People of the Fire (15 page)

 
          
 
Sage Root tilted her head. "Can you
conceive of Heavy Beaver Dancing with fire?"

 
          
 
Chokecherry chuckled at the image it conjured
in her mind. "Hardly." Then she sobered. "But the People are
waiting."

 
          
 
"So are the antelope. I . . . can almost
..."

 
          
 
"Yes?"

 
          
 
Confused, Sage Root tried to clear her roiled
mind. "I don't know. I can just feel them. That's all. Hovering around.
Waiting."

 
          
 
"An angry feeling?"

 
          
 
"No. Just . . . well, it's not
clear."

 
          
 
"Then you had better choose. Will you eat
the meat? Will you defy Heavy Beaver? You're not alone in your dislike for him.
Don't look at me like that. Think about it. It's the young people who flock to
Heavy Beaver. He preaches a new way-says if we do as he says, it'll all be
better. He calls for us to separate ourselves from the old ways, to follow his
path and change things. Sage Root, listen to the old people. We're the ones who
remember. So many have split off—Two Stones, Elk Whistle, Seven Suns—all left
to form bands of their own. We'll be like smoke on the wind in the end, drifted
so far apart, we'll disappear. Is that what you want?"

 
          
 
"Why does it have to be me to stand up
and—"

 
          
 
"Mother?"

 
          
 
The voice startled her. She turned, seeing
Little Dancer approaching uneasily. 'Yes, little one."

 
          
 
"Can we keep the meat? The antelope are
all waiting. They're uneasy. I'm hungry again. I wish you could feel it like I
do."

           
 
For the briefest moment, she sensed his want.
The gnawing hunger in his small body became hers. She staggered at the impact.
What to do? Fear of Heavy Beaver balanced with the pangs of want, of a full
stomach.

 
          
 
And if Heavy Beaver Cursed her? I'm just a
woman. How can I stand against him?

 
          
 
A presence lingered, expectant. Nervously, she
scanned the sky, searching for the source. A shiver traced her spine as her
son's eyes burned up at her. She struggled with her thoughts, and everything in
the world seemed to go still, all of it waiting on her.

 
          
 
“We'll keep the meat, son. It would be more
offensive to waste the animals than to heed Heavy Beaver's words." Hungry
Bull, forgive me. My dearest love, please, forgive me for what I'm about to do.
But I swear, I'll never watch another of my children starve. I've lost two
boys, not another. Never again!

 
          
 
Chokecherry sighed, her relief almost
tangible.

 
          
 
Sage Root blinked up at the stars, aware of a
change, but her son surprised her again.

 
          
 
''Mother? The antelope are leaving. They were
worried. You made them feel better."

 
          
 
"The antelope?"

 
          
 
"Yes, Mother. Didn't you hear them
talking to you?"

 
          
 
Sage Root shot a quick look at Chokecherry,
wishing she could see the old woman's face as she stared down at Little Dancer.
The old woman had bent, peering intently in the darkness.

 
          
 
"No, son. I didn't."

 
          
 
Her soul felt dislocated, the sensation almost
sickening. Heavy Beaver couldn't ignore this. How could she ever resist? What
could she do to save herself?

 
          
 
Heavy Beaver leaned against his willow
backrest, smoking red willow bark in his straight clay pipe. Before him, the
fire smoldered crimson in the darkness of the sweat lodge. Looking up, he could
see nothing but the faint outline of the low roof. He placed his hand in the
water pouch and cast droplets onto the hot stones beside him. His skin prickled
as heat and steam rose.

           
 
Hot, so very hot.

 
          
 
"Heavy Beaver?" a young man called
from outside. "I have just come from the antelope kill site. Sage Root has
ordered everyone to fetch
parfleches
. She will keep
the meat and feed her family. Chokecherry and Makes Fun are Singing her
praises."

 
          
 
Heavy Beaver smiled to himself, nodding in the
dim light. "Very well. She has chosen. Thank you."

 
          
 
Beyond the walls of the sweat lodge, he could
hear the young man's step's receding.

 
          
 
To his surprise, the thought of destroying her
hurt slightly. After all these years, she'd finally let her pride force her
into his hands. One never knew where Power would lead. No matter.

 
          
 
"Foolish to sweat in weather like this.
But you see, it cleanses. Clears the confusions out of our souls. Now I must go
and prepare myself."

 
          
 
Straight Wood shot a quick look his direction,
nodding.

 
          
 
Heavy Beaver crawled out, the dry air sucking
up his sweat.

 
          
 
He walked up to his lodge and ducked in. Red
Chert
started, looking bashfully at him, lowering her eyes.
She sat on the woman's side of the lodge, stripped to the waist. Her long black
hair clung to her damp flesh, curled slightly where it matted on her flushed
skin.

 
          
 
Through lowered lids, he studied her, seeing
the sweat beaded on her cheeks, trickling down between her full breasts. Of all
the women, Red
Chert
remained fat. He saw to that. No
one could call Heavy Beaver a fool. In his youth, he'd overheard a conversation
between Chokecherry and White Foot—who had later left with Elk Whistle's bunch
after a fight over leadership. Chokecherry had stated matter-of-factly that
full-bodied women conceived better than skinny ones. Chokecherry had believed
that women who were worked too hard, or starved too thin, didn't take when a
man planted his seed. Besides which, a Spirit Dreamer ought to have a plump
wife. To do otherwise would hint that he wasn't capable as a Dreamer or Singer.
A man of Power should have the trappings to accent his skills.

 
          
 
Heavy Beaver pulled at the last of his pipe,
enjoying the bitter bite of the chopped willow bark. Despite the heat and

           
 
Red
Chert's
half-naked body opposite him, he couldn't shake the thought of Sage Root. He
remembered her standing between him and the kill site that afternoon, defiant,
eyes flashing. The image hung before him, so clear he could almost reach out
and touch her, trace the curves of her hips, finger the full breasts pushing
against the thin hide of her antelope dress.

 
          
 
Better than she herself, he'd known she'd
chose the meat— and, thereby, her downfall as well.

 
          
 
She turned me down. She ridiculed me when I
tried to Sing her into my sleeping robes. She laughed in my face!

 
          
 
For as long as he could remember, Sage Root
had obsessed him. As a young girl, her eyes and mischievous smile had beguiled
him. Her limber body gave her preeminence in games and dancing. How many nights
had he watched, enraptured, as her skipping, flying feet had come magically
alive to the cadence of the Singers and the drums while she whirled and bobbed
tirelessly. None danced as gracefully as Sage Root.

 
          
 
Then had come her first menstruation. In the
ceremony which made her a woman, Sage Root had been transformed into a most
wondrous beauty. Men paid court to her constantly, Singing to her parents'
lodge from the shelter of the night, bearing her gifts, seeking to waylay her
in the brush as she ran her errands and did chores.

 
          
 
Heavy Beaver had given it his best, the desire
in his young heart driving him to the point of ambushing her. He'd almost
forced her that night. The burning fever had filled his heart when she turned
him down. A man who raped a woman paid dearly. The People paraded the culprit
to the center of the camp, stripped him, and sawed his manhood from his body
with a dull quartzite flake.

 
          
 
If he didn't bleed to death—a rarity—the women
continued to cut him until he did. Only that sober reminder had kept him from
fulfilling himself that night so long ago.
And.
by stale buffalo urine, she'd have been
better off for it.

 
          
 
He closed his eyes, imagining himself as he
threw her to the ground. With all his weight and strength, he bore her down,
staring into her flashing eyes, seeing her hair cascading across the ground in
a coal-black web. Her enraged face would redden with the heat of anger, her
beautiful mouth gritted.

 
          
 
Pinning her hands above her head so she
couldn't scratch him, he would reach down, lifting the hem of her dress,
pulling it high so he could run his hands down her muscular legs, feel her
calf-tender skin against his. He'd lose himself in the soft swell of her
breasts and tease the nipples hard while she fought him.

 
          
 
When she realized the futility of her
situation, he would lower himself, wedging a hard knee between her thighs,
opening her to him. Through it all, he'd stare into her midnight-black eyes,
enjoying her final defeat.

 
          
 
The fire popped and hissed, bringing him back
to his lodge. He filled his lungs, exhaling slowly to still the tension in his
tight body. Opening his eyes, he looked over at Red
Chert
.

 
          
 
"Your bleeding will come with the
moon?"

 
          
 
"Yes."

 
          
 
He nodded to himself, figuring. He had at
least five days before he needed to worry about her polluting him. He pushed
Red
Chert
onto her back, suddenly awkward fingers
undoing the belt at her waist. Eyes clamped tightly shut, he relived the
fantasy until he
spasmed
and groaned with release.

 
          
 
He gasped deeply, rolling to the side, feeling
sweat run as he flopped limply on his back. Red
Chert's
eyes remained fixed on the smoke hole overhead, no expression on her placid
face.

 
          
 
Heavy Beaver ran a hand over his wet visage,
wiping the perspiration away. He'd finished this time. As long as he could fix
Sage Root in his mind, he could finish. If he opened his eyes, or if he let
himself remember Red
Chert
under him, his manhood
fled, leaving him limp and powerless. This time, he'd held on to the vision,
held on to Sage Root. Perhaps, just maybe, this time he'd finally planted his
child. Perhaps now he'd be whole—prove himself a true man.

 
          
 
And Sage Root had defied him openly. Tomorrow,
first thing, he d Curse her before them all.

 
          
 
Sparks, like living things, spiraled up to the
night sky, twisting, dancing a pattern of glowing yellow orange against the
soft velvet of the night.