People of the Fire(2)

Sage Root smiled wistfully. "I remember. But my son was born strong."

Only when Dancing Doe closed her eyes and nodded did Sage Root's expression tighten. Tension hung in the air like winter mist, reflected in the set of her features and in Choke-cherry's burning eyes. It drifted from the rent in the lodge to settle like a water-heavy green hide on the boy's shoulders.

Chokecherry resumed singing under her breath, taking another handful of sage leaves from the pouch and sprinkling it over the fire to fill the lodge with a clinging steams odor.

Dancing Doe cried out, anguish palpable as her belly tightened.

"Should we call Heavy Beaver?" Sage Root's hard eyes leveled on Chokecherry's.

From where he sat outside, the boy winced. Heavy Beaver, the Spirit Dreamer of the People, brought that kind of reaction. In his head, a voice whispered, "No. "

Like a shadow in the night, he eased back, parting the piled sagebrush with careful fingers and creeping from his peephole. Free of the brush, he sprinted across the camp on light feet, heedless of the barking dogs. Before him, on the packed clay, the lodges huddled, squat, the bottoms rolled up over the peeled poles to allow the night breeze to blow through and cool the occupants where they slept on grass-padded bedding. Here and there, the sanguine eye of a dying fire cast a sunrise sheen on boiling pouches hanging from tripods, black orbs of hearthstones dotting the glowing coals.

Cottonwoods rose against the night sky, silhouetted black; the ghostly image of clouds could be vaguely discerned against the exposed patches of stars. In the trees, an owl hooted cautiously.

"Wolf Bundle, " the voice in his head whispered.

Before he reached the lodge, he recognized Two Smokes' figure hobbling across the camp. No one walked like Two Smokes. "Two Smokes?" He changed course, trotting up.

"There you are! I've been half-sick worrying about you. Here your father is gone to hunt, your mother is—"

"I need you. I think we need the Wolf Bundle."

"The Wolf Bundle?" Two Smokes cocked his head, the familiar curious expression hidden by the shades of night. Tone softening and reserved, he asked in his Anit'ah-accented voice, "Why do we need the Wolf Bundle, Little Dancer?"

He hesitated. "I just . . . well, a voice told me."

"A voice? The one that speaks in your head?"

"Yes. Please, bring the Bundle," he pleaded. "Dancing Doe's baby isn't coming. Mother and Chokecherry are worried. Dancing Doe is afraid she'll die. And Chokecherry didn't say it, but I could feel. You know, what she didn't say. The look in her eyes. I thought the Wolf Bundle ..."

"You thought right. Come. Let's see what we can do."

Two Smokes pivoted on his good leg, heading off in his wobbling stride for their lodge, the fringed skirts of his dress swaying in time to his off-balanced pace.

The berdache had always been an enigma to Little Dancer's mind. No other man among the People wore a dress. In response to his childish questions, Two Smokes had smiled wistfully and replied that he was berdache—between the worlds. A woman in a man's body.

The berdache had lived with the People for as long as Little Dancer could remember, always staying in their lodge—a strange silent man who'd come to them from the Anit'ah. Patiently he endured, despite the jokes and gibes and the open ridicule of the People. Alone and aloof, Two Smokes helped Little Dancer's mother with chores, scraping hides, cooking stew, accepting the duties a second wife would.

Little Dancer's father, Hungry Bull, the greatest hunter among the People, remained civil to Two Smokes, his innate disapproval tempered by some other veiled concern the boy had never been able to penetrate. Mystery surrounded the berdache like the swirl of smoke from a rain-wet fire.

Not that Little Dancer cared. For all his eight summers, Two Smokes remained his best friend, listening intently when Little Dancer told him of the voices he often heard. When his mother or father scolded him, he ran to Two Smokes like other children ran to their grandparents.

"So you were hiding around the birthing lodge?"

Little Dancer stiffened. "I . . ."

"You know, men should never get close to a birthing lodge. That's a place for women. What if you change the Power?"

Shamed, Little Dancer dropped his gaze to the ghostly clay they trod, heart sinking in his chest. "I'm not a man. I'm just a boy. I'm not a man until I'm named and have proven myself."

"And you didn't think that even a boy might make a difference?"

"The voice didn't tell me I would. When I'm around Power, I usually know."

"Indeed?"

Into the stretching silence, Little Dancer added, "It's a feeling. Like . . . well, the silence before thunder. Only longer. Just a feeling, that's all. And sometimes the voice."