People of the Fire(14)

"Feed us. Feed me," he whimpered into the dream. The cramping of his stomach tightened as the last of the thin stew entered his blood.

We come. Remember this day . . . for we are you.

He started at the nearness of the voice. A curious hazy sensation sent him drifting. A taste lay on his tongue, that of sage, usually so bitter, now almost sweet. He bawled in fright, unable to form words. Frightened, he ran on light legs. The view of the world around him expanded, oddly flat, but vividly clear.

He ran, realizing he did so on four nimble legs. Creatures, antelope, stood with rump patches flashing white at his alarm. A doe stood alert and chirped to him. Without thought he turned to race for her and the security she meant to him.

We come, the voice repeated. We come.

He shivered, torn from the body he inhabited. Dazed, he struggled against the pressure on his shoulder, kicking. He screamed, hearing his human voice loud in his own

"Little Dancer, wake up! It's a bad dream. Wake up!"

He blinked, clearing his filmy eyes to stare at his robes piled before his nose, half-afraid of what he'd find. His mother stared down at him, concern in her tense :

"It's a dream. That's all. A bad dream," she told him, running a soothing hand down his shoulder.

With an effort like walking through deep wet snow, he cleared his thoughts.

"Are you all right?"

He shook his head, the misty image of the antelope fawn clouding his reality. "No. Not a bad dream. We are one."

Sage Root cocked her head. "I know. I've been having nightmares, too. After last night you're—"

"No. " He looked over at where Two Smokes slept, the parfleche containing the Wolf Bundle tight against his chest. "We're one. The antelope heard. They're coming. To the river . . . coming . . ."

She stared at him, frown lines deepening in the smooth skin of her brow.

"I mean it. I saw. In the dream." He sat up, feeling the awe of it all. "I just can't . . . can't ..."

"Explain?" She lifted an eyebrow, thoughtful as she stared out the lodge entrance. Avoiding his eyes?

"I got scared. But it wasn't bad. Not like Heavy Beaver would say. Not evil. Not bad. I swear. It was ..." He frowned, perplexed, looking for the words. "One. Not different."

"Coming to the river? In the dream, which way was the sun?"

He thought about it. "There. West."

"And the antelope were moving which way?"

If the sun had been west, to the right, they'd be going . . . "South."

She hunched over, supporting her chin with a fist. '7f the Dream was real—a Spirit Dream. If the time is now, then ..." She chewed at her lip for a moment, fingering her long gleaming braids. "The old antelope trap is only a short walk from here."

"Heavy Beaver will get real mad if you trap antelope."

Under her breath, as if to herself, she said, "It's only a little boy's dream. Not a Spirit Dream. But what's left besides hope?" She took a deep breath, nodding slowly to herself. When she turned toward him, resignation hunched her shoulders. "We're all hungry. He can Curse us on full stomachs."

She said it flippantly. But the fear lurked in her eyes like a coyote in the night.

Blood Bear saw the Trader first. He walked easily up the buffalo trail along the valley bottom. He wore a brightly painted shirt, back bent to a pack secured by a thick, ornately beaded tumpline. In one hand he carried a long stick that rose to a hoop decorated in gaily dyed feathers—the staff of a Trader. A line of dogs followed, tails wagging, heads down, and panting as they bore saddle packs of their own.

Blood Bear approached the man warily. Despite the heavy pack on his shoulders and the string of pack dogs, he might still be an enemy.

"Ho-yeh!" the man called in the universal pidgin of travelers who came in peace.

"Ho-yeh," Blood Bear repeated. But the shafts of his darts felt smooth on his fingers where they rested in the atlatl, ready to be cast.

The man made the sign for "who?"

Blood Bear lifted his hand, palm out, fingers widespread. Then he pointed to the red hand he'd painted on his worn shirt.

"Red Hand," the man called, and smiled. "I am Three Rattles. From the White Crane People north of the Big River. Once, in my great-grandfather's day, Red Hand and White Crane Peoples were the same. Languages not so different."

"No. Language not so different." A relief, he wouldn't have to use sign language, with all its problems. Traders came and went, using a signing technique, when needed, to barter their goods. Traders had special Power. Everyone knew that and accepted them. No good came from killing or robbing a Trader. Doing so biased the Power the Traders claimed as their own, turning it against the murderer or thief.