The People of the Black Sun (36 page)

When she whined again, Gitchi must have tired of her advances for the hair on his neck and shoulders stood straight up and he sprang forward with a ferocious growl, chasing the wolf out into the trees and down the hill. Branches cracked in their flight. Baji saw the wolves, stretched out full, shooting between the smoke-colored trunks like pewter lances.

Her gaze returned to the forest shadows, searching for odd shapes, textures, the slightest movement. Trees rocked in the breeze. Occasionally, an old leaf detached from a branch and fluttered through the air. The pungency of frozen bark wafted around her.

A short time later, Gitchi trotted back with his head held high, and dropped to his haunches beside her.

Baji stroked his soft back. “You protected the camp, Gitchi. Thank you.”

He licked her face.

Above them, the shimmering Road of Light that the Standing Stone People called the Path of Souls had begun to fade. As night edged toward day, its cold crystal brilliance paled to a faint white swath, dotted here and there by the largest campfires of the dead.

She whispered, “What do you think the Road is like, Gitchi? Is it winter there? Or summer? From the number of campfires, it looks crowded. I'm not sure I'd like that. You wouldn't either, would you?” She scratched his neck and he half-closed his eyes in enjoyment. “Your ancestors are wilderness people, too. On cold nights they point their noses at Grandmother Moon and howl long and hard, complaining about the frozen forests and the dark, but you and I know they wouldn't trade it for anything.”

Gitchi looked up, following her gaze, and seemed to be contemplating her soft words as he surveyed the sky, perhaps remembering litter mates and friends who had turned to dust long ago. A pained wistfulness filled his yellow eyes.

“Don't worry, old friend, you'll see them again. You'll romp with them in fields of wildflowers and be able to run for days without your paws hurting at all.”

Baji reached down and gently petted his sore legs and feet.

Gitchi wagged his tail, and she slipped her arms around him and hugged him, resting her throat across his thickly furred neck. He vented a deep sigh and leaned into her embrace. They sat like that, loving each other, until Dekanawida's soft voice called, “When we get home, I'm going to paint that image on a rawhide shield.”

At the sound of his voice, Gitchi slid from Baji's arms and trotted to where his best friend lay, propped on one elbow in the warm folds of blankets. Dekanawida scratched Gitchi's ears. “I saw you chase away the invader wolf. Well done, Gitchi.”

Baji swore that Gitchi's yellow eyes gleamed brighter when he gazed at Dekanawida. Their love for each other was palpable. She could feel it warming the cold morning air—or perhaps it was just in her heart.

Dekanawida rose, straightened his cape, and knotted his belt around his waist. It disturbed her to see his belt strung with Power pouches instead of weapons. He adjusted the four different-colored pouches to their proper position, then spent a moment petting the red pouch that dangled like a cocoon on the far right. He touched the red one often, and she always wondered why? What did it contain? He knelt to roll up their blankets.

She just watched him. The familiarity of his movements eased the peculiar loneliness that tormented her. Sometimes, when he was out of her sight, even for a few instants, panic set in, as though she'd suddenly found herself abandoned, left alone in an alien forest utterly empty of other human beings. The experience bore a striking similarity to sitting a death vigil, which she'd done many times on the war trail. As a person watched his friend's eyelids flutter, and listened to lungs rattle, friendship seemed to momentarily strengthen … then thin like the last beautiful note of a flute, dying into silence so complete its loss stunned the soul. She wondered if all loneliness was a death vigil.

“Breakfast smells wonderful,” Dekanawida said as he tied the blankets to the top of his pack.

She stood. “You need to eat well this morning. By afternoon, we'll reach Shookas Village, and then your troubles really begin.”

“I'm ready. I've been thinking a lot about the things we discussed.”

“You are ready. I'm sure of it.”

Baji untied his water bag from her belt, and walked forward with it dangling from her fingers. Dekanawida rose, said, “Thank you for filling it,” and tied it to his belt.

They stood side-by-side in companionable silence, listening to the crackle and snap of the fire, and the rustle of wind through the winter trees. Deep in the forest, deer hooves rattled on stone.

Baji's gaze drifted over the predawn mosaic. Black pools of shadow dappled the grayness, but quaking aspens glowed in the dark tangle of tree trunks, their ivory bark shining. Her ears tracked the sounds, the low
shish
of windblown dead ferns, branches sawing, mice feet whispering beneath the piles of old autumn leaves. Nothing unusual.

She leaned over to view the contents of the bubbling cook pot. The dried raspberries had combined with the red corn to turn the mush a deep purple color. “It will be ready soon.”

“I love the fragrance of raspberries on a winter morning.”

She smiled at him. “I know you do.”

He put his arm around her shoulders, holding her close. “How's your headache today?”

“Gone, for the moment. Once we start running the trail we'll see how long that lasts.”

“Is the swelling down?”

“Yes. Some.”

He removed his arm and slipped his hands beneath her long hair to gently probe her head wound. His expression tensed.

“What's wrong?”

“It's better, but before we leave camp this morning, I want to wash it thoroughly again. You're sure you are feeling better?”

“I am. Truly.”

He gave her a suspicious look, as though he sensed there was something she wasn't telling him. “I want the truth.”

She sighed. “Nothing's wrong. Actually, I feel very good. I'm just afraid you might assume that means I'm about to fly away.”

“Any numbness or odd pains in your body?”

“For the sake of the Spirits, I'd tell you if there were!”

“All right.” He put his arm around her again and hugged her close. “It's just that I know you. If your leg had just been amputated, you'd tell me you felt fine.”

What she didn't want to tell him was that something had happened to her last night. That's why she'd risen. Her senses had become remarkably intense. Even in deep sleep, the faintest sound had disturbed her, and she'd known instantly whether it announced danger or calm. When she'd opened her eyes, the forest had appeared translucent, shining as though every shred of bark and blade of grass were sculpted from quartz crystals. And the night scents! They'd struck her like blows. She didn't understand it, but she'd had the feeling that ancient instincts, long buried, had begun to stretch and move, awakening. She knew,
knew,
that somewhere inside her, her soul trotted through a primeval forest, running down food as her distant ancestors had done, hunting with fang and claw, rather than bow and knife, and it left her feeling more alive than she'd ever thought possible.

Dekanawida's stomach squealed, and she smiled. “It sounds like you're ready for purple cornmeal mush.”

“Obviously.”

Baji bent and retrieved their cups and spoons from where she'd stowed them beside the hearthstones. As she spooned their cups full, raspberry-scented steam encircled her face. Never before had the fragrance of raspberries been so overpowering. She might have been wandering through an endless field of ripe berries.

When she rose and handed him a cup with a spoon sticking in it, she asked, “I wonder where Hiyawento and Zateri are today? I'm worried about them. Do you think they've reached the safety of Canassatego Village yet?”

“I hope so. They should be close.”

“Gods, I pray their villages made it to Canassatego unharmed and all is well.”

“As I do.”

He picked up his wooden spoon. After he'd tasted the mush, he smiled. “This is delicious. That was a fat muskrat we snared last night. The flavor of his meat goes well with the raspberries.”

“I gave Gitchi one of the muskrat legs. I doubt he tasted it at all. He wolfed it down in four bites.”

When he heard his name, Gitchi ambled over to sit on his haunches beside Dekanawida, looking up with soulful eyes, probably hoping for another leg.

As Dekanawida ate, his short black hair fell around his face, framing his slender nose and brown eyes. “Speaking of Hiyawento, I've been thinking about Shago-niyoh coming to you on the trail.”

A thread of unease went through her. “What about it?”

She ate the rich cornmeal mush, and tried not to look at him. Her fear of discovery had not ebbed, but only increased as the days passed.

“Did Hiyawento ever tell you about Shago-niyoh coming to him?”

She lowered her spoon to her bowl where it clacked against the wood. Surprised, she said, “No. When did this happen?”

“Twelve summers ago. Soon after we all escaped from Bog Willow Village. At the time, you and I would have either been on the trail with Mother and Father, tracking the old woman, or maybe canoeing the river, I'm not sure about the timing.”

A swallow went down his throat, as though memories filled the space behind his eyes, and they hurt.

“What happened?”

He tilted his head and frowned. “He said he was lying in the old woman's canoe. He was very sick. You recall how badly they'd beaten him after he killed the warrior and made sure we got away.”

“Yes.” Love for Wrass filled her.

Dekanawida rubbed his eyes. “He thought he was dreaming when the man waded through the water to get to him. The man wore a black cape, and had a nose bent to the right. Wrass thought he might be one of the
hanehwa.
”

Hanehwa were enchanted skin-beings. Witches—like the old woman—skinned their human victims alive, then cast spells upon the skins, forcing them to serve as guards. Hanehwa never slept. They warned the witch of danger by giving three shouts.

“How did he know it was Shago-niyoh and not one of the hanehwa?”

“The man spoke to him, which hanehwa never do.”

“What did he say?”

Dekanawida seemed to pause to get the words right. “He said,
‘We are all husks, Wrass, flayed from the soil of fire and blood. This won't be over for any of us until the Great Face shakes the World Tree. Then, when Elder Brother Sun blackens his face with the soot of the dying world, the judgment will take place.'”

Baji frowned at Dekanawida. The Great Face was the chief of all False Faces. He guarded the sacred World Tree that stood at the center of the earth. Its flowers were made of pure light. The World Tree's branches pierced the Sky World where the Blessed Ancestors lived, and her roots twined deeply into the underworlds, planting themselves upon the back of the Great Tortoise that floated in the dark primeval ocean that spread forever around the land. Elder Brother Sun nested in the World Tree's highest branches.

“Why have you never told me this story?”

His shoulders lifted. “It's Hiyawento's story, not mine. The first time I heard it was twelve summers ago.”

She studied his tormented face. “The first time? There was another?”

“Yes, just a few days ago. In Coldspring Village. I—I wanted Hiyawento to tell Taya about it.”

There was a small awkward moment of silence, as though he feared she might view it as a betrayal; he'd wanted Taya to hear the story, but he'd never felt Baji needed to hear it.

Baji playfully bumped shoulders with him. “Good. That was the right thing to do.” He gave her a small apologetic smile, and she said, “The images are different, though. From your Dream, I mean. In your Dream, Elder Brother Sun turns his back on the dying world and flies away into a dark hole in the sky. In Hiyawento's, Elder Brother Sun covers his face with the soot of the dying world. Are they the same event, or different?”

He took a bite of mush and chewed it. “I've wondered that same thing for many summers.”

“Any conclusions?” She spooned mush into her mouth and ate it while she waited for him to answer. The sweet flavor of the red corn penetrated through the tang of the raspberries.

“A few. Despite the differences, there are also striking similarities. Elder Brother Sun vanishes into darkness. The flowers of the World Tree are shaken loose. The actions of humans are judged and condemned.”

“What do you think it means?”

He frowned. “I'm not sure, but have you ever noticed that people on the same path see it a little differently? Some focus on the tracks in the trail. Others see only the campfires of the dead visible through the trees over their heads. Still others ignore the sky and ground completely and notice the birds and deer.”

“So, you're saying it's possible they are the same event, just seen through different eyes?”

“Maybe.” He shrugged.

Gitchi stood up and stretched. He was a beautiful old wolf. The white hair that had grown around his eyes gave him character, like the wrinkles of a wise old face.

Baji ate a few more bites of mush, then scooped the last chunks of muskrat out onto the frozen ground for Gitchi. He gulped them while he wagged his tail.

As Baji started to straighten up, sharp, birdlike chirping echoed nearby. Her head jerked around in time to see a flying squirrel leap from the tallest branches of a chestnut tree. Its enormous eyes shone. Using the fold of skin between its wrists and ankles to slow its descent, it glided down to land on the trunk of a maple, then quickly scampered up it and disappeared.

Baji set her bowl on the ground, quietly pulled her bow from her shoulder, and nocked an arrow. When she lifted her nose to scent the wind, the pungency of fear sweat wafted to her.