Wouldn't Heavy Beaver feel the light? If Heavy Beaver really Dreamed with the Spirits, he had to know the meat was all right. He had to know Antelope Above approved. He just had to! His thoughts always came back to the Spirit Dreamer.
Shivers played up and down his thin body as he recalled the fear in his mother's eyes. If his mother ... A cold wind of fright rose up from the depths to terrify him. What could he do? Where would he go? If only he could save his mother.
People pulled hard strips of meat from the sagebrush and packed them into unfolded parfleches. Even the thick pieces that felt mushy in the middle had a hard crust on the outside. Flies couldn't lay eggs that would turn into maggots. But the coyotes could still come to steal pieces.
Feeling the urge, he walked to the edge of the kill site and lifted his flap to urinate. People had to do that to keep coyotes off. Ravens, on the other hand, paid no attention to markings and had to be run off or they'd steal a kill blind. Worst of all was when they crapped on the carcasses. The runny white droppings had to be carefully cut off. But then, given a choice, he'd take ravens over Heavy Beaver any day.
“Heavy Beaver!" He looked down at where his water spattered the dry earth. "Take that, Heavy Beaver! That's what you're worth."
A dark shadow loomed over him. Startled, Little Dancer looked up into the Spirit Dreamer's half-lidded eyes. His voice choked in his throat. He just stared, paralyzed, while his penis pointed straight at Heavy Beaver.
“A greeting? Too much of your mother in you, boy. We'll see about that one of these days. I promise you, I won't forget."
A croak sounded from Little Dancer's throat. Then Heavy Beaver strode past, the malignancy of his shadow like a black hail cloud.
Fear pumped with each beat of his heart as he ran, hearing people going silent as Heavy Beaver walked straight up to where Sage Root stood.
A strange expression changed his mother's fact. The normally healthy tones of her skin had washed pale Knowing her as well as he did, Little Dancer could see the brightness in his mother's eyes. Carefully, he walked wide of H
Beaver, circling to hold his mother's dress hem. A fear unlike anything he'd ever known obsessed him, left him numb and mindless.
"So." Heavy Beaver's voice almost caressed. "You've continued with your pollution?" A lazy smile bent his lips.
"I made my peace with the antelope." Mother sounded hoarse.
"You polluted it, woman!"
The People tensed, stepping back at the angry tones in Heavy Beaver's voice.
"So you say."
"Take back your actions, woman. It's your last chance. Beg, and perhaps I'll Sing for you. Show you're sorry for your ways and I'll do my best to cleanse your pollution from the Spirit World."
Where he clutched his mother's skirts, Little Dancer could feel her shiver, tension locking her muscles.
"I would still Sing to save you despite your—"
Horrified, Little Dancer heard Mother laugh.
Heavy Beaver jerked as if slapped.
Her laughter stung like a yucca lash. "You'd Sing for me? The woman who turned you down? I'll bet. What next? You want me to beg? Let you possess me? Ah, I can see it in your eyes. You're no Dreamer, no Singer. You're the pollution, Heavy Beaver. A pollution within the People! What no one would put up with in anyone else, we allow in you because you've convinced others that you Dream. You're nothing but a sick man with delusions. You disgust me. Not even dung beetles are more repulsive."
Around them, people clapped hands over their mouths, eyes shocked. As Little Dancer looked up into Heavy Beaver's livid face, his guts loosened and tears began to streak his face. This couldn't happen, it just couldn't.
"Then there is no way to save you from yourself, woman." Heavy Beaver nodded. "In four days, I shall Sing your soul from your body. Before my lodge, I shall place four sticks, one for each day. And when the fourth stick falls on the fourth day, you shall die."
At that his mother shuddered.
Heavy Beaver saw, and smiled, and turned on his heel, walking away in long paces.
Little Dancer stood stunned, suffocating in the oppressive silence. The terror in his mother's rigid body powered his own. His mother's hand rested on his head. Her frantic fingers tightened in his hair until it hurt. He didn't care. Horrified at the thought, he began to bawl unashamedly.
Blood Bear kept to the drainages, easing after the last of the women who walked down the ridge toward the camp below. Last of all went a woman, a boy, and another woman who limped on a bad . . . Two Smokes!
Blood Bear slipped down the narrow drainage, all the while keeping his upper body screened by sagebrush. Could the woman be Clear Water? He craned his neck, getting the right angle to see her face. Even over the distance and time, he'd know her perfect features. But while beautiful, this preoccupied woman couldn't be mistaken for Clear Water.