People of the Fire(49)

“Mother?" He trotted around behind the lodge, peering into the brush to see if she had simply gone to relieve herself No trace. ''Mother?''

“Hush!" Sleeping Fir called from inside her lodge. "People are sleeping here."

'MOTHER!" His breath went short, a feeling squeezing his chest like a giant hand.

“Here," Two Smokes called. “Come take my hand and we'll go find her. No sense in alarming the whole camp."

The berdache smiled uneasily, eyes searching the quiet lodges.

Not quite placated, Little Dancer reached up and placed his hand in his friend's. "We'll find her?"

"We'll find her."

Together they searched, circling the perimeter of the camp, finding nothing. The trails had been used until the dust had been beaten into a fine powder. The only tracks consisted of blurred images.

A sudden flood of desperation caught Little Dancer completely unaware. The world seemed to slip sideways. Suddenly dizzy, he leaned forward, clutching his stomach. An urge to vomit convulsed his gut while his legs turned rubbery beneath him.

"Little Dancer? What's wrong? What's ..."

An utterly hopeless feeling possessed him for a moment before final desperation took over. He could feel her, feel the movements of her hands as she took the cool stone and . . .

"No!" he choked before his stomach emptied into the trail. "No." He coughed at the stinging bile that had gone up the back of his nose and threatened his windpipe. "No!"

As quickly, the feeling of dislocation passed. Completely drained, he came to, staring at the vomit-splattered earth before him. An abyss, endless as the wind, opened inside him. Loss whirled about his mind. Disoriented, he struggled to find his breath, the feeling that of having been kicked in the chest.

"... and take a deep breath. Just breathe easily. Don't be afraid. It's just the fear, the worry that's gotten to you." Two Smokes comforted from where he knelt beside him. Strong warm hands supported his wrenched body as he coughed again and raised his head. The world looked washed out, as if seen through a film of water. The colors didn't appear as bright. The air felt sluggish and half-alive. Even Father Sun's light had lost its fire, becoming pallid and weak.

"Mother! Come back. Come back to me!"

"Now, little one, we don't—"

"She's dead!" He fought to get his feet under him, Two Smokes supporting him as his balance wavered. The berdache stared down, a deep worry eating at him.

“She's probably just gone to—"

"No!" the boy bawled, eyes searching the trail frantically. 44 I felt her die! I/*/f her."

"Please, little one, don't go imagining all the—"

“Stop it! Stop it! She's dead! I know!"

“You're being crazy." The berdache stopped short, frozen by the look Little Dancer gave him.

Choking on tears, Little Dancer cried, “You know, don't you? I've seen it in your eyes. You know I feel things. I hear things most people don't. I heard the antelope at the kill site. I called them. I did that. In a Dream, Two Smokes. I called them in a Power Dream." Tears burned hot on his face, dribbling from his quivering chin. "And Heavy Beaver killed my mother. He drove the Wolf Bundle away. He killed Dancing Doe's baby . . . and then he killed her. He's evil. He's bad and wicked."

“Shhh!" Two Smokes went pale, dropping on his knee to stare into Little Dancer's eyes. "Quiet, little one. You're already in trouble. Heavy Beaver's a powerful man. He can do anything he wants and no one will say anything. You must hold your tongue. Will you? For me? You know he'll hurt me. He's just waiting for his time."

Little Dancer stared uncertainly at him while his mind reeled, feeling ill to the depths of his tormented soul. “I hate him. I'm going to kill him. Hear me, Heavy Beaver? I'm going to kill you!"

“Hush!" Two Smokes clamped a hand over his mouth, peering fearfully back the way they'd come. “Never say that. Never. Your life is a dart's cast away from dead as it Two Smokes swallowed hard, a trembling in his hands. "Promise me you won't say that again. Promise me! And then we'll go find your mother and I'll show you how silly your idea is that she's dead."

Little Dancer stared at him, anger and grief churning. Deliberately, he raised his arm, pointing. “She's over there.”

"Then let's go see. And maybe on the way I can talk some sense into your little head." Two Smokes offered his hand.

Beyond caring, Little Dancer refused it and walked past with a miserable purpose. Tears continued to leak down his face. Periodically he stopped to drag a filthy sleeve across his eyes to clear his blurry vision.

Images of her formed in his mind. She smiled at him, speaking gently. In the firelight of a warm lodge, her face reflected love and concern. How many times had her gentle hands soothed him, healed his hurts? How many times had her expression lit as she told him a story, or watched as he ate the broth she gave him? When winter nights came again, whose warm hands would tuck the hides around his chin? Who would listen when he had a problem? A light had flickered out in his soul. Only blackness remained.