People of the Fire (59 page)

 
          
 
"You're finally old, Green
Willow
." She chuckled, remembering her first
menstruation and how proud she'd been to become a woman. Another year had
passed before she could attract Big Fox to bed her. Such things were difficult
when a woman had a reputation for being odd, for talking to spirits; besides
which, men had peculiar ideas about their manhood, and what sex with a witch
might do to their holy penises.

 
          
 
She'd made it all the more difficult for them
since she'd had an uncommon beauty. In that year, until Big Fox had taken her,
the men had warred with themselves: lust for her full young flesh battling with
their fear of her Dreams and the Spirit Power she seemed so easy with. In the
end, Big Fox, full of pride and virility that not even fear of Power could
daunt, had bedded her. Even before the others could convince themselves to try
her, she'd conceived.

 
          
 
"Big Fox." She said it wistfully,
remembering his rippling muscles, the way he smiled and joked. Ah, if ever
there had been a man built for a young woman's passion, it had been him. No matter
that he'd attracted every eye, he'd been an exceptional man—and worth every
minute she'd spent with him.

 
          
 
Then Power had come and driven itself into her
with more power and vigor than even Big Fox. The same way he'd possessed her
body and made it his, so had Power possessed her soul—and the soul couldn't be
denied like the body.

 
          
 
So she'd left, following the trail that led at
last to this shelter, learning the ways of Power from Six Teeth until the old
man had died and she'd carted him up the slope, sticking his body in a crack in
the rock, walling it up to keep the predators out.

 
          
 
Her beauty hadn't faded, for when she first
discovered Cut Feather spying on her, she found that he'd lost himself in
wonder over the secrets of her body. What she couldn't share with Big Fox—all
the speculations on Spirit Power and Dreams—she could discuss with Cut Feather.
So they'd bedded, and again she'd conceived. Only unlike Big Fox, Cut Feather
had understood when at last she'd had to leave. He'd felt the Power of the
Dream, and knew the dilution that came with coupling.

 
          
 
"Cut Feather," she whispered fondly.
"You were a balm to my soul." She stooped and dropped more wet sage
into the fire, inhaling deeply of the steamy scent and exhaling to clean her
lungs.

 
          
 
"So it's nearly come full circle. Look at
yourself, White Calf. See what you've become at the end of your long
life." She meditated, trying to put it all into perspective. Just what
purpose could an old Dreamer find in life? Of the children she'd borne, of the
Dreams Dreamed, of the lessons taught, what made her life worthwhile? The
sensations? The thoughts? The actions?

 
          
 
Finally she raised her hands to the Spiral,
straddling the fire, feeling the heat burn painfully into her thighs. Like a
memory, a sexual fire stirred once again, stimulated by the pulsing heat and
the purifying sage.

 
          
 
Losing herself in the pleasure of it, she
stared at the Spiral and closed her eyes, seeing it in her mind, Circles upon
Circles, one leading to another, never touching. Life, wondrous life.

 
          
 
The sound of the hangings parting didn't
startle her. Instead, she took another deep breath of the sage and exhaled. She
swallowed and opened her eyes, losing herself in the Spiral again. Then she
turned.

 
          
 
The girl stared at her, wide-eyed, a terrified
look in her eyes. She, too, stood naked, an
atlatl
in
her hand, a dart
nocked
and ready to cast. Her body
had been used hard, bloody in spots, bruised in others. She stood on trembling,
scratched legs, abused breasts heaving as she fought for breath. Gooseflesh
accented the shivers that ran through her.

           
 
The lines of her belly looked firm with
muscle. Her hips hadn't borne the burden of swelling with a child.

 
          
 
Yet her face absorbed all of White Calf's
attention. Black flashing eyes—those of an angry she-cougar—met hers. Behind
the terrified fear lay the Power look of rage and commitment. Her delicate
cheeks accented the straight line of her nose. A high forehead rose over a
graceful brow. Her
jawline
matched the firm chin,
although her lower lip had swollen out of proportion.

 
          
 
"Come in, child." White Calf stepped
away from the fire, reaching to drop another couple of pieces of firewood on
the coals. "Come here, come and warm yourself. You look about all
in."

 
          
 
The young woman took a timid step forward,
eyes darting about suspiciously. "What are you doing up . . . awake at
this time of night?"

 
          
 
White Calf chuckled dryly, taking note of the
abused flesh, of the streaks down the insides of her legs. "Maybe more
than you know is afoot tonight. Maybe I was waiting for you." Yes, The
Spiral has turned. The end is near.

 
          
 
The young woman tensed, half crouched as if to
spring. The wary, haunted look had returned.

 
          
 
"Oh, come on. You're in no danger.
Power's loose on the night." She gestured at the Spiral. "This night
is the end of a lot of things—and the beginning of many more. It's a night of
change . . . where Power is shifting. Come. You're not in any shape to run
anyway, so you might as well relax and take refuge for the night."

 
          
 
She reached out, taking the young woman's icy
hand. The blood that stained it had come from another. So, she'd killed in
retaliation? The darts she carried belonged to a hunter of the People—and she
obviously belonged to the Red Hand. The way of the rape became clear.

 
          
 
"Come, stand over the fire. That's it.
Just as you saw me."

 
          
 
"You're White Calf—the witch?"

 
          
 
"And who calls me a witch? Ah, Blood
Bear, of course. Poor fool."

 
          
 
“Why should I stand over your fife?"

 
          
 
"Because this is a turning of the Spiral."
She pointed to the rock. "And because this might be a turning of the People."
White Calf gestured at her own sagging flesh. "Just before you arrived, I
stood in the heat, bathed by the steam of the sage, and wondered about life,
about all that I'd been and done."

 
          
 
She took the reluctant woman and led her,
placing her just so over the fire pit, casting wet sage into the flames, the
cloud of steam rising in a billowing column.

 
          
 
"I'd stared at the Spiral, thinking of
all that it symbolizes about life coming full circle, and how one thing leads
to another, attached yet separate." She chewed her lip, seeing the young
woman close her eyes as the warm steam bathed her.

 
          
 
"You see, where you stand now, so once
did I stand. As you have the blood of another who wronged you on your hand, so
did I. Perhaps it's the way of the Spiral, hmm? I mean that we can't understand
the bounty of life until its frailty and suffering is proved to us."

 
          
 
The young woman had opened her eyes, staring
at the Spiral. "I'm not a witch." And it came to her: beginning and
end.

 
          
 
"Neither am I," White Calf added
with a sigh. Yes, that's what had caused her to awaken. Transition. "No,
you're now the mother of the People, although you don't understand that yet.
It's curious, I came here with Six Teeth, to stand and cleanse myself like
that. Only I came bearing a chokecherry digging stick."

 
          
 
"And what did you do with your digging
stick, old woman?"

 
          
 
White Calf chuckled. "It's over there,
against the wall. From that moment on, it became a walking stick."

 
          
 
"War darts won't become a walking
stick—even if I were gullible enough to believe you."

 
          
 
"No, I suppose not. But Power chooses for
its needs. When Power called me, it wanted the Dream. With you, well, the darts
speak for themselves." White Calf stared up into hot eyes, meeting them,
feeling her Power mingling with that of this indomitable woman. "A Dreamer
is coming, Tanager."

 
          
 
"How do you know my name?"

 
          
 
"I know a lot of things. Listen to me. A
Dreamer is coming. He's coming to make peace between the People and the

           
 
Red Hand. I can't see it all; I don't have the
Power I wish I did. I never did have, you see. Oh, never mind, I'm talking
about myself again. But the Red Hand are yours. I can't tell you what to do
with them, but they'll listen to you. You, in turn, must listen to the
Dreamer."

 
          
 
I’m not sure for the moment that I want to
listen to any man. Not after—"

 
          
 
“He's not just any man." White Calf
worked her old hands over the woman's chilled skin, avoiding the abrasions,
seeking to restore circulation and warmth. “You wouldn't have made it this far
without drawing on something deep inside yourself, some strength that runs in
your very blood."

 
          
 
White Calf caught the gleam in the woman's
eyes, the slight quiver of her lips. “Perhaps."

 
          
 
“Perhaps, nothing. This is an age for
strength. That doesn't mean it's an age for stupidity—despite what Blood Bear
would have anyone believe."

 
          
 
“He's a great warrior."

 
          
 
“He's a fool!"

 
          
 
“Oh? I've seen him kill. I've seen the bodies
of the dead that he's-"

 
          
 
“He's driven the Wolf Bundle to abandon the
Red Hand! Why do you think we're falling apart? Why do you think the trouble
has come upon us? Why do you think you were raped out there? Why do the People
prowl the lands of the Red Hand? Why are the Spirals changing?"

 
          
 
Hot black eyes flashed. “What are you talking
about? The Wolf Bundle goes everywhere Blood Bear goes."

 
          
 
“And how does it look, hmm? Tell me, Tanager.
What kind of look is in Blood Bear's eyes these days? One of a man at ease with
himself? Or a man driven to a desperation he doesn't understand?"

 
          
 
She frowned, wincing as it stung some hurt.
"He spends most of his time rubbing his little finger and looking worried.
But that's because the Short Buffalo People are—"

 
          
 
“It's because he's about to die."

 
          
 
Tanager turned to glare. "The warrior
hasn't been born who can drive a dart into Blood Bear!"

 
          
 
“The warrior's been born," White Calf
admitted wearily. “That warrior just doesn't know it yet."

           
 
"What are you talking about?"

 
          
 
"Just stand there. Let me warm some water
and wash these cuts. These bite marks on your breasts worry me the most. If
they get full of pus, you'll really regret it."