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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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“Yes, War Chief. What do you want done with the bodies?”
“Drag them out to the tundra.” Karigi laughed. “Maybe the wolves will take them back to Wolf Dreamer. Me, I’m going after that mammoth. While the wolves eat, so will we.”
Voices grew fainter, and for long moments she lay, barely daring to breathe, her heart pounding in her chest.
The corpses seemed to grow heavier. She struggled to wrench her head around so she could gaze upward through the tangled mass of limbs to the sky.
Blessed Star People glimmered through the blanket of the heavens. Ancestors floating in a vast cold sea.
 
 
A
shes, moaning, brought Skimmer awake. She started as memories came flooding back.
She began shoving at the dead bodies. Her muscles trembled, weak from starvation and thirst. The glacier-scented winds carried the pungency of blood. Raising her head, she looked around. Nothing moved among the sprawled corpses. The gate, so long closed and guarded, gaped wide.
She shook her daughter. “Ashes? Wake up.”
“I’m awake,” Ashes said groggily. “Thirsty.”
“We have to go. There will be water soon.”
And then,Ti-Bish, I’m coming for you.
W
indwolf slept, his right arm stretched out, the darkness draping him like a blanket. The Dream slipped over his soul like a soft mist … .
 
 
B
ramble stood on a high promontory. Wind tossed her long black hair, sunlight playing down the sleek strands. She wore a formfitting elkhide dress that accented her thin waist and full bust. He could see elk ivories glinting from the yoke and sleeves.
She turned to him, her knowing eyes gleaming with sadness. The light seemed to play with the smooth lines of her face, and a wistful smile saddened her full lips.
“Bramble?” he asked, struggling desperately to climb up the rocky slope to her.
She shook her head sadly, and looked down to her side.
Windwolf caught movement, slowing in his mad scramble to reach her.
A great black wolf stepped out beside Bramble, leaning against her
thigh, staring at him with gleaming yellow eyes. Bramble lowered her hand, letting it trace along the black wolf ’s head in a caress.
“Bramble?” Windwolf cried. “I’m coming!”
He resumed his desperate climb, but the soil slipped under his war moccasins, and the harder he clawed and climbed, the more the loose earth rolled beneath his feet.
He was panting now, feet sliding with each powerful attempt to lever himself up the loose scree.
He screamed as Bramble shot him one last smile. Then she turned and slowly walked away. For a moment, the great wolf watched him with its burning eyes before it, too, turned, and with a flip of its bushy tail, disappeared.
Screaming his rage, Windwolf attacked the slope, fighting his way bit by bit to the top. There he leapt to the peak and stood, breath tearing at his throat.
The high peak gave a view of the west. To the northwest, he recognized Loon Lake shining in the sunlight. The sounds of war, men shouting, screaming, and the clacking of war clubs drew his attention to the north. There, at the foot of the Nightland Caves, he watched his warriors running through the Nightland camps. As they ran, women and children fled before them. Even across the distance he could hear war clubs smashing heads. Children screamed as they were run down and murdered. He watched in mute horror.
Bramble? Where is Bramble?
Turning, he looked west. And there, far out over the forest, he could see Bramble, the wolf at her side, marching off like some distant giant toward the low hills on the western horizon.
“Bramble!” he screamed, falling to his knees.
She looked back across the distance, the wind still teasing her long hair. He thought she smiled, and then pointed toward the distant hills. After a final knowing glance she turned and continued on her way.
The wolf hesitated for a moment, staring at him through those odd yellow eyes before it trotted off in Bramble’s tracks, the tail waving until both were lost against the distant hills his people called the Tills.
“She’s gone to the Tills,” Windwolf whispered to himself.
He rose to follow. Setting his steps toward the west. But with each step he took, the ground seemed to slide beneath his feet, leaving him stuck in place. All the while, behind him, he could hear Nightland
women and children screaming, pleading, and dying under the weapons of his warriors.
“Bramble?” he asked weakly. “Come back to me.”
But the distant Tills remained empty, almost shimmering in the eerie light.
“Bramble … ?”
 
 
“
W
ar Chief? Wake up!”
Windwolf blinked, started, and sat up to stare stupidly around a rocky enclosure. It took a moment for him to remember the old white-haired man who held a small bark lamp in his hand.
Trembler looked down with kindly eyes, saying, “You were Dreaming, War Chief. I hated to wake you, but it’s morning. The Nightland have left.You are needed.”
Windwolf rubbed his face, shaking off the last fragments of the Dream.
He nodded, collected his few belongings, and followed Trembler back along the tortuous route they’d taken the night before. Today, he could see the splinters of dull light that penetrated between many of the boulders. They dappled his path with a cold white gleam.
“Lookingbill is alive, but he’s weak,” Trembler said. “He ordered me to bring you to him.”
“I understand. What about the village?”
“Oddly, Kakala did but little damage. He spared the women and children when he could have killed them. Most of the elders survived. But …” He exhaled hard. “The Chief ’s daughter, Mossy, was killed in the fighting.”
He forced himself to think, the image of the Tills still lingering in his soul’s eye. “What about your warriors? How many survived?”
“We lost ten, War Chief. It could have been much worse.” He glanced back. “Kakala turned several of his captives loose. He said that he was only after you. That if we would turn you over, he would simply leave.”
“How kind of him.”
They stepped out into the gray morning and took the trail that led
to the enormous ceremonial cavern. Just outside, fifteen dead bodies were laid out in rows. They’d all been freshly bathed and dressed in clean hides.
As they passed, Trembler said, “Fish Hawk saw only ten and six warriors with Kakala, thank the Ancestors. Five of those will not be returning home with him.”
“Kakala was outnumbered. He’ll be back with five tens.”
Windwolf shivered slightly as he stepped to the mouth of the cave. Though most of the sky was clear, snowflakes fell from the drifting Cloud People, lighting as softly as feathers on the ground and frosting the boulders. The sharp fragrance of wet spruce needles and damp earth rode the breeze.
Images from the Dream kept spinning behind his eyes: Bramble, striding westward over the forest, the wolf by her side. All the while, he could hear the piteous cries of the Nightland women and children as his warriors struck them down.
The black wolf ’s eyes seemed to burn inside him.
His dread had lifted, replaced by a terrible weariness that made all things seem blessedly unreal. He’d been living out a precarious charade, laying battle plans for his warriors, speaking to people only when absolutely necessary, retreating to his hides at night, knowing he’d Dream. And finally he would jerk awake in the darkness, sweat pouring from his body. Images of Bramble, blood welling from her mouth, would linger.
Thank the Spirits that his warriors knew him well enough to leave him alone when those moods were upon him.
So, what am I going to do?
On impulse, he said, “I need to send a runner to my warriors as soon as possible, Trembler.”
“I know just the person. I’ll arrange it.”
“Good. Oh, and if you could put a pack together, something with food for a fast-traveling man, I would appreciate it.”
“But,” Trembler said in surprise, “if you’re sending a runner to your warriors, where are you going? How will we contact—”
“It’s better if you don’t know. When my warriors are in place, I’ll send a runner to you with the time and place to meet us.”
Trembler shifted his gaze to the snow falling through the evergreen branches. “I will need to discuss this with Chief Lookingbill and the other Elders, but I suspect we will do as you say.”
“Good.”
“Maybe you should consider resting here for just a day or two, then—”
“Trembler, think about it. The sooner I’m gone, the safer you will be. I’d appreciate it if you would find that runner for me immediately.”
Trembler hesitated as though he wanted to say something else. Instead, he said, “Lookingbill is waiting for you in his personal chamber. Just walk up this trail. Fish Hawk is guarding him. He’ll take you to Lookingbill.”
“You have my heartfelt thanks.”
Trembler bowed and walked away down the slope toward the base of the cliff.
Windwolf clenched his hands into fists. How long could he keep this up? When would his body and soul finally let him down?
Bramble, I need you.
For ten and three summers she’d been the thin, shining blade that had flashed between him and the world. She’d been the other half of his life, the part that balanced his foibles, sharpened his ideas, and kept him from blunders. Memories of her laughter haunted him. The sound rose so clearly in his mind he thought he’d heard it. He started to turn before he physically stopped himself.
Dead. She’s dead.
He remembered her sad smile in the Dream.
He shook off the image.
War Chief Fish Hawk, with four warriors, stood in a group before one of the higher entrances into the rocks. Windwolf picked up a snapped dart, seeing Nightland colors on the shaft. He pitched it off to the side.
As he climbed, the Thunder Sea came into view across the distant tops of the spruce forest. The silver water was dotted with shining icebergs. Father Sun’s light turned them into white spears. The icebergs, children of the Ice Giants, played constantly, rolling over and over in water, Singing in sweet clear voices.
Behind them, almost lost in the low clouds, he could make out the jagged line of the Ice Giants themselves. Their cold seemed to seep into his very bones.
What terrible things do you hide in your dark depths?
Fish Hawk called, “Our chief is waiting for you, Windwolf.”
Windwolf picked up his pace. “It’s good to see you alive, Fish Hawk.”
“And you also, War Chief. But for you, it would have gone far
worse for us.” He turned to the cave entrance and called, “Chief Lookingbill? Windwolf would see you.”
“Have him enter.”
Windwolf ducked beneath the leather curtain and was surprised to see the mostly bald elder sitting up, his back leaned against a roll of hides. His deeply wrinkled face had lost a good deal of color, but he looked better than Windwolf had imagined he would. His arm was in a sling, and a thick bandage covered his left shoulder.
Windwolf said, “You’re tougher than I thought.”
“Kakala’s dart glanced off my collarbone. It only hurts when I turn my head or try and move my arm. It bled cleanly. I’ll be all right.” He paused. “Do you know how often a man turns his head and tries to lift his arm?”
“I can imagine.”
Windwolf’s gaze swept the chamber. The place was four paces across, and extended perhaps three body lengths. Five massive slabs, of rocks had sagged against each other to create the space. No sunlight penetrated between the slabs, which meant it must be a warm, dry haven. The fire that burned in the middle of the chamber cast a ruddy hue over the walls.
“I was sorry to hear about the death of your daughter, Chief.”
Lookingbill’s old jaw quaked as he said, “She was our Storyteller. As well as she knew the oral traditions of our people, she was also an expert with the atlatl. She killed one of Kakala’s warriors before he darted her.”
“I’m doubly sorry to lose her.”
Within Lookingbill’s reach, a variety of weapons rested: six darts and an atlatl, plus a buffalohide shield painted with blue images of falcons and yellow doves.
Windwolf walked forward and gestured to the weapons. “When I met you last night, I was surprised that you did not come armed. What if I’d meant you harm?”
Lookingbill winced and shifted his back, trying to ease the pain in his wounded shoulder. “You do not have the reputation of killing unarmed men who ask to counsel with you.”
“Then, perhaps we can only hope the Prophet will seek a meeting?”
Lookingbill laughed, and winced at the pain.
Windwolf knelt beside the fire and extended his hands to the flames. “I asked Trembler to find a runner for me. After I dispatch him, I’ll be
on my way. If I’m gone when Kakala returns, he might leave you in peace.”
“I think it more likely that he will punish us for having sheltered you to start with. Which means I want you to come back soon—and with your warriors. Why do you wish a runner?”
BOOK: People of the Nightland (North America's Forgotten Past)
13.63Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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