People of the Fire (17 page)

 
          
 
Merry eyes twinkled. "Really? You'd do
that? I'm ready! It's all right to be called Little Dancer, but I'm big enough
to earn a man's name."

 
          
 
She ruffled his hair, taking the water skin
from his back, lifting it to suck down drafts of the tepid fluid. At least most
of the mud had settled out. But then, the thirsty couldn't afford to be picky.
The elders still talked of a time when the rivers ran clear as air, so a person
could see the very bottom. Now silt from runoff gave the water a milky
appearance-even late into autumn.

 
          
 
Thankfully, she wiped her lips.

 
          
 
"Do me a favor? Take this over to
Chokecherry, then take whatever's left to everyone else until it's gone."

 
          
 
He grinned at her. "Sure. But maybe I
could have some more? It was a long walk up here."

 
          
 
"Don't drink it all," she reminded
him, reaching to turn the meat strips, squeezing the fatter ones to detect that
mushy feeling of incomplete drying. Most were rock hard-testament to the
aridity of the air.

 
          
 
"Mother?"

 
          
 
She looked back, seeing him watching her.

 
          
 
"Yes, son?"

 
          
 
"You can feel it. People are afraid. Is
it Heavy Beaver? I heard in camp that he's going to Curse you today."

 
          
 
She stiffened, hiding her expression from him.
"Yes, son, I suppose he will."

 
          
 
"That's why people are afraid? That's why
you didn't sleep last night?"

 
          
 
"That's why. He also Cursed the meat. You
heard him."

 
          
 
"But the antelope didn't mind. They told
me so. I watched them last night. They don't like Heavy Beaver."

 
          
 
She made herself smile at him despite the
emptiness in her breast. 'Then you listen to the antelope . . . always. Will
you promise me?"

 
          
 
“Yes, Mother,” His face puckered into a frown.
"And if Heavy Beaver Curses you, what then?"

 
          
 
She swayed, uncertain what to tell him. She
dropped to her knees to stare into his face. "I don't know. But whatever
it is, you'll stay with your father. He'll see that nothing happens to
you."

 
          
 
“But what of you?"

 
          
 
She shook her head, reaching to stroke his
face. “I don't know. Chokecherry says he can't kill me if I believe he can't.
But it's Spirit Power, and I don't know about how things like that work. I just
don't understand. That's all."

 
          
 
“Why?" he cried desperately. “Why would
he do it? The People need the meat and the antelope—"

 
          
 
“
Shhh
! Don't make a
fuss. People are looking at you."

 
          
 
"But why? Does he hate everyone?"

 
          
 
Just women. Instead she said, "It's old
trouble between him and me. Don't worry your little head about it. Everything will
be fine. You'll see, things will work out."

 
          
 
He shook his head. “No, they won't. Heavy
Beaver hurt the Wolf Bundle. Bad things are loose. I can feel them. Only the
antelope were good." He nodded soberly, eyes wide as he stared into hers.
"Why don't we leave? We could pack up and-"

 
          
 
“But our People are here. And where would we
go? What if your father didn't want to leave?"

 
          
 
He lowered his eyes. "We could go . . .
somewhere. Even the
Anit'ah
would be better
than—"

 
          
 
"Hush. I don't ever want to hear you
speak like that again. And if you do, I'll send Two Smokes away. You hear? At
his horrified look, she reached for him, holding him close, a tear creeping
past her hot eyes. "I'm sorry. Don't listen to me. I'm scared, that's
all."

            
“I know."

 
          
 
"It's just trouble, that's all. People do
funny things.”

 
          
 
"Because you didn't do what Heavy Beaver
said?”

 
          
 
"That's right. People can't have everyone
making their own rules—"

            
“But the antelope think you did
right. They let you trap them. They told me. Father wouldn't want you to hurt
the antelope."

 
          
 
"No, but he wasn't here."

 
          
 
"Mother-"

 
          
 
"Hush, now. You think about what I said.
And besides, you don't want everyone thirsty, do you? You've got a duty to the
People, too. Your duty is to learn the ways of the People, to become a great
hunter like your father. And for the moment, it's to see that Chokecherry
doesn't die of thirst."

 
          
 
"But, Mother-"

 
          
 
"March, youngster." She accented it
with a pointed finger.

 
          
 
He filled his lungs to protest, disobedience
in his small clouded face. Her lifted eyebrow overcame his reluctance; he
turned, walking toward Chokecherry on uncertain legs.

 
          
 
Blessed Wise One Above, I never knew it would
be this hard. She bit her lip until it hurt and bent back to turning the meat.
A dead feeling already lay in her breast. How long now? How long before Heavy
Beaver came? Couldn't he just get it over? The waiting ate at her like a thing
alive.

 
          
 
Involuntarily, her eyes kept shifting to her
son where he walked from person to person with the water bag.

 
          
 
Tears began to leak past her eyelids.

 
          
 
Never in all his young life had he felt so
insignificant. Not even hunger hurt this bad. Little Dancer cried as he turned
the meat the way his mother had shown him. People just looked away, shamed. He
wiped at his eyes, feeling the worry hanging in the air like bad smoke. If
Heavy Beaver made his mother leave, he'd go, too. He'd follow.

 
          
 
In his mind the presence of the antelope
lingered like a familiar warmth on a chill winter day. To make them feel
better, he picked a small piece of dried meat from the pungent sage and chewed
it thoughtfully, thanking their spirits for the gift of life. To himself, he
Sang as he'd heard adults do. The sun seemed suddenly brighter, a lightness
cutting the dark in his soul. In his belly, the meat warmed him, spreading its
power through his limbs.

 
          
 
Wouldn't Heavy Beaver feel the light? If Heavy
Beaver really Dreamed with the Spirits, he had to know the meat was all right.
He had to know Antelope Above approved. He just had to! His thoughts always
came back to the Spirit Dreamer.

 
          
 
Shivers played up and down his thin body as he
recalled the fear in his mother's eyes. If his mother ... A cold wind of fright
rose up from the depths to terrify him. What could he do? Where would he go? If
only he could save his mother.

 
          
 
People pulled hard strips of meat from the
sagebrush and packed them into unfolded
parfleches
.
Even the thick pieces that felt mushy in the middle had a hard crust on the
outside. Flies couldn't lay eggs that would turn into maggots. But the coyotes
could still come to steal pieces.

 
          
 
Feeling the urge, he walked to the edge of the
kill site and lifted his flap to urinate. People had to do that to keep coyotes
off. Ravens, on the other hand, paid no attention to markings and had to be run
off or they'd steal a kill blind. Worst of all was when they crapped on the
carcasses. The runny white droppings had to be carefully cut off. But then,
given a choice, he'd take ravens over Heavy Beaver any day.

 
          
 
“Heavy Beaver!" He looked down at where
his water spattered the dry earth. "Take that, Heavy Beaver! That's what
you're worth."

 
          
 
A dark shadow loomed over him. Startled,
Little Dancer looked up into the Spirit Dreamer's half-lidded eyes. His voice
choked in his throat. He just stared, paralyzed, while his penis pointed
straight at Heavy Beaver.

 
          
 
“A greeting? Too much of your mother in you,
boy. We'll see about that one of these days. I promise you, I won't
forget."

 
          
 
A croak sounded from Little Dancer's throat.
Then Heavy Beaver strode past, the malignancy of his shadow like a black hail
cloud.

 
          
 
Fear pumped with each beat of his heart as he
ran, hearing people going silent as Heavy Beaver walked straight up to where
Sage Root stood.

 
          
 
A strange expression changed his mother's
fact. The normally healthy tones of her skin had washed pale Knowing her as
well as he did, Little Dancer could see the brightness in his mother's eyes.
Carefully, he walked wide of H

           
 
Beaver, circling to hold his mother's dress
hem. A fear unlike anything he'd ever known obsessed him, left him numb and
mindless.

 
          
 
"So." Heavy Beaver's voice almost
caressed. "You've continued with your pollution?" A lazy smile bent
his lips.

 
          
 
"I made my peace with the antelope."
Mother sounded hoarse.

 
          
 
"You polluted it, woman!"

 
          
 
The People tensed, stepping back at the angry
tones in Heavy Beaver's voice.

 
          
 
"So you say."

 
          
 
"Take back your actions, woman. It's your
last chance. Beg, and perhaps I'll Sing for you. Show you're sorry for your
ways and I'll do my best to cleanse your pollution from the Spirit World."

 
          
 
Where he clutched his mother's skirts, Little
Dancer could feel her shiver, tension locking her muscles.

 
          
 
"I would still Sing to save you despite
your—"

 
          
 
Horrified, Little Dancer heard Mother laugh.

 
          
 
Heavy Beaver jerked as if slapped.

 
          
 
Her laughter stung like a yucca lash.
"You'd Sing for me? The woman who turned you down? I'll bet. What next?
You want me to beg? Let you possess me? Ah, I can see it in your eyes. You're
no Dreamer, no Singer. You're the pollution, Heavy Beaver. A pollution within
the People! What no one would put up with in anyone else, we allow in you
because you've convinced others that you Dream. You're nothing but a sick man
with delusions. You disgust me. Not even dung beetles are more repulsive."