People of the Nightland (North America's Forgotten Past) (36 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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“You think
I
have any influence on that?”
They stared unforgivingly at each other for a time, each silently trying to guess the other’s strategy.
In cynical amusement, Kakala asked, “Why don’t you just tell me what you’re offering? If I betray my people, you will … what?”
Windwolf bowed his head and stared at the smooth surface of the rock. In a curious voice, he asked, “After the attack on the Sprucebell band, why did you send runners to the neighboring Sunpath villages telling them to expect survivors? I’ve heard you did the same thing at other places.”
Kakala frowned. The man changed subjects as quickly as a cougar could its charge. Was it designed to fluster him? He studied Windwolf’s bland expression.
In a mockingly conspiratorial voice, he said, “Perhaps
I’m
the promised Dreamer who’s going to save the world.”
Windwolf stiffened. “Let me know when you decide to talk to me as one leader to another.” Then the man rose, turned his back on Kakala, and walked away. Over his shoulder, he said, “Get some sleep, War Chief.”
The guards trotted forward. Kakala took another long drink from the water bag before he rose unsteadily to his feet.
“Walk,” the tall warrior ordered.
M
y slave girl, Pipe, is dead. That beautiful little girl torn to shreds by some mad Spirit. I found pieces of her scattered through the lower tunnels. I buried her head at the fiery lake. My heart aches so much that I can barely force myself to keep going. Raven Hunter says it’s Wolf Dreamer’s work.
I don’t believe it.
I told him yesterday that she loved Wolf Dreamer and didn’t wish to return to the Long Dark—
that she had vowed to serve me well until the time came for us to go, then she begged me to let her return to her own Sunpath band.
Ancestors, forgive me. I didn’t know how insanely desperate he has become.
Now I fear he’ll do anything to keep me believing.
S
unrise remained hidden behind the high ridge to the east, but a luminous halo arced over the horizon and turned the bellies of the drifting Cloud People a glittering gold.
“Very well, let’s begin,” War Chief Fish Hawk said, and started swinging his war club. He’d twisted his black hair into a bun at the nape of his neck and wore a tattered deerhide shirt that reached to his knees. From his cord belt a variety of weapons hung: a stiletto, atlatl, and shining black chert knife. “First, a warrior must loosen his shoulder muscles.”
Silvertip followed Fish Hawk’s moves, swinging his club back and forth with his right hand, then switching it to his left hand. Two tens of boys and girls, including Ashes, circled Fish Hawk, all swinging their clubs.
As he swung it upward in an arc, Silvertip studied his club. It had belonged to his dead father. Beautifully crafted from hickory, the shaft, as long as his arm, had been carefully thinned and polished. The warhead was fashioned from a splinter of mammoth’s tusk, the ivory ground to a sharp point, then grooved and attached to the hickory shaft with green sinew. As the sinew dried, it had shrunk, binding the
tusk and wood together. Immediately below the warhead, his father had embedded a large finely flaked quartzite spike. It glinted as he swung the club up and around, now making circular motions.
From the corner of his eye, Silvertip glimpsed Windwolf. The war chief sat near a fire at the edge of the Sunpath lodges, talking with two men. New lodges filled the forest. More Sunpath people had trickled into the village last night. Many were wounded. Their cries rode the cold morning breeze.
Ashes leaned sideways and whispered, “Who is Windwolf talking with?”
“Just before I ran down here to practice, Grandfather told me his name. He’s Chief Sacred Feathers.”
“What band is he from?”
“Moon Rock. I don’t know where their territory is.”
Ashes said, “It’s far to the west, on the border between Sunpath and Southwind lands. Was it attacked?”
Silvertip nodded. “Karigi.”
In the middle of the circle, Fish Hawk perched on the balls of his feet and began weaving and feinting, leaping from foot to foot, shifting his club from hand to hand, twirling it faster and faster. Silvertip tried to do it, as did the other children, but no one was having much luck. In one final leap, Fish Hawk launched himself into the air and landed in a crouch. His club flashed down to within a hair’s breadth of the ground.
As he rose, Fish Hawk said, “I don’t expect you to be able to do that today, but keep practicing. You must train your muscles before you’ll be able to control the club.”
Silvertip balanced on the balls of his feet, as Fish Hawk had done, and listened to his club whir as he spun it from one hand to the other, then pirouetted and slashed down.
The other children made surprised sounds, and pointed at him. Fish Hawk grinned. “Very good, Silvertip. If you keep that up, you will master the club before you become a man.”
Silvertip smiled and ducked his head at the praise. Next summer he would have been initiated in the Men’s Lodge. A summer that would never come.
Fish Hawk called, “I’ll return shortly. In the meantime, continue practicing.”
Ashes walked closer to Silvertip and asked, “Can you teach me to do that?”
He nodded. “It’s easy. I’ll do it slowly. See if you can follow.”
She concentrated on his movements, trying to duplicate them.
“That was good, Ashes. Now, you just have to do it faster.”
Silvertip spun his club again, pirouetted, and landed in a crouch while he slashed down with his club.
Ashes did it, but lost her balance at the last instant and fell over. She laughed and said, “I need a lot more practice than you do.”
“You will do it. Better than I. You will make it like graceful Dance, swift like a striking falcon, but balanced, like a cougar that leaps and lands with total control.”
She gave him that sober look. “Sometimes, when you talk like that, it sends shivers down my spine.” She glanced warily around. “Why haven’t you told anyone about your Vision?”
He straightened, and his gaze drifted again to where Windwolf sat talking with the two men. “When they are ready.”
Ashes gave him an askance look, rose to her feet, and watched Windwolf for a time before she whispered, “You cried a lot last night.”
He bit his lip, and to hide it, began twirling his club. “It’s the only time I can weep for the people.”
She watched his club for a time, then said, “This is really going to happen, isn’t it?”
Silvertip let his club swing to a stop and propped it over his shoulder. Throughout the night, the Ancestors had slipped through the walls and walked around his bed as though he didn’t exist. As the ghosts murmured to each other, he’d heard other things: mammoths trumpeting; giant buffalo roaring like lions, the way they did in the rut; and a young man talking. He thought it was Wolf Dreamer’s voice, but wasn’t sure.
He said, “It will happen. Just as I said. Before I came to bed, I watched part of the future unfold. Just like Wolf Dreamer showed me. Windwolf met Keresa, and then he went to speak to Kakala.”
She cocked her head. “Why?”
Silvertip exhaled hard, and his breath condensed into a frosty cloud. “They are struggling over the future.”
As Father Sun rose higher into the morning sky, more and more people came out of their lodges. The aroma of breakfast cooking carried on the cold breeze.
The other children drifted farther away, meandering down the slope as they practiced with their clubs, until Silvertip and Ashes stood alone.
Ashes reached up to touch her earlobe, and Silvertip’s eyes went wide. As she rubbed it, she flinched, and he could see that she’d cut off the bottom of her lobe. A person did that as an offering to the Spirit World. Usually it was done for success in Trading, or in hopes of curing a sick relative, but often people made the offering in mourning.
He gestured to her ear. “Did you do that for your father?”
“No.” Ashes pulled her hand down, frowned, and looked away. “For Mother. You said she would never be the woman I knew. If I admit that now, it won’t hurt as much later.”
Though she tried to blink them away before he could see, tears filled her eyes.
Silvertip gently said, “I have already come to love that practical way of yours.”
She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and gazed down the hill at Windwolf. As he listened to the Elders, the muscles in his massive shoulders corded and rippled beneath his cape. “They must be saying terrible things. Do you think the raiding is going to get worse?”
Silvertip lifted a shoulder. “Karigi and Blackta are soulless.”
To the north a dire wolf barked, then howled. The deep-throated sound echoed through the forests. Moments later another answered. Silvertip listened to them.
“It’s almost time now.”
He had no sooner spoken, than a scream rent the air. He turned, having seen it, just this way. Bear Boy lay sprawled, his war club off to one side. Little Crow stared in horror, first at Bear Boy, and then at his club. He dropped the weapon, crying, “I didn’t mean it!”
Windwolf was on his feet, sprinting. The children that had gathered made way for him, watching as he lifted the boy, staring grimly at the side of his head.
“Help me,” Silvertip said as he started forward. “Keep them from interfering.” He stopped only long enough to retrieve the Wolf Bundle from where it lay on his coat. Then, Ashes, behind him, he walked up to the crowd, calling, “War Chief? I can help.”
Windwolf looked up at him, Bear Boy’s head still cradled on his lap. “I don’t think so, Silvertip. I’ve seen head wounds before. He’s not breathing, and the heart isn’t beating.”
Silvertip crouched, staring into Windwolf’s eyes. “You have asked many people for their trust in the last couple of moons, War Chief. Now I will ask for yours.”
“Silvertip, this isn’t a game. Let me call the Healer.”
“I am here,” he said simply. “Please, lower him gently. Someone, bring a wolf hide to lay his head on. His spirit is still close. There is time to call it back.”
One of the girls hesitantly pulled her wolfhide coat over her head, extending it, then wrapped her arms over her bare chest against the cold.
Silvertip met Windwolf’s piercing gaze with his own, then watched the war chief lower Bear Boy, carefully resting his head on the folds of the wolf coat.
Silvertip bent, looking into Bear Boy’s vacant, half-lidded eyes. Bear Boy’s tongue lolled behind parted lips.
I have seen this look. When I lay dead on the high rocks, before Condor came.
Silvertip closed his eyes, lifting the Wolf Bundle. The Song rose in his throat. He willed his soul into it, digging down into himself, believing, willing the Power to flow down from the Wolf Bundle. He felt it, growing, prickling. Like a warm rush of water it coursed through him, Singing with him, its Song mixing with his.
In that instant, Silvertip felt wings, and he stretched out, the familiar feel of them bringing a brimming ecstasy to his body.
Bear Boy’s soul hovered above the body, dark, frightened, and poised to flee.
Gently, so as not to panic him, Silvertip closed his wings around the Spirit, wrapping his warmth and goodwill around the fear.
“Go back,” Silvertip coaxed. “This is not your time. We are here, loving you, calling for you. Go back, Bear Boy. Your body needs you. Do not fear; you will live. We all need you.”
He could feel the confusion, and curled his wings tighter, willing his love and warmth into the soul.
Slowly, carefully, he eased it down with his mighty wings. Felt it slide back into the body, and pressed down, keeping it there while it seeped into its familiar shell.
“Live, Bear Boy. Breathe. Feel the beat of your heart, and let the blood flow through your veins.”
The gasp came from somewhere distant, as though heard through a thick fog. The sense of rightness swirled around him, and he looked up, seeing the sky filled with color.
“Silvertip!” Windwolf’s barked command broke the trance.
He blinked, almost crying out as he felt the wings slip away. He tried to make sense of the blurry face above him. Windwolf!
“Stay back!” Ashes was saying. “He’s Dreaming! Are you fools? Don’t disturb a Dreamer when he’s sending his soul to the Spirit World.”
“Silvertip?” Windwolf asked again.
“Tired.” He groaned and sat up, the Wolf Bundle warm in his hands. “Bear Boy?”
“He’s alive,” Windwolf told him. “But, I think he’ll have a headache for a while.”
“Yes. Me, too.”
Silvertip was vaguely aware of Ashes, still haranguing people to stay back.
“You Dreamed the One,” Windwolf said reverently. “How long have you been doing this?”
“Since I died, and Wolf Dreamer showed me the way.”
“And you told no one?”
“Who would have believed me?”
“Come, let’s get you back to your bed.”
Silvertip stood on wobbly legs, his vision still swimming. He could make out Bear Boy, tears running down his face as his mother dabbed at his head with the hem of her dress. Ashes looked like a warrior, brandishing her war club, keeping people back. Then he noticed the expressions, people in the crowd staring, struggling to believe what they had just seen.
Silvertip almost made a full step before he bent double and threw up.

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