People of the Fire(50)

The old cottonwood had blown down years before. Seasons of rain and wind had scoured the bark from the underlying wood. Since then the bright plain's sun had bleached the smooth wood silver white. Where the heavy trunk forked into two thick branches, Sage Root had stopped. She lay propped there, cradled by the bones of the tree. Her head had fallen back, exposing her face to the morning sun. She looked tired and vulnerable. Beside her, her worn butchering bag lay open. On the ground, a black obsidian core lay canted to one side. Sunlight sparkled from the vitreous ripples where flakes had been driven off. A small quartzite hammerstone rested beside the core.

Flies already rose in a gossamer buzzing column over the rich wealth of her blood where it pooled in the skirts of her dress.

A hard hand clapped Little Dancer on the shoulder, trying to pull him back. "Go back to camp," Two Smokes ordered. "Now! You don't—"

"She cut her wrists, Two Smokes. I felt it. That's when I got sick. She cut her wrists and left me here all alone." The tears ran hot from his eyes again. "Why did she die? Why did she leave me here? I need her, Two Smokes. I need her to hold me."

"Let's go back now."

"It didn't hurt," Little Dancer mumbled, weeping. "Obsidian is so sharp. She just knocked off a flake and cut her wrists open. And she died. Two Smokes, why is the world so mean to us?"

The hand on his shoulder began to pull him inexorably back.

They'd stopped moving, Two Smokes holding him, crushing him tightly in a shared embrace. Together they cried, each adrift with nowhere to go. But nothing filled the aching void inside him.

He'd gone empty. So empty.

Heavy Beaver blinked awake. Through the smoke hole, he could see a blue patch of morning sky. He hadn't slept well. Like a wraith from the fog, his mother's ghost had lurked in the shadows of his dreams. Echoes of her voice tried to sort themselves out in his mind.

Why couldn't all women be as perfect as his mother had been? The endless longing filled him. He'd loved her like he'd never love another woman. All he'd ever had to do was cry out and she came running. When the other boys teased him, she'd driven them off with a stick. When he hurt himself, she'd come and cooed and soothed him. When his father had objected to her constant attention and tried to force him to go and play, she'd chased him off with vile threats. Against the troubles of the world, she'd stood unflinching. Of all the People, only she had understood his fears and needs. She had recognized his special talents and virtues even before he had. Once she'd pointed out his greatness, not even he could ignore it.

"You've been chosen, Heavy Beaver. That's why you're different. The spirits have singled you out for special things. That's why you don't fit. That's why the other boys tease you and play tricks. They're jealous. They can see how special you are—and they don't like it. That's the way of great men . . . always shunned by their inferiors. You'll see. You'll rise above them all one day."

If all women had those same intelligent and sensitive abilities to see clearly, the world would be a better place. He wouldn't have to fight so hard to put the People on the right path.

Even now, years after her death, he missed her with an open longing in his soul. He'd barely noticed the day begun complaining of the shortness of breath. He'd been pre-occupied with other things. Of course she'd always been there, strong, knowing what to do. The thought that she wouldn't be with him forever seemed impossible. The decision to marry Red Chert had been her idea. She'd seen to the arrangements with the girl's family—and the choice had been right.

"Red Chert's the girl for you, obedient. She won't try to suck you dry like most women. She's worthy of you, recognizes your talents without being jealous. You see, that's why Dancing Doe and Sage Root and the others don't bed you. They're worried, that's what. Around you, they couldn't control everything the way they do now. Have you seen them? Strutting around, shaking their hips and breasts to get a reaction. No, you couldn't live with a woman like that. She'd constantly be trying to hold you back. She'd have to live in your shadow forever, so she'd make you miserable because that's all that would be left for her. That and plots. You know how women are with plots. Always trying to cause trouble. Take that Chokecherry. Look at the way she tries to humiliate me in front of others. Always criticizing. You don't want a spiteful woman like that. You want one who sees you for who you are—like Red Chert."

Indeed, she'd been right. Red Chert had never challenged him. Instead, she'd seen his ability from the first. People had laughed, amused that he'd marry a woman no one else wanted, but that was their mistake. They didn't see as clearly as he. They didn't understand the real situation.