, he knew, until he vanished from sight completely.
The Bear Thlatsina’s deep voice began:
The Creator calls you,
The divine Mother has seen you on your journey,
She has seen your worn moccasins,
She offers her life-giving breath,
Her breath of birth,
Her breath of water,
Her breath of seeds,
Her breath of death,
Asking for your breath,
To add to her own,
That the one great life of all might continue unbroken.
Buckthorn gripped the pine-pole ladder, the use-polished wood smooth under his fingers. Then, swallowing hard, and vowing to be brave, he climbed down into the warm firelit womb of the underworlds.
The ceiling represented the Fourth World through which the First People had journeyed, known as the Feather-Wing World. The Fog World, or Third World, was represented by the bench that encircled the chamber. The floor level, or Second World, was called the Sulfur-smell World; lastly, the masonry-lined hole in the floor, the sipapu, represented the tunnel to the First Underworld—the Soot World. Sacred cedar smoke purified him as he descended, bathing his frail human body, and stinging his eyes.
Two old men and two old women sat on the low Fog World bench that curved around the great circular chamber. A flute nestled on the bench between the men, a drum between the women. All wore long turkey-feather capes. Not one of them looked at Buckthorn. They had their gazes fixed on the four massive masonry pillars that supported the weight of the roof, which represented the four directions. For them, servants of the unseen Powers that hid at the corners of the world, nothing else existed.
The Bear Thlatsina stood silently beside Buckthorn.
Waiting. But for what?
Buckthorn’s gaze took in the softly gleaming chamber. A fire burned in the middle of the floor; honeyed light danced over the breathtaking thlatsinas painted on the white walls. Some Danced around, bent forward, a foot lifted, ready to stamp down. Others stood with their feet planted firmly on the sacred earth, their awesome beaks and muzzles tipped toward the Blessed Evening People, howling their praises.
He tried to draw himself up straighter, but his stomach felt as if it were shriveling.
Twenty-eight wall crypts filled with magnificent offerings separated the thlatsinas, one for each day of the moon. Macaw and parrot feathers gleamed in the crypts, along with ritual pots and painted dance sticks. A wealth of shining black obsidian glittered around the base of each offering.
From the mouths of the elders, the most eerie of all the sacred chants began in a whisper: “Hututu! Hututu!”
Buckthorn whispered the name of the Rain God with them, knowing that by the end of this evening, that name would rise to a cry so hoarse and piercing it would sunder the skyworlds. Rain would fall tonight. It always did.
He had sat on the roofs through many long nights listening to this ritual, his heart aching to know how the young Singers-in-the-making felt.
Now I know. They all wanted to faint.
The Bear. Thlatsina quietly pointed to the floor, his hand indicating the slender line of cornmeal. The Road of Life. It ran eastward, linking the firepit to the sipapu, the dark opening to the lowest underworld.
Buckthorn walked the Road, placing his feet carefully.
Hututu! Hututu! Hututu!
What would he see when he gazed down that black tunnel into the First Underworld? Legends said that all of his dead ancestors would be gazing up at
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