People of the Fire(58)
Wind pulled at her hair, tangling it into a knot. Its strong push tried to topple her into the depths. That lent a thrill to the sensation that she could fall so easily.
She stared out over the plains, studying each change in color until her eyes lost themselves in the distance.
The Short Buffalo People lived there. None had come to raid this season, but why did she feel so uneasy? Her premonitions were more than the chance of falling, as if her soul trembled within.
Tanager turned to climb down, catching movement on the outcrop across from her. The wolf stood, separated from her by a cleft in the rock, its front feet braced against the battering wind. For long moments they stared at each other, Tanager meeting that knowing yellow gaze. Then, like a flicker of shadow, the dark hunter disappeared, only the sensation of promise left behind.
BOOK TWO
The Forging of the Youth
The Wolf Bundle complained into the wavering haze of the Spiral, "The sacred number of seasons has passed, and what has changed? I've helped bring the rains back. The buffalo calve with greater regularity. For my help I see Heavy Beaver growing stronger and stronger. His authority is consolidated. He unites the People under his standard and his new way.
"Meanwhile, among the Red Hand, Blood Bear proves just as much a fool. I am bandied about as a symbol of his authority. At the same time, his scorn is apparent in his deeds, if not his words. Within his lodge, I'm mocked. My Power is eroding. Is that your purpose? To kill me?"
The haunting voice of the Wolf Dreamer shivered out of the Spirals. ''My purpose is the boy.''
"My inclination is to pay Blood Bear back for his ways."
''Be patient. The boy grows. ''
''And so does Heavy Beaver's way. He’s changing the Spirals. Too many People believe him. In the end, we cannot defeat an idea," the Wolf Bundle warned.
"There is a way. Remember the tripod. Without another leg, we'll topple in the dirt. "
Chapter 11
The world behind the small band had vanished in a haze of gray. Gray everywhere—like the feelings in their hearts.
Where could people go when the world had gone insane?
Underfoot, the damp ground grated, gravel crunching beneath the weary placing of each moccasined step. Silence lay heavy on the land; only a slight sighing rose from the timber in the canyons below. The sounds of their passage—the scuff of tanned hide on stone or brush, the muffled groan of leather straps, and the puffing of breath accompanied them as they climbed. Chill moisture hung in the air, stinging their noses,
clammy on exposed skin.
Three Toes looked up at the winding trail, nervous at the way the clouds packed so thickly around the people he led.
A few wind-gnarled fir trees clung to the reddish-brown rock with knobby roots twisted into the Earth Mother's bones.
How high were they? From here, he should have been able to see the whole of the basin, Moon River to the south and Mud River running north. The somber gray of the encompassing clouds masked everything, even seeking to blur the edges of a memory turned painful and cutting.
He and Black Crow had no way back, no trail to return to the People. Now and forever, they would be outcasts. Nothing remained for them, no sanctuary in a camp of the People.
In an irregular line, they climbed, disjointed figures in the mist—people without place or context, travelers in the clouds.
Behind him, Makes Fun gasped for breath while she talked softly to her son.
And what if I can't find White Calf's camp? What if we run into an Anit'ah party up here? What if Hungry Bull's dead? Killed? Then what's left for us?
He continued along the irregular game trail tracing the ridge top. In the gritty soil he could see the tracks of bighorn, deer, and an occasional elk. Moist air drifted coolly against his hot cheeks. The damp skein of clouds pressed down to make the world unreal—a blessing and curse. The gray dampness hid their passage from Anit'ah eyes, and obscured the landmarks White Calf had told him about in such detail during their flight from Heavy Beaver those four years past.
Four years? The sacred number, the number of the First Man, of the directions and the Wise One Above. So much had changed in four years. Who could have guessed?
On the trail ahead of Three Toes, a shadow shifted in the mist and brought him back to the present. Instinctively, he tightened his grip on the handle of his atlatl, the dart shaft resting securely in his fingers. He squinted past the blotchy outlines of the conifers and stopped, dropping to a slight crouch.
As the faint ghost of breeze played with the gray fog, the glimpse solidified into Black Crow's lanky shape.
"See anything?" Three Toes asked mildly, unwilling to break the eerie silence.
Black Crow lifted a shoulder, his mashed-turd nose contorting as he sniffed the cool air. "No—unless you Ye interested in what the inside of a cloud looks like."