Don’t think about it. Don’t.
It’s raining. I look up. Misty veils drift down from dark clouds. The forest begins to hiss, and the bright autumn leaves bob as they are patted by the drops.
Walk. Just keep walking.
Three
As the campfires of the dead flashed between the clouds, they cast a dusty radiance over the rain-drenched forest, silvering the dark oaks and elms that covered the mountains. The muddy trail was awash. In the indigo shadows cast by the wind-touched branches, the water seemed to rise and fall like waves.
Sonon took a deep breath, allowing the pungent fragrances of earth and bark to seep into his exhausted body; then he twined his hands in the girl’s long black hair and continued dragging her through the mud. His arms and back ached from the labor. In the constant downpour, he kept losing his hold.
As he walked, he softly sang, “The crow comes, the crow comes, pity the little children, beat the drum … .”
With each step, he heard the beating of the crow’s wings in his head. It was always there. A soft rhythmic pushing of air, as though she lived right behind his eyes, saw his world, knew his most precious dreams. He’d heard her wings since he’d seen six summers. Sometimes, especially at night, he felt her darkness pressing against his eyes like icy hands, trying to shove her way out of his skull.
“ … beat the drum, grab the young, and run, run, run.”
He stopped to catch his breath and take a new grip. His gaze lowered to the girl’s perfect oval face. In the flashes of lightning, her copper earspools blazed. He studied her turned-up nose and the unnatural angle of her gaping mouth. Her dark eyes were half-open, staring blankly at the mist that encircled the treetops. Mud coated her white doehide dress, making it cling to her body like a second skin, highlighting the contours of her young breasts and hips. He wiped his drenched face on his sleeve and let out a shaky breath.
It had been raining hard since nightfall, soaking the brittle forest and turning the paths into creeks. Fortunately, the runoff would cover his trail. As always, Sky Woman, the grandmother of human beings, had seen his honor, and chosen to protect him from his enemies—but it made his task much harder. Most of the day, he had carried her in his arms. Now, he could only manage to drag her.
“No,” he whispered, and squeezed his eyes closed for several long moments. “We are almost home. I owe her more than this.”
Despite his fatigue, he steadied his muscles and bent to slip his arms beneath her to carry her again. It wasn’t much farther. He could do this. He lifted her and slogged on down the trail, drowning in the sensation of her stone-cold body pressed tightly against his. Her long hair draped his left arm and stuck wetly to his thigh. Every step he took, those dark strands stroked him, and he longed to weep.
For a time, he just listened to the clicking of her shell bracelets and tried to fight back the memories.
A short while after she’d fallen, he’d gone to her. She’d stared up at him. The silent pleading in her dark eyes had left him trembling.
Blessed Creator, how many times had girls gazed at him like that? How many times had he knelt in their blood and lifted their wounded bodies into his arms? He was a warrior and supposed to be hardened to such things … but he doubted he ever would be.
Lightning flashed, and Thunderers dove right over his head. He gasped, and in the sudden glare of brilliantly lit oaks, he felt somehow unreal … more like a ghost walking through the Land of the Dead than through lands belonging to the People of the Standing Stone.
As the Thunderers cracked and soared away, a gust of wind rattled the branches. Showers of wet leaves cascaded down around him. Sonon shivered. Already, the nights were colder. It would not be long now until Hatho, the Frost Spirit, came again to live among humans. Hatho was an old man in white who carried a large club that he used to strike against the trees, to make them creak and crack as the icy winds of winter descended upon the world.
Gathering his strength, Sonon forced himself to breathe.
The night scents smelled incredibly clear to him. The tang of damp oaks mixed sweetly with the fragrances of the nearby Forks River and the earthiness of the thunderstorm that seemed to have no end.
Ahead, through the dense tangle of trees, he glimpsed the shell midden used by the People of the Hills. The midden—a trash mound three times the height of a man—marked their territorial border. In a few paces, he would be out of Standing Stone country.
Just the thought filled him with hope. He forced his shaking legs to move faster. The girl’s body rocked in his arms.
“Just a little longer,” he murmured to her.
Repeated flashes of lightning turned the shell midden into a wildly twinkling hill.