People of the Nightland (North America's Forgotten Past) (20 page)

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Authors: W. Michael Gear,Kathleen O'Neal Gear

BOOK: People of the Nightland (North America's Forgotten Past)
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W
indwolf followed Dipper up the dark starlit trail that led through the rocky warrens of Headswift Village. Skimmer and Ashes followed behind him, though he could hear the little girl’s dragging steps. The miracle was that she’d made it this far after days of hiding, running, little food, and the terror she’d survived.
Skimmer was another matter. Every time he turned, he caught sight of her brittle eyes, scrutinizing the whispering villagers who lined the trail.
Windwolf said, “Many of these are Sunpath People. Where—”
“Survivors,” Dipper said. “They have heard we offer protection.” Then she added, “My father has been praying for two hands of time that you would return soon. He ordered me to bring you to him as soon as you arrived. He doesn’t know what to do with all of the Sunpath People. And there’s … something else … .”
“What else?” Windwolf asked.
“My father will tell you.”
Skimmer frowned at Dipper’s back. “How did your father know we were coming?”
“He didn’t. He’s just been begging Wolf Dreamer to bring you here.”
From the corner of his eye, Windwolf caught Skimmer’s roll of the eyes. Indeed, she no longer believed. He considered that. But then, after what the woman had been through, how could he blame her?
Dipper hurried up the slope with her mourning-short black hair flopping about her ears.
When they entered the ceremonial chamber, Windwolf slowed. The place was dark—not at all like the last time he’d been here for the Renewal Ritual. A tiny bubble of light gleamed in the rear. Dipper led them toward it.
The huge boulders leaned over them like monsters hunching to listen to their conversation.
“Father,” Dipper called, “Windwolf just arrived.” She paused for effect. “He has found Skimmer!”
“Skimmer? It is too good to be true! Come, my friends. We must talk.”
Windwolf could make out Lookingbill and his grandson sitting behind a small lamp. The distinctive scent of burning oil grew stronger as they approached. In the pale gleam, Lookingbill’s fleshy nose seemed larger, his wrinkles more deeply cut. The few strands of hair that clung to his head were silver in the light.
“Thank Wolf Dreamer that you’re here,” Lookingbill said, and gestured to the hides spread on the floor. “Please, sit. Can I get you anything? Food? Water?”
“I will see to it,” Dipper said as she turned and walked out.
Skimmer and Ashes settled themselves on the hides, but Windwolf remained standing. He noticed that Lookingbill’s grandson, Silvertip, knelt beside a Spirit bundle painted with white wolves. The boy kept sneaking glances at the bundle, and wiping his palms on his pants, as though he longed to touch it.
“What is it, Chief?” Windwolf asked.
“A runner came in two hands of time ago. One of our spies in the Nightland Caves sends word that Nashat is talking about attacking us. He is waiting only for Kakala’s return.”
“Word must have gotten back that you have allied with us.” Windwolf clenched his fists.
“Perhaps. It was inevitable.”
Windwolf slowly nodded. Kakala was a pragmatist, a very effective one, but he wasn’t creative.
Windwolf said, “I suggested this once before. Now I urge you to pack up your village and move. Immediately.”
“As soon as we heard about the attack, we convened the village Elders to discuss it. We have many children and elders, not to mention the Sunpath People who have come seeking safety. We cannot move swiftly. And, War Chief, what’s to say that Kakala wouldn’t follow and slaughter us? We’d be out in the open. It would be much easier to ambush us on the trails.” He looked up. “Our people voted to stay.”
“I have to admit, if we’re going to fight, it would be better to do it here. If we can hand Kakala a stinging defeat, he will withdraw, lick his wounds before trying it again. That would be the time to leave.”
“Fish Hawk hoped that you might have a plan?”
Windwolf chuckled. “When it comes to war, I always have a plan.” He considered a wild idea that had filled his thoughts on the trail. Something Kakala would never suspect. “Tonight someone must show me every tunnel here.”
“Yes, of course, Fish Hawk will do that. In preparation we’ve already carried basket-loads of food and gourds of water to the most remote tunnels.” The old man ran a hand over his balding head and heaved a sigh. The scents of the night—the smoke of campfires and roasting meat—drifted into the chamber, along with threads of conversation from the people who had collected on the trail outside.
Lookingbill raised his eyes. “How many warriors will they be sending? Can you guess?”
“That will depend on how many of their warriors are close.”
“Then you will be happy to hear that Horehound has just returned. Your deputy Silt dealt Hawhak a severe blow. Karigi and Blackta are both south, seeking to find more of your villages and camps.”
“Horehound delivered my message?”
“He did. Silt will obey your orders. Horehound said that he didn’t like it, and wants you to know that after two moons, he’s coming looking for you.”
“After two moons, Chief, we will either have won this thing, or we’ll be dead.”
Neither Lookingbill nor Skimmer showed any change of expression.
“So, with the war parties out, Kakala won’t have a large force to
work with … .” The twists and turns were coalescing into a plan, and becoming a good deal more frightening. Without even realizing he’d spoken, he whispered, “That’s the last thing Kakala would suspect.” He knelt on the hides beside Skimmer.
Chief Lookingbill inhaled a shaky breath and sat back on his hide. He gazed at Windwolf with watery brown eyes. “Go on.”
“Skimmer,” he said, and turned to her. She straightened beneath his gaze. “Tell me in the fewest words possible how you plan to kill the Prophet.”
She closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. “I must do it.”
“You?” He remembered the brittle cracks in her soul, the way her hands shook, the desperation in her eyes over the last few days.
“Ti-Bish wants me.”
Lookingbill’s gaze narrowed. “He wants you?”
Silvertip extended his hand to touch the bundle, and Lookingbill ordered, “No, Grandson. We’ve discussed this. Leave it alone.”
The youth drew his hand back, but his breathing had gone shallow. He cocked his head as though listening to something no one else could hear. Ashes had fixed her eyes on the boy, wide, fascinated.
Skimmer said, “I have heard that Kakala took all of the Nine Pipes women because the Prophet wanted one.” She swallowed hard. “I think it was me. But somehow, Nashat didn’t understand.”
Lookingbill shook his head. “You were plotting his murder.”
Ashes twined her fingers in Skimmer’s sleeve and gazed at her in terror. “Mother? I don’t want you to go.”
“We’ll talk about it later,” she said, and smoothed Ashes’ hair.
Windwolf cracked his knuckles. “He won’t believe it if you just walk into his arms. He’ll know it’s a ruse. And even if he doesn’t, Nashat will. He sees plots everywhere.”
Skimmer bowed her head and seemed to be examining the fine black bear hides that glittered in the lamplight. “I just need to see Ti-Bish. I think I can convince him.”
Taken aback, Windwolf crossed his arms over his chest.
She craned her neck to meet his disapproving stare. “He
will
protect me. I can’t tell you how I know. It was something in his eyes that long-ago night.”
“Some … communication,” he said skeptically. “You’re speaking like a Soul Flyer, which means you’re making no sense at all.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw Silvertip wet his lips and look frantically at Lookingbill.
“Grandfather?” the boy said in a shaking voice. “I—”
“Not now, Silvertip.” Lookingbill’s gaze was fixed on Skimmer. “Let’s say you’re right. Ti-Bish lets you in and he protects you from the Nightland clan Elders. What then?”
Her expression went hard, unyielding. “When the time is right, I’ll kill him.”
“You?” Windwolf and Lookingbill asked at that same time.
Skimmer held up a hand and raised her voice. “I don’t know how yet, but I will.”
The burning wick sputtered, and gigantic shadows leaped over the boulders. The only one who seemed to notice was young Silvertip. He watched them with wide eyes, as though he expected them to soar down and grab him by the throat.
Windwolf said, “If you did kill him, it would throw the Nightland People into chaos. Once his warriors know he’s dead, they’ll fall apart like a lump of dirt in water.”
Lookingbill added, “A dead Prophet is a false Guide.”
“It may take me a few days,” Skimmer said. “I suspect I’ll have to convince him I mean him no harm before he’ll let me get close enough to kill him.”
Windwolf nodded. “I think we can give you perhaps a quarter moon.” He turned to Lookingbill. “We will have to keep Kakala’s forces busy here for that amount of time. Do your people have the heart for such a fight?”
“They’ll fight for as long as they are breathing.”
He turned attention to Skimmer.
You are the weak link? What if your soul seizes at the last moment? What if you break?
Did he dare send a fragile woman like Skimmer into a position even more dangerous than the one Bramble had faced? Bramble had been an experienced, shrewd warrior. Skimmer had never had a man’s blood on her hands. She’d barely kept from collapsing into a quivering mass on the trail.
He said, “Forgive me, Lookingbill. But Skimmer is not the right person to perform this duty.”
“What?” she asked in surprise.
“I mean we can’t chance that you will lose your nerve at the last instant.”
With softness as excruciating as a mother’s last good-bye, she murmured, “I can do it.”
The lamp threw a pale glittering shawl over the stone walls, and turned people’s unblinking eyes into mirrors.
Windwolf clamped his jaw.
Lookingbill asked, “If not her, who?”
Dipper entered, a wooden plate in her hands. She stopped short at the tension in the very air and settled onto her knees, the food forgotten in her hands.
Windwolf kept his eyes on Skimmer when he said, “My life depends on my ability to judge people and their abilities. In the end, she won’t be able to kill Ti-Bish.”
What he would never admit was that the last time his instincts had screamed at him this way, a trusted friend had betrayed him.
Skimmer turned to Lookingbill, fire in her eyes as she said, “Chief, I am the
only
one who can do this. Who will take care of my daughter while I am gone?”
“I will,” Dipper said without hesitation. “I think Ashes and Silvertip will get along well.”
At the mention of his name, Silvertip wrenched his gaze from the bundle. “What? Did you call me?”
As though the discussion were over, Skimmer rose to her feet, grabbed Ashes’ hand, and said, “Where will we sleep tonight?”
“In my chamber,” Dipper told her. “I’ve prepared places for the three of you.”
As Skimmer walked by him, Windwolf grabbed her arm. Despite her brave words, she trembled in his grip.
In a voice only he could hear, she murmured, “I won’t fail.”
“If you do, many innocent people will die.”
Lookingbill gasped suddenly, and shouted, “Grandson!”
Windwolf released her, grabbed for his war club, and spun, expecting to see Kakala himself striding into the chamber.
Silvertip’s fingers were a hair’s breadth from grasping the bundle.
“Silvertip, I told you not to touch it!” Lookingbill chastised.
Silvertip wet his lips. “But Grandfather, there’s a man’s voice in there. He keeps ordering me to pick it up.”
Lookingbill got to his feet, hobbled over, and grasped the bundle. As he clutched it to his chest, he stared down into his Silvertip’s eyes. His anger quickly turned to fear, then reverence.

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