He glanced around the dark shore, expecting to catch a glimpse of his Spirit Helper, but saw no one.
Sparrow trotted to the game trail and climbed to join them.
When he knelt, Rumbler disentangled himself from Dust’s grip, and threw his arms around Sparrow’s neck. “Grandfather, Grandfather!”
“Shh, you’re all right now.” Sparrow hugged the sobbing boy, and patted his back. Rumbler had a bow and quiver slung over his shoulder beneath his cape. Wren’s? “Everything’s going to be all right.”
He picked Rumbler up, and started down the hill.
Rumbler extended a tiny hand over his shoulder, reaching out to Dust, and she rushed forward to grab his fingers.
A small terrible cry came from her lips.
Sparrow blurted, “Dust?”
“Oh, Sparrow. His hands. He—he must have had frostbite. I need to look—”
“Later. Let’s put distance between us and the war party. At dawn, we’ll stop and eat, and you can take a closer look at his hands.”
“Yes, you’re right.”
He felt Dust stroking Rumbler’s hair and heard her say, “We’re going to get you away from here, then we’ll figure out what to do.”
“Yes, Grandmother.” Rumbler wept the words, and buried his face in the hollow of Sparrow’s throat.
Sparrow led the way back to the sand, and headed northward as fast as he could walk.
It took less than a finger of time for Rumbler’s body to relax in Sparrow’s arms, his breathing to slow in the deep rhythms of sleep.
Dust let go of his hand, and came around to walk at Sparrow’s side.
A frown lined her face. “If we keep up this pace, we should make it to Sleeping Mist Village by early afternoon, shouldn’t we?”
“Yes, Dust. We’d better.”
Wren lay curled on her side with her cold hands between her knees, watching Dawn Woman wander across the meadow. The lavender hem of her dress dyed the snow as she moved. A weary breath escaped Wren’s lungs, and floated away in white streamers. Her gaze clung to them as they drifted out over the meadow.
Acorn and Elk Ivory stood at the edge of the growing light, thirty paces away, digging a hole in the ground with wooden bowls. They had carried Uncle Blue Raven into the meadow and laid him in the snow. His blood-soaked hide pants sparkled the deep red-brown of old scarlet oak leaves.
Like shocked nerves awakening after a blow, a tingle spread across Wren’s chest.
She remembered the love in his eyes the day he’d helped her bury Trickster. Uncle Blue Raven had gently lifted the spotted dog and placed him in the grave. After Wren had petted Trickster, filled the grave with precious toys and elk jerky, they’d covered him up, and Sung the Death Song. Wren had only been able to Sing part of the song, because she’d started crying. Uncle Blue Raven had put an arm around her shoulders, and finished the Song for both of them.
She remembered the pain on his face the last night she’d brought him food on Lost Hill … the sad way he’d gazed at Rumbler.
Rumbler …
Ancestors Above, please help him.
He would be looking for her right now. He must be freezing and hungry. Wren wished she’d thought to give him the pack with the food bags last night. At least he had her bow and quiver. He could hunt, maybe, if his hands allowed. But she prayed he wouldn’t come out of his hiding place, wherever it was, until long after Jumping Badger and his warriors had gone.
Elk Ivory and Acorn set their bowls aside, and lifted Uncle Blue Raven into the shallow hole, four hands deep. They did it gently, with respect, then piled the dirt back over his body.
Elk Ivory stood, and began the Death Song. Her beautiful high voice rang across the camp.
Acorn’s rich baritone joined hers.
Wren closed her eyes, and whispered the words, Sky Holder, great Sky Holder, come walking, lift Blue Raven’s soul …
Several warriors walked away from their morning fires and shuffled around the grave in the Death Dance, Singing, their arms over their heads, their feet stamping the ground, sending up puffs of white.
Steps crunched the snow around Wren. She opened her eyes.
Jumping Badger stood over her, surrounded by Rides-the-Bear, Shield Maker, and Buckeye. The other warriors tended to their morning chores, rolling blankets, making breakfast, monitoring the fires.
Jumping Badger’s breath puffed from his nostrils and twisted away in the morning breeze. He wore a heavy beaver-hide coat, and held the staff with the dead war leader’s head in his right hand.
Wren had barely enough strength to stare up at the new mask that covered Lamedeer’s face. Her eyes didn’t want to focus. The mask might have been carved by a child of six winters. The crow’s beak was crooked, one eyehole larger than the other, and set higher. But through them, Wren saw sunken pits filled with yellow crust.