People of the Fire (52 page)

 
          
 
"He'll be staying with White Calf through
this," Makes Fun decided firmly. "She wouldn't send him out into a
mess like this. White Calf's just that way. She knows. A woman doesn't get that
old without knowing a few things at least."

 
          
 
“She has a way with weather," Two Smokes
agreed. He laid aside his moccasins and picked through his collection of
grasses as if he'd just had a thought. He lifted one after another to inspect
them against the weak light. The puzzled look didn't leave his weather-beaten
face.

 
          
 
Elk Charm pulled her mussed hair back, fishing
a long-toothed comb crafted from a deer scapula from her pack. Picking at the
snarls, she worked her hair into long shining lengths before braiding it.
Rolling and stowing the bedding, she stepped out into the weather, following
the trail down into the willows to relieve herself.

 
          
 
Watching her go, Rattling Hooves pressed at
her forehead with a knotted fist. "By First Man, I hope he comes back.
She's too young to go through what I did." Her face lined. "I had her
. . . and Wet Rain. But she's so young."

 
          
 
Meadowlark placed a warm hand on her shoulder.
"What will be, will be." She shook her head. "I don't know.
After what Little Dancer's been through, well, I don't think the spirits would
abandon him now.''

 
          
 
"Chokecherry always said he was going to
do great things," Makes Fun reminded. "I'll put my trust in
Choke-cherry."

 
          
 
"I've known him the longest." Two
Smokes sighed. "Myself, I don't think Power will abandon him. I don't know
what it will make of my Little Dancer, but I don't think he's come this far
just to be left beside the trail." He smiled and winked at Rattling
Hooves. "But then, you know about
berdache
. We
feel things."

 
          
 
The children giggled and squealed where they
rolled and wrestled in the robes. "Hey, you little ferrets, settle down.
People live here, not a pack of otters." Makes Fun slapped at the pile
with a grass flail.

 
          
 
"Power?" Rattling Hooves shook her
head. "Why does the very thought of it still make me nervous?"

 
          
 
"Because you've been around us too long
..." Meadowlark said in half jest, "and we were around Heavy Beaver
too long before that!"

 
          
 
"Wait and see." Two Smokes replaced
his grass in the leather holder. "When people deal with the long terms of
Power, all they can do is wait. Power picks its own time and place. It does
what it does when it thinks the time is right."

 
          
 
"That's reassuring," Rattling Hooves
grunted dryly. "She's my daughter."

 
          
 
Two Smokes said no more, dropping his eyes and
lacing his fingers across his sagging belly as he thought about his grasses.

 
          
 
The flaps parted and Elk Charm stepped
through, head already matted with snow. Without a word she went to the
parfleche
that stored the freshly dug roots. She had to
step over squirming children to reach for the grinding stone. She scrubbed the
dirt from the root skins one by one with a handful of stiff grass. Then she
used the
mano
to smash the thick roots before milling
them. The
mano
sounded hollowly in the room, rasping,
knocking, and rasping again.

 
          
 
As she worked, the muscles in Elk Charm's
forearms leapt and tensed under her smooth skin, a reflection of the turmoil in
her mind. She attacked the woody roots, grinding the fibers against the stone
as if, by the very action, she could exact some measure of vengeance on the
world that frustrated her so.

 
          
 
Only Two Smokes saw the tear that slipped down
her cheek.

 
          
 
Little Dancer shivered in the hollow left by a
deadfall. Overhead, its twisted roots thrust gray skeleton fingers up into the
stormy sky. Clutched in its grip, rocks, dirt, and a mass of debris created a
slight shelter from the ceaseless dance of falling snow.

 
          
 
He blinked, tucking his arms tighter about his
middle. A pain ate at the side of his head. Stupid, foolish ... of all the
idiot stunts he'd ever pulled, he knew better than to travel in a storm like
this. His first action should have been to turn around and race back to White
Calf's. His second should have been to make a shelter, stock wood, and wait it
out.

 
          
 
But he hadn't. Images of Elk Charm's face had
led him on. Thoughts of her body hot against his had spurred him into the
storm, leading him to follow a path he'd traveled only twice before. For a
while, he'd fooled himself into thinking this might be just another spring
storm—wet, wild, and quick to dump its load of snow and hurry on across the
plains to the east. Instead, this one had clung over the mountains like a
patient bobcat over a cornered rabbit.

 
          
 
At that thought, he shivered even harder.

 
          
 
Then he'd climbed to the ridge top, figuring
to find better footing where the wind had blown the snow away. The cornice had
fooled him. He'd stepped where nothing but snow supported his weight. He
remembered the lurch in his stomach, the flailing of arms, and falling. . . .

 
          
 
How long had he lain unconscious in the snow?
He'd been lucky to come to at all. He'd blinked, feeling the frostbite eating
into his fingers and face. A glazing pain hammered at his brain, a stiffly
clotted cut burned and stung on his cheek where the blood had leaked into the
snow and frozen.

 
          
 
His darts were gone, as was his pack. Now,
only hope remained for him. Hope that a miracle would occur, that the storm
would break, that a blistering
chinook
would replace
the heat of life that had evaporated from his icy flesh.

 
          
 
He groaned as he looked out from under the
roots, staring up at the forbidding sky. The endless fall of giant flakes
continued to spin out of the murky clouds. Endless, dancing with the air, the
fluffy white tufts of snow whirled down to pat with a soft whisper to the
ground.

 
          
 
"Got to ... to move. Make heat."

 
          
 
He gritted his teeth to keep from crying out,
and staggered to his feet. A nagging ache reminded him that he'd fallen hard on
that leg. It didn't seem broken, but his thigh had swollen to stretch his
hunting pants. He almost collapsed as he realized the feeling had gone from his
feet.

 
          
 
Uncontrollable shivering possessed him as he
stumbled along, arms clutched to his chest. He had to generate heat through
movement, no matter that his leg shot agony through him with each step. How
long ago had it been since he'd eaten anything besides snow? How long until his
body exhausted itself and could no longer produce heat?

 
          
 
Blinking stupidly, he crashed through the
snow-sodden branches of a fir and cried out at the icy dusting he got as the
snow load emptied on him. Batting at himself with hands like clubs, he
staggered on, weaving on his feet.

 
          
 
The world pitched and slapped him
facefirst
into the snow. On trembling limbs, he got to
hands and knees, cold clamping his soul like a bear's jaws on elk bone.

 
          
 
His vision shimmered as if he looked through a
veil of silver tears.

 
          
 
Where am I? Where am I going? Why am I out
here? Where's home? I'm . . . lost . . . lost . . . Elk Charm? A sobbing cry
stuck in his throat as fingers of ice water melted from the snow packed in his
hood and trickled down his back.

           
 
Dumbly, he fought his way to his feet, kicked
his way forward for another three paces, and pitched on his face again.

 
          
 
Even the heartbeat seemed sluggish in his
chest as he forced himself to keep going despite the pain and weariness.

 
          
 
A warm feeling began to replace the numbness
in his feet and hands—delightful warmth—and he'd become so tired. If only he
could lie down for a moment . . . sleep ... for just a moment. . . .

 
          
 
Firelight cast red-orange shadows on the
irregular rock of the shelter.

 
          
 
Elk Charm gasped, bolting upright in her bed.

 
          
 
"What is it?" Two Smokes asked from
where he sat tending the fire over the pit full of sweet-smelling biscuit root.

 
          
 
Elk Charm struggled to get her breath, a panic
on her pretty face. "I . . ." She buried her head in her hands.

 
          
 
Two Smokes stood, carefully maneuvering on his
maimed leg so as not to disturb the sleepers. He settled himself on her bed,
placing an arm about her shoulders as she sobbed softly to herself.

 
          
 
"
Shhh
. Here.
Come on, now. This is old Two Smokes. Tell me what's wrong. A dream?"

 
          
 
She sniffed and wiped at the tears flooding
her eyes, nodding her head. She refused to look at him, suffering on her own.

 
          
 
"Hush, now. You're safe, you're here, and
warm, and surrounded by people who love you. What was it? What was this
terrible dream?"

 
          
 
She looked up, desperate eyes meeting his for
the first time. "L-Little Dancer," she moaned. "He's ... Oh, no
. . . he's dead." And she burst into tears again.

 
          
 
Two Smokes started to say something, hugging
her close, patting her—but his eyes caught the wolf effigy where it had been
pecked into the sooty rock.

 
          
 
Power had been at work this night. He could
practically taste it in the air. And he'd felt the lurch, the same sort of
wrenching as the night the Wolf Bundle had been desecrated.

 
          
 
His heart skipped, for he could have sworn the
wolfs eyes gleamed for that brief instance, and it looked like triumph.

 
          
 
* * *

           
 
"So close,” the Wolf Bundle whispered. “We
hang by a thread. Must you play so perilously with the passions of youth ?''

 
          
 
"The girl, Tanager, acted on her own. The
storm took all of my ability. Let's hope it's enough. I had to throw the Spiral
out of balance to effect this." Wolf Dreamer sounded weary. ''Perhaps I
bought us time. Perhaps I can reach Little Dancer. The Watcher is ready."

 
          
 
"Or you may have just condemned us."

 
          
 
"It's up to free will now. Heavy Beaver's
. . . and the boy's."

 
          
 
Heavy Beaver glared at the snow blowing out of
the sky around his camp. Icy wind roared down from the
Buffalo
Mountains
, moaning around the cap rock on the
hogbacks, twisting across the flats before lining out to blow wraiths of snow
across the sage flats, piling little diamond-shaped drifts to taper away behind
the craggy sagebrush.

 
          
 
He wet his lips, tasting the flakes, feeling
the crystals battering against his skin. Eyes
slitted
to the gale, he stared into the storm, wondering. Never since he'd first heard
the stories had such a storm as this come so late to the plains. Never had he
seen the buckwheat, the phlox and aster, frozen on their stalks.

 
          
 
He contemplated the fate of the warriors he'd
sent to scout the trail up
Clear
River
, past the Red Wall and into the
Anit'ah
country. The snow should have been melting by now,
the trails opening.
Anit'ah
camps, lean from winter,
should have been easy pickings for his young men.

 
          
 
Not all of his youths had gone to scout
Anit'ah
. Many had gone for spring buffalo, hoping to pick
up fresh meat from the nursery herds, and perhaps waylay antelope at the same
time. This was the time when does left the big herds, wandering out by
themselves to look for fawning grounds in the thick sage where coyotes wouldn't
find the newborn twins.

 
          
 
And how did those young men fare? So far, a
handful had come stumbling in, feet frozen, faces frostbitten and burned. Not
good. The flesh had gone black on the ones he'd treated. The ability to feel
ice in a living human limb appalled him. And the ones who hadn't returned? What
of them? They'd left camp dressed lightly for the hunt, not wearing much in the
way of clothing. After all, a hunter didn't take a pack dog with him. What kind
of foolishness would that be?

 
          
 
The wind battered at him, seeking to push him
back, whipping his clothing about his legs and tugging at the fox lining of his
hood.

 
          
 
Impassive, he stood before the storm,
slitted
eyes seeking the
Buffalo
Mountains
, and the people who resisted him. Sometime
soon, he'd move into those hills with their lush viridian meadows. He'd have
to. The drought had been stealing back on them, the rains ever more scarce.
Buffalo
had become almost as few and far between as
the year he'd cursed Sage Root and broken the power of the elders among the
People. This time, he'd need those
Anit'ah
hunting
grounds. If he couldn't find new lands for his people to hunt, if he couldn't
raid enough spoils from the Cut Hair and White Crane and Fire Buffalo, then
they might begin to question the vision he'd imparted to them.

 
          
 
"Dreamers can be killed," he
whispered into the wind. "But only Dreamers with no imagination need
worry."

 
          
 
Filling his lungs with the icy air, he frowned
into the storm. Where were his young men? Had they all reached safety? Or did
they lie dead and frozen even now, sightless eyes blown full of snow, stiff
fingers rising above the drifts, clawing at the driving wind?

 
          
 
Illusion. Life, the world, everything was
created of illusion. He Dreamed . . .

 
          
 
. . . Sinking into the warmth, like a feather
on air, he drifted, slipping back and forth as he settled into the haze.

            
“Your soul could be mine now. You're
on the verge of parting with your body, of turning ghost or rising to the
Star-web. What is your wish, Little Dancer?

 
          
 
"Would you see your wife again? Would you
conceive your children? Would you leave your people to the false Dreamer's
ways? Will you leave the Wolf Bundle to die? Why will you do this thing? Why
will you ignore the cries of the Spiral? Of the Circles? Of your people?"

 
          
 
In the haze, Little Dancer floated, enjoying a
feeling of relief, aware that his suffering lay somewhere behind him— up beyond
the haze of warmth that soothed his tired soul. "But it's so nice here. So
. . . nice ..."

 
          
 
"What you feel is the world of death.
Your soul balances on the edge. "

 
          
 
A gentle surface, which appeared to be a giant
human hand, stopped his descent, cradling him while the hazy warmth stirred
around him like clouds over the peaks.

 
          
 
"What happened? Where am I?"

 
          
 
From out of the billowing warmth, the features
of a man formed. His face gleamed radiantly, lit from within. Sparkling black
eyes stared out from either side of a straight nose.

 
          
 
Little Dancer's breath stilled in his throat;
never had he seen so beautiful a man. Never had he been so captivated by the
Power and empathy in a man's eyes.

 
          
 
"Who are you?"

 
          
 
The man laughed, the sound of it rippling the
haze, turning it this way and that like he'd seen schools of minnows in the
Moon
River
. The very air seemed to live with his
laughter and Little Dancer's soul leapt while his nerves tingled.

 
          
 
"I am the Wolf Dreamer, the one you call
First Man. I chose, once-—as you must do now. Only perhaps in those days, the
choices were a little less difficult. "

 
          
 
"Why am I here?"

 
          
 
"You're dying, Little Dancer. Your body
is freezing and your soul is drifting free.''

 
          
 
The warm haze around him shifted for a moment,
changing from featureless to wind-whipped snowflakes. Slightly below him, he
could recognize the mounded lump of his body, snow-packed and already becoming
one with the drift that formed about it.

 
          
 
"So you see, this choice is yours. Live,
and you will have a short time with your Elk Charm." The scene shifted,
and Little Dancer stared down into the familiar depths of Hungry Bull's
shelter, seeing Elk Charm in fitful sleep. To one side, Two Smokes stared up,
as if he could see him. Through the vision, Little Dancer could feel the soul
of the
berdache
as it savored the Power.

 
          
 
His eyes went back to Elk Charm and the love
cried out from within. He tried to imprint the memory of her delicate face, of
the lines of soft cheek and firm jaw. The wealth of her long hair spilled over
the hides, framing her intense beauty.

 
          
 
He ached.

 
          
 
"I'll give you what time I can. The
Spiral is coming full. I've kept Heavy Beaver from moving. I can keep your
people safe for a while longer, give you more time. You're so young, but then,
Clear Water resisted for a long time, too. She couldn't stomach the thought of
Blood Bear touching her. "

 
          
 
"Blood Bear? My father?"

 
          
 
“You needed his strength, his indomitable
courage— mindless and thoughtless though it might be. Oh, I've put a lot of
thought into you and your life. You been given everything I can give you—except
the will to do what needs to be done. "

 
          
 
"The will?"

 
          
 
"Exactly that. The Wise One Above—the
Creator—made the universe so. As it turns, the cycles of stars and worlds and
insects and even grains of sand make their own way. The Creator allowed for
free will, for things to choose. What you wish to observe is what will be. You
make up your world around you. Suppose I told you that what looked like solid rock
was mostly empty space?"

 
          
 
"That the world is illusion?"

 
          
 
"White Calf told you the truth—only she
doesn't comprehend the depths of her understanding yet. The patterns that are
generated are fascinating, spinning, changing always. The very essence of the
universe is like a brewing storm. It s so difficult to keep from watching,
wondering. .

 
          
 
"Then why don't you?"

 
          
 
The Wolf Dreamer smiled, a hollow pain filling
his eyes, the power of which left Little Dancer in tears.

 
          
 
"I'm not perfect, little friend—as
nothing in creation is.

           
 
I, too, have my faults. I ... I have too much
love in my spirit. In its way, too much love is as terrible as too much hate.
Each hurts. You must understand that if everything existed in harmony, nothing
would change and the universe would become stagnant—and die.

 
          
 
"But now you must choose. Will you choose
to live? Or will you die? If you live, I'll keep you until the very last. I'll
let you have as much pleasure as I can. At the same time, my people—all of
them—need you. Heavy Beaver has changed the Spiral. "

 
          
 
Wolf Dreamer's gentle smile turned wistful.
"Curious how powerful a single idea can be . . . how it can change the
minds of so many until the very fabric of the universe ripples. You, however,
can change it back. You can meet Heavy Beaver, and prove him false. Doing so
may put the Spiral back the way it was. The last time, we lost the mammoth, and
camel, and horse, and sloth. This time, I wouldn't lose the buffalo, and
antelope, and I wouldn’t have the People go the way others are. "

 
          
 
"And if I choose to die?"

 
          
 
"That is your will. I can't lie to you,
my friend. The way of death will be much easier, more pleasant to float off to
the
Starweb
with Sage Root, Heron, Clear Water,
Dancing Fox, and so many others. There, they Sing and Dance and hunt with other
souls as they watch the universe in all its wonder."

 
          
 
Another voice whispered through the mist,
''And I will die with you.”

 
          
 
“Who was that?"

 
          
 
"The Wolf Bundle. Your fates are tied.
Already its Power is ebbing. If you decide to live, you'll have to take the
Wolf Bundle from Blood Bear. To do that, you’ll probably have to kill him. Are
you stronger than your father? Do you have his strength?"

 
          
 
Little Dancer stared into the kind eyes of
Wolf Dreamer. "I don't know." He couldn't lie . . . not to himself,
not to Wolf Dreamer—and not in this place.

 
          
 
' 'If you decide to live, you’ll find out.
That's another thing: I can't assure you of victory. Remember free will? Like
rock is the foundation of earth, so is will the foundation of the universe.
"

 
          
 
His mind had begun to work again, honed by the
arguments he'd had with White Calf. "And if I chose to live, what will it
cost me?"

 
          
 
Wolf Dreamer's eyes shimmered, tearing, so
painful it hurt to look at him. "Everything you hold dear. Once you start
on the trail of a true Dreamer, you can *t go back. White Calf told you the
truth. You can V be both. "