People of the Earth (20 page)

 
          
 
"If it really goes underground."

 
          
 
"Then if it doesn't go underground, where
does it go?"

 
          
 
"Maybe one sun dies and another gets
born."

 
          
 
Bad Belly grinned, a new animation in his
eyes. "Ah. Good thought, but think about this. If the sun is born every
morning, it never grows. In fact, it starts out great big when it comes over
the horizon and gets littler until it crosses the western horizon, where it
gets big again. How many things do you know of that do that? Just the moon. And
speaking about the moon, why doesn't it burn as hot as the sun? And I don't
think the moon dies every night, either."

 
          
 
"And why is that, Bad Belly?"

 
          
 
"Because it always looks the same. Even
when it goes from round to a sliver and back to round again. The moon has
exactly the same markings every time. How many things do you know of that die
and are born again time after time and always look the same? Even red squirrels
and mice and birds have different markings, you know . . . little changes here
and there that let you tell one from another.''

 
          
 
Left Hand chuckled to himself. No wonder Bad
Belly had trouble. Left Hand had met Larkspur once, five summers past: a
painfully practical and cunning woman. She had left him feeling uneasy. Beyond
his own experience with her, her reputation had spread far and wide. People
feared and respected her. The Earth People made few decisions without
consulting her. And Bad Belly lived in her camp? No wonder she'd sent him out
here to pull up sagebrush.

 
          
 
"And there's more," Bad Belly
continued. "Why does the sun change its path across the sky? Why are days
longer in summer and shorter in winter? Why can't you see the way the path
changes through the seasons? Why doesn't it take the south trail across the sky
one day and the north one the next?"

 
          
 
"I don't know, but it never does,"
Left Hand said absently.

 
          
 
“How do you know that?"

 
          
 
Left Hand waved in the direction of the
mountains. "We have stone circles with rocks placed just so. You can watch
the sun come up in the morning, lining up on the rocks. By watching the rocks,
you can trace the change in the sun's path."

 
          
 
Bad Belly's eyes glowed. "What I'd give
to see that!"

 
          
 
"Build your own. Find a ridge top and
make a circle. You'll have to be up there at sunrise and sunset. Look across
the circle and line up the rocks, that's all."

 
          
 
The excitement died in Bad Belly's eyes.
"I couldn't. Larkspur ..."

 
          
 
"... wouldn't let you?"

 
          
 
Bad Belly shrugged. "She's a good leader
for our clan. She has to make decisions for all of us . . . make sure that
everyone is taken care of."

 
          
 
Left Hand propped his elbows on his knees.
"You know, that's the trouble with you Earth People."

 
          
 
"It is?"

 
          
 
Left Hand laughed. "You mean you think
about the sun and moon, about the markings on mice, and you don't think about
your own people and why they do what they do?

 
          
 
"Oh, I think about people all the time. I
wonder why people act the way they do. Sometimes things happen and we just act
. . . you know, like jerking your hand back from the fire. Other times we think
first about what we'll do, we plan. Is one different from the other? Do you
ever wonder about that?"

 
          
 
"Oh, yes. A Trader thinks about that all
the time. If we could figure out how people think, we T d always have the right
stuff to Trade at the right time. As it is, we just guess that Antelope People
will want buffalo meat. Or that pinion nuts will be in demand by the time we
get back home. But that's not the question I asked. What about the way your
people live? I mean, you don't fit." * Bad Belly knotted his fist.
"Of course I fit."

 
          
 
"Then why does Larkspur have you out here
pulling up sagebrush for firewood? The Larkspur I know couldn't care less if
the sun traveled under the earth."

 
          
 
Bad Belly looked away as he rubbed his good
hand nervously on the grease-stained leather of his pants. "I used to have
a friend who cared. He died."

 
          
 
"I'm sorry." Left Hand lowered his
voice. "He was the one who listened to you, wasn't he? The rest, they
don't understand, do they?"

 
          
 
Bad Belly started, as if hearing words out of
the past. His throat worked as he swallowed; nervously shifting his eyes as
though looking for some answer hidden in the patterns of sagebrush shadows, or
in the configuration of the rocks.

 
          
 
Left Hand barely heard the words Bad Belly
whispered under his breath. "Trader coming. He said that. He knew."

 
          
 
Left Hand stood and slapped Bad Belly on the
back. "Come on, I'll help you pack this sagebrush into camp."

 
          
 
"Larkspur might not like that."

 
          
 
"She won't offend a Trader, especially
not when he's being helpful."

 
          
 
Left Hand followed in Bad Belly's steps,
carrying an armload of prickly sage and his Trader's staff. That haunted
expression on Bad Belly's face stuck in his mind like boiled pine sap. By
buffalo's hairy scrotum, he just plain liked the man.

 
          
 
Left Hand glanced up at the sky. And just what
does the sun burn, anyway?

 
          
 
White Ash threw herself into the tedious chore
of twisting sagebrush out of the ground. She worked in the flats north of camp,
where the soil had better depth and grew taller sage | The day weighed on
her—the sky leaden and dark with clouds. The land endured, snow-packed and
gray. She labored hard, hating the weakness in her muscles as she drove herself
to bury grief with exhaustion.

 
          
 
The scrubby brush made wonderful fuel for the
hearth. It smoked very little, lit easily, and burned like a torch for several
minutes before the hard wood fragmented down to coals. When enough rocks were
thrown into the fire to absorb the heat, they would return warmth all night.
When a thick bed of coals was made, the hearth would put out heat for at least
two days. And sagebrush grew everywhere. Along the drainages it grew as tall as
the tallest man. Out in the basins it might reach as high as a man's knee. On
the ridge tops and in places where the soil was weak, the stuff grew only as
high as a person's ankle—but it all burned.

 
          
 
The root separated with a crackle and pop. She
straightened and threw her prize into the pile that grew beside her.

 
          
 
By habit she scanned the ridges, and this time
she caught a hint of movement—that of a man. She squinted to see better and
noted the weary way he walked. She eased back to her pack, pulling out her
atlatl
—lighter than a man's, suited to a woman's balance.
She also picked up some of her slim darts and checked the seating of the
foreshafts
, each tipped with a deadly translucent brown
chert
point. She looked around, seeing no one else to warn,
and started forward.

 
          
 
She trotted, enjoying the exercise, watching
the wavering figure ahead. It looked like . . . Wind Runner! She was sure of
it. She broke into a run. Perhaps they'd made a kill? If only it hadn't taken so
long; five days had passed since Bright Moon's death. The intervening time in
the lodge had been miserable. Bright Moon's presence lingered, seeping out from
the stained lodge poles and the smoked hide of the cover. There, amid the
memories, she had waited longingly for Sage Ghost to return.

 
          
 
"Wind Runner!"

 
          
 
He drew up, squinting across the melting snow,
then waving. As she came closer, she could see that he looked ghastly—haggard
and worn. Mud and water had spattered and stained his clothing. His face was
gaunt and drawn; hollows had formed under his broad cheekbones. A series of
scratches traced irregularly across the blue lines tattooed on his high
forehead, and sage leaves stuck here and there in his black, shining braids.

 
          
 
"What happened?" she demanded,
hugging him. "Are the men all right?"

 
          
 
"Fine ... I think. They made a kill . . .
about a week ago. Listen, we have to move camp. There are Wolf People all over
out there. I don't know, maybe that bunch that raided us two moons ago went
back and told the others. I've had to lose two separate parties in getting
here."

 
          
 
She shot a quick glance over his shoulder. The
rolling ridges looked soft in the distance, the surfaces mottled with drifted
snow. "Come on. Flying Squirrel's been worried half sick. She won't say it
aloud, but I can tell."

 
          
 
"Yes, well, we've got buffalo down a
couple of days' march south of here. Maybe after that, we'd better keep going
that way. Stop when we get to those mountains you call Sideways."

 
          
 
"Sideways because they slope up gently on
this side, then fall off in cliffs on the other."

 
          
 
He grinned the stupid grin of the exhausted.
"Then let's move what's left of the White Clay across them. How are things
here? You haven't seen any raiders? No scouts, no tracks?"

 
          
 
"Nothing but wind and blowing snow."
She took a deep breath. "Bright Moon died. Her soul split from her body.
She couldn't move for a couple of days and then went in the night. It was
peaceful. She didn't suffer."

 
          
 
Wind Runner missed a step and almost fell, eyes
narrowing with pain. "No ... not that. It's going to kill Sage Ghost. He
had a feeling. He sent a message with me, to tell Bright Moon he was fine and
eating lots of buffalo as he thought of her."

 
          
 
White Ash glanced away, seeking to hide her
grief. "For the moment, we have the Wolf People to worry about. You're
sure they're looking for us?"

 
          
 
He jerked a short nod. "I could expect a
single party out hunting. But two? No, they're after us. I think they want to
drive us back north as a warning to others not to move into their
territory."