People of the Fire(13)

' 'Trust in the Circles.' '

"It would be so easy to kill him now, disperse his soul into the rocks and mold, and send it flying with the wind-borne dust."

“And you yourself would alter the Spirals. Trust the harmony, trust the way of the Wise One. ''

Reluctantly, the Power of the Wolf Bundle unwound from around Heavy Beaver's soul.





Chapter 3




White Calf walked slowly down the trail. Countless elk, mountain sheep, and buffalo had beaten the path. Here and there a deadfall had blocked the trail, causing her to work her way around on brittle legs to find the main thread of the path again.

Animals thought differently than humans, and the game trails led from one meadow to another; or to shelter in the thick timber; or perhaps a place where water might be found. Human beings traveled in straighter lines.

She contemplated the problem and decided a lesson could be learned from it. Which were the brighter, the People, who traveled long distances and wanted long straight trails over the shortest route, or animals who traveled by the day, suffering only to meet their needs?

She stopped where the trail slanted down the thickly timbered slope. A pine squirrel chattered at her. She looked up to see the beast, crouched, tail tight over its back.

"Chug-chug yourself," she growled.

The squirrel promptly jumped a couple of branches higher in the fir and stamped its back feet, clucking and chirring at her.

White Calf scratched behind her ear, resettled her heavy pack, and sighed. Where a spry elk could sprint up and down a trail like this, aging women must tred a different path.

The scent of fir hung thick in her nose, as she promptly set off along the ridge crest. Not for four years had she followed this route to the divide that would take her into the basin. In that time, the Wise One Above alone knew what changes had been wrought. It might be a long trip.

From the place where she lay in the shadows, Tanager watched the old woman, wondering who she was. The witch.

White Calf? A brief flutter of anxiety seized her eight-year-old soul. What evil might come of watching a witch?

Tanager froze, not even reaching to pull the wild strands of hair back from her face. Smudged and soiled, she remained motionless. She'd learned well despite her age. While watching animals, a person shouldn't move. Elk, for instance, saw everything; they were almost magical in their abilities to see, smell, and hear. And once, she'd been forced to stay still as the dead when a grizzly bear had prowled to within feet of her. Only the breeze had saved her that time, blowing the bear's sour scent into her nose.

But then, Tanager had always known she was special. The games of the other girls had no appeal for her. Something had always drawn her to the timber, to skip gracefully along the polished trunks of the deadfall and climb around in the rocks where a fall would have meant instant death.

No amount of scolding by her mother could keep her home. Not when the trees and animals called to her.

She wrinkled her nose as the old woman disappeared. Who'd believe she'd seen a witch? Surely not Cricket or Elk Charm. With no more noise than a stalking bobcat, Tanager backed out from her hiding place and shot down the trail toward camp, running as only Tanager could.

Little Dancer curled into a ball, hoping his sleep would ease the cramps in his stomach. The string of uneasy dreams wound deeper into his mind.

Memories of what he'd seen replayed in his head. He'd never forget the sight of Dancing Doe's baby being smashed onto the hard cobbles of the ridge to flop and quiver and at last lie still. From where he'd hidden in the sagebrush, he'd seen the tortured expression on Dancing Doe's face. Above it all, Heavy Beaver's smile hovered, mocking.

The image shifted. Little Dancer's gut twisted at the sound of the hollow plop as the Wolf Bundle landed on unresisting ground.

"No!" he cried, remembering the sucking emptiness that had pulled at his young soul.

"The People are dying," came a voice. "Like smoke from a distant fire, we're drifting away, becoming less and less."

An old woman walked down out of the trees, hobbling with the aid of a walking stick. A tumpline secured an awkward pack low on her back while breezes tugged her gray braids this way and that. As she looked at Little Dancer, her deep-set dark eyes glowed with Power.

Shifting again, he danced and whirled, the world spinning below him. A man threw something at the sky, his face contorted as if by anger. A sudden light blinded him painfully.

He felt the hunger, like waves lapping the cobbles of Moon River. Pangs of want washed around him, bearing him on the current, twisting around, gurgling.

"Stop it! Stop!" He cried out; the knot in his belly grew, encompassing all the People. Pangs of hunger, like tendrils, reached out to touch the men who waited on butte tops; it tickled their bellies as they searched for fresh tracks. He ached for all the People, feeling the wasting of their bodies, the energy draining from their flesh.