People of the Masks(160)

He looked at her, and in those dark loving eyes she saw his fear.

Her voice quavered. “Sparrow, you are not a young man. This battle—”

“Has to be fought.”

“Sparrow—please—just—I don’t want you to die.”

He gave her a somber look. “It makes me very happy to hear you say it, Dust, but you must realize that my chances of staying alive are much better if you aren’t in the fight. I’ll be able to concentrate, and you’ll be able to protect Rumbler. You know as well as I that if you give Rumbler into someone else’s hands, and stay here with me, you’ll be worried sick about him the entire time. You’ll be preoccupied worrying about Rumbler and me. I’ll be preoccupied worrying about Rumbler and you. Rumbler will be worrying about both of us. This is a simple matter. We will all feel better if you and Rumbler are hiding in the forest.”

Wind puffed beneath the door curtain and fanned the coals. The resulting flare of scarlet light lit his eyes. He lifted Dust’s fingers and kissed them. “Pretend you’re a clan matron,” he said. “What would you advise us to do?”

She scowled. “I still don’t like it.”

“But Rumbler and I do, don’t we?” He stretched to look at Rumbler.

Dust had been so involved in the discussion she had not even considered the boy might be listening.

Rumbler brushed his hair behind his ears and sat up. His round face had a rosy hue.

“I won’t be scared if you’re with me, Grandmother.”

“I know, Rumbler, but …”

The door curtain lifted and Hungry Owl stuck his head inside. He had donned a dark moose-hide cape. With the hood pulled up, his young face looked very pale.

“A heavy mist has rolled in,” Hungry Owl said. “Our lookouts can see nothing. You might want to get up.”

Sparrow threw back their blankets, and got to his feet. As he picked up his bow and quiver, he said, “Thank you, Hungry Owl. Where are your people gathering?”

“We’ve built a fire in the trees to the north.”

“We’ll meet you there shortly.”

Hungry Owl nodded, said, “Please empty the teapot over the coals before you leave. We’re killing all the fires in the village.” Then he let the curtain drop. His steps retreated quickly, and Dust could hear hushed voices outside.

Dust put her cape back on, and handed Rumbler’s fox-fur cape to him. The boy took it, and slipped it over his head, waiting wide-eyed for directions from either one of them.

Dust said, “Rumbler, don’t forget your bow and quiver.” She handed them to him, and then picked up her own.

Rumbler clutched the weapons to his chest. Softly, he said, “Wren’s bow and quiver.”

“Oh. I should have known. Thank the Spirits for Little Wren. Rumbler, you still have a half-full teacup. It might be the last you get to drink for a time. Why don’t you finish it.”

“Yes, Grandmother,” he said and reached for the cup. While he drank, Dust locked gazes with Sparrow. He shrugged into his buffalo coat, and gave her a small confident smile.

“I trust,” she said, “that you asked your Spirit Helper for a little assistance.”

Rumbler answered, “I asked mine. They said they would come down from the skies.” He set his empty cup by the fire, and pushed by Dust, trotting for the door. Before he exited, he added, “Grandfather asked his, too.” He ducked outside, and they could hear him emptying his night water.

Dust gave Sparrow an uncomfortable look.

Sparrow spread his arms helplessly. “I don’t know who he talks to.”

“Did you ask for help?”

“Of course I did.”

Sparrow reached for the teapot. As he poured the liquid over the coals, sizzling, spitting clouds of smoke erupted.

Dust picked up her pack, and headed for the door. She ducked out into the dreary afternoon, and held the curtain aside for Sparrow. As he ducked out, he looked at Rumbler, who had joined the people gathered by the fire pit ten paces away, and whispered, “When you get the chance, find out what else he knows.”

“Like whether or not we win?”

“No, Dust. Like whether or not we live.”





Cornhusk eased a low-hanging spruce bough aside and scanned the woods. Through the thick mist he could barely see five paces ahead. Red maples and sugar maples canopied the trail. Mist dripped from the bare branches, creating a constant patter against the forest floor. His mangy buffalo coat clung to his body like wet rawhide.

It unnerved Cornhusk. They couldn’t be more than one or two hands of time from Sleeping Mist Village, and not even he, who had traveled this trail a hundred times, could be sure where they were.