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

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“No, I was thinking something else, but you’re right about that.”
They rounded a corner, and a deep voice drifted on Wind Woman’s
breath, rising from the ceremonial cave like the voice of Wolf Dreamer himself.
People milled around outside the small entrance to the chamber, laughing and talking. Lookingbill’s heart warmed. During great festivals, Lame Bull villagers came from all over to participate. Every cycle some long-lost relative appeared out of nowhere.
“Father?” Lookingbill’s eldest daughter, Mossy, waved as she saw them approaching. She had inherited his height, a stately woman with long black hair and brown eyes. The heavily beaded dress she wore flapped around her legs. He noted her expression: Something was wrong. A tightness around her eyes betrayed it. Her husband, Night Fighter, stood at her side, a hard worry marring his wide face.
“My pride overflows,” Lookingbill praised, striding forward to take Mossy’s hand. Then he gave her an evaluative look.
What’s the trouble?
She had risen through the ranks to the esteemed position of Storyteller by memorizing the precious ancient stories.
She lovingly kissed his mostly bald head, then extended a hand to an old woman standing slightly behind her. “Father, do you remember Cousin Loon Spot?”
Lookingbill squinted at her. Hunched with age, the woman had her gray hair pulled into a tight bun over her left ear. Her nose stuck out like a sharp dart point. “Scrub’s daughter from Purple Meadow Village? I thought you were dead?”
“I tried it. Didn’t like it,” the old woman muttered.
When Loon Spot scowled, Mossy said, “Father, forgive me for interrupting, but I need to speak you before the ceremonial. Oh, and you must Sing tonight.”
“I’m too old to Sing.”
“He’s too old to do anything,” Loon Spot added, and grinned toothlessly when Lookingbill’s eyes narrowed.
Mossy said, “Pineleaf is ill. Someone must take his place.”
“You have a lovely voice.”
“You told me my voice sounded like dogs howling.”
“That’s because I love you. And the last time you talked me into Singing, half the people mysteriously went home early. I’m not going to embarrass myself—”
“I think I was at that ceremony,” Loon Spot interrupted grimly. “That’s what convinced me to try being dead for a while. Don’t make him Sing.”
“I’m not going to Sing!” he declared.
Mossy smiled, but it was a halfhearted expression. “All right, I’ll find someone else. Now, please, let’s talk, Father.”
“Silvertip, wait here for me. I’ll be just a moment.”
“Yes, Grandfather.”
Mossy led him up the trail away from the ceremonial cave. When they reached a dark ledge, she sank down and heaved a sigh.
“What is it, Daughter?”
“One of our hunters just came in. He brought news that another Sunpath camp was attacked: the Nine Pipes band. The hunter said that he saw the slaves carrying more meat north.”
Lookingbill felt like a huge hand had reached into his chest and gripped his heart. “What of Skimmer and Chief Hookmaker?”
While Hookmaker had been one of the most strident Sunpath voices calling for peace, Skimmer had come to him less than a moon ago to ask his help in a plot to murder the Nightland People’s sacred Guide. Lookingbill had politely declined; his people feared the retribution of the Nightland clan Elders.
Mossy said, “Rumors say that Hookmaker was killed defending the ceremonial lodge. It is said that Kakala himself struck him down.”
“So Skimmer may have escaped?”
“Word is that Kakala took all of the women. If she’s free, it’s a miracle, and Wolf Dreamer himself must have been watching over her.”
Mossy studied his expression. “Are you wishing you’d agreed to help them?”
“You and I both know that I argued for it.” He glanced out at the night. “It is an unfortunate truth that serving as a leader generally means bowing to the opinion of the people.”
Mossy reached out to touch his hand. “Father, we are a different people than the Sunpath, but we also worship Wolf Dreamer. How long do you think we have before the Nightland warriors come for us?”
“Not long,” he said softly. “Once they’re finished with the Sunpath bands, I’ve come to believe we’ll be next.” He looked out at the night. “I was a fool to think they would only war with the Sunpath. Looking back now, I think we have been masterfully outmaneuvered by Nashat and the Prophet. We watched them destroy the Sunpath bands, thankful that they only wished to pass through our lands. Now, however, we must stand alone.”
She bowed her head as though suddenly exhausted. “The hunter
who brought me the story said that the Nightland warriors have built an enclosure to hold the captive women. He said you can hear their cries from a half day’s walk away. They keep pleading for Windwolf to rescue them.”
Mossy looked up hopefully at him, and he shook his head. “No, my daughter. He’s not here. Perhaps he’s afraid to come by himself. We could not have asked him to bring his warriors. The Nightland scouts would have known immediately that we were plotting against them.”
“He probably thinks it’s a trap. Given the promise of safety from attack that Nashat has made, that’s what I would think.”
“As would I.”
She gestured uncertainly. “Blessed Ancestors, I don’t know what to do. Should we leave here? Find a safer place?”
He held her hand tightly. “And go where?”
“South? West? Does it matter? We can find a place far from the Nightland.”
“You and I both know that perhaps half, maybe a third, of our people would leave. The rest still cling to the belief that we have done nothing to deserve an attack. Outside of stealing a few children, the Nightland war parties have avoided any confrontation while passing through. They even leave offerings from their hunts in restitution for passing in peace.”
“That is only a diversion.”
“The rumor is that before the Prophet leads the Nightland People through the ice to the Long Dark, they will destroy anyone who believes in Wolf Dreamer to keep them from following.”
She gave him a serious look. “Is that why you’ve started hiding dried meat and skins of water in the hidden chambers? So that we can hold out here if we have to?”
“Like my daughter, I am no fool.” Lookingbill tugged on Mossy’s hand to make her rise. “Your mother would be very proud of you.”
She hugged him. For several moments they clung to each other, and he knew what she must be thinking. Two winters had done little to ease either of their hearts.
Her mother, his beloved wife, had been murdered by Nightland warriors while visiting Bramble at Walking Seal village. He had gone himself to find his wife’s mutilated body lying among the Sunpath dead. Karigi had heaped them out of sight in an abandoned lodge.
He might have meant only to trap Windwolf—but had turned Lookingbill forever against him in the process.
“There’s nothing more we can do tonight, my daughter. Let’s go enjoy the Renewal Dance. I’m eager to hear you recite the Old Stories.”
They walked up the trail in silence.
When Silvertip saw him coming, he called, “Grandfather!” and ran to meet him. “It’s about to start. We have to go in.”
Turning back to Mossy, Lookingbill said, “If you can’t find anyone else, I’ll Sing.”
“Thank you, Father.” She kissed his cheek. “It will be worth it just to give Loon Spot a reason to be dead again.”
The Council cavern was a large, irregular chamber that ran back into the rocks. Silvertip’s mouth dropped open. A huge fire had been built of logs in the center of the space. It cast flickering shadows over the rockshelter’s high ceiling and the happy faces of the people. Hides had been spread in front of the torch-holding warriors. People sat expectantly; their hushed conversations created a pleasant hum.
Lookingbill guided Silvertip to a woolly buffalo hide in the back. “Can you see?”
The boy nodded. “Yes, this is a good place.”
“Wonderful. I want you to remember this day. It has been ten tens times ten summers since Wolf Dreamer fought Grandfather White Bear and found the dark hole in the ice that led to this world. It is a very special day.”
Silvertip nodded, and Lookingbill wrapped an arm lovingly over the boy’s shoulders and hugged him.
A hush fell as Mossy took her place near the central fire. She had removed her cape and wore a long black-painted dress adorned with mica nuggets; she looked regal. After clearing her throat several times to gain silence, she extended a hand to the worshipers.
“Lame Bull People, we come together this equinox night to celebrate the freeing of our Ancestors from the terrible Land of the Long Dark.”
The crowd responded, “May Wolf Dreamer be blessed forever more.”
“We come to praise the name of Grandfather White Bear, who gave his life to keep Wolf Dreamer alive so that he could find the hole in the ice.”
“Let the name of Grandfather White Bear be blessed,” the people responded.
Mossy raised a fist, and it cast a huge dark shadow against the boulders behind her. “We come to praise the spirit of Wolf, who brought a grand Dream to a boy named Runs-in-Light, a boy who would become the Wolf Dreamer. Old Man Above sent Wolf Dreamer to teach us the way to the One. It is through the One that we conquer his wicked brother, Raven Hunter. It is through the One that we find peace and harmony.”
People called, “Let the name of Wolf be blessed forever more.”
A shiver played along Lookingbill’s spine—one spurred by memories of ancient stories and a longing that this feeling of community might last forever. He stole glances at the people around him. Their faces gleamed with faith and reverence, particularly Silvertip’s face.
“He who seeks light in the dark places, may he seek light for us and for all of the Lame Bull People.”
Mossy walked straight across the cavern and out the front entrance, to prepare for the telling of the great story. The young Storyteller-in-the-making, Ringing Shield, a youth of six and ten summers, took her place. He began a recitation of all the sacred names of Wolf Dreamer and Raven Hunter.
At the mention of Raven Hunter’s name, Silvertip’s breathing quickened. Lookingbill patted him gently on the back. Leaning down, he asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Raven Hunter is evil.”
“It is said that he tried to deceive and destroy our people.”
Silvertip stared into Lookingbill’s eyes. “He isn’t gone, Grandfather. He’s come back.”
“Our prophecies tell us that if that ever happens the Last Mammoth will trumpet Raven Hunter’s arrival, and Wolf Dreamer will send a new Dreamer to save us.”
“But what if the new Dreamer—whoever he is—fails? Would Raven Hunter lead the Nightland People against us and kill us all?”
The boy’s words wrung a pang from his heart. “Don’t think such things, Silvertip. Wolf Dreamer would not punish us so.”
Silvertip dropped his gaze. In a panicked whisper, he said, “I had a Dream last night, Grandfather. In it Raven Hunter swooped down, and his black wings sound like a huge wind—”
At that moment a white-haired man stepped into the cavern. The shell beads stitched on his long cape reflected the light, making it glisten as if it were sprinkled with filaments of fire. The stranger’s eyes searched the temple, going over each firelit face, fixing on Lookingbill’s and nodding.
“Forgive me, Grandson,” he said. “I must go, but I’ll return soon.”
As Lookingbill walked through the crowd, people’s gazes followed him.
“Trembler?” he called when he reached the mouth of the rockshelter. “Old friend, what have you learned?”
“He’s here.”
A curious mixture of relief and anxiety flooded Lookingbill’s veins. “Where?”
“We’re hiding him in a rockshelter at the foot of the hill. War Chief Fish Hawk and six warriors are guarding him.”
Lookingbill followed the old man down the hillside trail. Above the cliff, Sister Moon wavered through a layer of mist, casting a milky light on the towering spruce trees.
A raven cawed in the forest—unusual for the middle of the night—and a sudden shiver climbed Lookingbill’s spine. He looked toward the distant trees and could feel a presence out there, a looming darkness that peered wide-eyed at him, like a huge predator about to pounce.
He’s come!
Silvertip’s words haunted his soul.
Let’s hope the Last Mammoth isn’t about to trumpet.
He’d felt such Power before, many times, usually when he picked up the Wolf Bundle.
He put his hand on his belt pouch and hurried toward the group of warriors who guarded the rockshelter.
N
ashat disliked the cold. His thoughts dwelled on that inescapable fact as he strode down the cavernous dark tunnel. Around him, the ice groaned and creaked. He could hear the constant harmonic of wind as it blew through the tunnels that honeycombed the ice. Once he had thought it familiar and comforting, but that had been his childhood ignorance. Only after he had left, traveled, and finally returned did the place give him shivers.
Tunnels and caverns were formed by meltwater. The constant warm winds blowing up from the south melted the upper ice, creating pools in hollows. The gravel, sand, and dust that settled in the pool bottoms caught sunlight, warming the water even more. When a shift in the ice created a crack, warm water trickled down. The action bored tunnels, passageways, and hollows into the depths. When the pools drained, they drew warm air after them, cooling it, causing it to sink, and sucking more warm air behind it, all of which caused even more melting, enlarging the passageway.
At such times, the sound of rushing and falling water added a roar to the moaning winds, the creaking ice, and the clatter of gravel and stone borne by the deep-ice streams.
Living inside such a mass of unstable ice now seemed lunacy, especially since cave-ins, collapses, and sudden quakes could crush a person under slabs of rock-encrusted ice. Some, who ventured far back into the tunnels, could be isolated when the ice shifted, blocking a tunnel and leaving them to die alone in the darkness.
Floods during summer and early fall were another hazard. A collapse somewhere deep in the ice could block a passage, backing the water until it roared into a different fissure, only to flood down a long-dry tunnel.
For generations, the dead had been carried back into the ice, left in orderly ranks, and allowed to freeze. Then, when he was a child, the ice had shifted in midsummer, and a sudden flood of meltwater had been diverted through the burial chamber. The icy, gravel-filled water had washed the corpses out into the Thunder Sea, where they bobbed and floated, fouling the shores and terrifying the people for months until the bodies finally sank into the depths—or washed up on the shores to feed the birds, foxes, wolves, and bears.
That would have been a warning for anyone with sense to leave this place!
But his people hadn’t. They’d been living inside and around the ice for so long they could imagine no other existence.
But I can.
Nashat made a sour face as he followed the deep-ice passage. He knew the way by heart. The Council liked to hold their meetings where people couldn’t listen in. Nashat lifted the little bark lamp he carried before him. The pale flicker illuminated water-sculpted walls. Dirt-encrusted ice was layered with crystalline streaks of bluish white. Fog froze from his breath, wavering. His feet crunched on the gravel that had settled on the floor.
He alone, of his people, had seen the south. As a young man he had traveled, following the highland trails down to the south. There, at long last, he had stood at the edge of the crystalline turquoise waters of the gulf and stared out at the sunlight glinting on white beaches.
Along the way, he had visited with many of the forest peoples, those who hunted mastodon, forest buffalo, and the giant tortoises that lumbered along chewing on lush green vegetation.
I must have been out of my mind to come back.
He fondly remembered the woman he’d lived with down there. The weather was so warm that clothing was optional.
But a longing for family, friends, and clan had stubbornly uprooted
him, bringing his wandering feet back. Sometime in the five winters he had been in the south, he had changed. The homecoming he had longed for had turned hollow on the first day. People had marveled at his stories, and then dismissed them as the ravings of a fertile and overblown imagination.
But I know the truth!
He still did. Once he had managed to stifle his disgust at his own narrow-minded people, he had considered the things he knew. That he had traveled so widely had exposed him to different ideas, different ways of dealing with problems. After the first six months, he had begun to speak up at Council, to offer new ways to deal with hidebound traditional problems.
The fact was, he was no longer blinded by old teachings and beliefs. His Nightland People addressed problems the way they always had, as their Ancestors had before them. “But that’s
not
how we do things!” The tired old refrain had irritated him endlessly.
“Well,” he had countered, “try it my way for once.”
Grudgingly at first, they had adopted some of his suggestions, and when they worked, they had paid heed to his opinions.
Over the years, Nashat had risen to become the youngest Elder on the Council.
He smiled at that. All he had to do was make his wishes known, and the Council just nodded, as if he, and he alone, had the ear of wisdom.
Then Ti-Bish had come to him. The Idiot had looked up with his glassy eyes, awe filling his thin, half-starved face. The Idiot literally gushed about Raven Hunter’s Dream.
Nashat chuckled. “And you gave me everything.”
He had taken a calculating gamble by asking the Council to let the Idiot address the summer festival. But no more than a finger’s time later, the entire crowd was enthralled, eyes widening, mouths forming little circles of wonder.
From that moment on, the four Nightland clans had surrendered themselves to the Idiot’s Dream. Fueled by Ti-Bish’s glowing promises, they were a people possessed; and he, Nashat, possessed the sacred Guide.
He puffed out a breath, shaking his head. Everything had gone right. Well, but for a couple of bumps like the mess Karigi had made of the Walking Seal Village trap. Nashat would have been much better
served with Bramble here, under his thumb, than a dead symbol of resistance.
In time, however, even that pesky Windwolf would be dealt with.
He caught the faint flicker of light ahead and walked across the crunching gravel into a small cavern in the ice.
His three counterparts—Ta’Hona of the Loon Clan, Satah of the Wolverine Clan, and Khepa of the Ash Clan—were already seated on folded sections of mammoth hide to keep their old butts from freezing.
“We almost gave up,” Satah muttered. “How long did you expect to keep us waiting?”
Nashat stepped into the room and lowered himself on the thick folds of hide. He carefully placed the lamp on the woolly hair and crossed his legs.
Satah, ancient and white-haired, studied him through dim eyes, mostly clouded with white. He was an emaciated wreck of a man, but his clan still doted on every word the old fool uttered.
“Something came up. The prisoners from Nine Pipes Village were brought in by Kakala. The Guide had a special interest in this raid.”
“And what was that?” Ta’Hona asked, his bright eyes gleaming in the flickering lamplight. “You never tell us these things!”
Nashat waved it away. “The Guide doesn’t elaborate on all of his wishes.” He narrowed his eyes, glaring at old Ta’Hona. The man’s face was deeply scarred, and his right arm didn’t work—results of a mammoth hunt gone wrong when he was young.
“What of the Lame Bull People?” Khepa asked. “Is it time to turn on them now?”
“Perhaps.” Nashat placed his fingertips together. “I wasn’t ready—”
“Perhaps?” Khepa’s expression turned sour. “I’m starting to believe I’ll never live long enough to see the Long Dark! I didn’t think this would take so long. I was ready to follow the Guide through the hole in the ice the day after he delivered Raven Hunter’s Dream.”
Grunts of assent came from around the room.
Nashat spread his arms wide. “As am I. But you heard the Guide. He said that none of the old believers must follow us. Or do you want their heresy in the Long Dark with us?”
“No,” Khepa snorted, “I do not. My sons were both killed long ago in raids against the Sunpath People. I’m sick enough of the problems they cause as it is. But for them, we would have been gone from this place long ago.”
Nashat nodded, fingering the fine buffalo-calf hunting shirt he wore. No one tanned hides like the Sunpath People; this fine shirt with its fringed shoulders had been brought to him as a gift from Kakala, who had taken it as plunder from a destroyed village. In fact, none of his people complained about the fine things the warriors brought home from the raids.
“Think back,” Nashat said. “Before the Guide’s vision, we lived hand to mouth.” He gestured around. “These caverns in the Ice Giants have protected our people for generations. The Thunder Sea draws waterfowl by the tens of tens every summer. It provides us with fish, seals, walrus, and whale meat. On the tundra, mammoth, musk ox, caribou, and elk feed. Every summer, we have hunted the bounty, carrying it into the caves to freeze for winter. The fat we render from the seals and walrus, as well as the other game, provides us with fuel for our lamps and cooking.”
He glanced around. “Yes, it’s cold here in the summer when the air drains off the ice, but it’s comparatively warm in the winter when we’re out of the wind. Over the years, our clans have flourished, supplying us with warriors. Perhaps that is why Raven Hunter came to the Guide when he did. We were finally ready—not only to hear his words, but we had the strength to drive off those who still cling to the old ways.”
“And the heart to really wage war,” Ta’Hona reminded. “That is our strength in this world, as Raven Hunter is among the Spirits.”
“That, too.” Nashat didn’t remind them that it had been
his
idea to abandon the old ritual of petty raiding parties and send the warriors out in strength. Or that attacking the Sunpath People first had been his emphatic demand prior to dispatching Kakala on the first massive raids.
“How many of the Sunpath bands remain?” Satah asked. “How soon before we unleash ourselves on the Lame Bull People and their pollution?” He looked around. “This is the very night that they consecrate their arrival in this world. It is an affront to Raven Hunter and his Guide.”
“They will get their due … soon,” Nashat promised. “Kakala reported that at least one Sunpath band has pulled down their lodges, heading west. According to the story, they are leaving for good. If the others follow, we can turn our full attention on the Lame Bull People. Then, as soon as they are broken, dead, or dispersed, we will be prepared to leave.”
“And the Guide?” Khepa fingered his snowy hair. His hand trembled as he did. “Is he ready?”
Nashat managed to avoid making a face. “He muttered something about finding a woman first.”
“I thought he didn’t lie with women!” Ta’Hona declared hotly. “Isn’t he the one who claims that coupling masks the path to the Spirit World?”
Satah chimed in, “If he takes a woman, will he still keep Raven Hunter’s favor? Can he show us the way?”
Nashat waved them down. “It’s not about a warmer for his bed! He was in one of those states … carrying on about a sacred bundle.”
Satah’s white eyes swam in his head, as if searching for something. “I thought we had all of the bundles. That was the point of the first raids. To obtain them.”
“All but the Wolf Bundle,” Ta’Hona growled. “The Lame Bull have that one. But why Wolf Dreamer’s bundle should travel with us to the Long Dark is beyond me.”
“Leave it to Power,” Nashat urged. “If the Guide desires it, we will obtain it for him. Who knows, maybe that is the last sacrifice we must make before leaving?”
A tremor rumbled through the ice. All eyes went to the curved ceiling, where gravel and bands of white ice glistened in the flickering light.
Recovering, Nashat added, “If we burn the Wolf Bundle as a last act in this world, so be it.”
“What of Windwolf?” Khepa asked. “Did Kakala report anything about him?”
“He did.” Nashat studied his hand as he clenched and opened his fingers. “One of his warriors overheard a conversation among the captives. Something about a meeting with Chief Lookingbill. I have already dispatched Kakala and his warriors to investigate. It may be that Windwolf will fall into our hands, at the same time giving us reason to turn on the Lame Bull. True or not, Windwolf will be a minor irritation.”
BOOK: People of the Nightland (North America's Forgotten Past)
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