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

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BOOK: People of the Nightland (North America's Forgotten Past)

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Eleven

T
he insane night attack had broken up almost as quickly as it began. Once the Headswift villagers had retreated to their rocky warrens, the prowling Nightland warriors had backed off, lurking in the shadows, calling insults.

Windwolf had stopped Fish Hawk’s warriors when they reached a narrow rocky defile. With their few remaining darts, they had discouraged any further pursuit by Kakala’s raiders. Now they waited, hidden in the shadows of the rocks, ready to ambush any incursion by Nightland warriors.

Fish Hawk shot a look at Windwolf. “You saved our lives back there, War Chief.”

“I just hope Lookingbill is all right.”

“You saw the wound. Was it mortal?”

“Only if it becomes infected. The dart was high in the shoulder. Someone is going to have to get him out of that hole. And soon.”

Windwolf took a deep breath, leaning out to inspect the moon-bathed trails. If he ran, it wouldn’t take but a—

Fish Hawk clamped a hand on his arm. “I know what you’re thinking, but no. You have done enough this night. I don’t know what
happened in that Council you just had, but my chief gave orders.You are to be kept safe.”

“Fish Hawk, had I not been here, none of this might have happened.”

The war chief shrugged. “Perhaps not tonight, but eventually.” He gave Windwolf a sad grin. “We are allies now. What damage is done, is done. In the meantime, you will serve my people better by living than dying in an attempt to save my chief.” He raised his voice. “Dipper! My chief has ordered that this man be taken to a place where the stinking Nightland cannot find him. Take him to the Deep Cave.”

Seeing the insistence in Fish Hawk’s eyes, Windwolf surrendered, and followed his guides through a hole down into the rocks.

Windwolf had to bend low to follow Trembler and Dipper through the narrow passage that led into the depths of Headswift Village. The little bark lamp Dipper carried flickered on the rough-sided boulders. The tunnels were often so narrow that the shoulders of his buffalo coat scraped roughly against the stone. In the dry coolness, the smell of the fresh-roasted elk tongue Dipper carried in her belt pouch sent growls of anticipation through his stomach.

Now Trembler stopped and blinked at another of the many smaller tunnels that jutted off from the main one they followed. “Dipper? This is the turn, isn’t it? I thought I remembered—”

“No.” She shook her head, and long black hair fell over the front of her cape. A pudgy woman with a face too round and eyes too large, she reminded Windwolf of a timid owl.

“No, it’s farther.” Her voice cracked.

“My place is with the warriors,” Windwolf insisted.

“Father said to keep you safe!” she cried, almost to the point of tears.

Windwolf closed his eyes. The chasm of dread in his chest yawned until it seemed a somber, frightening darkness pervaded everything.

“What made these caves?” he asked, thinking to distract them, and himself.

“Ice.” Trembler swallowed hard. “In some of the lower ones, the ice is still there. It melts back a little each year. The big rocks settle some with each summer.”

Dipper seemed to have collected her wits. “It’s this way. Trust me.”

She started forward. Finally Dipper led the way into a small rounded chamber. Windwolf ducked his head and followed.

In feeble lamplight, the cavern spread five body lengths across and about seven tall. Calling it a cave was a curious word. Actually, it was a pile of boulders and dirt that had, at some time in the past, been hollowed out by water. A stack of dusty, rolled hides rested against the rear wall. Gourds and hide bags filled the crevices in the walls. Food and water? Or ceremonial objects?

“What is this place?” Windwolf asked, dusting off his shoulders.

Dipper said, “Father calls it the Deep Cave. He comes here to Dream and pray. It’s the only place he feels truly s-safe.” Her voice broke, and she put a trembling hand to her mouth.

“Dipper,” Trembler whispered. “Why don’t you go back up to see what’s happening? I can care for—”

“Soon. Not yet.” She walked over to the stack of hides and began rolling them out. “The insides shouldn’t be too dusty.”

Windwolf spread out his hide and sat down.

Dipper untied her belt pouch and handed it to him. “You must be hungry. I grabbed this for you. Please, eat. I’ll fetch water.” She went to one of the wall niches and pulled down a gourd, which she set beside Windwolf.

“You have my thanks, Dipper.”

Dipper spread her hide and sat down across from Windwolf, but Trembler paced nervously.

Windwolf pulled out a thick slice of elk tongue and took a bite. It tasted wonderful and tender. He forced himself to eat slowly, to savor it.

Trembler sighed. “War Chief, I assume Lookingbill told you that we have to kill the Prophet.”

Windwolf swallowed his food and looked up. His gaze went first to Trembler, then to Dipper. “He did. We can only hope the Nightland haven’t altered it.”

Trembler and Dipper exchanged solemn looks.

Windwolf took a long drink from the water gourd and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

Trembler turned away, and seemed to be staring at the small gourds that filled one of the wall niches. Lamp oil, perhaps? He said only, “You’ll need to stay here, until Kakala leaves.”

Dipper added, “I pray there’s something left alive after Kakala finishes with us.”

Windwolf looked down at his atlatl. It would be too good to be true, but maybe he’d gotten lucky with that first cast. Maybe Kakala was lying in the moonlight, coughing blood out with his last breath.

Darkness

P
eople often ask me where I live in the Nightland Caves, mostly because they hope to find me. But I am never quite able to answer that question. You see, my home is not a place; it is a black womb that floats somewhere between the brilliant Star People and the dark hole in the ice, a womb that never stops giving birth to me.

By day the darkness empties my soul of its own petty worries and selfishness. By night it Sings to me until the Dreaming comes … and I begin the search for a legend.

I have heard holy people say that darkness is evil.

I’ve never understood their words. For me darkness is light. Light is darkness. That is the hoop of life. That is goodness. Evil arises only when the hoop is broken into two parts; then both light and darkness wound.

Like the Hero Twins.

Wolf Dreamer and Raven Hunter were once One. But the instant they became two, evil entered the world … .

It is the Dream Rift.

The instant of becoming homeless.

I must return to that instant before the Rift became.

Twelve

S
kimmer watched a great gray owl soar through the darkness overhead. Beneath her drawn-up knees, Ashes lay in a deep sleep. Skimmer let her leaden arm drop to gently stroke the little girl’s exposed toes. The freezing temperatures had sapped what little strength she and Ashes had left.

Wind Woman whipped across the walls, peppering the crowd with sand, but no one moaned; no one moved. A deadly hush had fallen over the enclosure, as though every prisoner held her breath. When would War Chief Windwolf come? When?

As dawn neared, a deep blue halo arced over the eastern horizon, and she heard the monotonous drone of voices outside, people speaking with Sunpath accents. This was the most holy night of their lives, and they were not in their own villages at the ceremonial celebrations.

“Do you think they know we’re here?” old Yellow Woman asked in surprise.

Her gray hair had turned dark from the dirt and blowing dust. She looked at Skimmer through sleepless eyes. Beside her, her niece—a girl named Mink—stood numbly. Skimmer hadn’t heard her murmur
a single word in two days. Her hope seemed as dead as the pile of corpses in the rear.

“Of course they know,” Skimmer answered. “They have given up on their people and joined the Nightland to follow the Prophet’s Dream.”

She rubbed her gritty eyes.
And perhaps I should, too.

Yellow Woman rubbed a grimy hand over her face. “I can’t believe I’m awake. How can our own people allow us to be tortured this way?”

“As long as they can turn their heads, they don’t care.”

She thought of the Lame Bull People and Lookingbill, and wondered what he would think when the Nightland warriors came for his loved ones. A flicker of anger burned through her.

But for you, none of this would have happened.
But then, even now, she understood the hesitation. She’d seen it enough among her own people back in the beginning. It was someone else’s problem. Why twist the lion’s tail?

Yellow Woman shook her head. “For three summers we’ve been fighting to keep the old ways … the ways of kindness. And now no one cares what happens to us? Those are our relatives out there!”

As if to reinforce her words, echoes of laughter carried on the night wind.

“Are they?” Skimmer asked.

Yellow Woman’s eyes roamed the foreboding pole walls around them. “How can you ask such a thing? Of course they are. All Sunpath People are brothers and sisters.”

“The world has changed since the coming of the Prophet. The word ‘family’ now only applies to those who follow him. Today, even cousins turn their heads.”

A mammoth trumpeted from somewhere in the distance, and every head turned to listen to the sacred animal. Whispers broke out. It was so rare to hear them these days. In her mind, Skimmer pictured the animal standing in the starlight with its trunk up.

A bitter voice within asked,
How did it get so close? It is a sign of Nightland arrogance that even a mammoth can wander in without discovery.

The mammoth trumpeted again, and its lilting cry penetrated clear to her soul.

Is it the Last Mammoth signaling Raven Hunter’s return?

“Our people are bewitched,” Yellow Woman said softly. “It’s the
Prophet’s work. He steals their souls. He has some kind of magic that—”

“He’s
not
a witch,” Skimmer insisted. “People flock to him because he promises he’ll lead them back down into the paradise of the Long Dark, where Raven Hunter is waiting to embrace them. Few believe in Wolf Dreamer any longer. He’s abandoned us too many times.”

“That makes me sad. The only thing we have left is Wolf Dreamer and Old Man Above.”

“You still believe? After this?”

“Of course. Don’t you see? Wolf Dreamer and Old Man Above must know we have faith in them. This is a test. We’ve no right to hate Old Man Above or Wolf Dreamer. Like a father punishing his child, every instant of pain has a reason, to teach us something. It’s a sign of love. It hurts Wolf Dreamer as much as it does us.”

“Wolf Dreamer is
dead
!” she shouted bitterly. “He died here, this very day! If he
ever
existed.” Her heart was pounding. Did she believe that? Was her faith one more thing to add to the growing pile of dead in the back corner?

Tears welled in the old woman’s eyes. “Do you know that this torture isn’t the greatest horror to the old people?” She waved a hand at the death-scented enclosure. “This passes. The greatest horror is that Wolf Dreamer no longer lives in the souls of the young. I can endure. But you losing your faith … that leaves my soul weeping in despair.”

Skimmer didn’t answer. Five body lengths away, a young girl, perhaps ten, gripped the feet of her dead sister, trying to drag the corpse to the pile.

“Move?” the girl begged a cluster of people blocking the way.

“Please! I’m not very strong, and I have to—”

“Go the other way round. We’re too tired to move.” A young woman just glared. “Or leave her there. We’re all dead anyway.”

The girl struggled to comply, dragging her sister three paces in the opposite direction. But the women there refused to move. All paths were closed. Finally, in defeat, she dropped back to the ground and buried her face in her sister’s dirty shirt to muffle her sobs.

Softly, Skimmer began the First Song:

Flight of the bird, so big so loud,
calls the thunder from the cloud,
Sun children kill each other,

Long way south for the death of a brother,
Hot, dry, war is nigh,
War is nigh …

Legends said that Wolf Dreamer’s first teacher had been an old woman named Heron, and that she’d died with those words on her lips.

Yellow Woman bowed her head. Tears dripped from her long nose and landed glistening on her filthy sleeve.

Skimmer stared. How could she have so much water left after so many days of thirst? It didn’t seem possible. Her own tears had dried up long ago.

“They’re going to slaughter us,” she wept. “You know it too, don’t you?”

“Everyone knows it.”

“We must do something. We can’t just let them kill us. What can we do?”

“Fight. We can band together and fight.”

“Are you mad? Do you want to try and climb the walls? In our weakened condition—and against armed warriors who can dart us all in a few heartbeats?”

“I won’t just sit here and let them kill my daughter.”

Skimmer rose to her feet, aware of Ashes’ frightened look.

A din of voices erupted outside. People were calling,
“The Guide! It’s the Guide! Look!”

“Do you think he’s really out there?” Yellow Woman asked. “The Guide. Do you—”

“Guide? Prophet? What does it matter?”

“Maybe he thinks we’ve suffered enough and will let us go. Maybe he’s come to—”

Skimmer laughed. “Do you think Wolf Dreamer has sent him to save us?”

“Yes … yes, that’s it. Wolf Dreamer has finally seen our agony and—”

“Even Wolf Dreamer turns his head tonight,Yellow Woman. All the Spirits have.”

“It’s not true!” she shouted angrily. “We’re his relatives. He loves us!”

Skimmer studied the guards. They’d changed positions. Instead of walking along the log walls, they stood massed before the gate. Receiving orders to do what?

“We’re not going to die,” Yellow Woman said. “You’ll see. He’s come to forgive us.”

“Sunpath People!” a voice boomed through the gate. “Greetings from the Guide.”

“Hallowed Spirits, let us go!” Yellow Woman shrieked.

Cries rose across the enclosure, people screaming for mercy, striking those next to them to drive them far enough away that the Guide could see their waving arms and repentant faces.

Skimmer cocked her head. That wasn’t Ti-Bish’s voice. This was Elder Nashat.

More guards climbed onto the log walls. They had their atlatls nocked with beautifully fletched darts.

“I believe!” a young woman screamed. “I believe in the Guide’s Dream!”

“I’ve seen the Truth! I know the Guide is the promised Dreamer!”

People wept and promised allegiance to Ti-Bish, if only he would let their children live.

Skimmer gazed down at the soft outline of Ashes’ legs beneath the hem of her cape. Was her daughter dead? Is that why she didn’t move even though a cacophony of shrieks and shouts filled the air?

Gratitude overwhelmed her. For days she’d been girding herself to kill her girl before the Nightland warriors could get their filthy hands on her. Perhaps Wolf Dreamer did exist and had spared her?

“No,” Yellow Woman insisted, eyes glistening with tears of hope. “He’s going to save us. I feel it. Don’t you feel it? Wolf Dreamer has sent him to release—”

“Witness,” Nashat called through the gate, “the power of the Guide you all conspired to murder.”

The gate was pulled open, and Karigi strode in at the head of a party of warriors. Each held a stone-headed hammer.

Skimmer blinked, reading the dark expressions on their faces. They had their jaws clamped, as if resolute to do something terrible. In that instant, Skimmer reached down, jerking Ashes to her feet.

Women surged forward, reaching out. They had no chance. Cries of hope became shrieks of pain, and the hammers swung crashing down.

Skimmer broke free from the press, looking around, seeing the pile of corpses in the rear. Screams and pleas couldn’t hide the smacking sounds of stone on flesh.

“Mother?” Ashes asked in disbelieving fear.

“This way.”

Women panicked and tried to run, pushing Skimmer ahead of them. She dragged Ashes toward the pile of dead.

Despite the press of bodies, she shoved Ashes down, shouting, “Don’t move! Don’t speak.” Powered by fear, she reached up, grabbed a cold limp ankle, and pulled. She threw herself on top of Ashes as the pile shifted and cold dead corpses slid down on top of her.

Ashes moaned, “Mother?”

“
Quiet!
Lie still!”

She hunched her spine, trying to protect Ashes as someone scrambled across her back, climbing the collapsed pile of corpses. A heavy foot drove her flat as a man chased the fleeing woman up. Skimmer winced as the hammer thumped into flesh. The woman screamed. A second whistling impact brought silence. Then she felt yet another corpse toppled onto those that covered her.

For long moments, the hammers could be heard, men grunting with the effort.

“Thirsty … Mother,” Ashes whispered.

“Shhh!”

The weight of the bodies piled on top of her was almost unbearable. Something wet and cold was leaking down, dripping onto her cheek. She clamped her eyes shut, thinking,
I am dead. Just another of the dead.

“War Chief Karigi?” Nashat asked. “Are you sure that’s all of them?”

“Yes, Elder.” Then, “You men, turn each one over. Make sure.”

“Even the dead ones in the pile?”

“Are you an idiot, or just a fool?”

Occasional snapping smacks carried in the suddenly still air. Skimmer ground her jaw, dry sobs racking her chest. She knotted her fists.
How can such a thing happen?

A man’s whispered voice nearby said, “If I was an idiot at least I could become a Guide someday.”

Someone else snickered.

Ti-Bish!
Skimmer remembered the half-starved creature she had once given food to.
Why didn’t I drive a dart through your foul heart when I had the chance?

Because back then she had still believed.

But now, on Hookmaker’s blood, I swear I’ll repay you for this!

She tensed as a voice above said, “Come morning, have some of the other slaves carry this mess out.”

BOOK: People of the Nightland (North America's Forgotten Past)

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