"I hate spring," she growled, feeling the cold bite of the wind. "In the dead of winter, the deep cold lies on the land and that's that. But spring? So what if the air's warmer? It's wetter . . . and blowing all the time. The wind goes right through a person. Then you wade around in the wet snow and everything gets soaked. Then darkness comes, and the temperature drops, and then what kind of shape are you in? I'll take a blizzard in the deep cold compared to this any day."
She jutted her jaw out in silent assent and considered the mud that always made such a mess of spring walking. She hissed at herself, and put all thought of it out of her mind. Why be depressed when she had a hard walk ahead of her?
On quaking legs, she rounded the last bend in the trail and stopped to take another breather, waiting for her lungs to recover and her heart to quit trying to batter through her breastbone. Only when she looked up did she see the faint trace of smoke rising from her shelter where it nestled under the gray brooding limestone cliff.
"Who ..." Perplexed, she found some reserve in the depths of her antique body and forced her legs into a vigor they'd forgotten they'd ever had.
"Ho-yeh!" she called. "Greetings! Who's there
The surprise increased when Little Dancer parted the flap and stepped out, squinting in the brighter light. He smiled and hurried to help her, easily lifting her load with one hand and swinging it over his back. She narrowed an eye—a nasty retort on her lips. Strength always seemed to be wasted on the young—who were forever too foolish to know what they had.
"Thanks," she wheezed. "Whew. Let me catch my breath and I'll tell you hello."
He cocked his head, inspecting her. "I thought about tracking you down, but I figured you might be up on the mountain. You know, up where you've got the stone circle with the lines in it. I didn't want to disturb your Dreaming."
She huffed and puffed up the slope to the hangings, slipping in and waddling over to her hides. After the snow and bright sunlight the place looked like night. Despite the graying of her vision, she knew the way by heart. Grunting and creaking, she let herself down and sighed, staring absently at the crackling fire. "You could have tracked me. For a bit there, I wasn't sure I'd make it back."
He settled her bundle of wood onto a stack, which—to White Calf's eyes at least—looked of mythic proportion.
He gestured at the wood. "I noticed you had about run out, so I carried some in."
"You got a man name yet?"
He shook his head, lifting a shoulder shyly. "No. I've never . . . well, it just never gets done. And you know, it's not so important anymore."
She grinned at him. "If I didn't think it would kill me, I'd get up and hug you."
A flicker of worry ceased his face. "You're not feeling well?"
Her lungs spasmed, leaving her coughing. She finished the spell and waved off his concern. "No, it's not that, boy. It's just . . . well, age, you know? Seems like every day I'm faced with the fact that I won't live forever."
"You'll be around," he said simply.
"Think so?"
"Too mean to die."
She chuckled at that and ended up coughing again. He waited her out before noting, "You didn't used to cough so much."
"It only comes when I've pushed myself too far." She worked her toothless jaws and twitched her lips. "Seems like the wood gets farther and farther away. Pull that flap open, let some light in here. It's warm enough yet that we won't freeze and it's an excuse to change this old air for new."
"You should move camps. When I was looking around, I noticed the timber across the valley has been picked pretty clean. The lower branches have all been stripped. The deadfall has been pulled out. Only the big logs are left."
She shrugged. "I like it here."
"How's your food holding out?"
"They send you up here to ask me questions?"
He grinned at her, a sheepish curl to his lips. "Not really. They've been talking, of course. Two Smokes is worried sick about you." He paused, a wicked light in his eyes. "Maybe he's not so wrong."
She growled at him, narrowing her eyes evilly. "So why did you really come? Just to make me miserable? Well, don't just sit there like a mushroom on a log, tell me. What's the news? Why are you here? Nobody to harass you?"
He threw another couple of branches on the fire as she undid her moccasins and propped them on the rocks next to the glowing coals. Drying moccasins had to be done just right. To begin with, they must be made of thoroughly smoked and excellently tanned leather, lest they shrink or harden, or crack. And if a person got the footgear too hot, the heat would drive out the oils and fats that helped waterproof them.