People of the Earth (4 page)

 
          
 
He swallowed hard and glanced back at the
mounded dwellings of the Earth People. What next? The girl squatted down,
separate from her playmates. She watched one of the little boys drawing on the
ground with a stick. Her dejected posture touched something in Sage Ghost's
soul.

 
          
 
Yes, you are the one, child. Now I have to be
cunning— and as brave as I've ever been. His heart began to pound.

 
          
 
He looked over his shoulder at the wolf—and
shivered. No trace of the animal remained. Sage Ghost filled his lungs, Power
pressing down around him like an aged buffalo robe.

 
          
 
Power is here, all around me, waiting. Power
led me here, showed me the wolf—just like the Dream said. That little girl, she
y s the one. Power sent me for her.

 
          
 
Sage Ghost wiggled closer to the camp,
trusting the graying light to hide his movement from sharp eyes. No matter that
he hadn't seen any warriors, a man never knew about the Power of others. The
White Clay believed that Thunder-bird had given them the best of Power, but
other folk— especially those tied so closely to the earth—might have their
captive Demon Powers to help them.

           
 
Getting the child away would be difficult in
itself, and taking her north to the White Clay camp on the Bug River would
challenge all of his wits and skill.

 
          
 
I've got to do it! A man
doesn
't forget a promise made to Power. Better that his warm flesh stop a keenly
tipped dart than that he return empty-handed, violating the vow he'd made on
his soul before Thunderbird and Bear.

 
          
 
Even as he stalked the child, the anguish in
Bright Moon's eyes haunted him, goading him to try his best. Together they'd
carried their last daughter up the rocky, windblown trail and laid her body on
the ridge top, where her soul could soar free and rise to Thunderbird. There,
crouched in the wet cold of the spring night, he'd rested his hand on his
wife's shoulder and looked up at the twinkling lights that filled the night
sky. The souls that Thunderbird took up to the Camp of the Dead made their camp
fires just as men did.

 
          
 
"I can't bear any more," Bright Moon
had cried. "What will become of us? What?"

 
          
 
Afterward he had led her down from the
windswept ridge, aware of the angry bite of the coming spring storm. He
remembered that feeling of hollowness he'd had as he'd ducked into the lodge.
He'd stared around, seeing the place where his children had lived—and
experienced an emptiness of the soul. Two of his infant sons had died
mysteriously in the night, their bodies turned blue. One of his daughters had
been bitten while trying to stop a dog fight, and the wound had gone bad; evil
had sneaked in to cause pus and corruption. She'd died in fever. Another
daughter had lasted five seasons before a silver bear caught her picking
berries. The bear's hide still covered Bright Moon and him on cold
nights—little solace for a dead daughter. Last of all had been Willow Hoop.
She'd been the strong one, the one who would become the slim young woman who
would marry well, the one who would find a strong young man and give them
grandchildren to teach and enjoy in their old age.

 
          
 
Then one spring day Willow Hoop had taken a
foolish chance. She'd run out on the spring-rotten ice of the
Bug
River
while chasing after a scrambling
jackrabbit. Where she'd gone through the ice, the water ran black and silent.

           
 
Only by luck had they retrieved her body from
a snag downstream. Otherwise—and Sage Ghost shuddered to think it-she might
have lost her soul down there in the black water, and it might have turned to
evil and haunted the camps of the people on long winter nights.

 
          
 
In those miserable days after his daughter's
death, the world had lost its color. The wind had bitten with colder teeth and
the clouds had dulled in the blustery sky. Laughter and hope had disappeared.
Grief had wilted his spirit. Bright Moon's eyes had eaten at him, raw wounds
from which her tortured soul leaked.

 
          
 
So it doesn’t matter if the Earth People catch
me. I had to come . . . had to try to take the child. To have done nothing
would have been to live with the emptiness inside . . . to watch Bright Moon y
s soul dying bit by bit from grief

 
          
 
Sage Ghost slipped closer, careful to keep
downwind, knowing that all could be lost if the camp dogs got his scent. Most
of the animals appeared to be old, although he'd seen one healthy bitch with a
litter of puppies earlier in the day.

 
          
 
Better to take this terrible chance than to
live with the grief. In misery, he'd gone to Old Falcon, the White Clay Soul
Flier, and asked for help, explaining that Bright Moon's bleeding had ceased,
that she needed to conceive one more child.

 
          
 
"Take this. This is Mouse's helper,"
Old Falcon had said with a grin, handing him a mouse skin stuffed with grass.
"Call on Mouse, who is always fertile. Do not eat or drink for four days
and nights. Sing each day, and place Mouse's helper under your bed on the
fourth night. Power will come to you."

 
          
 
As Old Falcon had promised, Power came—only it
wasn't Mouse. Rather, a mysterious, handsome youth had appeared out of the
sun-struck clouds and smiled. "I've heard your Singing and seen your
Dancing and felt your purification as you cleansed your soul. Bright Moon has
passed her time to bear children. You can do nothing. No Power will restore her
fertility. "

 
          
 
Sage Ghost's soul had twisted and cried out as
he lifted trembling hands to the handsome young man. "What can I do? Look
at her. Feel her grief. She says she'll die—that she can't live knowing all of
her children are dead."

 
          
 
And the handsome man had smiled. "And
what would you give for another child?''

 
          
 
"Anything!"

 
          
 
"Then journey south, far beyond where
you've been before. Cross the
Dangerous
River
, cross the mountains. Continue south until
you see my Spirit Helper, the Black Wolf There you’ll find a camp of people.
There you’ll find a young girl who needs to be loved. She’ll be afraid at
first. Her family will kill you if they catch you; but if you're strong, and if
you 're cunning and take good care of her, she’ll come to love you. If you 're
worthy, she’ll be a great and powerful Dreamer for the People. "

 
          
 
"On my honor before Thunderbird, who
might not take my soul to the World of the Dead, and on my honor before you, I
will be worthy. I'll do anything to see my Bright Moon's face light up
again."

 
          
 
The young man had smiled then, and flames had
appeared to swirl around him as he rose like fire into the sky.

 
          
 
The next morning Sage Ghost had returned the
Mouse fetish to Old Falcon. He'd put together his pack and hugged his beloved
Bright Moon, telling her that he was going to fetch her a new daughter, one
given to him by Spirit Power.

 
          
 
"And I am here," he grunted under
his breath as he slipped into a screening mat of sagebrush.

 
          
 
An ebbing redness outlined the mountains to
the west, and indigo shadows draped the camp, softening the outlines of the
dome-shaped dwellings. Someone threw more sagebrush on the fire where the
elders sat smoking and talking.

 
          
 
Sage Ghost crawled closer, careful to make no
sound. Now he could smell the camp: scents of sage smoke, dogs, and humans. The
odor of rich dust hung in his nostrils.

 
          
 
One of the old men called something, waving
his hand to emphasize his order. The girl jumped to her feet, wary eyes on the
elder. She looked to be about ten winters old, maybe a little younger. She
answered neutrally and plucked a skin bag from the tripod by the fire. Slinging
it over a skinny shoulder, she started down toward the river.

           
 
Sage Ghost's heart hammered as he rose and
drifted silently after her in the deepening gloom. She walked with a grace and
balance unusual in a girl her age. Thick black hair hung down to her waist. She
hummed some Earth People song under her breath as she wound through the
sagebrush, moccasins patting on the worn trail.

 
          
 
Sage Ghost hovered like a falcon over an
unsuspecting rabbit, gliding on bobcat-silent feet. She hopped lightly down to
the riverbank,
unslinging
the hide bag. For a moment
she looked up, eyes searching the heavens. Then she sighed and bent over the
water, a mere shadow among shadows. He could hear her feet splashing.

 
          
 
The east had darkened, the first faint
flickers of stars penetrating the veil of the sky. Finches and sage thrashers
chirped to the growing darkness; evening settled like velvet soot on the land.

 
          
 
Sage Ghost eased one foot after another as he
closed on the child. Years of hunting had trained him for this moment; skill
flowed through him like a special kind of Power. Water gurgled as it filled the
pouch she held to the current.

 
          
 
Careful, Sage Ghost, One false move now and
you ' 11 fail. If she screams, all will be lost.

 
          
 
She stood, water dripping musically from the
sides of the bag and covering the sound of his movement. His hand clapped over
her mouth as he pulled her backward.

 
          
 
He mumbled a curse under his breath as she
sank teeth into the palm of his hand; then she began to kick and squirm, her
screams throttled. He picked her up as if she were a struggling antelope fawn
and walked out into the lazy water. She battered at him, flailing against his
side as he clamped her to him and started down the channel.

 
          
 
"Hush," he whispered in a soothing
voice. "I won't hurt you. I'm taking you north, to a new home, to people
who will love you."

 
          
 
She wrenched this way and that, muffled sounds
coming from her throat. He could feel the terror in her desperate struggles.
She threw herself back, twisting, trying to break free.

           
 
“Here, quiet. You can't get away—not from Sage
Ghost. You've been promised to me. You will become a great Spirit Woman—a Soul
Flier—among the White Clay. I know it. A man of fire came from the sky and told
me."

 
          
 
She relaxed slightly in his arms, panting her
fear against the back of his hand.

 
          
 
Sage Ghost jumped as a wolf howled prophetically
into the night.

 
          
 
Such a terrible winter.

 
          
 
White Ash leaned forward, face pinching as
cramped and knotted muscles strained in her back. She peered across the fire at
the pile of hides covering Bright Moon's body. The draft that sneaked in around
the lodge skirts created patterns in the thick bed of glowing red coals and
cast a ruby light over the inside of the lodge. She could see Bright Moon's
face; her mother finally slept.

 
          
 
My mother? Curious. I can hardly remember my
life before Sage Ghost stole me from the Three Forks camp. I belong here, among
the White Clay people, now.
Owlclover
might have
borne me—but Bright Moon loved me more. White Ash rubbed a nervous hand over
her face and looked at the old woman who now slept so fitfully. And all I can
do is sit here and watch her die.

 
          
 
"Thank you for everything, Bright
Moon," she whispered softly in sorrow. If only Sage Ghost hadn't left with
the other men in a desperate attempt to find game. She closed her eyes, grief a
physical pain, like a gnashing of teeth in her chest. Bright Moon would be dead
before he returned.

 
          
 
For eight winters White Ash had lived with the
White Clay.

 
          
 
Of those years, the first six had been
wonderful. As she'd grown, she'd learned the ways and language of the Sun
People.

 
          
 
The White Clay had moved south from the
Bug
River
, all the way to the Fat Beaver, to avoid
the raiding in the north.

 
          
 
She smiled as she remembered carefree days of
golden sunshine in the summer and cozy, warm lodges in the winter. Through all
of them, Bright Moon's face had beamed with love for her. She'd played with
Wind Runner and Brave Man and the other children. They'd run and told jokes and
hunted for mice and rabbits.

 
          
 
White Ash shook her head, the smile on her
lips bittersweet. Three years ago things had begun to change. Rumors had
circulated down the trail that the other clans were beginning to move south,
seeking new territory. The White Clay warriors had strutted
among.the
lodges, thumping their chests, growling threats about what they'd do if the
other clans came near.

 
          
 
Then the Black Point clan attacked the camp on
the Fat Beaver River and caught everyone by surprise. The White Clay had fled
in horrified confusion and come unraveled, splitting into three factions. Defeat
after defeat had thinned what remained of their ranks. But the people had never
been as desperate as they now were. War visited them again, bringing death and
privation. Hunger stalked the camp, reflected in the gaunt faces of the
children and elders. The cold seemed to intensify, rending their bodies with
talons of ice. Hope had fled with the ghost of summer.

 
          
 
Hope? How can I hope? What have I done to
deserve this? What hope will there be for White Ash? She closed her eyes and
shook her head, trying to escape the images in the Dreams. She forced herself
to relive the days when she and Wind Runner and Brave Man had laughed and told
each other what they hoped for the future. The sun had been brighter then. The
meat racks had bent under the weight of rich red slabs. The White Clay had been
whole, powerful. Smiling faces peered at her from the past—faces of people dead
or vanished with the breakup of the clan. Faces now as remote as those of her
native Earth People.

 
          
 
Bright Moon made a gasping noise that withered
White Ash's spirit. Sage Ghost, maybe it's better that you don't know.

 
          
 
She leaned forward, propping her chin on one
knee, staring dully at the spot where Sage Ghost's bedding should have been.
Various
parfleches
—collapsible rawhide bags—had been
stacked around the bottom against the skirting of the lodge to act as extra
insulation from the stinging cold. The dogs slept outside but their packs
stayed in, away from eager teeth, be they canine or packrat—assuming one of the
wily rodents made it that far past the famished dogs. Peeled poles, where they
supported the finely sewn hides of the lodge cover, gleamed in the crimson
light. Through the smoke hole she could see the stars, wavering as the hot air
made a mirage of the soot-stained hole.

 
          
 
Tired, deadly tired. Her soul ached. Could
this really be happening to her? She glanced at the mounded robes where Bright
Moon lay. How long had it been? An eternity?

 
          
 
No, only two long days since Sage Ghost had
left with the other men in another attempt to find game—anything to augment the
dwindling supplies of food. They shouldn't have come out here in the middle of
the basin in the first place. Sage Ghost had told Whistling Hare that
starvation and the Wolf People lurked here.

 
          
 
But who remained sane among the battered
remains of the White Clay? They were but one small band of the Sun People,
harried, constantly pushed farther south by the Broken Stones, the Hollow
Flute, and the Black Point. The northern bands had grown, swelling in size
until they strained the hunting grounds and stripped berry bushes of fruit.

 
          
 
The clans weren't the only threat. The Wolf
People, who lived in the Grass Meadow Mountains to the east, hated the Sun
People. Only a week ago they'd ruthlessly raided a Sun camp, sweeping through
the village like a swarm of enraged buffalo, burning lodges and murdering
everyone in their path. They'd even killed the women and little children, and
brutally slashed open the wombs of pregnant mothers to rip the babies from
their bodies. Fear stalked the clans of the Sun People like a malignant demon.
To the west, the Sheep Hunters, who hunted in the Red Rock Mountains, had
warned the White Clay what would happen if anyone foolishly pushed into the
canyons in their range. In a world gone hostile, the only hope for survival lay
to the south, beyond the Sideways Mountains . . . maybe somewhere beyond the
land of the Earth People.

 
          
 
While the men hunted, the women trekked long,
circuitous routes to check snares and look for concentrations of jack-rabbits
that might be driven into a trap. The endless, nagging cold continued.

           
 
And I have to face Bright Moon's death alone.

 
          
 
The day after Sage Ghost left, the chill had
awakened her, eating through the robes, bringing her out of another of the
strange Dreams. She'd blinked, wondering why Bright Moon—who took such pride
and delight at offering tea to early risers—would have let the fire die. She'd
blinked in the gray light and sat up.

 
          
 
"Bright Moon?" she'd called softly
and heard no answer. She reached over to the silent bundle and lifted the
hides.

 
          
 
Bright Moon lay on her side, eyes glazed by a
terrible fear. Her gray hair spilled loosely over the furs, contrasting with
the red tones of fox hair under her head.

 
          
 
"Bright Moon?"

 
          
 
A desperate croak had come from her foster
mother's throat.

 
          
 
White Ash had panicked and thrown on her
frost-stiff clothing before stumbling out into the mauve light to run flat-out
for old Flying Squirrel's lodge.

 
          
 
The old woman's reputation as the real leader
of the band had grown through the years. Her husband, Whistling Hare, might
pronounce the decisions, but most people suspected that Flying Squirrel lay
behind each and every one. Not that people minded Whistling Hare's leadership;
they respected his counsel—and, of course, Flying Squirrel's—and generally did
as he advised.

 
          
 
Flying Squirrel had pulled a robe about her
thin shoulders and hurried across the snowbound camp. Wind whipped the old
woman's silvered braids; the expression on her lined face had gone grim as her
feet crunched through the grainy snow. She'd ducked into the lodge and stooped
to pull Bright Moon's blanket back. "Bright Moon?"

 
          
 
Only the frightened eyes had moved, tears
welling in their corners.

 
          
 
"Can you hear me?" Flying Squirrel
had persisted.

 
          
 
Bright Moon mumbled something, lips not
moving, eyes darting this way and that.

 
          
 
"Rest, old friend. We will make a fire
and get you something to eat." And she'd turned, beckoning White Ash to
follow.

           
 
Outside, beyond earshot, Flying Squirrel faced
White Ash, weary resignation in her old eyes. With a callus-horned hand, she
rubbed her long face, rearranging the patterns of wrinkles. "I've seen
this before. It's soul splitting."

 
          
 
White Ash drew a quick breath, stiffening.
"Her soul's separating from her body? You mean like what happened to old
No Teeth?"

 
          
 
Flying Squirrel nodded. "I don't know
why. It just happens among the White Clay—more so than among other people.
Sometimes it's just one side of the body, and maybe it gets better through
time. But with Bright Moon . . . Listen, girl, I've walked this earth for six
tens of summers and a little more. When it's this bad, it's usually only days
until the soul leaves all the way."

 
          
 
White Ash swallowed against her thudding
heart. "We need a Soul Flier to sing for her ... to heal her. We'd better
send a runner after Old Falcon. Maybe if he comes back from the hunt, he can
Sing her soul back into . . . Why are you looking at me that way?"

 
          
 
The tenderness in Flying Squirrel's expression
deepended
. "Because, child, I know you love her.
I know what a blessing it's been to Bright Moon to have you these last eight
years. But there's nothing we can do."

 
          
 
White Ash shook frantic fists. "But if
Old Falcon—"

 
          
 
"
Shhh
! Which of
the boys would you send? Young Drummer? He's barely fourteen summers old. He
knows how to stay alive, but with all the trouble we've had, do you think the
men left a trail? Hmm? And you know how it is in early spring. Warm in the
morning and blowing snow like crazy in the afternoon. And what if the men find
a herd of buffalo? Would you have Old Falcon leave them and come running back?
Would you risk the Power of the hunt?"

 
          
 
"But she's
dyingl
"

 
          
 
"Yes, girl. She is. And if you don't get
that fire started in the lodge, she'll freeze to death first. Come on, I have
some embers you can carry back. The fire looked stone dead. You take care of
her and let us do the rest. We all love Bright Moon. We'll all help."

 
          
 
And they had. Some brought thin stew, the last
of their rations, cut with more and more water. Others brought firewood, or
warm tea. Meadow Vole had come and sat by the hour and talked about the past,
enjoying a sharing of memories one last time before yet another link with
long-gone days separated forever. Through it all, Bright Moon lay there
unmoving, helpless and fading.

 
          
 
White Ash did what she could, cleaning Bright
Moon's bedding, washing her foster mother, holding her hand during the other
times. And finally the old woman slept.

 
          
 
A heaviness pulled at White Ash's eyelids; an ache
stabbed through her lower back. She pulled another piece of sagebrush from the
pile, dropping it on the red embers. Brilliant yellow light flared before
burning down to hot coals.