People of the Fire (20 page)

 
          
 
"He still can't kill you—unless you let
him."

 
          
 
"But I—"

 
          
 
"You're as strong now as you were when
you made the decision to eat the meat. You acted right then, why can't you
accept that now? Why can't you walk out and stare him in the eye?"

 
          
 
She swallowed at the clinging dryness in her
throat. "I didn't know how it would wear at me. I ... I feel lost,
Chokecherry. I don't know anymore."

 
          
 
The old woman took a deep breath, leaning
back. 44 I see. That's it, isn't it? You don't know."

 
          
 
"What if he's right?"

 
          
 
Chokecherry rubbed her lined forehead. “That's
the real problem. You've only got his word that he's a Spirit Dreamer. Blood
and tears, woman, you've got to believe he's a liar! That's your only hope ...
the only hope for the People! What if you die? Huh? Think of it! If you kill
yourself worrying about his foul sticks, what then? You think hell be a better
person for it? Or will he turn his Power on someone else?"

           
 
Horrified, Sage Root stared into Chokecherry's
eyes.

 
          
 
"That's right. After you, who's
next?"

 
          
 
"I didn't want this. All I wanted was to
feed my child."

 
          
 
Chokecherry shook her head. "I know. But
it's you. Maybe the spirits chose, huh?"

 
          
 
Sage Root winced, claimed by a sudden urge to
cry. "Why is this happening?"

 
          
 
Chokecherry sighed, slapping helpless hands to
her sides. "It's the drought. The fact that the People are splintering
into so many little groups just to survive. I don't know. Everything started
going wrong in my father's time. That's when the White Crane drove us south,
drove us to come here. The Cut Hair People fought to keep this land—then one of
their war chiefs captured a young girl, fell in love with her, and married her.
He made peace—stopped the fighting with the understanding that we wouldn't go
further south. He bound us by our honor. The
Anit'ah
keep the good hunting grounds in the
Buffalo
Mountains
because they know the trails up there; and
we got the
Moon
River
so far as the confluence with the
Sand
River
to the east. Only there isn't enough to
feed us all. But once, ah, yes, once there were huge camps of the People
stretching as far as the eye could see."

 
          
 
"You said you'd tell me about Spirit
Power," Little Dancer said shyly from beside her.

 
          
 
Chokecherry laughed. "Yes, I did, didn't
I? Well, what do you want to know?"

 
          
 
"Everything!"

 
          
 
"Everything?"

 
          
 
"Yes. I want to be a Spirit Dreamer when
I grow up and get a name. Then Heavy Beaver will never bother Mother
again."

 
          
 
Sage Root stifled a sudden unease. "Why,
son? Why would you be a Spirit Dreamer?"

 
          
 
Her boy looked up defiantly. "Because
then I could put sticks out and kill Heavy Beaver!"

 
          
 
Sage Root closed her eyes and shook her head.
"No. You'll never do that. I forbid it."

 
          
 
She could feel Chokecherry's eyes on her.
"Girl, if the boy-"

 
          
 
"I said, no! I don't want my son to ever
make anyone feel the way I do now. Do you understand? This is ... is
evil!"

 
          
 
Chokecherry shifted uneasily, reaching for her
hearth sticks. They were nothing more than two willow stems tied in the middle;
she could separate the ends to make tongs with which to pick up boiling stones.
This she now did, plucking the hot rocks from the center of the fire, dropping
them sizzling and steaming into the stew bag where it hung from a tripod.

 
          
 
“Come on, girl. You're upset. You haven't
eaten and you haven't slept. The mind gets funny when it's like that."

 
          
 
She shook her head, turning hollow eyes on
Chokecherry as the old woman stirred the stew. "No. I don't want anything
to do with Spirit Power. It's ruining my life. I won't have my son ruining others'."

 
          
 
Chokecherry bit her lips, testing the
temperature of the stew before she scooped bowls full. "You know, when
there are so few of us, what are you going to do if your son—who hears antelope
spirits talking in the night—is a true Dreamer? What are you going to do if he
can Dance with fire and Sing the stars?"

 
          
 
Sage Root stared at her, mind fogged with
disbelief. "Not my son. Not ever." If Heavy Beaver doesn't kill me,
that is.

 
          
 
"
Aieeeeah
!"
A scream rent the quiet air.

 
          
 
"What the . . ." Chokecherry ducked
her head around the flap, looking to see what caused the commotion.

 
          
 
Sage Root ducked after her from the lodge.
People hurried toward the bluff back of the camp. Caught in the rush, she
followed, aware of Little Dancer clinging to her skirt.

 
          
 
A knot of bodies obscured her view as she
passed the birthing lodge, empty now. A fist closed on her heart, a premonition
of what was to come.

 
          
 
"Dancing Doe!" Makes Fun cried,
bursting from the crowd. Her eyes locked with Sage Root s for the briefest
second before she broke into tears and clawed at her own bee.

 
          
 
"Don't," Chokecherry warned, placing
a restraining hand on her arm.

 
          
 
Sage Root twisted loose, stumbling forward to
peer
Walkalot
Woman's shoulder.

 
          
 
Dancing Doe lay facedown on the ground. Where
black blowflies circled it, the keen point of a hunting dart protruded from her
back. The dart's shaft had snapped when it took her weight. The fletching stuck
out from under the coagulated pool of red beneath her. Even in death, Dancing
Doe's eyes reflected her misery. She stared up, anguished expression condemning
as Sage Root wilted, sinking to her knees.

 
          
 
''She ran onto the dart," Two Elks
declared uneasily, standing from where he'd inspected the body with his one
good eye. "She knew Long Runner wouldn't come back. She died on his
dart."

 
          
 
"Heavy Beaver Cursed her, too,"
someone whispered.

 
          
 
Sage Root gasped, losing control. She placed a
hand to her mouth, sobs bubbling up from her lungs.

 
          
 
"The time has come to stop this,"
Two Elks mumbled to himself. "Bad things are loose. Horrible things."
He stalked off for Heavy Beaver's lodge.

 
          
 
Sage Root didn't hear as the People bolted for
their lodges and weapons. She hardly realized Little Dancer remained beside
her, frightened hands clutched in her dress. She only stared, horrified, into
her dead friend's accusing face as the flies walked across the drying eyes.

 
          
 
"You have your wish. I know you've
disliked the Short Buffalo People. Now you will go back to the Red Hand.'' The
Wolf Dreamer's shadowy voice betrayed wry amusement.

 
          
 
"The Red Hand fed my Power. These
numb-brained buffalo chasers have no more sense than their ancestors who
slaughtered the mammoth. I suppose they '11 do the same with the buffalo? Kill
them off to the last one and then starve themselves?"

 
          
 
"Unless I can change the Spiral. "

 
          
 
The Wolf Bundle contemplated for a moment,
then said, "I hope you can. I miss the mammoth. Since the last one died,
I've missed the majesty their souls added to the Circles."

 
          
 
"Then conserve yourself brother. When the
time comes, if the boy lives, he '11 need your Power. We must do this right. To
change the Spiral of the Wise One Above isn't done lightly.

           
 
The world is changing. The boy might make a
difference if we don't kill him in the process.

 
          
 
Two Smokes sat on the rotten trunk of a
blown-down
Cottonwood
, watching the strands of the
Moon
River
wind ever eastward. The restlessness in his
bruised soul wouldn't let him sleep. He'd left in the night to climb up on the
terrace and watch the coming of the new day. Despite the reddening of the skies
and brilliant fires of Father Sun, the chill in his soul didn't ease.

 
          
 
For hours, he'd collected grass seeds, slowly
picking the green umbels apart, letting the chaff blow away on the dry morning
breeze and mashing the little seeds between his teeth. Grass went to fruit
early—except the seeds were so small. Nevertheless, grass grew everywhere, even
in drought years like these. If only people didn't have to depend on buffalo to
eat the grass.

 
          
 
For years, he'd wondered at the process,
picking grasses, looking at them, eating the leaves and stems and seeds. The
truth of the matter couldn't be denied. The Wise One Above had made man
different from his buffalo children. People couldn't eat grass and live. With
great care Two Smokes had dissected his own droppings, finding leaves and seeds
and stems undigested.

 
          
 
He simply couldn't shake the feeling that he'd
missed something. Grass was everywhere. Buffalo ate grass. Then people ate
buffalo—which weren't always everywhere. If people could only cut buffalo out
of the process and eat the themselves, no one need ever hunger again.

 
          
 
The blackness inside stole his chain of
thought, leaving him to shiver in the hot sunlight. Anxiously, he stared back
upriver toward where the camp waited in ominous silence.

           
 
Even the little sounds of people during the
day didn't carry— as if the entire camp held its breath, waiting for Heavy
Beaver to act.

 
          
 
"The People are lost," he whispered.
"Heavy Beaver has destroyed them through his arrogance. No one abuses a
sacred bundle. No one spits in the face of the Wise One Above and expects a
long or happy life." And I can't feel sorry for the Short Buffalo People.
They've beaten me, mocked me. Their men have raped me. Their women laugh at me.
No, I can 't pity them in their destruction.

 
          
 
Sage Root and Hungry Bull had been kind to
him. As White Calf directed, they'd made him part of their family and shared
their food and shelter. He'd done his share in return. His nimble fingers had
worked the hides, fleshing, curing, graining, and sewing to make the tightest
lodge covers and finest clothing. Despite their mockery, Short Buffalo People
dropped their prejudices when they traded for furs tanned and sewn by Two
Smokes.

 
          
 
And now they would take that frail security
from him, too. Sage Root had been Cursed by their mediocre Spirit Man. He shook
his head. Compared to White Calf, Cut Feather, or Clear Water, Heavy Beaver
couldn't make smoke rise from a hot fire. And Sage Root would die without
knowing the difference. He'd seen the fear, the resignation, in her eyes. She
believed she would die. The single-minded stare at the witching sticks proved
it.

 
          
 
"And what then for Two Smokes?" He
blinked up at the sun, now high in the sky. "Stay and be beaten and raped?
-How long until they kill me, too? How long until they declare the Wolf Bundle
to be evil and burn it?"

 
          
 
You promised. Little Dancer is your
responsibility.

 
          
 
He swallowed hard, staring back upriver.
Little Dancer's words echoed in his mind. "We could run away."

 
          
 
He stood up and unrolled his special pouch.
One by one, he placed his grass stems into the special holes punched in the
hide. Unrolled, the whole thing measured almost two arms in length. In it he
had grasses from everywhere. Giant wild rye, wheatgrass, needle and thread
grass, buffalo grass, steppe bluegrass, and more. He rolled the long strip of
leather into a compact tube and slipped it behind his belt.

 
          
 
Hobbling along, he stared dully forward,
knowing trouble waited. His crushed leg had begun to ache again. Not for years
had it caused him so much torment.

 
          
 
As he walked, he scanned the sky, noticing the
thin strips of cloud that arched across the vaulted expanse. How long since
rain? Three months since the last sprinkle? Now even the shadow of a rain cloud
would be a relief.

 
          
 
A faint cry carried from the camp, causing him
to hitch along a little faster on his bad leg. The knee had never worked right
after the buffalo had stepped on it. Better stiff, however, than maimed so
badly he couldn't move—or had to be left behind to starve and die of exposure.

 
          
 
Nothing seemed amiss as he passed through the
trees. The camp looked deserted. But no, a knot of people had collected behind
the birthing lodge. A wail broke out, keening on the heavy stillness of the
day.

 
          
 
Two Smokes winced, feeling the dread. What new
misery had befallen them? His stomach twisted like a snake unable to shed its
skin. He wavered, half wishing he could run.

 
          
 
At that moment, the sky seemed to darken, as
if his vision blurred and grayed. Two Smokes shook his head, trying to free
himself of the terrible fear that grasped at his heart. What could . . .

 
          
 
"The Wolf Bundle!" he cried,
wheeling, stumping toward Sage Root's lodge.

 
          
 
Blood Bear tensed as the cries rang out from
the other side of the camp; the stillness shattered. People scrambled to their
feet, running to investigate. Even the sleeping dogs followed, curious about
their masters' excitement.

 
          
 
The camp lay open before him.

 
          
 
Moving with all the sound of smoke over
polished granite, Blood Bear darted forward, heart thudding in his chest. By
his very audacity, honor would be his. This act, this daylight invasion of the
Short Buffalo People, would bring him p and stature as a cunning and powerful
man.

 
          
 
Without hesitation, he ripped the lodge cover
back and ducked inside. Three rolls of bedding lay before him. The one in front
drew his attention. A compact
parfleche
lay on a
grass mat behind the head of that first bed. The bag had been manufactured with
outstanding skill. The seams had been stitched so tightly one could almost
believe the bag waterproof. The perfectly tanned leather gleamed white,
accenting the brilliant colors of the decoration. Effigies of Wolf, of the
White Hide, and all the other myths of the Red Hand covered each side.

 
          
 
Almost trembling, Blood Bear dropped to his
knees, darts clattering as he discarded them to fumble the laces open with
thick fingers.

 
          
 
The inside contained a beautifully tanned wolf
hide. This Blood Bear lifted free, unwrapping the silky skin to expose the Wolf
Bundle, its sides somewhat scuffed, but familiar nonetheless.

 
          
 
"The spirit of the Red Hand!" he
gasped. "I've won. No one will stand against me now. I am the leader of my
people."

 
          
 
Trembling with excitement, he could barely
control his hands as he swiftly repacked the
parfleche
.
In a final gesture, he kicked ashes over the inside of the lodge, grabbing up a
packful
of dried meat and slinging it over his
shoulder.

 
          
 
The Wolf Bundle pressed to his chest, he
reached for his
atlatl
and darts and ducked through
the door.

 
          
 
"Blood Bear!" the cry caught him off
guard.

 
          
 
He turned with the speed of a trapped lynx.
Instinctively, his right arm snapped back, ready to launch a deadly dart even
before he recognized the anguished face of his victim: Two Smokes!

 
          
 
"Die,
berdache
!"

 
          
 
Two Smokes flopped to the side as Blood Bear
threw all his weight behind the cast. Two Smokes would have died right there
but for the cumbersome pack of dried antelope meat that bumped Blood Bear's
elbow during the release. As Two Smokes screamed in terror, the dart hissed
harmlessly over him to skewer the lodge behind.

 
          
 
"
Anit'ah
!"
Two Smokes shrieked, crabbing away from Blood Bear as he settled a second dart
in the hooked end of his
atlatl
.

 
          
 
Dung and flies! The whole band would be onto
him now. For a split second, Blood Bear hesitated, shrugging the meat pack out
of the way. Should he waste another dart on the
berdache
?
Or would he need every last one to escape?

 
          
 
An old man, white-haired, with frightened
eyes, rounded a lodge, pulling up short, mouth dropping open to scream.

 
          
 
Blood Bear aimed true, his dart catching the
man full in the chest. Two Elks shuddered under the impact, a gagging sound in
his throat. Old legs turned rubbery as he sank to his knees and tumbled
sideways.

 
          
 
Looking back, he saw Two Smokes had
disappeared. Shouts came boiling from the people now. Heart racing, Blood Bear
leapt over a smoking fire pit. Hindered by the flopping weight, he discarded
the heavy meat pack to bounce in the dust behind him. With the Wolf Bundle
clamped to his chest, he dashed with all his might, bowling over a young man
who stepped out in front of him.

 
          
 
A woman screamed. People called to each other
in confusion as Blood Bear raced through camp. A dog appeared from somewhere to
yip and snap at his heels. Blood Bear whirled only long enough to drive a dart
into the beast's chest and rip it out. Then he was sprinting for the bluffs
again.

 
          
 
Panting and gasping, he forced his driven body
up the incline to the bluff above. He slowed, catching his second wind. Looking
back, he saw no pursuers boiled after him. From his vantage he could see the
People milling around the body of the old man, pointing at his
skylined
figure.

 
          
 
Grinning to himself, he hugged the Wolf Bundle
close and began trotting across the broad terrace. Far to the northwest, the
cool slopes of the
Buffalo
Mountains
rose like a beacon.

 
          
 
The Wolf Bundle! Gone! The place of honor at
the head of Two Smokes' smoldering bedding held the barest imprint of the
parfleche
in the hard dirt. The emptiness swelled into a
gaping hole in Little Dancer's heart and soul. Blackness welled around the
edges of his conscience. First Heavy Beaver's desecration—now this.

 
          
 
Little Dancer stared in through the door flap,
head shaking slowly in his disbelief. The lodge, his lodge, the place where
he'd always been safe from storm and cold and danger, lay before him, gutted, violated,
and raped by the
Anit’ah
. Bedding smoked where coals
burned through the hides.

           
 
"No. This isn't . . . can't be. . .
."

 
          
 
"Blood Bear," Two Smokes muttered in
Anit'ah
, where he ducked out of Three Toes' lodge, a
long dart in his hand.