She'd made it all the more difficult for them since she'd had an uncommon beauty. In that year, until Big Fox had taken her, the men had warred with themselves: lust for her full young flesh battling with their fear of her Dreams and the Spirit Power she seemed so easy with. In the end, Big Fox, full of pride and virility that not even fear of Power could daunt, had bedded her. Even before the others could convince themselves to try her, she'd conceived.
"Big Fox." She said it wistfully, remembering his rippling muscles, the way he smiled and joked. Ah, if ever there had been a man built for a young woman's passion, it had been him. No matter that he'd attracted every eye, he'd been an exceptional man—and worth every minute she'd spent with him.
Then Power had come and driven itself into her with more power and vigor than even Big Fox. The same way he'd possessed her body and made it his, so had Power possessed her soul—and the soul couldn't be denied like the body.
So she'd left, following the trail that led at last to this shelter, learning the ways of Power from Six Teeth until the old man had died and she'd carted him up the slope, sticking his body in a crack in the rock, walling it up to keep the predators out.
Her beauty hadn't faded, for when she first discovered Cut Feather spying on her, she found that he'd lost himself in wonder over the secrets of her body. What she couldn't share with Big Fox—all the speculations on Spirit Power and Dreams—she could discuss with Cut Feather. So they'd bedded, and again she'd conceived. Only unlike Big Fox, Cut Feather had understood when at last she'd had to leave. He'd felt the Power of the Dream, and knew the dilution that came with coupling.
"Cut Feather," she whispered fondly. "You were a balm to my soul." She stooped and dropped more wet sage into the fire, inhaling deeply of the steamy scent and exhaling to clean her lungs.
"So it's nearly come full circle. Look at yourself, White Calf. See what you've become at the end of your long life." She meditated, trying to put it all into perspective. Just what purpose could an old Dreamer find in life? Of the children she'd borne, of the Dreams Dreamed, of the lessons taught, what made her life worthwhile? The sensations? The thoughts? The actions?
Finally she raised her hands to the Spiral, straddling the fire, feeling the heat burn painfully into her thighs. Like a memory, a sexual fire stirred once again, stimulated by the pulsing heat and the purifying sage.
Losing herself in the pleasure of it, she stared at the Spiral and closed her eyes, seeing it in her mind, Circles upon Circles, one leading to another, never touching. Life, wondrous life.
The sound of the hangings parting didn't startle her. Instead, she took another deep breath of the sage and exhaled. She swallowed and opened her eyes, losing herself in the Spiral again. Then she turned.
The girl stared at her, wide-eyed, a terrified look in her eyes. She, too, stood naked, an atlatl in her hand, a dart nocked and ready to cast. Her body had been used hard, bloody in spots, bruised in others. She stood on trembling, scratched legs, abused breasts heaving as she fought for breath. Gooseflesh accented the shivers that ran through her.
The lines of her belly looked firm with muscle. Her hips hadn't borne the burden of swelling with a child.
Yet her face absorbed all of White Calf's attention. Black flashing eyes—those of an angry she-cougar—met hers. Behind the terrified fear lay the Power look of rage and commitment. Her delicate cheeks accented the straight line of her nose. A high forehead rose over a graceful brow. Her jawline matched the firm chin, although her lower lip had swollen out of proportion.
"Come in, child." White Calf stepped away from the fire, reaching to drop another couple of pieces of firewood on the coals. "Come here, come and warm yourself. You look about all in."
The young woman took a timid step forward, eyes darting about suspiciously. "What are you doing up . . . awake at this time of night?"
White Calf chuckled dryly, taking note of the abused flesh, of the streaks down the insides of her legs. "Maybe more than you know is afoot tonight. Maybe I was waiting for you." Yes, The Spiral has turned. The end is near.
The young woman tensed, half crouched as if to spring. The wary, haunted look had returned.
"Oh, come on. You're in no danger. Power's loose on the night." She gestured at the Spiral. "This night is the end of a lot of things—and the beginning of many more. It's a night of change . . . where Power is shifting. Come. You're not in any shape to run anyway, so you might as well relax and take refuge for the night."
She reached out, taking the young woman's icy hand. The blood that stained it had come from another. So, she'd killed in retaliation? The darts she carried belonged to a hunter of the People—and she obviously belonged to the Red Hand. The way of the rape became clear.