People of the Lakes(312)

Pearl massaged her forehead. Her hand was cold. “That’s backward. Only the brave can be so cowardly. You should feel my heart—I’m already terrified. But this time, Green Spider, I’ll be ready for the filthy maggots. Last time, I wasn’t.”

“Last time it wasn’t a prolonged murder,” the Contrary reminded her in a remarkably straightforward manner.

“Last time I wasn’t saving the lives of my friends … or the life of the man I love. I’ll do my part, Green Spider. The only thing I need to hear from you is that you’ll do yours.”

His eyes had lost focus again, and he grinned idiotically.

“Never! No, never! And never again! All is lost! Otter, Black Skull, and the silly Contrary, dead, dead, dead! Only Pearl lives in the glory of the lights–the sparkling, wondrous lights of so many colors.”

Pearl took his hand and placed it to her lips. “Thank you, Green Spider. If you hadn’t burned your root off that day on the Ilini, I’d have never found the courage. You’ve given me a great deal. I’ll be worthy, I promise. I’ll make you proud of me.”

With that, she rose and stepped around the fire. She cast one last smile Green Spider’s way, then walked thoughtfully back to where Otter lay sound asleep.

Once she’d slid back into their blankets, she slipped an arm over his stomach and placed her head on his chest, listening to his breathing, to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

“Urn?” he said, half-waking.

“I’m just loving you,” she whispered. “Go back to sleep.”

He tenderly nuzzled his chin against the top of her head and drifted off again. Tears trickled silently down her cheeks while she watched the stars gleaming and twinkling high overhead.

I sit and watch as the fire burns down, the embers shifting and glimmering in the wind. In one of my Dreams, White Ash told me of seeing Wolf Dreamer’s face appear in the wavering coals.

And so I wait … and watch … considering the words of my companions. Each so desperate.

I cannot help the sobs that swell my chest. The dignified resignation of Otter, the simple faith of Black Skull, and the horrifying pragmatism of Pearl—all have left me feeling empty, as if their love for each other has transported me, and me alone, to the barren windswept plains of Power.

And all I see around me is a wasteland.

Nothing lives here. Except Death.

A gust of wind assaults the coals, and sparks spiral up and twist away, flying out over the moon-dark lake, where they vanish in the mist.

I stare harder at the wavering coals. As hard as I can.

… But I see no face.

The battlefield seems to have gone suddenly quiet.

So.

The decision is left to me.

Which of my friends do I condemn to Death, that the Mask of Many Colored Crow might live?

I bow my head, close my eyes, and laugh with wild abandon.





Forty-six




Pale Snake shifted uncomfortably as the wind changed and disturbed his fire. Brilliant yellow sparks twirled with the rising smoke to swarm around him in a warm haze. He turned his face away until the sparks subsided. “The answer lies with Tall Man.”

Behind them, the beach became rocky and rose in a gentle slope to an unscalable wall of crumbled soil mixed with rock that had been undercut by millennia of terrible storms. Before full dark, Star Shell had been able to see huge cedar roots grasping frantically at the air, beseeching the lost soil to return, for any further erosion meant death amidst the detritus at the bottom of the sheer drop.

This night was particularly black. Wind came moaning out of the darkness, bearing the sweet scent of water, and white-crested waves pounded the pale beach.

Star Shell lowered her eyes, refusing to look at Pale Snake.

She stroked the locks of Silver Water’s dark hair. The little girl had rolled up in her blankets and stretched out before the fire, leaving the wind to tousle her hair atop Star Shell’s extended legs.

“I think you’re wrong,” Star Shell said. “I think it’s the Mask. As it has been all along.”

Unabated, the waves pulsed upon the bleached sand, each foaming advance racing up as if to tag the rear of their beached canoe—then falling back in a white rush and undercutting its successor.

Frustrated, tired beyond exhaustion, Star Shell blurted, “Tall Man? Does it always come back to him? Can’t you stop hating your father long enough to think? You’re a sorcerer. What about the Mask?”

“It’s fearsome enough.” He gave her a somber appraisal.

Firelight accented his strong cheekbones and black eyes, and the wind tugged at his pulled-back hair. “But, Star Shell, you’ve got to remember, a Mask is just that, a home for Power—neither good nor evil. It reflects or projects, and a person looking through it sees as Many Colored Crow does, that’s all.”