People of the Fire (23 page)

 
          
 
She sat up, her old heart pumping the anxiety.
Around the edges of her consciousness, the dream she'd had frayed and blew away
like downy seeds from a thistle. What had it been about? Only the memory of
haunted eyes and desperation remained.

           
 
She swallowed and stared up at the stars where
they twinkled through the masking moonlight.

 
          
 
Around her, Three Toes, Hungry Bull, and Black
Crow slept soundly. The night air brought the subtle perfume of sagebrush and
the rich mold of earth to her nose. Crickets chirred in the silence.

 
          
 
The fear descended.

 
          
 
White Calf shook her worn hide robe off.

 
          
 
"Come on. Get up."

 
          
 
Hungry Bull sat up, instinctively reaching for
his darts. Three Toes blinked owlishly. Black Crow squinted in the moonlight,
looking around in confusion as he rolled out of his bedding.

 
          
 
"What?" Three Toes asked. "It's
the middle of the night."

 
          
 
White Calf was already rolling her hide.
"I know. I only hope we're not too late."

 
          
 
"Too late for what?" Hungry Bull
demanded.

 
          
 
"I don't know." White Calf laced her
rolled hide to her pack, squatting to get the tumpline over her forehead.

 
          
 
"Hey! I mean ..." But the old woman
had already waddled off down the path that led to
Moon
River
.

 
          
 
Gaping, Black Crow stared across at his
friends, throat bobbing as he rubbed his round belly. "What now?"

 
          
 
"Got me," Three Toes mumbled,
yawning, crawling from the shelter of his hides and starting to roll them up.
"But I think we'd better find out."

 
          
 
You y re the one who has to lead now,
Chokecherry's words echoed in her head.

 
          
 
"I can't. I'm not strong enough."
Heart like a lump of
punky
wood, she stared at the
single stick standing before Heavy Beaver's lodge. By
noon
, that would be gone.

 
          
 
And if you're not? What then, Sage Root? If
you let him kill you, what happens to your son . . . to Hungry Bull?

 
          
 
A whisper seemed to rise from above, Dancing
Doe's voice calling. She strained to hear the words, wincing at the pain in her
stomach.

 
          
 
"I didn't ask for this. I just wanted to
raise my child, keep my husband happy. I didn't ask for any of this. All I
wanted was to see my people fed. Now I've become some sort of monster. Dancing
Doe killed herself because I tried to help. If I hadn't been there ..."
She winced, closing her eyes to the pain as gray dawn shaded the outlines of
the lodges.

 
          
 
She stood, stepping out to look around—and
froze. The bundle hung from one of the soot-stained
lodgepoles
.
Black raven feathers stuck out from a tightly packed leather pouch.

 
          
 
A sob choking in her throat, she pulled the
thing loose. Unable to control her shaking fingers, she ripped the hide open
and whimpered as a roll of maggots spilled out over her fingers.

 
          
 
Something dark fell and rolled to one side.

 
          
 
She strangled her cries, frantically wiping
the maggots from her hands, shivering uncontrollably as she fought the urge to
scream. Backing away, her stomach pumped again, having nothing left but sour
bile. The black pad, still wiggling with white maggots, caught her eye. She
recognized shredded sagebrush bark. A menstrual pad. Hers? Of course. It had to
be. Heavy Beaver wouldn't have used it otherwise.

 
          
 
"A piece . . . of my soul," she
choked. "He's got a piece of my soul." He's won! I'm dying. I can
feel it.

 
          
 
She swallowed hard, lungs pulling at a knot of
fear locking her windpipe. What can I do? Where can I go? How can I save
myself?

 
          
 
Two dark shadows passed overhead, wings
rasping in the air. Ravens!

 
          
 
Tears streaked her face. He'll give my soul to
the ravens. And then what? I'll never get to the
Starweb
.
I'll never . . . Dancing Doe's eyes stared up from the depths of her tortured
memories. Dancing Doe had risen to the
Starweb
.

 
          
 
Sage Root's teeth chattered as a soul chill
wrapped around her. How long did she have? How long until Heavy Beaver twisted
her soul from her body?

 
          
 
Dawn. Her last sunrise. Numbly, she reached
inside the lodge, finding her butchering kit—the one she'd used on the
antelope. How fitting.

 
          
 
She turned, forcing her back straight,
catching a glimpse of Sleeping Fir as she started out of her lodge, met her
eyes, and ducked hurriedly back inside.

 
          
 
The chill in her soul deepened. Even her
friends feared her now. Who would want to be seen talking to a Cursed woman?

           
 
One way or another, she was dead. She could
let Heavy Beaver steal her soul through his Spirit Power, or free it herself.

 
          
 
With careful steps she avoided Little Dancer
where he slept in Two Smokes' arms. Muffled whimpers escaped his lips. Perhaps
he'd been too close to her and caught the edges of Heavy Beaver's Curse?
Another mistake on her part.

 
          
 
She walked down to the river, following along
the bank. Barely aware, she looked up at the graying skyline, listening to the
trilling tee-
yee
melodies of the red-winged
blackbirds as they sang in the thick brush back from the river. Below her, a
great blue heron splashed and rose to wing, wary of her presence. Even the
birds avoided her.

 
          
 
A suggestion of movement caught her attention.
A huge black wolf stood on a rise, watching with knowing yellow eyes. Thick
muscles rippled along the animal's lean body. The increasing light accented the
sheen of its sleek coat. Another of Heavy Beaver's creatures? She tore her
frightened gaze away.

 
          
 
A terrible loneliness crushed her.
"Hungry Bull? Where are you? Come back to me. Don't let me face this
alone."

 
          
 
"Why did you let Blood Bear steal
me?"

 
          
 
The Wolf Dreamer's voice drifted from the
illusion that surrounded the Wolf Bundle like a cloud. ''He asked and gave of
himself. Let us see what he does with Power now that he's wished it.''

 
          
 
The Wolf Bundle tested the fringes of Blood
Bear’s mind. “I see no change. He's as much a fool as ever. He mocks what sober
men consider with care."

 
          
 
''He has asked, and I have the piece he gave
of himself. Am I one to deny a seeker?"

 
          
 
''You 're not the one riding in his arms.
Suppose I end up in the fire?"

 
          
 
"Not even Blood Bear is that stupid."

 
          
 
"But Bundles—and the Power in them—can be
killed."

 
          
 
"Like Dreams . . . and Dreamers."

 
          
 
"The Watcher keeps his eye on the boy."

 
          
 
"And if this goes beyond the Watcher's
ability?"

 
          
 
A fight broke out between two of the camp
dogs. Little Dancer woke. He could feel fear hovering around him. Like the
stench of carrion, wrongness and evil rode on the morning air. He dug fists
into his rheumy eyes to get them open. Beside him, Two Smokes groaned and
yawned. Golden bars of yellow morning sunlight slanted under the rustling
cotton-wood leaves. Things looked bluish, tinged by the smoke from morning
fires. Around them the camp stirred to life.

 
          
 
Little Dancer caught sight of Heavy Beaver's
lodge, the ominous stick standing tall in the yellow light. Memories flashed
back of the horrible yesterday, a collage of images of Dancing Doe's horrified
expression of death, the panic in his mother's eyes as she saw the single
stick, Blood Bear's raid, and the stunning loss of the Wolf Bundle. He
remembered Two Elks' body where it lay on its side, the old man tucked in a
fetal position around the violent dart that had drunk so deeply of his life.

 
          
 
Little Dancer rose frantically, stumbling to
look about the wreckage inside the lodge. Empty. A premonition of ill spread
within. He felt another's pangs of wretched anxiety filling him, familiar, yet
alienated: alone.

 
          
 
“Mother?" He trotted around behind the
lodge, peering into the brush to see if she had simply gone to relieve herself
No trace. ''Mother?''

 
          
 
“Hush!" Sleeping Fir called from inside
her lodge. "People are sleeping here."

 
          
 
'MOTHER!" His breath went short, a
feeling squeezing his chest like a giant hand.

 
          
 
“Here," Two Smokes called. “Come take my
hand and we'll go find her. No sense in alarming the whole camp."

           
 
The
berdache
smiled
uneasily, eyes searching the quiet lodges.

 
          
 
Not quite placated, Little Dancer reached up
and placed his hand in his friend's. "We'll find her?"

 
          
 
"We'll find her."

 
          
 
Together they searched, circling the perimeter
of the camp, finding nothing. The trails had been used until the dust had been
beaten into a fine powder. The only tracks consisted of blurred images.

 
          
 
A sudden flood of desperation caught Little
Dancer completely unaware. The world seemed to slip sideways. Suddenly dizzy,
he leaned forward, clutching his stomach. An urge to vomit convulsed his gut
while his legs turned rubbery beneath him.

 
          
 
"Little Dancer? What's wrong? What's
..."

 
          
 
An utterly hopeless feeling possessed him for
a moment before final desperation took over. He could feel her, feel the movements
of her hands as she took the cool stone and . . .

 
          
 
"No!" he choked before his stomach
emptied into the trail. "No." He coughed at the stinging bile that
had gone up the back of his nose and threatened his windpipe. "No!"

 
          
 
As quickly, the feeling of dislocation passed.
Completely drained, he came to, staring at the vomit-splattered earth before
him. An abyss, endless as the wind, opened inside him. Loss whirled about his
mind. Disoriented, he struggled to find his breath, the feeling that of having
been kicked in the chest.

 
          
 
"... and take a deep breath. Just breathe
easily. Don't be afraid. It's just the fear, the worry that's gotten to
you." Two Smokes comforted from where he knelt beside him. Strong warm
hands supported his wrenched body as he coughed again and raised his head. The
world looked washed out, as if seen through a film of water. The colors didn't
appear as bright. The air felt sluggish and half-alive. Even Father Sun's light
had lost its fire, becoming pallid and weak.

 
          
 
"Mother! Come back. Come back to
me!"

 
          
 
"Now, little one, we don't—"

 
          
 
"She's dead!" He fought to get his
feet under him, Two Smokes supporting him as his balance wavered. The
berdache
stared down, a deep worry eating at him.

           
 
“She's probably just gone to—"

 
          
 
"No!" the boy bawled, eyes searching
the trail frantically. 44 I felt her die! I/*/f her."

 
          
 
"Please, little one, don't go imagining
all the—"

 
          
 
“Stop it! Stop it! She's dead! I know!"

 
          
 
“You're being crazy." The
berdache
stopped short, frozen by the look Little Dancer
gave him.

 
          
 
Choking on tears, Little Dancer cried, “You
know, don't you? I've seen it in your eyes. You know I feel things. I hear
things most people don't. I heard the antelope at the kill site. I called them.
I did that. In a Dream, Two Smokes. I called them in a Power Dream." Tears
burned hot on his face, dribbling from his quivering chin. "And Heavy
Beaver killed my mother. He drove the Wolf Bundle away. He killed Dancing Doe's
baby . . . and then he killed her. He's evil. He's bad and wicked."

 
          
 
“
Shhh
!" Two
Smokes went pale, dropping on his knee to stare into Little Dancer's eyes.
"Quiet, little one. You're already in trouble. Heavy Beaver's a powerful
man. He can do anything he wants and no one will say anything. You must hold
your tongue. Will you? For me? You know he'll hurt me. He's just waiting for
his time."

 
          
 
Little Dancer stared uncertainly at him while
his mind reeled, feeling ill to the depths of his tormented soul. “I hate him.
I'm going to kill him. Hear me, Heavy Beaver? I'm going to kill you!"

 
          
 
“Hush!" Two Smokes clamped a hand over
his mouth, peering fearfully back the way they'd come. “Never say that. Never.
Your life is a dart's cast away from dead as it Two Smokes swallowed hard, a
trembling in his hands. "Promise me you won't say that again. Promise me!
And then we'll go find your mother and I'll show you how silly your idea is
that she's dead."

 
          
 
Little Dancer stared at him, anger and grief
churning. Deliberately, he raised his arm, pointing. “She's over there.”

 
          
 
"Then let's go see. And maybe on the way
I can talk some sense into your little head." Two Smokes offered his hand.

 
          
 
Beyond caring, Little Dancer refused it and
walked past with a miserable purpose. Tears continued to leak down his face.
Periodically he stopped to drag a filthy sleeve across his eyes to clear his
blurry vision.

 
          
 
Images of her formed in his mind. She smiled
at him, speaking gently. In the firelight of a warm lodge, her face reflected
love and concern. How many times had her gentle hands soothed him, healed his
hurts? How many times had her expression lit as she told him a story, or
watched as he ate the broth she gave him? When winter nights came again, whose
warm hands would tuck the hides around his chin? Who would listen when he had a
problem? A light had flickered out in his soul. Only blackness remained.

 
          
 
The old cottonwood had blown down years
before. Seasons of rain and wind had scoured the bark from the underlying wood.
Since then the bright plain's sun had bleached the smooth wood silver white.
Where the heavy trunk forked into two thick branches, Sage Root had stopped.
She lay propped there, cradled by the bones of the tree. Her head had fallen
back, exposing her face to the morning sun. She looked tired and vulnerable.
Beside her, her worn butchering bag lay open. On the ground, a black obsidian
core lay canted to one side. Sunlight sparkled from the vitreous ripples where
flakes had been driven off. A small quartzite
hammerstone
rested beside the core.

 
          
 
Flies already rose in a gossamer buzzing
column over the rich wealth of her blood where it pooled in the skirts of her
dress.

 
          
 
A hard hand clapped Little Dancer on the
shoulder, trying to pull him back. "Go back to camp," Two Smokes
ordered. "Now! You don't—"

 
          
 
"She cut her wrists, Two Smokes. I felt
it. That's when I got sick. She cut her wrists and left me here all
alone." The tears ran hot from his eyes again. "Why did she die? Why
did she leave me here? I need her, Two Smokes. I need her to hold me."

 
          
 
"Let's go back now."

 
          
 
"It didn't hurt," Little Dancer
mumbled, weeping. "Obsidian is so sharp. She just knocked off a flake and
cut her wrists open. And she died. Two Smokes, why is the world so mean to
us?"

           
 
The hand on his shoulder began to pull him
inexorably back.

 
          
 
They'd stopped moving, Two Smokes holding him,
crushing him tightly in a shared embrace. Together they cried, each adrift with
nowhere to go. But nothing filled the aching void inside him.

 
          
 
He'd gone empty. So empty.

 
          
 
Heavy Beaver blinked awake. Through the smoke
hole, he could see a blue patch of morning sky. He hadn't slept well. Like a
wraith from the fog, his mother's ghost had lurked in the shadows of his
dreams. Echoes of her voice tried to sort themselves out in his mind.

 
          
 
Why couldn't all women be as perfect as his
mother had been? The endless longing filled him. He'd loved her like he'd never
love another woman. All he'd ever had to do was cry out and she came running.
When the other boys teased him, she'd driven them off with a stick. When he
hurt himself, she'd come and cooed and soothed him. When his father had
objected to her constant attention and tried to force him to go and play, she'd
chased him off with vile threats. Against the troubles of the world, she'd
stood unflinching. Of all the People, only she had understood his fears and
needs. She had recognized his special talents and virtues even before he had.
Once she'd pointed out his greatness, not even he could ignore it.

 
          
 
"You've been chosen, Heavy Beaver. That's
why you're different. The spirits have singled you out for special things.
That's why you don't fit. That's why the other boys tease you and play tricks.
They're jealous. They can see how special you are—and they don't like it.
That's the way of great men . . . always shunned by their inferiors. You'll
see. You'll rise above them all one day."

 
          
 
If all women had those same intelligent and
sensitive abilities to see clearly, the world would be a better place. He
wouldn't have to fight so hard to put the People on the right path.

 
          
 
Even now, years after her death, he missed her
with an open longing in his soul. He'd barely noticed the day begun complaining
of the shortness of breath. He'd been pre-occupied with other things. Of course
she'd always been there, strong, knowing what to do. The thought that she
wouldn't be with him forever seemed impossible. The decision to marry Red
Chert
had been her idea. She'd seen to the arrangements
with the girl's family—and the choice had been right.

 
          
 
"Red
Chert's
the girl for you, obedient. She won't try to suck you dry like most women.
She's worthy of you, recognizes your talents without being jealous. You see,
that's why Dancing Doe and Sage Root and the others don't bed you. They're
worried, that's what. Around you, they couldn't control everything the way they
do now. Have you seen them? Strutting around, shaking their hips and breasts to
get a reaction. No, you couldn't live with a woman like that. She'd constantly
be trying to hold you back. She'd have to live in your shadow forever, so she'd
make you miserable because that's all that would be left for her. That and
plots. You know how women are with plots. Always trying to cause trouble. Take
that Chokecherry. Look at the way she tries to humiliate me in front of others.
Always criticizing. You don't want a spiteful woman like that. You want one who
sees you for who you are—like Red
Chert
."