People of the Fire(5)
"The Power works for all people, Spirit Man. You, of all men, should know that .... Wait! What are you doing?"
Heavy Beaver ripped the Bundle from Two Smokes' grasp, stepping back to avoid clawing fingers. He ducked out as Two Smokes scrambled behind. With a vile curse, he threw the Bundle into the night. In the half-light of the fire, Little Dancer caught the horror on Two Smokes' stricken face. In that moment, he felt the berdache's soul cry. Two Smokes' face masked a mind-rending terror as he reached a futile hand toward the night.
A soft plop sounded in the beaten grass beyond the camp. At that moment, Little Dancer's soul twisted, a wretched sickness welling in his gut. He vomited before he could fight the urge.
As if from a distance, he heard Two Smokes' horrified shout.
Voices of people awakened by Heavy Beaver's curse called back and forth, unsure of themselves. Some of the younger men rushed out of their lodges, searching the darkness for Anit'ah, seeking the cause of the disturbance. The babble rose on the night, men and women grabbing robes before hurrying out.
Lifting his head, Little Dancer wiped at his mouth, terror eating at his insides. Two Smokes stared up where he'd stopped on all fours, disbelief in his eyes. People gaped, seeing Heavy Beaver's bulk silhouetted in the birthing lodge's fire.
"The infant must be destroyed." Heavy Beaver turned, looking into the lodge. "Do you hear, Dancing Doe? This is your doing ... all of you. The People are already polluted by foulness. They are polluted by women turning men's medicine against them. This . . . this infant is polluted by Anit'ah witchcraft and whatever vile spirit of the night lurked outside the lodge when it was born. I condemn all of you as unclean!"
"No!" Dancing Doe cried from inside. "Not my child. Not my baby!"
"Kill it!" Heavy Beaver roared. "It's your pollution."
Sage Root ducked through the lodge entrance, standing up before him. "I wonder just where the pollution lies? I don't feel polluted at all . . . except in your presence!"
"Don't!" Chokecherry grabbed Sage Root's arm, pulling her back. "He's a Spirit Dreamer. Apologize."
Little Dancer saw his mother start, anger draining from her tensed body. "I . . . forgive me."
Heavy Beaver's face worked, a curious mix of enjoyment and vindication. "The child must be destroyed." At that he turned, lifting a foot and kicking Two Smokes down on his face in the dirt before striding off into the night.
A hushed mumble of voices rose from the spectators.
Stunned, Little Dancer shivered and blinked at the scene. Two Smokes raised his head, firelight tracing the tears streaking his face.
The wind had stopped, the air going heavy and stifling. In the sudden silence, Dancing Doe's baby wailed.
In White Calf's rock shelter high in the Buffalo Mountains, the Dream settled like morning dew lying lightly on her sleep. Like frost patterns, the Dream wove into her mind, tightening its hold on her soul. Beyond, the stars continued the circle of the sky, oblivious to the silent shelter in the mountainside so far below. Coyotes yipped and chorused as they harried the carcass of a freshly killed elk calf. Unnoticed, owls drifted over the meadow on silent wings while mice rustled the umbel-richening grasses for growing seed.
The night world lived as White Calf Dreamed. . . .
In a land of glare, she walked, one tired step after another—the ancient ritual of travel. A wind, hot as the draft radiating from ember-cradled cooking stones, puffed at her face, desiccating her thin flesh. About her, the slumbering anima of the land waited, restless, drying, and dying.
"Didn't used to be like this." She grimaced at the rasping of her voice. The old stories talk of water, of buffalo so plentiful a strong man could cast his dart in any direction and kill. The old stories talk of grass up to a man's waist. And now? Springs my grandfather's grandfather drank from are no more than muddy seeps. Only the old ones know. Only the keepers of the legends.
But the legends are changing. People are changing. Even .place names are changing. Everything . . . changing . . .
The old familiar ache stitched and throbbed in the joint of her right hip. Down deep inside the muscles of her age-worn legs, cramps of fatigue gnawed like big black ants in the infested heart of a deadfall pine. The hurt in her feet had grown, expanding, encompassing. Arches flat and complaining, she padded across the hot clay, toes stinging as burning, eburnating joints swelled.
"Too damn old for this," she muttered. "Ought to have a fancy lodge . . . strong sons and daughters to bring me meat. Ought to be free to sit around and talk and make jokes. Tell the old stories so they're remembered. Watch the young men and women act foolish trying to impress each other. That's what."