People of the Lightning(123)

His hands ached unbearably.

He looked back at Musselwhite. Her beautiful face had relaxed. She seemed to be breathing easier.

In a whisper, he Sang a lilting prayer to the Lightning Birds, begging them to give him the courage he would need to reach out to them again.





Twenty-seven

Beaverpaw sat in a meadow of dry grass, knapping out stone tools, and talking with a stranger named Hanging Star. They had met last night when Dark Rain had led them to this new camp, but had barely spoken until this morning. At dawn, Dark Rain and Bowfin had trotted off to gamble, and Hanging Star and Beaverpaw had walked to this meadow to sit in the pale sunlight filtering through a haze of high clouds. A chill wind blew, carrying the damp scents of moss and rich earth, shaking the palmettos that encircled the meadow. Shiny spiderwebs glittered across the fronds. With each gust webs shook loose and floated over Beaverpaw’s head.

“You mean you actually believe you’re in love with her? With the infamous Dark Rain! How could that be? You seemed like such a smart fellow earlier.”

Hanging Star flopped back on the dead grass and laughed. Two-tens-and-six summers old, the man had an ugly, square face and blunt jaw. Tens of pock marks dented his cheeks and forehead, which made his bulbous nose seem even uglier. His tunic had once been blue, but had faded to tan with pale azure streaks.

Beaverpaw flushed. He glanced at Dark Rain. Fifty hands away, she and Bowfin played dice with two other men. The game had been going since dawn, and while the men had taken the time to cook breakfast and eat, Dark Rain’s attention had not left the dice. She watched the two hickory nuts, painted red on one side, as if her very life depended upon them.

“I do love her,” Beaverpaw said, but he sounded unconvincing, even to himself.

To hide his discomfort, he rearranged his tools, laying his chunks of chert between his quartzite hammerstone and antler-tine baton, then tossed his hand-sized piece of leather on top of his antler tine. Chert had to be worked correctly, or it would not produce the long thin slices of stone, called flakes, that made usable tools. The secret lay in knowing how to use the hammerstone. Direction of blow was critical. If you slammed your hammerstone directly down on a piece of chert it would not create a flake, it would create a circular cone, a little pointed mound of virtually useless stone. You had to strike at an angle.

Beaverpaw reached for a rectangular piece of chert, about as long as his hand, and four finger-widths across. He first surveyed it for surface imperfections that must be avoided. When he found none, he picked up his hammerstone—a round cobble of hard quartzite that fit into his right palm. In his mind he imagined the point of the cone sitting on the upper tip of the rock. The stone would naturally break on a straight line through the center of the cone, so if he wished to drive off a good flake, he had to strike the chert at just the right angle. Long thin flakes made excellent blades for cutting up meat, while thick flakes could be fashioned into scrapers or choppers for processing plants.

Beaverpaw turned his rectangular piece of chert on its side, laid it out lengthwise before him, and picked the place on the stone to strike, near the right edge. The strike point was called the platform. Since he wanted a thin blade, he brought his hammerstone down at an acute angle. The blade cracked off perfectly, about as long as his index finger and one third of the width.

Hanging Star scrutinized Beaverpaw. “I’m sorry. I should not have laughed. I believe you love her. Just as I have believed all of her men. Her affect on men is … unnatural.”

Beaverpaw’s bushy brows pulled down. He had not had the opportunity to wash his chin-length black hair, and it draped in dirty strands around his fat tadpole face. Angrily, Beaverpaw said, “What do you know of Dark Rain?”

Hanging Star stifled his merriment. “Ah, well, that could be a very long story. Where would you like me to begin?” One last irrepressible chuckle bubbled up his throat. He shook his head and watched the puffs of cloud sailing through the blue sky. Sun Mother stood straight overhead, forcing him to squint.

Beaverpaw sat sternly silent. He changed the angle of his hammerstone and knocked off a thicker flake. It would be a scraper once he’d finished sharpening the edge. To do that, he spread his piece of leather over his left palm, placed the thick flake on top, then used his thumb to fold the edge of the leather over so he could grip the left side of the flake. He picked up his antler-tine baton, and carefully rapped small flakes off around the circumference, rounding the flake, and giving it a scalloped cutting edge.

Hanging Star eyed Beaverpaw. “You don’t really care what I have to say, do you?”