Two Smokes hadn't been any help either. He didn't talk much anymore—he'd never forgiven himself for the insult to the Wolf Bundle. Berdaches lived between the worlds. Not only did they function as the mediators between men and women, understanding each, they had been fashioned by the ways of Power so they could feel the spirit realm as well as the world. Two Smokes had felt the desecration of the Wolf Bundle to the bottom of his soul. The experience had left a hole, a lack of purpose in his life.
I'm just miserable, that's all. Mother? Why did you go away and leave me to this? Why did you give up? Where are you, Mother? Come back to me! Take me away!
Moving out from the mountain, Little Dancer could see the western horizon where the clouds had drifted east. Pinpoints of light from the exposed portions of the Starweb twinkled and danced. Overhead and to the east, the sky remained masked by cloud and darkness. He could imagine the blackness over Moon River and his old childhood haunts. Did Heavy Beaver look up this night, too? Did he stare at the same blotted heavens and wonder?
Little Dancer kicked at a low sagebrush, satisfied with the tangy odor as he bruised the seed-heavy stalks rising above the aqua leaves.
They'd made him a prisoner, keeping him like a child kept a baby bird in a stick cage. White Calf, the Power and Dreams, the Curses of Heavy Beaver, everything worked against him.
Viciously, he kicked at the sage, happy to hurt back for once. So much for Heavy Beaver. So much for Dreams and White Calf and everything else that left him miserable and harried. The anger rose again, relentless, burning. He struck out at the world, seeking to hurt it, to pay it back for the frustration he lived.
With a stick, he laid into the sagebrush, thrashing it as hot tears rolled down his cheek. He attacked a small fir tree with his flail, imagining it to be White Calf and Heavy Beaver rolled into one. He screamed as his muscles rolled under the attack. A cry of rage rose to his lips, fueling his assault.
The stick broke, cracking under the violence of his tantrum. He bent to pluck rocks, pelting the tree, watching the branches whip under the impact. He screamed his anger, exulting in the triumph flooding his charged body. Wild rage keened and sang in his veins.
Finally exhausted, he sagged, chest heaving, completely spent. A tremor scurried through the muscles of his arms and legs. In the passing fury, his mouth had gone dry and his throat burned. A welling pain began to throb in his torn fingers where he'd shredded the skin trying to lever rocks from the resistant dirt. The chill of the night-dark air began to seep into his sweat-flushed cheeks.
Around him the night waited, silent, patient, eternal, knowing the futility of young boys and their spells of impudent misbehavior.
Little Dancer blinked owlishly at the tree before him. His vented wrath didn't seem to have made an impact. The shadowy fir stood resolute; the veil of darkness obscured any scars he might have imparted on the supple branches. In defeat, he lowered his head, rubbing the back of his neck, aware of the quiet pressing down like a smothering robe.
Why won't they just leave me alone?
A shadow detached itself from the blackness.
Little Dancer gulped at the sudden shiver of fear, tensing.
The big black wolf might have been a dream image, so silently did it slip into the trees.
How long had the animal stalked him? How long had it watched? On rubbery legs he stood and retraced his way to the game trail. Exhausted and drained, he set his steps toward the meadow where he knew his father had started a buffalo trap.
Elk Charm huddled inside the wrap of her soft elk-hide robe, bending low to peer under the flap of the menstrual lodge toward the camp. The Red Hand always put the menstrual lodge uphill and downwind. First Man had told them to do it that way.
She wrinkled her young nose. For the life of her, she couldn't imagine why. Did the old men really think they could smell a woman's bleeding? She remembered sniffing the breeze surreptitiously to see once, and had only detected the more powerful odor of camp: smoke, feces, dog and human, and the faint tang of cured hide over the light scent of boiling foodstuff's and roasting roots.
She tensed as Blood Bear walked past the edge of camp, his black silhouette framed by the fires. The Keeper of the Wolf Bundle paused for a moment, staring as if his eyes could make her out in the night-shadowed lodge.
For a long moment, she held her breath. Then he ducked into his lodge.
Had Tanager forgotten? Had she skipped out on some crazy adventure in the timber again?
Elk Charm exhaled wearily. Would her mother never come? The menstrual lodge confined her like a mountain sheep in a catch pen. If only Blood Bear didn't stalk the night, waiting. If only she didn't understand why he lurked in the darkness. Would it always be this way? Would each time be this terrible? Silently, she reminded herself that after all, this was her first time. That it had happened so soon had been a rude surprise for her.