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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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Thirty-four

K
eresa dusted off her cape and looked up at the rocks over her head. Between the gaps in the boulders, she saw the gray gleam of dusk. There were still men out there, moving around. She could hear them talking.

She shouted, “I want to talk to Windwolf!”

No one answered.

“Where’s Windwolf? Tell him Deputy Keresa must speak with him!”

Whispers rose, as though they were discussing it; then she heard nothing but silence.

A short time later, a sliver of Windwolf’s face appeared in one of the gaps. “What is it, Deputy?”

“Let’s talk.”

“I’m listening.”

“I should think that telling you we surrender is a little ridiculous, but if you need to hear it—”

“I don’t.”

She exhaled hard. “What can I do to save the lives of the rest of my war party?”

Windwolf hesitated, and it occurred to her that he was about to tell her “nothing.”

He asked, “How many warriors can the Nightland clan Elders gather to attack us?”

She stared up, confused at first, until it occurred to her that he was already thinking five steps ahead:
What will happen if I don’t kill them? The Nightland Elders will catch wind of it. What will they do? They’ll probably order Deputy Karigi to attack the village and free the hostages. What if they decide to make a full-scale assault? How many warriors can they muster?

Keresa replied, “More than you can defend against, Windwolf. Even if Deputy Silt arrives with your warriors. Even if you manage to coerce every child into carrying a stick.You cannot win. Our warriors are coming, in overwhelming numbers.”

F
ish Hawk stood to Windwolf’s left, watching.

Windwolf looked dead tired, drained of every shred of the strength that had kept them alive over the past few hands of time. His dark eyes were dull, lifeless. He propped a trembling fist on the rock, and said, “You’ve just helped me make a difficult decision, Deputy. I thank you. I was actually considering letting you live.”

He got to his feet and walked away.

Keresa shouted, “Windwolf! Windwolf, wait! Talk to me!
Talk to me!”

Confusion

I
sit with my back against the ice wall and stare at the dark form five paces away. Against the faint gleam of the fiery lake, he looks tall and massive, almost blocking the tunnel when he spreads his wings.

In a very small voice, I say, “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to. Just tell her.”

Raven Hunter might stand right in front of me, but his voice sounds far away, like the distant rumble of thunder.

“Will she understand? About the feather?”

“Better than you know.”

“You’re sure she’s alive?”

“Oh, yes.”

I toy with the fringes on my cape for a few moments before rising to my feet. “I’ll tell her as soon as she arrives.”

“I know you will.”

The blackness retreats down the tunnel, heading for the fiery lake, growing smaller and smaller, as though flying.

The scents of water and algae rise powerfully in the backwash of his wings.

I take a deep breath and watch until Raven Hunter is gone, and the pale gleam of the lake returns to waver over the ice walls like sunlight off water.
“Feathers and suffering,” I whisper to myself. “I don’t understand.”

As I slowly head back up the tunnel, I wonder why Skimmer would understand when I do not. Is she smarter than I am? I feel a flush creep into my cheeks. Everyone is smarter than I am. Perhaps after I have told her the message, Skimmer will explain it to me.

“Yes, she’ll explain it.”

Thirty-five

S
ilvertip couldn’t have explained it—not in words. He was sitting on top of the high boulders that rose over Headswift Village. How he had come to be there was beyond him. He didn’t remember. The fact was: He sat on the stone, where he had been sitting, but with no idea of how long he had been there.

Nor could he explain his body. It lay before him, supine, with arms at the side, legs out straight. His hair had been washed, combed, and braided. A beautiful hunting shirt, stained blue with larkspur dye, had been dotted with white, signifying stars on a night sky.

A terrible wound marred the side of his head, and his eyes were opened to slits, dried and gray with death. The gray lips were parted, and he could see the tips of his teeth, starkly white. His belly was distended, swollen with death.

Silvertip studied his corpse, seeing the familiar scar in the web between thumb and forefinger on his right hand. He’d gotten it while learning to knap flint a year before. A long white chert flake had cut deeply, and when the scar slowly healed, left a bright white line on his skin.

How did this happen?

The memory seemed to seep into him, like water through moss.

I had to die.

He looked down at his Spirit hand, opening the fingers, remembering the feel of the stone. How, half crazy with fear, he’d run into the path of the woman warrior, and cast the stone with all his might. She had easily ducked it, and he remembered his terrible fear as she charged down on him, shifting her dart and atlatl, reaching for the club.

He had stood, frozen, watching the club lift, how it had flashed in the sunlight. Then, darkness.

And I am here.

He should have been afraid. Worried, or perhaps sad. Instead, he felt hollow, as if nothing were left.

“That is the way of it,” a voice said gently.

Silvertip turned, startled, to find a great black wolf, its yellow eyes studying him intently.

“You were in my Dreams.”

“The Spirit world lies beside yours. Separate, but touching. Power flows through them both, binding and pulsing. It beats with your heart, lives in the center of the stone, and flows with the sap in the trees. It waves with the grass in the wind. Then, sometimes, when the right kind of soul touches it, it fills a person.

“Like me?” Silvertip asked hopefully.

“Just like you.” The wolf raised his eyes. “He comes.”

Silvertip followed the wolf’s gaze, seeing a dark dot high in the glowing sky. It circled slowly, hanging on the air, floating. As it drew nearer, the long black wings could be seen.

“Condor,” Silvertip said at last.

“Condor,” Wolf agreed. “The great bird of the dead.” Then he added, “Do not be afraid. You must watch to understand.”

Silvertip nodded. He’d never heard of a condor hurting anyone. They were shy things, awkward when taking flight from the ground. They much preferred roosting in high places where they could leap out and let the air fill their great wings.

The giant bird circled closer, cocking its ugly head, the brown eye glinting as it studied Silvertip’s body.

In that instant, Silvertip understood. “It’s coming to eat me.”

“Oh, yes.” Wolf’s great yellow eyes were fixed on him. “And you must fulfill your role in the way of the world. Until you have experienced it, you will never understand.”

Silvertip watched wide-eyed as the great bird backed air, and settled lightly to the rock. Cocking its head from side to side, it inspected the corpse. Then, with a tentative peck, it looked for any reaction.

Silvertip swallowed hard as his body remained inert.

He wanted to scream, “No!” but his voice was mute with horror.

The great curved beak shot down, neatly plucking one of the eyes from the socket, twisting and pulling to sever the resisting tissue before it gulped the prize.

Silvertip jerked, reaching up, aware that half of his vision had vanished.

“Do not fight it,” Wolf cautioned. “You must only be.”

Silvertip gasped as the great beak shot down, and then his world was black. All that remained was feeling. He tried to stand, to run, to escape from the sharp beak that now sliced into his skin.

But all he could do was sit there, feeling with exquisite sensation as his body was picked apart, piece by piece. Then the beak sliced into his belly, and he could feel his intestines being pulled, severed, and pulled some more.

Silvertip threw his head back, screaming. But no sound issued from his hollow throat.

S
kimmer ran in the middle, with two warriors in front and two behind. They followed the beach trail that led around the western finger of the Thunder Sea. In Sister Moon’s half-light, the dark surface of the salt water glimmered as though sprinkled with silver dust. Great bergs glistened with ethereal white where they had grounded off the littoral, stranded by low tide. The smell of the salty shore lingered, exotic in her nose.

She let the soft lapping of the waves soothe her.

Conversations had been brief, to the point. The previous night’s camp had been a dreary affair, the warriors splitting up the rations in her pack. When the topic of her escape came up, she’d said, “Sleep. I’m not running away.”

“And we are to believe that?” Kishkat had asked.

“My destiny lies with the Guide.” Something in her voice had convinced them.

The two warriors in front, Homaldo and Tibo, kept up a steady distance-eating pace that was beginning to wear her down. Soon, she’d be stumbling.

Bless the Lame Bull for several days of rest and good food.
She mouthed a silent hope that Lookingbill and the rest had survived.

She wondered about the battle. What had happened to Windwolf? Had he won? Was Ashes all right? Skimmer imagined her daughter eating supper with Dipper and Silvertip, pretending to be brave while worrying about her mother. Skimmer’s heart ached. Ashes had just lost her father, her family, her clan, and village. Now her mother, too, was gone.

I am doing this for you, beloved daughter.

They hit a rocky section of the trail where waves had washed high. Skimmer’s steps hammered the ground. She kept gazing out at the waters, looking so peaceful now, but few people lived along the strand. When great sections of ice were undercut by the warm tidal waters, they collapsed. Literal mountains of ice would slam down, sending giant waves to wash up, carrying everything before them.

As she looked out, she could see the cleanly scrubbed land, devoid of trees, with rocks piled here and there; deeply incised drainages had cut where the great waves drained away.

What would it be like?
She imagined what a wall of water would look like, tall, its crest glistening in the sun as it swept forward. According to the tales from the few survivors, seeing such a thing was the most terrifying sight in the world.

They never survived anything like I did.
The thought gave her a curious kind of courage.

As they reached a creek, Homaldo lifted a hand and called, “Time to drink.”

They came to a halt, breathing hard, and Skimmer dropped to her knees. She dipped the cool stream water up in her hands and drank it greedily.

The warriors knelt, bending down to suck up the cold fresh water.

When Skimmer had drunk her fill, she sat down hard in the sand and heaved a sigh of relief. To the north, Sister Moon’s gleam shadowed the trail. It resembled a gigantic black serpent winding along the shore.

“Why does the Guide want you so much? I heard that Nashat sent Blue Wing to him, and he turned her away.” Kishkat shook his head. “She was a very beautiful woman.”

The other warriors chuckled.

Skimmer shrugged. “I was kind to him once. In those days your people had cast him out … called him the Idiot.”

Tapa cast a nervous glance over his shoulder. “We shouldn’t linger.”

Kishkat smiled. “I think Nashat still thinks he’s an idiot.” He took another drink from his cup and swallowed. “As to myself, I don’t know. That night we found him trying to set Kakala free from the cage …” He shrugged. “Well, he just left me confused.”

“Nashat is an evil man,” Homaldo agreed. “It was his order that placed Kakala in the cage.” He glanced at Skimmer. “And, but for this woman, he would have done the same to us.”

“We had better hope the woman is enough,” Tibo said.

Skimmer frowned. “Then the Guide doesn’t issue all of these insane orders?”

“No.” Kishkat bowed his head, looking weary to his bones. “The orders come from the Council. I think they come from Nashat. No one sees the Guide.” He hesitated, looking at his companions, lowering his voice. “Sometimes I think the Guide is as much a captive as the rest of us.”

To Skimmer’s amazement, heads were nodding. “Captives? But you’re the feared Nightland warriors!”

Tapa smiled wistfully. “I was a hunter. That’s all I wanted to be. Then the Council made us ‘hunters of men.’” He shook his head. “At first, it was exciting. I think we all got carried away with the glory. It makes a man feel great in the beginning. But then the fighting got harder.” He looked at her with hopeless eyes. “My brothers are dead. My best friend, whom I grew up with and loved, is dead.” He glanced back down the trail. “Now, even my war chief, whom I served and trusted with my life, is dead.”

“We have all lost so much,” Tibo agreed. “If I could have anything, I would ask to be the man I was before all of this began. I fear, however, that somehow, I am going to die a miserable death.”

“Come.” Kishkat climbed wearily to his feet. “What is, simply is. We can’t change it. Our only hope is to follow the Guide to the paradise of the Long Dark.”

Skimmer got to her feet and gazed out at the silver ribbons of waves rolling in. “Let’s go.”

The sooner I can find a way of killing him, the sooner all of this madness is over.

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

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