People of the Masks(142)
“U-Uncle?” she called.
He didn’t move.
Snow fell on his open eyes, and fell … and fell.
“Uncle?” she sobbed.
Thirty
Sparrow reached the bottom of the hill and headed straight for the sand that had been washed clean by the waves. Dust’s steps patted behind him.
“By dawn our moccasins will be soaked,” she said, as she stepped onto the wet sand.
“Yes, but the water will have erased our tracks.”
A stiff wind blew in off the lake, rippling the moonlit surface and pushing white-crested waves onto the shore. Sparrow inhaled deeply of the damp fishy air, and frowned at the night sky. Cloud Giants roamed the heavens, but between them, in broad patches of open sky, the lodges of the Night Walkers sparkled.
“The storm is breaking,” he said. “This isn’t good, Dust.”
“Just keep walking. So long as we are getting farther away from the war party, it’s good.”
Sparrow concentrated on placing his feet as close to the water as possible without stepping in it. Their thick winter moccasins had been heavily smoked, and would repel a little water, but they couldn’t stand being drenched.
“Sparrow, are you sure that Rumbler was with Little Wren last night? Maybe she hid him somewhere along the trail, and ran ahead—”
“Maybe, but I don’t think so, Dust. I didn’t see any tracks at the shelter. For that matter, I didn’t see anything to indicate that two people had been in the shelter, but I think he was there.”
“Tell me what you saw. Her pack. But was there anything else inside?”
Sparrow stepped around a rock and continued forward. “There was a deer-hide cape on the floor. But when we caught up with Wren she was wearing only a long blue shirt and pants, so I assumed the cape belonged to her. There were two pots over the coals. And something odd. Strips of black cloth lay over the hearthstones.”
“Strips of cloth? … Like bandages?”
“That’s what they looked like, yes.”
Dust went silent, probably wondering, as he was, which of the children had been hurt. He hadn’t noticed any wounds on Wren’s exposed hands or face, but that didn’t mean much. She could have been wounded in a place he couldn’t see. Still, she had flown down the trail like a falcon, apparently in perfect health. If the strips of cloth had been used as bandages, the wound probably belonged to Rumbler.
This new information would be eating at Dust. The little boy needed her, and she didn’t know how to find him to help him.
Wind whipped Sparrow’s white hair around his owlish face, and tangled it with his eyelashes. He brushed it behind his ears.
While he couldn’t shove his worry for Rumbler completely out of his heart, he had more pressing things to consider.
All night long he’d been thinking about Jumping Badger. If he caught Sparrow and Dust before they’d found Rumbler, Jumping Badger could hold Dust hostage until Sparrow removed his curse, then he’d torture them to find out what they knew about Rumbler. Since they didn’t know anything, he’d kill them.
If the war party caught them after they’d found Rumbler, Jumping Badger would hold Rumbler and Dust hostage until Sparrow removed his curse, torturing them, if necessary, in front of Sparrow. Then, after Sparrow removed the curse, he would kill them.
In any case, once Sparrow removed the nonexistent curse, they were all dead.
The solution, of course, was not to get caught, but Sparrow had the uncomfortable feeling that he’d better prepare for the worst.
He studied the shoreline. Five hundred paces ahead, it curved sharply to the left, the dark water rolling up to the grove of pines. The waves had been undercutting the grove for some time. Huge roots hung out of the bank, dangling into the lake like dark twisted arms.
The narrow strip of light sand widened, and Dust trotted forward to walk alongside him. Wind buffeted her hood around her face.
“Sparrow,” Dust said and her mouth pressed into a line. “After we find Rumbler, and lose the war party, do you think we can take Rumbler home?”
“I don’t—”
A wave splashed Sparrow’s legs, drenching his moccasins and pants. He yelped and jumped out of the way. Dust ran. The wave missed her. When it had flowed back into the lake, Dust returned to his side.
“You were saying? You don’t … what?”
His feet squished. “I don’t know, Dust.” He didn’t really want to discuss this with her, though he’d been worrying about it for several days. “I suspect that stories have traveled far and wide by now. Dozens of villages must be talking about the False Face Child, and what happened at Walksalong Village.”