People of the Fire (58 page)

 
          
 
"Little Dancer?" Hungry Bull asked.
"Do you have anything to add?"

 
          
 
He shook his head. "I accept what the
rest of you do."

 
          
 
"We can't go." Hungry Bull summed up
the reactions of his band. "We can't take the chance of killing our
relatives. We can't take the chance of splintering the new family we've become
here. If Blood Bear is angered and would retaliate against us, I'd ask you,
Ramshorn
, as a brave and honorable warrior, to send us
word, and we'll leave here, go someplace else, maybe the valley of the Warm
Winds."

 
          
 
"I'll make sure you hear."
Ramshorn
smiled wistfully. "And if the Short Buffalo
People drive us out, if I live, and if I'm welcome, maybe I'd bring my wives
and live with you?"

 
          
 
"You'd have a place with us. You could
bring your family now, if you'd like. Our hearts and homes are open to you.
Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

 
          
 
Blood Bear stared up into the night sky. This
night, like so many others lately, he couldn't sleep. Instead, he paced around
the dark cold camps of his warriors, stalking the shadows, staring at the
darkness, wondering what would come next.

 
          
 
The Short Buffalo People had entered the
Buffalo
Mountain
trails in a flood this year. What Heavy
Beaver had intended years ago, only now could he do. The strange blizzard that
had roared down on the plains five years past had wreaked havoc with the Short
Buffalo People. Many had frozen—and in the interim, the White Crane and Cut
Hair had struck back, seeking to break the power of the weakened Short Buffalo.

 
          
 
What Heavy Beaver had so laboriously created
had tottered—his alliance of bands almost breaking under the strain.
Nevertheless, he'd prevailed and pushed his plains enemies back. Now, once
again, he could turn his attention to the defiant Red Hand of the mountains and
seek to separate them from their rich hunting grounds.

 
          
 
There are so many enemies! Blood Bear let his
vision roam the
Starweb
while he thought. Around him,
the night lay cool on the land, the air rich with the smell of firs and pines.
Insects clicked and whirred in the silence. The land lived, pulsing for him,
sharing itself in this hour of worry.

 
          
 
All the years of wandering had given him a
skill almost unequaled by his peers. He could drift like eagle's shadow through
the trees. He could steal into their camps at night and kill them one by one,
but he couldn't be everywhere with his warriors. What he and his Red Hand could
do with cunning and bravery, the Short Buffalo could do with numbers. Where had
they all come from?

 
          
 
Something had happened to the Red Hand, some
essential spark had gone from their eyes and hearts. He scowled up at the
heavens. What? No matter how he exhorted, it seemed that the inner core of
resistance that had once been theirs had fled. He could berate, pray, dance,
and sing. He could return, blood-soaked and victorious, but his warriors seemed
faded and tired despite their triumphs. No matter what tack he tried—from
hanging body pieces of the enemy in trails. ID offering their hearts to the
fire—nothing seemed to touch that flagging spirit. Why? What logic could he
use? What spur could goad them to carry the fight to the Short Buffalo People
instead of waiting for it come to them?

 
          
 
“We'll be destroyed," he whispered, staring
up at the stars. “Like smoke on the wind, we'll be blown away. Only the rocks
will remember the name of the Red Hand.''

 
          
 
And that thought enraged him. While he fumed,
he dropped his eyes from the heavens and looked around his camp. His war party
consisted of six men and two women, all awaiting the next advance of the enemy
up the
Clear
River
trail. Heavy Beaver had to try to force
this way. It made sense considering that a large party of warriors had tried to
scale the twisting steep trail on the north side. Only a fool wouldn't try a
second offensive up the back.

 
          
 
Rage left a bitter taste in his mouth.

 
          
 
While he brooded, his eye was caught by the
pale form of the Wolf Bundle where it rested on its tripod in the center of the
clearing. The leather had cracked and peeled; the curious lines drawn so
carefully into the hide had faded where they hadn't been abraded away. Shabby,
he thought, just like the hopes of the Red Hand.

 
          
 
Viciously, he slashed at it with the back of
his hand, knocking it rolling into the grass.

 
          
 
The action had been foolish, he realized,
staring owlishly around in the darkness, thankful that the rest of his band
remained locked in sleep. He picked it up, replacing it just so on the tripod,
checking again to assure himself that no one had seen.

 
          
 
He massaged the sudden ache in the stub of his
little finger. Foolish symbol of a dying people-—no wonder they couldn't win a
war—not with a silly thing like the Wolf Bundle. Now, if they had something
powerful, like a grizzly skull, or . . .

 
          
 
He winced, startled by the sudden pain in his
little finger. Of all the stupid things he'd ever done, cutting the tip of his
finger off had been madness! All it ever did was ache and burn. He swore, it
would be the death of him yet.

 
          
 
“Help me! The time has come, Fire Dancer. Help
me! HELP ME!" The voice thundered in his skull, shattering the dream into
jagged fragments, blasting through his mind like a clap of thunder burst upon
unwary ears.

 
          
 
Little Dancer shouted in fear and struggled
out of the bedding. His stomach lurched. He vomited violently, trying to suck a
breath over the foulness in his mouth and nose. Again his stomach heaved in
accompaniment to the convulsions.

 
          
 
He tried to brace himself against the reeling
sensation, the

           
 
feeling that the world had come apart. Dizzy,
he propped himself with one hand; the other clutched his throat.

 
          
 
“What is it?" Elk Charm's voice
penetrated the ringing in his ears.

 
          
 
He finally got a breath into his burning
lungs, almost choking on the smell of his vomit. He coughed, his whole body
jerking in response.

 
          
 
Some dislocated part of his mind identified
the sound of Elk Charm shuffling as she teased an ember to life with shredded
bark tinder. The first
Bickerings
of firelight shot
pain through suddenly sensitive eyes.

 
          
 
"Little Dancer?"

 
          
 
He could have cried at the concern in her
voice.

 
          
 
Her arm went around his shoulders, hugging,
warm and reassuring against the trembling that possessed him. "Cold,"
he whispered, "so cold." The weight of her arm on his shoulders
almost collapsed him into the mess his tortured gut had spewed out on the
floor. Not since the day he'd almost frozen had he experienced such a chill, as
if the winds of winter blew through his soul.

 
          
 
"You're burning up," Elk Charm told
him seriously. "Fever. Little Dancer, are you ..."

 
          
 
"No, not fever," he managed through
chattering teeth. "Power. The Wolf Bundle." He shook his head, trying
to fight the shiver that wound through him like a tangled vine. "Last time
I felt like this ... the Wolf Bundle ..."

 
          
 
"Hush. Don't talk like that."

 
          
 
"It's calling. I heard it, the words burn
in my mind. 'Help me, ' it said."

 
          
 
Her lower lip had started to tremble. A
glittering filled her eyes like the coming of tears. "No," she
whispered miserably. "No."

 
          
 
He managed to swallow, almost heaving again
from the taste of his emptied stomach.

 
          
 
"Come on, come back to bed. You need to
be under the hides. You'll catch a chill out here. . . . The Wise One knows
what. Here, get under the cover. We'll talk about it in the morning."

 
          
 
He let her push him back into the bedding; any
strength to resist vanished in his trembling. "Power Bundles can die, you
know. They can be killed, just like a man. Dead . . . cold . . ."

 
          
 
"Hush. Sleep now."

 
          
 
He blinked, aware that vision had gone fluid
like the time he'd opened his eyes underwater and looked up at the shimmering
world above.

 
          
 
Elk Charm scampered busily about, scraping up
his mess, carrying it out into the night to throw it away. Only when she'd
returned and crawled in next to him and hugged her night-chilled flesh against
his did he try to relax. She spooned herself against him, the firm feel of her
flesh reassuring.

 
          
 
Little Dancer tried to still his racing heart,
looking up at the hangings, startled to see a sliver of the
Starweb
where the hides had been pushed aside. The silhouette couldn't be mistaken.
Wolf stared at him.

 
          
 
Even through the darkness, he could feel those
yellow eyes burning into his.

 
          
 
"The Wolf Bundle," he whispered,
staring miserably into the night. “It called me."

 
          
 
White Calf cried out and jerked awake. She
tried to catch her breath, gulping at the cool night air. Her heart raced, the
feeling in her tingling limbs the same as if she'd run a hard day's race. A
queasiness churned in her stomach. Her head ached as if split with a stone ax.

 
          
 
What had it been? A Dream? She felt as if
she'd been hit in the stomach—and the tingle wouldn't leave. Cold sweat broke
out on her ancient skin.

 
          
 
Shivering, she sat up and pulled her robe
around her. Grunting with the effort, she hunched over the fire pit, stirring
the ashes for a hot coal. When she found one, she placed tinder over it and
blew until she had a finger of flame. This she fed until the blaze crackled.
Extending her fingers, she sought the warmth, only to find it wouldn't ease the
chill from her flesh. That cold came from inside her.

 
          
 
She looked up at the Spiral on the wall.
"So, the time's come full around? Is that it?"

 
          
 
From her pack, she took sage, and wet it,
throwing it in among the coals. She stood, letting her robe slip from her
ancient shoulders. Naked, she stepped into the steamy smoke that billowed from
the fire, letting it wash over her, purifying, cleansing her very soul. Sage,
the
lifegiver
, seeped into her very pores.

 
          
 
In the dim light, she looked down at her body,
at the flat breasts that hung like flaps. Her belly sagged, the skin loose and
wrinkled on her legs and arms. Hollows, like sockets, had formed where gaunt
bones stuck out of her shoulders. Her hair gleamed white where the short braids
hung down to her shoulders. What had once been the black glistening mat around
her pubis now consisted of scanty wisps of white that she could barely see over
the sag of her abdomen.