People of the Masks(123)

Wren wondered if maybe Mossybill and Skullcap had met the Mountain Laurel Spirit. She said, “Why would you carry a plant like that, Rumbler?”

“Because mountain laurel cures as well as kills. Tiny amounts dissolved in water will ease heart pain, and jaundice. If you mix the leaves with a lot of water to make a wash, it will kill lice and ticks. But if you ever touch the mountain laurel, Wren, you have to wash your hands quickly. The tiniest bit rubbed in your eyes, or mouth, will make you very sick.”

Wren dipped a cup of spruce tea from the pot at the edge of the fire, and set it on the floor. As she swished one of the soiled black strips into the steaming liquid, she said, “If it can kill lice, maybe the same kind of wash would also kill Shadow Spirits. I don’t mean that I wish to try it on your fingers, but sometime I would like to see if it works.” At the look of fear on his face, she added, “Don’t worry, I’ll try it on me first.”

His fear grew to horror. He murmured, “But … you are all I have.”

Wren smiled sadly as she squeezed out the cloth. “Yes, we’re both alone now, aren’t we? Our families—”

“We have each other.”

Wren nodded. “Yes, we do. Thank the Spirits for that.” She reached for his hand. As she washed around the swollen little finger, she said, “I’ve never had a friend like you, Rumbler. I mean a real friend. Other than Trickster. The children in my village didn’t like me very much.”

“Why?”

Wren lightly pressed on the flesh around the bone, and pus oozed out. She cleaned it away, rinsed the cloth again, and continued with her poking and prodding. Rumbler squinted against the pain.

“I don’t know;” she answered. “Dark Wind and Vine, two girls my age, said my mother’s death had stunted my growth, and that I didn’t know how to act like a girl.” Strange that those words still hurt. She could feel them like daggers in her stomach. “They said that’s why no one liked me.”

Wren dipped her cloth again and wrung it out, wondering what Dark Wind and Vine would be doing tonight. Sitting around the supper fire with their families, laughing, and teasing each other? Maybe speculating on what had happened to Wren and the False Face Child. She tried to shove the images away before they took hold, but they crept inside her on spider feet. She saw her grandmother smile, and heard old Bogbean chuckle, and every thread in her souls longed to be there with them.

“I think you act like a girl,” Rumbler said. “Except a lot braver. Braver than most boys, too.”

Wren smiled. “I’m brave, but you’re braver than me, Rumbler. I don’t think I could have let somebody cut off my fingers.”

He brought his newly cleaned little finger close and grimaced at it, while Wren worked on the other little finger. “I knew you wouldn’t hurt me, Wren.”

“Then you had more faith in me than I did, Rumbler. I wasn’t sure I—”

“You saved my life. You gave me your food, and your cape and—and this beautiful shirt.” He touched the pale blue sleeve, adding, “You couldn’t hurt anything, Wren. Not on purpose.”

Wren pretended to concentrate on draining the Shadow Spirits from his finger. That way she wouldn’t have to admit to wanting to break Dark Wind’s nose, or tell him about the time she’d knocked out Leaping Elk’s front teeth. He’d deserved it, the little bully. He’d been tormenting Trickster, stabbing at him with a sharp stick. At Trickster’s yelp, Wren had run into the plaza to find Trickster’s front shoulder bleeding.

Wren looked at the knuckles of her right hand. It had taken almost a moon for them to heal. Which was half the time it had taken Leaping Elk to grow new teeth.

She dipped her cloth once more, wrung it out, and spread it over the hearthstones to dry. As warmth seeped into the cloth, the tangy fragrance of spruce needles filled the shelter.

“Why don’t you roll up in the fox-fur cape and try to sleep, Rumbler. I’ll finish putting away the food bags.”

Rumbler yawned, and reached for the white cape. As he slipped it over his head, he said, “Wren? I—I’ve been thinking about something.”

“What, Rumbler?” She got on her knees, reached for the blue food bag, and tucked it into her pack.

“Do you remember me talking about my father?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve been thinking that maybe we should go and try to find him.”

Wren had just picked up a yellow bag. Instead of put- . ting it in her pack, she lowered it to her lap, and turned to peer at Rumbler.

He gazed at her from beneath long lashes, his lower lip clamped between his teeth, as though afraid of what she might answer.