People of the Earth (35 page)

 
          
 
“I've had enough help already."

 
          
 
He splashed at the water with an absent hand.
“You seem to be afraid of me."

 
          
 
She watched warily. “Shouldn't I be?"

 
          
 
He laughed softly to himself. “If you are,
you're the first person who ever was."

 
          
 
She frowned uneasily. Where were his weapons?
“Do you have any food?"

 
          
 
“No. I didn't think I'd be gone that
long."

 
          
 
“And you haven't been hunting?" she asked
cannily.

 
          
 
He shrugged. “I’ve got a bad arm. I can throw
a dart pretty well, but it takes too long for me to nock another dart in the
atlatl
. By the time I have another one ready to throw, the
animals are gone. Generally I dig for roots, or pick berries. Larkspur used to
send me out to pull up sagebrush. Otherwise, I'm good at knocking off rabbits
and sage grouse with a rock."

 
          
 
A cripple? Is that what he is? She blinked in
the night, some of her fears eroded by his honest words. Wind Runner?

           
 
Where are you when I need you? Where are your
strength and cunning?

 
          
 
She closed her eyes. Wind Runner? No, not now.
Not after what Three Bulls had done. How could she ever let another man touch
her?

 
          
 
"You just shuddered; are you all right?
Don't cry again."

 
          
 
"Cry?"

 
          
 
"You did that a lot. You'd sort of sleep
and cry at the same time . . . like something terrible haunts your dreams. I
was afraid that you might have—"

 
          
 
"You said our clothes are wet?"

 
          
 
"I guess I wasn't thinking too well by
the time I got you here. I just sort of walked into the hot water. Getting real
cold does that; it affects the way you think. All your things were washed away
when you tried to cross the river. Between us we have my robe, a coat, a shirt,
leggings, and moccasins."

 
          
 
One set of clothes? She'd have to kill him
after all. His clothing meant survival. But then, if he really proved to be as
inept as he seemed, maybe she could steal them and fade away into the night. He
could take his own chances.

 
          
 
She bit her lip to stifle a sudden guilt.
Steal his clothes? Condemn him to death by exposure?

 
          
 
He's a man. Just like Three Bulls. Wake up to
reality, White Ash. You’ve watched your people killed. You been raped, and
chased, and starved. You can't afford a con-science anymore. It's your life or
his. Survive, woman. No matter what it takes.

 
          
 
"The rocks are warm," he continued.
"I put the wet things on them to dry. But you know how leather is. It will
take until morning, probably."

 
          
 
"Where are we? The big
hot springs
?"

 
          
 
"Yes. This is supposed to be a Power
place. Maybe it is. I was just upstream of it when you almost drowned."

 
          
 
She shook her head, more of her memories
coming back. Terror had driven her into the water, forced her to try something
she knew she couldn't do. She rubbed her fingers together, feeling the
dried-plum texture of water-logged flesh.

 
          
 
Wait for morning. Wait for light to see by,
then act. She let herself sink lower into the warm protection of the water,
rubbing her face in an effort to stay awake in case he attacked her.

 
          
 
He searched for a Dreamer? She shook her head,
but couldn't dispel the haunting Dreams she'd had—or the words that had
preceded her awakening.

 
          
 
She glared across the steam. Just make it
until tomorrow, White Ash. Then you can kill him and be gone.

 
          
 
Bad Belly sat on the rocks above the spring
and watched the morning brighten the eastern horizon. He hadn't been able to
sleep after the woman had awakened in the night. He'd waited until she'd
propped herself in the shallows and drifted off to sleep with her head pillowed
on a rock. Then he'd carefully stepped out of the water, shivering in the night
breeze. After he'd found his damp coat and robe, he'd sat and rubbed Trouble's
ears as he considered his dilemma.

 
          
 
He stood stiffly and walked down to the river.
The snow bit at his bare feet, but it would be better to dry his moccasins
completely. The water looked dark and oily in the half-light of dawn. He
proceeded to a place where willows grew. With a river cobble he sharpened the
edge of an angular rock and cut some of the tough stems before returning to the
hot
springs
to warm his toes on the rocks. As he stripped the bark from the willows, he
mulled over his worries.

 
          
 
She
wasn
't the
Dreamer?

 
          
 
Bad Belly worked the bark into a crude net,
using his teeth to pull the knots tight.

 
          
 
In the growing light, he stared over at her,
touched by the beauty in her face. The soft light hid the bruises on her cheeks
and caressed the curves of her body. No wonder a man had desired her.

 
          
 
Bad Belly sighed to himself and motioned to
Trouble before he retraced the path down to the bank of the river. After all
that time in the water, he could almost pity a fish.

 
          
 
His feet burned from the cold as he wadded
along the bank, but he found the right place: a ledge where the current had
undercut a thin layer of sandstone. Settling himself, he eased down on his
belly and extended his left hand.

           
 
Moving with great care, he lowered his net
ever so gently into the water and hoped the bark would hold. A man could do
this so much more effectively with two hands.

 
          
 
"Life's just not like that," he
growled to himself. "I don't have two good hands. And I saved the wrong
woman." Still, the thought brought contentment. He, Bad Belly, the man
most people considered a burden, had jumped into an icy river and saved
someone's life!

 
          
 
Irritation evaporated and he smiled happily.
No matter what happened, he'd relive that day until he died, which— given his
present circumstances—might not be very far away.

 
          
 
The net he lowered so gently touched the
bottom and the current swelled the weaving of bark into a basket.

 
          
 
He reached with his shriveled arm and began to
gently poke it under the bank. He might not be able to hold anything with his
useless arm, but it could function for a stick when needed. Dark arrows shot
into the basket as Bad Belly chortled and pulled up the fragile net with the
flopping rewards. Three fish, each as long as his forearm.

 
          
 
He rolled back, careful to rest his net on the
ground before the frantic fish broke it apart. One by one, he flipped them up
on the bank, where Trouble pounced on them.

 
          
 
He stared down at his good hand, rubbing the
thumb over his fingers. Why had his skin swollen and become all wrinkly in the
water, while the fish skins stayed so firm? Was it the slime on their thin
hides that protected them? Or was it something about the skin itself? Think
about it later.

 
          
 
Another hundred steps down the bank he found a
similar ledge and snared another few fish. By the time the sun had crested the
high ridges to the east, he'd managed to catch ten, not counting the ones
Trouble had gobbled down. His net had fallen apart and he couldn't feel his
feet anymore—but food waited.

 
          
 
Bad Belly plucked up his catch and dropped it
into a fold in his robe. Trouble trotted along behind as he climbed up on the
rocks. No woman lay in the pool.

 
          
 
Bad Belly stared around—and found her
frantically trying to pull on one of his wet moccasins. "Wet leather is
like that," he called. "Let them dry a little more first. That's why
I went barefoot."

 
          
 
She shot him a terrified look and froze, caught
in the motion.

 
          
 
He walked closer, happy to have the warm rock
against his cold-numbed feet. "Is something wrong? Is someone
coming?"

 
          
 
She shook her head, a terrible desperation in
her eyes.

 
          
 
"I've got fish," he cried.
"Today we'll eat!"

 
          
 
She seemed to deflate then, and realization
washed over him. He stopped, cocking his head. "Please. Don't fear me. You
were going to run away, weren't you? And take my clothes?"

 
          
 
She glared at him with anger and resentment.

 
          
 
Bad Belly looked down at the bodies of his
fish. "It's all right. You can have the clothes. Run away. I won't stop
you."

 
          
 
He walked over next to the pool and dumped the
fish.

 
          
 
She walked toward him, one foot clad, the
other moccasin hanging from her hand. "You'd just let me have your
clothes? In the name of Thunderbird, why?"

 
          
 
He gestured futilely with his good hand. After
all, he'd saved her life, hadn't he? Maybe that's why her betrayal hurt so.
"I can't know everything that's happened to you. Maybe your need is
greater than mine. You're a woman alone. When I look into your face, I see
terrible things reflected in your eyes. Maybe . . . maybe taking my clothes
will keep you alive and get you back to your people. Back where someone can
take care of you . . . keep you safe."

 
          
 
Her shoulders slumped as if her spirit had
fled. "You believe that, don't you?"

 
          
 
"I have to. The world works in funny
ways. It's full of puzzles—things people need to think about, but never do. I
mean, look back at things that have happened in the past. Surely you know
someone who lived when he shouldn't have? Maybe five people were walking along
a ridge and lightning killed all but one. Then, later on, that one person
happened to be present at a time of flood—or maybe at a landslide— and pulled
someone to safety, and that someone grew up to be a Powerful Healer and saved
lots of people's lives. Things work in curious ways, that's all."

 
          
 
She stepped closer to him. The haunted
expression on her face was frightening. "My people, the White Clay, are
all dead."

 
          
 
He gaped. "But you . . . speak my
language. I thought the Sun People spoke funny."

 
          
 
Her hard stare pierced him. She reached up to
rub her eyes. "I don't know what's real anymore. I . . ."