People of the Fire (7 page)

 
          
 
Back bent to her burden, she shuffled on.

 
          
 
Nearer the jutting ridge, she had to detour
around other drainages sliced into the plain. Scrubby grass had receded to
greasewood, some deflated until roots gripped tenuously at resistant hummocks
of soil.

 
          
 
"Don't remember greasewood in here. Don't
remember the arroyos so deep either. Changing . . . world's changing ..."
She shook her head, muttering to herself, trusting her antique body to jump one
of the narrow gashes.

 
          
 
“Too old to be wandering around like a kid on
a Dream search. Too old for this."

 
          
 
The sun had slanted to the west, her shadow
lengthening as she plodded wearily along the tributary's path. Before her, the
rounded profiles of the ridges rose against the brassy sky.

 
          
 
She stopped, aware of a difference. No, no
matter how long it had been, she would have remembered. The effect might have
been the same if the Monster Children had in the slopes when they battled for
the world, cutting long parallel grooves down the soil in intricate patterns
around the sagebrush. The hillside was washing away, turning to badlands as the
plants that had once held the soils dried in the drought.

 
          
 
She cocked her head, looking at the washed ground
she walked on, noting the way the soil looked, how the pebbles remained on the
surface.

 
          
 
"Used to be grassy," she remembered,
running an appraising gaze over the eroded slopes. Here, the greasewood in the
flats looked to be strangling, partially buried by the soils eroding down the
side of the hill.

 
          
 
She sniffed at her dry nose and hurried on.
"
Gonna
be dark soon. Better get to Monster Bone
Springs and make a camp. Get a good night's sleep for once."

 
          
 
Shadows lengthened, stark in the washed skeletons
of long dry rivulets on the slopes around her. Looking closer, she could see
much of the sagebrush on the rounded hills had died to become nothing more than
fuzzy-looking gray skeletons. The dark arroyo remained a defiant obstacle
beside her. Step after step, she entered the jaws of the canyon, plodding along
the bottom, trying to remember how far it was to Monster Bone Springs as the
worn, rounded hills rose about her.

 
          
 
She crabbed up the slope a ways to avoid the
thick net of giant sage—and the ticks that would be waiting on the leaf
tips—and turned the final bend, remembering the line of sandstone dipping down
along the slopes to Monster Bone Springs. There, at the bottom, a thick stand
of giant sagebrush waited, its blue-green color that of silvered spruce needles
in the crystal afternoon light.

 
          
 
She exhaled slowly, taking one last sip from
her gut water sack, and ambled forward on trembling legs. Monster Bone Springs
lay before her, an ancient camping place of her People. Here, they'd killed the
last of the huge beasts now known as monsters. From the legends, the animals
had had two tails, one in front, one in back. And she'd seen the teeth, long,
curved, taller than a man.

 
          
 
Here, she'd prowled around the eroded fire
pits, seen the cracked bones, picked up the long stone dart points with fluted
bases. Now it all seemed to be washed away. Faint stains of charcoal marked the
old hearths, eroded soils slightly oxidized from the long-vanished fires.
Flecks of charcoal had washed toward the arroyo. Fractured reddened fire stones
had broken in irregular shapes to be scattered like scavenger-gnawed bone and
kicked about. Even the thick concentrations of stone flakes—chipped waste from
tool manufacturing—had washed away.

 
          
 
The shelter had been hidden from view. At
first, she'd thought it another buff sandstone boulder. But as she neared she
could see the flattened conical shape of the lodge nestled in the sagebrush. A
shabby-looking thing, it barely looked big enough to keep two people from the
rain—if it were ever to rain.

 
          
 
She slowed, biting her lip. Who? Anymore, that
question could be worth a person's life. Even hers. Not everyone knew who she
was in these days of hunger and thirst.

 
          
 
"No one lives forever," she
grumbled. "Just feels that way sometimes." She pushed on, looking
curiously for the Monster Bones despite her wariness. One stuck out of the
ground at an angle back in the sagebrush. The end—as big around as a strong
man's thigh—had splintered, drying like the rest of the world. Long flakes of
bone lay scattered about in the dark-gray sage duff. A few more faint stains of
charcoal blackened the soil, a slight reddish tinge of oxidation around them.
These you could almost see the shape of. Fire hearths. Old, so old . . . and
almost gone.

 
          
 
The world was changing.

 
          
 
"Hello!" she hollered through cupped
hands. "Who's there?"

 
          
 
Nothing moved. Something, a feeling, a
wrongness, drifted through her thoughts like a bat in the night.

 
          
 
In the stillness, an infant cried.

 
          
 
The Dream wrenched her back again. White Calf
started, blinking her eyes into the night gloom of her rock shelter. Her gut
lurched, leaving her physically sick, as if something had been dislocated. She
fought the need to vomit. Stillness settled on the night. What had happened? The
feeling of sickness reeked of abused Power. But whose? Where?

 
          
 
Mouth dry, she reached for her water skin and
sipped. Sitting up, she rubbed her old legs, feeling the night cramp of
age-knotted muscles. Eight years had passed since Power had led her to the
child and the
berdache
. What had gone wrong now?

 
          
 
Looking out through the hangings on her
shelter, she traced the familiar outline of the peaks against the skyline. She
searched the dark patterns of the clouds as the moon broke the eastern horizon
again.

 
          
 
She stiffened as the moonbeams sliced the
clouds, seeing him again. Moonlight played lightly over the mounded white. The
young man of her Spirit Dreams formed out of the billowing cumulus. Half man,
half wolf, the image spun from the clouds appeared to point off to the
southeast—toward the land of her people.

 
          
 
In shock from Heavy Beaver's desecration, the
Wolf Bundle vibrated, wailing its anguish into the clefts and curves of time.
The voices of the thousands who had touched it in awe and left part of their
souls within the bindings whimpered and moaned.

 
          
 
The Power pulsated, remembering the
defilement, withdrawing from the world of men, sucking down into a smoldering
kernel of being.

 
          
 
"Remember, the Spiral. . . Circles within
circles, joined, yet never touching. The time hasn’t come yet. But it will. . .
it will.

 
          
 
And the Wolf Bundle waited.

 
          
 
"You don't have to do this." Sage
Root met Dancing Doe's eyes as she ducked from the birthing lodge, the infant
cuddled to her chest. Dancing Doe shot a surreptitious look to where Heavy
Beaver stood before his lodge with arms crossed on his broad chest. Sunlight
revealed him as a middle-aged man, thick through the body and short. No hint of
the thoughts inside could be seen on his wide heavy-
jowled
face. His nose, too, looked mashed and flat against his splayed cheekbones. A
deep scar ran diagonally across his high broad forehead—legacy of an
Anit'ah
war dart.

 
          
 
"There isn't enough food," Dancing
Doe whispered miserably, wincing at the tenderness in her hips as she
straightened in the slanting light of morning.

 
          
 
"I say, don't do it. Something will
happen." The angry knot in Sage Root's stomach growled. Nothing much
remained of the last kill, only some thin strips of dried meat—enough for another
meal or two. Some roots had been collected, enough for stew. Already women had
gone out to beat the brush, look for rabbit or gopher holes close enough to the
river that water could be diverted to flood them and flush a meal. Still, to
kill a child . . .

 
          
 
Dancing Doe's mouth tightened. "My baby
... it's a girl." Her gaze slipped to Heavy Beaver where he stood.
"He knows."

 
          
 
"It's your decision! He can't make you
kill your own—"

 
          
 
"Please." Dancing Doe's plea
wrenched Sage Root's heart. "I know what you're trying to do, but until
Long Runner comes back . . . Well, I don't want trouble."

 
          
 
"I'll stand by you. Give you what's left
of my dried meat," Sage Root promised, knowing full well that Long Runner
had been killed by
Anit'ah
. "Listen, we can't
keep killing the girl children." Sage Root placed a hand on Dancing Doe's
shoulder. "Trust me. How would you feel if you killed your baby and Hungry
Bull, or someone from one of the other parties, came trotting in saying they'd
surrounded a herd, killed enough for all?"

 
          
 
Dancing Doe bit her lip, haunted eyes still
fastened on Heavy Beaver, his presence like a miasma. "And then what? How
long until the next kill? No. It's all hazy, but I remember him saying I had
to. It's for all the People. This one" — she indicated the
infant—"doesn't have a soul yet. It isn't named. It's only an animal

 
          
 
Sage Root closed her eyes, hearing the
certainty in Dancing Doe's voice. "It's your ..." last link to Long
Runner. But she couldn't say that, couldn't force herself to add to Dancing
Doe's misery.

           
 
Frantic, Dancing Doe's eyes darted.
"You've done enough. You . . . and your
berdache
!"

 
          
 
At the sting in her voice, Sage Root's
resistance crumbled. "We were just—"

 
          
 
"Please. Let me pass, Sage Root. The
quicker this is done, the easier it will be."

 
          
 
Standing aside, she watched woodenly as
Dancing Doe walked up the trail to the hilltop, a lonely dejected figure. Sage
Root flinched as Dancing Doe raised the child overhead and slammed it down on
the deflated river cobbles. The wind carried the sound of impact away.

 
          
 
Heavy Beaver, expressionless, turned and
entered his lodge. People stared empty-eyed at the bowed figure on the ridge
top.

 
          
 
"What have we become?" Sage Root
whispered under her breath.

 
          
 
"Hungry." Chokecherry appeared
mysteriously at her elbow. "So, she did it?"

 
          
 
"She didn't want to face Heavy
Beaver."

 
          
 
Chokecherry nodded, eyes narrowing. "He's
killing his own people, and no one knows any better. It's the times, the lack
of rain. Our people are falling apart faster than our worn-out lodges."
She spat in acid emphasis. "You heard him last night. Then he got her
again just after sunrise. He made it sound as if every misfortune the People
have suffered was her fault. Told her if she hadn't gotten pregnant, maybe Long
Runner wouldn't have gone to hunt in
Anit'ah
lands.
Asked her whose meat she expected to get to feed her baby. 'Which mouth will
you rob?' Those were his words."

 
          
 
Sage Root ground her teeth, tears of
frustration and anger forcing past her hot eyes. "Horn Core never said
things like that."

 
          
 
Chokecherry nodded curtly, staring up at the
sagging figure standing on the ridge top. "Keep that in mind, girl. The
People are dying off one by one. Heavy Beaver has decreed that infant girls
aren't necessary for the survival of the band. He blames the drought and the
lack of game on us. Look around. See any luster in the People's eyes these
days? Like smoke from an old fire, we're fading away."

 
          
 
Chokecherry pushed past, smacking her lips as
she hobbled toward her weathered, smoke-stained lodge.

 
          
 
Sage Root took one last look toward the place
where Dancing Doe stood hunched on the ridge. Even from here, she could see her
shoulders rising and falling in grief. As she turned to leave, her eyes locked
with Heavy Beaver's where he sat in the shadowed depths of his lodge. The
Spirit Dreamer's eyes gleamed in promise.

 
          
 
"Like smoke from an old fire," she
repeated numbly under her breath.

 
          
 
Little Dancer watched as Heavy Beaver walked
out of camp. The man strolled lazily away from the lodges and up from
Moon
River
toward the sagebrush-studded slopes leading
to the upland terraces.

 
          
 
"He'll Dream up there. Call the
buffalo," Two Elks said to no one in particular. The old man lounged in
front of his lodge, ancient hands working a piece of
chert
into a fine dart point. He smiled happily up at the sun. "Good man, Heavy
Beaver. He chased the ghost away last night. He purifies the People."

 
          
 
Ghost? I was that ghost, old man. Some Spirit
Dreamer. Little Dancer turned his eyes away, seeing his mother use sticks to
pick rocks from the cooking fire. She dropped them into the suspended pouch to
boil stew made of some of the last remaining shreds of sun-dried meat. After
that, all they had left would be the hides from which they'd made moccasins and
lodge covers. Starvation food.

 
          
 
Little Dancer walked slowly toward the lodge,
gut growling. Glancing up into the trees, he remembered the thrill of hunting
for birds' eggs. Now the nests had been robbed for two days' walk up and down
the river. Still, Heavy Beaver didn't move the camp to new grounds. Instead, he
promised to call the buffalo—and killed babies.

 
          
 
The horror of it would last. The hollow place
inside ate at him, and he wondered what hurt more: hunger, or the feeling he'd
had when Heavy Beaver threw the Wolf Bundle into the darkness. Nothing would be
the same again.

 
          
 
He squatted next to the lodge, peeking under
the cover to Two Smokes' stricken face as he cuddled the Wolf Bundle. A person
with soul death might look like that, slack, listless, horrified at the future.

 
          
 
"Take a horn and dip some broth
out," his mother urged, breaking into his thoughts.

 
          
 
He did so, amazed at the watering of his
mouth. Curiously, he eyed the lodge cover, remembering the bitter taste from
winter when they'd practically starved before his father, Hungry Bull, had led
the hunters to kill a small herd of buffalo. Already reports had come in that
the cows seen had few calves with them.

 
          
 
"What are you thinking?"

 
          
 
He looked up at her, noting the deeper worry
in her eyes. "That Heavy
Beaver.will
kill the
People. We should leave."

 
          
 
She said nothing as she reached for a second
horn and dipped it into the broth. "Take this to the
berdache
."

 
          
 
He did so, careful to spill none as he crawled
inside. Two Smokes didn't even look up. Little Dancer laid the warm liquid next
to him.

 
          
 
As he crawled back out, his mother said,
"You know Heavy Beaver doesn't like us. What did you expect to prove last
night?"

 
          
 
He dropped his eyes, absently pulling on his
fingers.

 
          
 
"That was you, wasn't it?"

 
          
 
He remained silent.

 
          
 
"A boy doesn't get dirt all over his
shirt like that unless he's crawling around. Did you ever stop to think of the
effect you might have on Power?"

 
          
 
"No. But the voice didn't—"

 
          
 
"I don't want to hear about voices.
Dancing Doe could have died last night. The baby could have ..." She
sighed, the sound of it like a tearing of the soul. "Well, never
mind."

 
          
 
"The Power was right."

 
          
 
He could feel her eyes boring into him.

 
          
 
"And you know of Power, little boy?"

 
          
 
His mouth had gone dry. "I felt it. I
felt the Wolf Bundle. Two Smokes' Power worked. It freed the baby. I felt
that."

 
          
 
He could feel her sharpened gaze. "And
what else did you feel?"

 
          
 
He swallowed hard, heart beginning to race.
"I felt Heavy Beaver. He's a bad man. Wrong. And then, when he threw the
Wolf Bundle ..."

 
          
 
"Yes?"

 
          
 
"I got . . . sick."

 
          
 
"You don't look so good now." She
handed him another bowl. "Stop pouting like that."

 
          
 
Hearing the listless tone in her voice, he
looked up. The look she gave him frightened.

 
          
 
She ran her fingers through her long hair,
eyes drifting to where Heavy Beaver climbed the slopes. "After you drink
your soup, you'd better go and sleep some. It helps, slows the hunger."

 
          
 
He nodded, lifting the horn and drinking,
feeling the tightness in his belly.

 
          
 
A man living without his people didn't live
well—a problem Blood Bear considered as he stared down at the remains of his
moccasins. Idly he fingered the hole where the ball of his foot had worn though
the sole. The buffalo-hide jacket hanging from his shoulders looked tattered,
mangy where the hair had begun to slip. Poor tanning on his part: he didn't
understand how hair could be set in the curing process.

 
          
 
A man alone could only pack what he and his
dog could carry. Over the last couple of years a kill meant feast. A credible
hunter in the beginning, he'd honed those skills until he passed through the
sage as quietly as an owl's shadow. Despite that, a lone man couldn't organize
a trap, couldn't drive, or utilize the benefits of numbers of hunters in a
surround. Rather, he had to creep cautiously forward, employing every benefit
of terrain, wind, and cover to his greatest benefit. The years taught him the
cunning use of ambush and stealth.