Children of the Dawnland (North America's Forgotten Past Series) (9 page)

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Authors: Kathleen O'Neal Gear,W. Michael Gear

BOOK: Children of the Dawnland (North America's Forgotten Past Series)
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S
UNLIGHT PIERCED THE smoke hole and flickered over War Chief Hook’s lodge, casting his shadow like a dark monster over the elk-hide walls. The Thornback People made lodges similar to those of the People of the Dawnland, but much larger. His lodge stretched six paces across, and was twice his height. A fire burned in the middle of the floor, sending smoke up to be sucked out through the smoke hole in the roof. Human scalps and finger-bone necklaces decorated the willow pole frame.
Hook paced while he watched his wife, Dry Cloud, dip a piece of hide into the water bag and place it on their young son’s fevered forehead.
“How is Slate?” Hook asked.
“I think … I’m afraid he may be …” She couldn’t finish the sentence.
Hook loved his ten-summers-old son, but Slate had always been weaker than his four brothers, sick more often, too easily hurt in play. The boy would never be a warrior, or a hunter of any account. But he always told himself that not every man could be skilled with weapons. Hook just prayed that when the time came for Slate to marry, he could find a woman who would have him. If he lived that long.
Dry Cloud stroked Slate’s black hair. “Can you hear me, Son?”
Slate’s eyelids fluttered, but he didn’t open them. He just moaned and twisted on the buffalo hide where he lay.
Hook reached down and touched the purple knot that swelled just below his son’s navel. It was hot and hard, like a fiery rock buried beneath the skin. The pain had been growing worse for days.
“He will get well, won’t he?” Dry Cloud asked. She had an oval face, with a straight nose and large dark eyes. Her deer-hide cape was painted with zigzag slashes of yellow lightning.
“He’s been sicker than this before. Do you remember the time he fell from the cliff and landed flat on his back? I thought he would be permanently paralyzed, but two moons later, he was walking again.”
Tears filled Dry Cloud’s eyes. She nodded. “I remember, but this is different. I’ve seen knots like this before,
when men lift rocks too heavy for them—it tears something inside.”
“I’ve seen such things, too. The men often get well.”
She put a hand to her trembling lips, but nodded.
Both of them looked up when the lodge curtain was tugged aside and brilliant sunlight washed across the floor. Chief Nightcrow stepped inside. Dry Cloud sucked in a sharp breath and leaped to her feet.
“I—I didn’t send for you, my chief,” Dry Cloud said. “Did you, Hook?”
“No.”
Nightcrow stared at them. His eyes were wolflike and wary, and there was no mercy in them. He had greased his long black hair with bear fat and tied it back with a braided grass cord. The style made his long pointed nose look as sharp as a spear point. The polished shell beads that hung from his ears and circled his wrists flashed as he moved. “Your uncle Snow Bear came to tell me your son was dying.”
Hook stood frozen, watching as the chief crossed the lodge and knelt beside their son. Slate mumbled something.
“How long has he been sick?” Nightcrow did not look at them. He was frowning down at Slate.
“Seven days,” Dry Cloud said, and glanced uneasily at Hook.
“And you did not think to call me? This boy has an evil Spirit in his belly that will kill him if we do not act quickly.”
“My chief, we are at war,” Hook said. “You have more important things to worry about than my family. We have had three healers here, but none have been able to cure our son. I didn’t wish to—”
“Do you see the color of this knot?” Nightcrow asked, and turned to fix Hook with a glare. “It cannot be burned off, or cut out, or cured by a Spirit plant.
It is alive.
” He put his hand on Slate’s belly again and closed his eyes, as though concentrating. “I can feel it breathing. It has a heartbeat. If we do not kill it, it will eat your son’s insides and leave him a hollow husk.”
As though to show them, he squeezed the knot, and Slate cried out and sat bolt upright in bed, staring at Nightcrow with wide, shocked eyes.
Dry Cloud rushed to her son’s side and stroked his sweat-drenched hair. “The chief is trying to help you, Slate.”
Nightcrow said, “Even now, the evil Spirit in his belly fights me. What would you have me do? Leave? Let it consume him? Or shall I perform the dark ritual necessary to save his life?”
Dry Cloud said, “Please, heal him.”
Nightcrow didn’t seem to hear her. He kept his gaze on Hook, waiting for him to ask for help. Hook never asked for help. It was something he was not good at.
Hook met Nightcrow’s gaze, and a chill ran through him. The coppery odor of rotted blood always surrounded the chief, though no sign of it stained his clothing. “What do you need to cure him?”
“This is a dangerous ritual. I may die saving your son. Be prepared for that. If I do, you will need to act swiftly to elect a new chief.”
“Please don’t talk that way,” Dry Cloud said. “We—”
“I will need two things: Bring me an orphaned slave, one of the young children whose parents we killed in our last raid, and I’ll need the yellow deer-hide bag in my lodge. Go and get both immediately.”
Dry Cloud left at a run. Another flash of sunlight blazed in when she ducked beneath the lodge curtain.
Nightcrow sat down cross-legged beside Slate and began to rock back and forth and chant in the strange alien tongue that Hook did not understand. The longer he rocked, the more his eyes rolled back in his head, leaving only the whites visible. Hook recoiled from the sight.
Several hundred heartbeats later, Dry Cloud threw back the lodge curtain and entered dragging a young slave boy, maybe eleven summers, and Nightcrow’s yellow bag. “I brought them, my chief.”
The slave boy looked around the lodge and swallowed hard. Less than a moon ago, Hook had clubbed the boy’s father to death and ripped him from his weeping mother’s arms to carry him home as a slave. When the boy’s gaze landed on Hook, hatred filled his eyes.
Nightcrow continued to chant as he reached out and dragged the slave boy closer. The boy struggled, but half-heartedly. He had been beaten often since his capture. He obviously didn’t wish another one. “Hold still.”
In a vicious thrust, Nightcrow shoved his fingers deep
into Slate’s belly and twisted the knot. Slate screamed, and in a flash, Nightcrow ripped a bloody creature from the wound. It flipped around in his hand as though it were a writhing serpent.
“Blessed ancestors!” Dry Cloud cried. “Is that the evil Spirit?”
“Give it to me! I’ll kill it!” Hook grabbed for it.
But Nightcrow jerked it from his hand. He pried open the slave boy’s jaws and shoved the bloody creature past the boy’s teeth and down his throat. When the boy tried to vomit it back up, Nightcrow held his mouth closed until the boy had swallowed it.
The slave stumbled backward, wiping at his bloody mouth, not sure what had just happened.
Nightcrow pulled a mammoth-hide bandage from his yellow bag and draped it across Slate’s belly; then he rose on shaking legs. “Bandage your son’s belly tightly. Do not remove the bandage for one moon. He should get well.”
The chief stumbled toward the door like a man who’d been running for three days straight. Just before he left, he propped a hand on the lodge frame and said, “If you want to kill the evil Spirit, kill the slave boy. The Spirit will die with him.”
An instant later, he ducked out into the morning and was gone.
The slave boy spun around to stare at Hook. “It was just a piece of meat! It tasted like venison. He was probably hiding it in his hand. It was a trick!”
Dry Cloud whispered, “Kill him.”
Hook reached for his club, and the boy dodged out into the morning gleam and ran across the village with Hook right behind him.
When he caught the boy by the hair, he yelled, “Don’t struggle and I will make it fast and painless.”
“But it was a trick!”
Hook bashed the boy in the head, and the child slumped to the ground.
Hook tucked his club in his belt, stared into the boy’s eyes to make sure he was dead, and started back for his lodge.
The icy gravel crunched so loudly beneath his moccasins that he almost didn’t hear Nightcrow’s voice call,
“Hook?”
He turned and saw his chief crouching on the ground, holding his belly, as though too sick to find his way back to his own lodge.
Hook rushed to his side. “My chief? Do you need help? Shall I call for—”
“I do need help,” Nightcrow said, and when he looked up, his eyes shone with sunlight. “There is a girl I want you to bring me.”
“A girl? Another slave?”
“No. She is the keeper of the Stone Wolf … or she will be.”
Hook cocked his head. He’d never heard of the Stone Wolf. “What is that, my chief?”
“It’s a very powerful Spirit creature. I want it. And I
want the girl who owns it. She’s learning to be a Spirit dreamer.”
“Where is she?”
Nightcrow chuckled, but it was a dark, evil sound. “I don’t know yet. My visions haven’t shown me. But when they do, I want her brought to me immediately.”
“Yes, my chief, of course.”
Nightcrow rose on shaking legs. “Tomorrow, I want you to dispatch a war party to Clearwater Village. They have a sacred flute there; it’s very powerful.”
“I understand. I will dispatch the party at dawn.”
Nightcrow sucked in a wheezing breath. “But do not send too many warriors. It will not be easy to capture the girl and the Stone Wolf. You will need every fighter we have left.”
Hook bowed respectfully. “Yes, my chief.”
Nightcrow stumbled toward his own lodge.
Hook walked back, and when he ducked beneath his lodge curtain, he found Dry Cloud touching Slate’s belly, gently prodding it. Their son seemed to be resting easier. His face looked peaceful for the first time in days.
“How is he?” Hook asked.
Dry Cloud’s mouth opened, but for a long time, she did not speak. Finally, she said, “I don’t believe it. It’s a miracle. The knot is gone. Completely gone.”
T
WIG SMILED WHEN she saw Greyhawk and Yipper running down the trail in the distance. She waved at them, and Greyhawk waved back. Behind him, dark brooding Cloud People filled the sky. She couldn’t believe he had worked up the courage to run here by himself, especially with a bad storm on the way.
“Screech Owl! Look, it’s Greyhawk and Yipper! They’re coming to see us.” She used her nocked atlatl to point at her friend.
“Yes,” Screech Owl said without looking up. “Unfortunate. This is not a good time for visitors.”
“Why not?”
“Don’t you see the Cloud People? Thunderbird is bringing a storm here because he knows we are embarking upon a dangerous task.”
Twig frowned at his back. “We are?”
“Oh, yes, very dangerous.”
She studied him as he tiptoed across the gray rocks, his eyes glued to the ground. Black boulders lined the path, and contrasted sharply with the white hide shirt he wore. Though they had been hunting all morning, they hadn’t found anything that Screech Owl would let her shoot, including a rabbit that had run right over the top of her moccasins. He seemed to be tracking some animal, but she didn’t see any tracks.
Screech Owl suddenly froze with one foot in the air and whispered, “Twig, come look at this.”
She lowered her atlatl and spear and trotted through the shadows cast by the boulders. “What is it? What did you find?”
Screech Owl slowly knelt and tapped a patch of bare rock covered with old spruce needles. “See them?”
Twig shook her head. “No. What?”
“The tracks,” he said as though she were blind.
“I don’t see any tracks, Screech Owl.”
“You’re not looking very hard. Look again.”
Twig crouched and searched the rock carefully. The fragrant scent of spruce needles met her nose, but there weren’t any tracks. “Screech Owl, this is bare rock. There aren’t any tracks.”
He made a face. “Twig, you’re smarter than this. What do you see down there?”
“Rock.”
“And what else?”
She glanced at the stone again. “A few spruce needles that were probably blown off by Wind Woman this morning.”
“Yes!” He slapped her affectionately on the back. “Now keep your atlatl nocked and ready to cast. She’s around here somewhere.” He started off, taking one careful step at a time while his eyes diligently scanned the terrain.
Twig threw him a glance.
Blessed Thunderbird, we’re not tracking a tree, are we?
“Keep up, Twig.”
She fell into line behind him. As she walked, she tipped her face to the cool wind. It had tousled her long hair all afternoon as they’d climbed.
The day smelled damply of water, and she could feel the new bite in the air. “Screech Owl, those Cloud People look like they’re bringing snow. Maybe we should go back to your cave before—”
“Ha!” Screech Owl blurted. “More!”
Twig ran up to look. As she gazed over the top of his gray head, he tapped a finger beside another cluster of spruce needles.
“We’re close, Twig, so be quiet. You’d better stay back and let me lead the way.”
She nodded. “Sure. Go ahead.”
He gave her a confident wink before tiptoeing forward like a long-billed sandpiper in a shallow pool of water.
“Twig!”
Greyhawk called and waved. He ran up smiling and breathing hard. “Do you still have a human soul?”
Yipper leaped up and put his big paws in the middle of Twig’s chest to lick her face. Twig laughed. “Yes, so far.”
“Good. Father said if you were still human I could stay and talk to you. Otherwise, I had to come home right away.”
“That’s wonderful! Yipper, get down.” She shoved him away, and he wagged his tail and loped off to sniff Screech Owl’s moccasins. “I have so many things to tell you.”
They hugged each other. Greyhawk’s chin-length black hair had gotten sweaty and stuck to his tanned cheeks, which framed his brown eyes and small nose. He wore a soot-stained shirt that hung to his knees, and thick buffalo-hide moccasins.
“What are you doing?” Greyhawk turned to scowl at Screech Owl. “What’s
he
doing?”
“I’m not sure yet. Come on.”
They crept along behind Screech Owl, trying to see around his skinny body to where he was going. Every so often he would stop and point out more spruce needles, and Greyhawk would give her a quizzical look.
Twig just shrugged. She couldn’t explain it to him, because she hoped she did not know what they were hunting.
Yipper, however, was chasing a rabbit at full speed. He bounded across the slope, barking, until she lost sight of him.
“Twig,” Screech Owl called. “You’re falling behind.”
“Sorry.”
She and Greyhawk sneaked through a cluster of boulders where roots laddered the path. Screech Owl thrust out a hand to stop them from coming any closer. Then he knelt to stroke the roots reverently. When he turned, he stared at Twig so hard she was afraid to breathe.
“What is it?” Twig whispered. “What do you see?”
“I have to tell you something,” Screech Owl whispered just loud enough for them to hear. “You know that spruces are sacred, but this tree is special. You have to hunt her correctly, with the proper ritual intent, or she’ll kill you. Do you understand?”
Greyhawk’s mouth pursed with disdain. “You’re hunting a
tree
?”
Screech Owl leaned close to him and hissed, “Yes.” Then he leaned toward Twig and breathed, “You had better be sure you understand. This is First Woman’s tree. She grows in three worlds. Her roots are buried deep in the underworld next to First Woman’s cave, but her trunk and branches stretch up through the earth and into the skyworld. Sometimes, Thunderbird lays his eggs in her top branches.”
Twig listened in fascination. “And I’m supposed to kill her?”
Greyhawk said, “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
“Don’t worry; we just have to be careful and do it correctly.”
Twig wet her lips. “But what if one of Thunderbird’s eggs falls and breaks?”
“That would be very bad,” Screech Owl said. “It might never rain again. Then the world would die, and you’d be to blame.”
She nodded in fervent agreement. “I know. So, you know what, Screech Owl? I don’t think I’m the one to do this.” She thrust her atlatl and spear into his hands. “You do it.” Twig took a step backward and swiftly clasped her hands behind her lest he think of returning the weapons.
Gently, Screech Owl said, “I can’t. You’re the one who wants to find Eagle-Man.”
“Is he in that tree, too?”
“Oh, yes,” Screech Owl responded darkly. “He’s there.”
“Well, but … I don’t want to kill First Woman’s tree.”
Screech Owl gazed contemplatively at her small atlatl and spear. He rubbed his finger along the wood and canted his head to listen to its responding sound. His bushy gray eyebrows went up and down. “Well, at least your atlatl knows why.”
Suspicious, Greyhawk said, “Twig’s atlatl talks? Can I have it after First Woman kills her?”
“Everything in the world has a voice, Greyhawk—the trees, the stones, the clouds. People just stop listening to them when they start to grow up.”
Twig said, “What did my atlatl tell you?”
Screech Owl pushed gray hair away from his wrinkled face and stared her hard in the eyes. “It said you must prove your courage to Eagle-Man before he’ll allow you to come visit him in the Land of the Dead. You
do
want to talk to him, don’t you, Twig?”
“Yes, but … well …”
“Twig?” he asked reprovingly.
“I do,” she announced against her better judgment. “All right, Screech Owl. How do I hunt First Woman’s tree?”
Under his breath, Greyhawk advised, “Maybe you’d better learn to chew bark like a beaver.”
Screech Owl ignored Greyhawk and put his hand against Twig’s back. “She’s just behind that rock. When you go in, you have to cast your spear straight into her branches. Don’t aim at her trunk, or Thunderbird will feel the tree shudder and send lightning shooting out the ends of the branches to get you.”
“Because he’ll think I’m trying to disturb his nest?”
“Yes, that’s right.” Screech Owl lifted Twig’s nocked atlatl and handed it back. “Can you do it?”
She felt as though snakes were slithering around in her stomach, but she truly did want to speak to Eagle-Man. “I guess so,” she admitted morosely, and took the weapons. “Just one spear will be enough?”
“It should be. But if she comes after you, you’d better spear her again.”
Twig turned to Greyhawk. “You’d better nock your atlatl, just in case.”
Greyhawk smirked, but pulled a spear from his quiver and nocked it into the hook of his atlatl. Almost laughing, he said, “Don’t worry, Twig. If the tree comes after you, I’ll kill her for sure.”
Screech Owl sat on his haunches in front of Twig. “Now, go on, Twig.”
Twig bravely stalked toward the rock. She eased around the boulder, and a shadow touched her face as the dark Cloud People covered the sky.
Twig edged farther, then stopped short. The cliff fell away in a sheer drop three times her height. But when she craned her neck to explore over the edge, she saw a tiny spruce tree clinging to a patch of soil no bigger than her foot. It was right over the edge, and no taller than her knees. She could have pulled it up by the roots if she’d wanted to.
Greyhawk came up behind her and looked over the edge. “
That
is First Woman’s tree? It’s not much to look at, is it?”
“No, but … I don’t see any of Thunderbird’s eggs in the top, do you?”
“Of course not. It’s just a scrubby little tree.”
Snowflakes started to fall. They glistened as they landed on the warm rocks and melted.
“Come on, Twig,” Greyhawk said. “Spear the tree. I want to talk to you for a while before I have to run home.”
Twig sighed, lifted her atlatl, and cast her spear into the branches. The tree wiggled, as though trying to dislodge her spear.
Greyhawk snickered, “I can’t wait to tell Rattler that you speared a tree. She’ll—”
A flash of lightning crackled through the air and blasted the boulders nearby. Greyhawk screamed as huge chunks of stone exploded all around them. They both dove for the ground and covered their heads. The roar of Thunderbird shook the ground so violently it felt like an earthquake.
“You must have hit the trunk!” Greyhawk shouted. “Run! He’s coming after us!” He jumped up and took off like a scared rabbit, racing away down the rocky slope.
When Yipper heard Greyhawk’s shout, he sprang up from beneath the cliff with a half-eaten rabbit between his teeth and charged after his master with shreds of fur flying around his black snout.
“I didn’t hit the trunk!” Twig yelled. “I didn’t!”
Screech Owl ran up and clutched her tightly against him. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, but I don’t know what I did wrong.”
It was snowing harder. Big fluffy flakes tumbled through the air and coated Twig’s cape.
“Oh, Thunderbird is contrary. Sometimes he just does that to scare people. Did you kill the tree?”
“Well”—she had no idea how to tell—“I think so.”
Screech Owl got down on his hands and knees and crawled to look over the edge at First Woman’s tree. “Oh, yes. You did very well. Why don’t you sit down while I cut off her top; then we’ll go find where ‘Greyhawk the Brave’ is cowering.”
Twig slumped down on the wet rock and wiped her drenched forehead. Hunting Spirits took a lot of strength. “Just the top? Why don’t we take the whole tree?”
She could hear a soft zizzing as Screech Owl sawed with his stone knife.
“It takes only a very small portion to open a tunnel through which you can speak to Eagle-Man.”

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