People of the Fire(33)

"What did you do? It wasn't something bad. You're a good person. What did you swear?"

"You know better than that. You don't tell about promises and Power, not lightly. Maybe, someday, if you're good, I'll tell you. In the meantime, I can't leave you, not for a while anyway. And yes, Little Dancer, I would rather be with the Anit'ah. They understand and value the Power of a berdache. They don't blame me that I would love a man instead of a woman. To them a berdache is good, someone to bring luck."

"But why does a berdache happen?"

Two Smokes shrugged in his robes. "I don't know. Maybe a man's seed plants differently in a woman's womb. Maybe Power touches the soul—Blesses it—as it comes to seek a home in a newborn baby. You know that men and women think differently. Berdache are in between . . . different—not man or woman. Just berdache. Between the worlds, yet separate. Only these Short Buffalo People don't accept me as a human being. To them, I'm something else—a monster to be feared."

"Maybe we should all run away to the Anit'ah?"

"Your father wouldn't like that. Your mother wouldn't want to go either. They've made war with the Anit'ah. Your grandfather and grandmother were killed by Anit'ah. Do you think Hungry Bull or Sage Root would want to go live with people who'd done that? You know how they scowl when I teach you the Anit'ah language. Among the Red Hand, they might feel worse than I feel here. Do you want that?"

"Why do you teach me Anit'ah? And all the stories about First Man who brought all the people up from under the world? Do you think I'll be Anit'ah one day?"

The long silence stretched again before TXvo Smokes whispered, "Maybe it's my way of keeping it alive. Maybe I'm paying for my mistakes. Sleep now."

Little Dancer's mind rushed with questions. What about the Anit'ah? What about his mother? And Heavy Beaver? If the Spirit Dreamer Cursed his mother, what would happen? Could she really die?

He began to dwell on that, knowing Two Smokes didn't want to talk about it. A brooding dread grew in his gut. Heavy Beaver wouldn't kill his mother. Why should he? Sage Root was loved by everyone. And Little Dancer loved her more than any person on earth. Thoughts whirled in his restless head. Fear lingered, tracing around his queasy stomach, shivering at the edges of his muscles. Anxiously, he blinked at the night.

He'd never forget the night Dancing Doe's baby was born. He'd never forget Heavy Beaver's look of disgust, of thinly veiled hatred for his mother. So long as the day and night danced across the skies, he'd never forgive the shaman for abusing the Wolf Bundle and kicking Two Smokes.

And if the Spirit Dreamer really did Curse Sage Root . . .

"Two Smokes?"

"Yes."

"If Heavy Beaver Curses my mother, I'll kill him."

"Hush. Little boys don't kill Spirit Men. They respect their elders. You don't want to fool with things, boy. You just want to behave. Hear me?"

"Yes." But I'll kill him, Two Smokes. I won't forget what he did to you—to the Wolf Bundle. He'd just better not Curse my mother.

Weary, so very weary. Sage Root stared at the long strips of meat she'd been turning every hour or so. Most had dried, shrinking in the hot sun, jerking in the dry sucking air. Ten antelope dried into a bundle a single woman could carry in a big pack. Chokecherry worked the other side of the brush with Meadowlark and Makes Fun. Others waited, slowly caving in to the power of hunger, fear of Heavy Beaver eroding as they watched the meat being packed.

Her nerves hadn't let her sleep despite her exhaustion. What had she done? How could she insult the antelope by turning her back and walking away? Hunger ate at her people. How could Heavy Beaver Curse the meat so callously? Didn't they have enough trouble?

Where is he? The worst part is waiting. She'd forced him, defied him openly. Mocked his power once again.

She straightened, squinting into the morning sun ing the deep blue vault of the sky for any sign of rain. Overhead, small puffy clouds floated past, headed ever eastward, refusing to mass into a life-giving rain.

"Mother?"

She turned, seeing her son struggling under the weight of a water bag. His tongue stuck out the side of his mouth as he staggered forward.

"See, I brought the water. Hardly lost a drop!"

"You're becoming quite a man. Keep this up and we'll have to give a naming in another season or two. Are you ready for that? Ready to earn a real man's name?"

Merry eyes twinkled. "Really? You'd do that? I'm ready! It's all right to be called Little Dancer, but I'm big enough to earn a man's name."

She ruffled his hair, taking the water skin from his back, lifting it to suck down drafts of the tepid fluid. At least most of the mud had settled out. But then, the thirsty couldn't afford to be picky. The elders still talked of a time when the rivers ran clear as air, so a person could see the very bottom. Now silt from runoff gave the water a milky appearance-even late into autumn.