People of the Masks(143)
She gripped her hood beneath her chin. “Gods, if Cornhusk is telling the story, those three corpses have grown to at least fifty.”
Waves curled over the sand in front of them, tumbling pebbles and squirrel-gnawed pinecones. As they neared the grove, the sweet tangy fragrance of damp pines filled the air.
“Do you want the truth, Dust?” he asked, and gave her a sideways glance.
“Yes, of course I do.”
“Every member of the Bear Nation has already heard about my ‘curse,’ and is terrified that the False Face Child might survive.”
He saw the fingers tighten on her hood. “You don’t think Rumbler will be safe anywhere, do you?”
“No,” he answered softly. Then he added, “And the village that takes him in will be committing suicide.”
Dust blinked and lowered her gaze to the sand. She walked quietly, her face shielded.
Sparrow inhaled the pine-sharp breeze, knowing the paths her thoughts must be taking. If she couldn’t take him home, then she had to choose between Rumbler, and Earth Thunderer Village. The Earth Thunderer Clan depended upon her. Her daughter and grandchildren lived there. But how could she leave a boy of nine winters, a boy she loved, in the hands of strangers?
“Where would he be safe, Sparrow?”
“A place where no one cares about the squabbles between the Bear Nation and the Turtle Nation.”
“Where is that?”
“A place that we’ve never been. The far north. The far south. Maybe out beyond the western mountains.”
The moon-cast shadow of a bird circled them. Sparrow looked up. The owl sailed over the beach, its eyes shining like polished shells, and landed in one of the pines. It fluffed its wings for warmth, observing them with mild interest.
A game trail cut across the face of the hill, disappearing into the pine grove just beneath the owl. Sparrow studied the bird, then the exposed tree roots. Rocks and cones glittered in the hollow carved in the bank. On the ledge above, ten hands away, pine boughs dipped mournfully. The heavy weight of snow had bent the branches until they touched the ground. The owl blinked at them.
“Dust,” he said and put out a hand to stop her. “Wait.”
She looked at him. “What do you see?”
“I don’t …” He shook his head. “What I see is an owl, but my stomach muscles just clenched tight.”
She peered at him from the corner of her eye. “Silver Sparrow, don’t you ever again complain about my unruly hair, or my nose for the garbage midden.”
“This is different, Dust.”
She glanced at the owl again. “Really?”
“Yes.” He unslung his bow, pulled an arrow from his quiver, and nocked it. The pain in his heart had returned, burning and throbbing. He winced. “I don’t know what’s happening, but Power is loose on the night. I feel as if every breath of wind is trying to tell me … something.”
Rumbler lay on his side with his knees pulled up inside the fox-fur cape, his good finger tucked into his mouth. He’d been crying. The people standing on the shore below were blurry, like faraway mountains on a hot day.
The wind and waves gnashed at each other, eating the people’s words, but he could hear their voices … .
He shivered.
The voices glittered inside him, like the skin of ghosts, or dead eyes underwater.
He reached over, and spread the pine boughs to see better.
Sparrow edged closer to the water-carved hollow in the bank. The owl watched him. Wind Mother gusted across the shore, rattling the exposed roots, and blowing a haze of moonlit snow down from the bank above. Sparrow closed his eyes briefly, then examined the ground. No tracks marred the sand. But the pain in his chest had turned fiery, as if his Spirit Helper …
Dust gasped, and Sparrow spun to look at her. She had a hand over her mouth, pressing as if to stop a scream, and Sparrow saw the veins in her temples throbbing.
“Dust!” He grabbed for her arm. “What—”
“Don’t you see the face? His face!”
Dust threw off his arm, and ran back the way they’d come, along the game trail that led up through the pine grove.
“Rumbler?” she shouted. “Rumbler!”
From beneath the pine boughs, a snowy white figure emerged. He trotted to the edge of the bank. Chin-length black hair framed the round face in the fox-fur hood. Moonlight gleamed on the tears on his cheeks.
In a choking voice, he called, “Grandmother? Grandfather ?”
Dust ran. She fell on her knees in front of him, and clutched him to her chest, kissing his face and throat, murmuring words Sparrow could not hear.
Sparrow straightened. The pain in his chest had vanished. In an instant. The moment he’d seen Rumbler.