People of the Fire(168)

Two Smokes began to Sing and together they chanted, feeling the lightness, feeling wolf's soul rising into the air, an old animal whose life had come to the end of the Circle.

With trembling hands, Fire Dancer used the sharp dart point to cut the body open and remove the heart. This he lifted to his lips and drank, hot blood salty on his tongue. "I am the Wolf Dreamer . . . and I am not."

Like morning rays, warmth flowed through him, wolf's strength adding confidence to his fearful mind.

"What next?" Two Smokes asked, voice intruding on Fire Dancer's concentration. As if he lived the Dream, Fire Dancer looked at the dark bundle where it rested on his clothing.

"A new Wolf Bundle must be made." He bent and began skinning the thick coat from the hot carcass. The very air seemed to stifle him, as if he sat under a huge teetering rock, ready to fall.

The pelt he handed to Two Smokes. "No one among the Red Hand has more talent than you. You must sew it, fit it around the bundle."

Fire Dancer took the carefully collected sweetgrass and wet it, adding more wood to the fire before he placed a knot of sweetgrass on the flames. Yes, he lived the Dream. Four times he passed his body through the billowing smoke, feeling the purification.

With his own clothing for a rest, he utilized an obsidian flake, frowning in the light of the fire. Chanting the lightness, Power shifted around him, reeking of the night, of the stars above. Tension brought sweat to his forehead. His mouth had gone dry, making it a labor to swallow. His gut roiled as he gripped the flake, hesitating. From the darkness, unseen eyes watched, sending shivers up his back. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he severed the worn bindings on the bundle, opening it to the night.

Was that thunder? Or the imaginings of his quivering mind?

Power played along his fingers, rippling the muscles of his arms and chest. His heart danced, a terrible thrill in the depths of his soul. He felt like of a man who'd outrun a flash flood.

One by one he laid out the contents, fingers trembling, while sweat beaded on his body. A large bear claw with a bit of snow-white fur attached. A piece of carved ivory bearing the effigy of a monster. A large stone dart point of a workmanship Three Toes would have envied. The point was long and lanceolate, fluted at the base—a monster-hunter's point. A raven's head came next, wound in sweetgrass. An ancient stain, like that of blood, caked the feathers and beak. A sea-shell gleamed opal in the firelight. His fingers encountered a string of wolf's teeth hung on a cracked and stiff thong that he dared not try to unwrap. These he placed on the sweet-grass, Singing and Praying to the Power to make them whole again.

The night shifted, ebbed and flowed. Fire Dancer tried to take a breath, lungs oddly starved of oxygen. He blinked and looked up into the night, awed at the way the stars appeared to shimmer erratically.

With agile fingers, Two Smokes worked, using a flake to cut the raw wolf hide to form, using the old as his model. At Fire Dancer's direction, he smoked the piece in sweet-grass, rubbing it clean of blood with the sacred leaves of sage which gave life and luck. The pungent scent rose as he worked.

One by one, Little Dancer continued to smoke the relics, cleansing them, renewing the Power that ebbed and flowed. Night pressed down—a physical presence.

Two Smokes punched his awl through the wolf hide, taking care to keep it from touching the ground, blessing the thread he stripped from wolfs corpse, purifying and working the material until it seemed perfect Laboriously, he began the double stitch that bound the new Bundle together.

Fire Dancer waited, watching the path of the Stars across the night sky, Singing, feeling his soul drift, floating in the night.

Are we right? He lifted his face to the cool breeze, wishing he could breathe normally. Beside him, Two Smokes continued his labors. They sat, two figures hunched against the night.

Have I done it right? Fire Dancer closed his eyes, a desperation aching within. What if it's not? Will I be horribly maimed like Blood Bear?

Where they rose on all sides, the rocks seemed to hang over him with a ponderous weight. A curious blackness dimmed the stars.

Tendrils of Power, like fingers of mist, snaked through the night. Heavy Beaver dreamed he stood in the middle of his camp. Around him, men and women chanted and clapped their hands as they Danced. Each turned adoring eyes on him, smiling their warm wishes, worship in their eyes.

"You see, Mother. You see what your son has done?" He raised his hands, hearing his People whoop and holler. "I've given them the new way. Look at them, strong, powerful. Not even the mighty Anit'ah stand against us. I've remade the world, as you would have wanted it."

The camp seemed to shine, new hides on the lodges. Even the dogs looked fat and lazy. Parfleches had been stacked about, each brimming with dried meat. The clothes the People wore had been perfectly tanned, stained with white clay, and worked to a supple softness by the unceasing labors of the women. Young men paraded, Dancing his glory.