People of the Earth (80 page)

 
          
 
"It killed
himl
"

 
          
 
“Did it?" He lifted his head to look at
her. “Or did he fall into it and refuse to come out? Remember?—he said it was
calling. Maybe he didn't have the strength to refuse the call."

 
          
 
"Strength?" She blew through her
lips and settled on the slab next to him. The lonely fear on her face unnerved
him. “The voices asked if I was strong enough."

 
          
 
Still Water put his arm around her.
"Among the Round Rock, I made dart shafts. When you plan a dart shaft, you
have to find the best piece of wood. First you strip the bark off and look at
the grain—see if the Spirit in the wood might work. Then you heat it, steam it,
straighten the bends and curves. When that's done, you use a scraper to smooth
it. You mix a bit of your soul with it and heat it over the fire to toughen the
Spirit of the wood. Then you make the final carving."

 
          
 
"Does this have a point?"

 
          
 
He nodded absently. "Are you a dart
shaft, White Ash?"

 
          
 
"I'm a woman." She glowered.

 
          
 
"I'm well aware of that. I was speaking
in terms of Power."

 
          
 
She searched his eyes. "What do you
mean?"

 
          
 
"Power crafts its own tools." He
hugged her close, reassured by the feel of her body against his. "Think
about everything that's happened to you. Sage Ghost stole you from Three Forks
and trained you in the ways of the Sun People. You've told me he did that as a
promise to Power. Maybe that was selecting the raw wood. Maybe learning the
ways of the Sun People was like stripping the bark and straightening the bends.
From then on, everything that happened was the firing process ... the
strengthening of the wood." He looked at her. "You're the strongest
person I know. You've been beaten, raped, tried for strength . . . and you've
passed all the tests."

 
          
 
She looked out over the basin as wind played
with strands of her long black hair. A weary desolation lay behind her
expression. "Everything happens because of me."

 
          
 
"Power has its dart shaft." He
raised his eyebrows. "Now only the final crafting is needed."

 
          
 
"And the craftsman is dead." She
jerked her head back toward the burial.

           
 
"Perhaps."

 
          
 
She cocked an eyebrow questioningly.

 
          
 
He lifted a foot to prop it on the slab and
followed his thoughts. "A dart shaft is only one part of the whole.
Perhaps Singing Stones attached the fletching. That still leaves the stone
point, and the binding."

 
          
 
"But what do we do now? Where do we
go?"

 
          
 
He sniffed the warm air, filling his nostrils
with the scent of brush and warm earth. "I think the best thing is to stay
here. We have Singing Stones' shelter. The storage pits have enough food. The
star wheel is up on the ridge top."

 
          
 
"But what about all those people down
there? Maybe we could-"

 
          
 
"What? Go down and die with them the way
Singing Stones said? If everything that happens to us happens for a reason,
we'll know when to go down. Power will tell us. The black wolf will come, or
the Bundle will Dream with us. We're not ready yet. Perhaps you'll find the way
to Power in the meantime."

 
          
 
"We could still leave. Travel by night
the way we did when we escaped from the Broken Stones. Go south, live like we
wanted to."

 
          
 
His soul saddened. "Could we?"

 
          
 
She hesitated for a moment, mouth tight, lines
around her hard eyes. "No, I guess not. As the seasons passed, we'd never
forgive ourselves, would we?"

 
          
 
He took a last look at Singing Stones' burial
place and stood. Reaching for his pack, he willed assurance into his smile.
"Come on. Let's go see if we can learn to Dream together.''

 
          
 
Her brave smile didn't hide the fact that her
heart was breaking.

 
          
 
Bitterbrush leaned all her weight on her
fire-hardened digging stick and drove it into the ground. She worked at the
edge of a lumpy series of dunes where the sandy soil held water late into the
year. She pulled back, levering the soil up with a snapping of roots, grabbed
the scurf-pea plant and pulled it free. Then she whacked the roots on the
digging stick to break the soil loose. Dropping the rich plant into her pack,
she moved on to the next.

 
          
 
Irregular buttes lined the southern horizon
and extended off the western flanks of
Green
Mountain
. They rose to a cobble-strewn summit before
dropping off into the dune-rich
Red
Earth
Basin
. The endless blue of the late-afternoon sky
had a singular clarity. Sage thrashers flitted around, eying her curiously as
they peeped from the gnarled, knee-high brush.

 
          
 
Scurf pea had grown well this season. With
each new plant, she mumbled a prayer of thanks to the Spirit who guarded these
grounds. Scurf pea was a favorite of the People. Larkspur had noted the time
perfectly. The seeds were ready to drop—and a
delightftri
tea could be made from them. The rest of the plant, including the roots, made
wonderful eating.

 
          
 
She dropped the plant into her sack and looked
around. Here and there among the dunes, other members of the clan were at work,
harvesting the rich abundance of plants. They had camped a short walk to the
east, on a terrace overlooking a seep. Round Rock camp lay a day's walk beyond
that. There Larkspur watched over the children with
Tiber
's help.

 
          
 
Bitterbrush peered at the gentle northern
horizon that belied the sheer drop-off of the Gray Wall. A green band of
willows obscured the course of the
Coldwater River
.

 
          
 
She levered another plant from the soil and
placed it atop the others in her sack, pressing it down. A leafy odor rose to
fill her nostrils. Time to take her bulging pack back to camp. She slung it
over her shoulder and set out.

 
          
 
Bitterbrush tried to understand everything
that had happened to her as she picked her way through the knee-high sage. No
one said much anymore. A spark had gone from the clan, snuffed by Black Hand's
murder. In the days since the tragedy at the Gathering, she'd come to accept
that she would live the rest of her life alone. What man would want a woman
associated with murder—even if she would inherit an entire camp some day?

 
          
 
The gravelly ground gave way to a softer silt
that cushioned her steps. Birds warbled in accompaniment to Bitter-brush's
thoughts. The tumpline of her pack ate into her forehead. So much heartache for
everyone. Only Tuber seemed unaffected by the horror that had befallen them.
The gleam of challenge had even died in Larkspur's eyes.

 
          
 
Something has changed.

 
          
 
Their camp had been placed in a sheltered spot
eroded out of the terrace. A seep rose at the back of the pocket and trickled
through rich grasses to drain into the Coldwater, a short walk to the north.
She picked her way down the embankment and walked into the camp before dropping
her burden.

 
          
 
She stretched to ease the kink in her back and
stepped over to stir the smoldering fire. Hide shelters had been placed around
the fire in a half circle; she passed between Limber-cone's and Pretty Woman's
before kneeling at the seep. Cattail had hollowed out a basin in the bright
green moss to hold water.

 
          
 
She drank her fill of the cool water, then
seated herself in the thick grass to rest. If she drank until she burst, she
could never fill the aching emptiness inside. Black Hand had at least been an
ardent lover. He'd smiled at her and held her— not a substitute for Warm Fire,
but at least she hadn't been alone in her robes.

 
          
 
"I'll miss that," she whispered.
"There's no one to talk to." Even Bad Belly would be a relief. Her
gaze strayed to the north. Had tragedy befallen Bad Belly, too?

 
          
 
"You have me to talk to," a strange
voice said from behind. When she turned, a lone warrior stood there.

 
          
 
Bitterbrush gasped and scrambled to her feet.
The cut of his clothing differed from anything she had ever seen before. A
long, fringed hunting shirt hung down to mid-thigh, and the long fringes on his
leggings swayed with the air. Thick-soled moccasins covered his feet. He looked
like the most powerful man she'd ever seen, and long, deadly darts hung from
one hand. Five black circles had been tattooed into his high forehead.

 
          
 
"You look like a good woman," he
said in accented words. He studied her. "Strong body."

           
 
Heart pounding, she gaped, then asked in a
small voice, "Who are you?"

 
          
 
He smiled grimly. "I am Sage Ghost. Walk
back to your camp." He pointed with his darts. ''Don't run. I'm faster
than you."

 
          
 
She shook her head and knotted a fist at her
breast. A scream choked in her throat.

 
          
 
"The others are taken by now. Your men
are dead. There's no point in trying to escape. The Power of the Earth People
has fled."

 
          
 
Too shocked to think, she stumbled toward the
lodges, glancing fearfully at him as he followed. Once in the camp, she
stopped. "The others? Dead?"

 
          
 
He used one of the long darts to lift the door
flaps on each of the lodges, peering cautiously to see what was inside. Only
then did he turn to face her. "We keep only the strong young women and
children. Black Point have hunted you all day. Your people belong to the Black
Point now. All but you. I keep you. You are now White Clay. Like me."

 
          
 
She turned to run, but his hard hand caught
her. At the strength in his grip, she cried out and ceased to struggle. He
pulled her around and she got a close look at him. Several gray hairs threaded
through his long braids. Deep lines traced his face—and she could sense the
sadness in his brown eyes.