People of the Masks(163)

When they reached the hill, she saw mounds of vines fifteen hands tall. The berries had grown over fallen timbers, weaving up and around the branches, tying them together like thick ropes. But tunnels remained beneath the timbers, hollowed out by animals.

She climbed higher up the hill, getting a better vantage of the village plaza and the fire where Sparrow knelt. He faced the east, looking down the trail they had come up only a few hands of time ago. A pile of firewood rested to his left.

Rumbler let go of Dust’s hand, got down on all fours, and crawled into a tunnel beneath the berry vines. The opening spread about four hands wide.

“Come in, Grandmother,” Rumbler called. “It’s big in here. There’s room for both of us.”

Dust lowered herself to one knee, unslung her pack, and looked in at Rumbler. He sat in a hollow about eight hands high and ten hands wide. Vines as thick as her arms crisscrossed to form the ceiling and walls. Children played here. Cornhusk dolls rested to Rumbler’s right. He smiled at Dust, and propped his bow and quiver across his lap. His fox-fur cape shone in the dim gray light. At the opposite end of the hollow, a tunnel barely two hands across led into the heart of the bramble. Rabbit tracks marked the dirt.

She said, “For now, I’ll stay out here, Rumbler. I want to watch your grandfather. I—”

“Shh! We don’t want him to hear us.”

Dust stuck her head inside the hollow. Rumbler tucked a finger in his mouth, and stared at her with huge bottomless black eyes.

“Who, Rumbler? Your grandfather?”

He whispered, “Grandfather’s Spirit Helper.”

The prickle began at the nape of her neck, and crept down her spine. “He’s here?”

Barely audible, Rumbler said, “Yes. He’s been Dancing around the village.”

Dust straightened, and looked across the plaza.

“Doesn’t he want your grandfather to know he’s here?” Dust asked, as she unslung her bow, and pulled an arrow from her quiver. “You’d think a Spirit Helper would notify his own personal Dreamer of his arrival.”

Rumbler crawled to the opening to look out at her. “He says Grandfather’s too fast a runner.”

Dust frowned. “Then how will Sparrow get the message he brings?”

“He just said that Grandfather would, and that … I …”

A pine siskin fluttered down less than ten hands away. The little grayish brown bird had bright yellow on its lower back and tail. The siskin cocked its head to the side, peering at Rumbler quizzically. Then it fluttered closer, landing on the dark tangle of vines directly over Rumbler’s head.

Rumbler eased from the hollow, breathing hard, his cheeks flushed, and knelt barely two hands from the siskin.

Mesmerized, Dust watched.

The siskin lifted its head and chirped.

Rumbler’s fists tightened. Tears filled his eyes. He opened his mouth, as if he longed to speak to the bird.

The siskin seemed to sense it. It nervously hopped away, and perched on the highest vine in the bramble. An instant later, it flew up into the mist.

Rumbler grabbed onto a vine to steady himself, and sank to the ground.

Dust whispered, “Rumbler?”

In a choking voice, he said, “They’re coming. My mother sent the bird to tell us.”





Thirty-Four



The echoes of sunset blushed color into the mist, giving it a milky pink radiance.

Jumping Badger stopped at the heavily trodden trail that led from the lakeshore up the hill. Twenty or thirty people had walked this trail today, including the two people from the Turtle Nation and the False Face Child. He held up his staff to halt the warriors behind him. Voices murmured, transferring the unspoken order to those who couldn’t see him in the glittering haze. Feet shuffling to a stop competed with the rhythmic shishing of the waves.

A light breeze blew in off the lake.

Jumping Badger lifted his nose and sniffed the air. The scent of smoke filtered through the fog.

The ghosts had grown bold. One swooped down from the sky and batted at his hair, while another slithered from the ground and clawed at his legs with icy hands. Jumping Badger cried out, and leaped sideways. Claw marks raked the sand where the disembodied hand had disappeared.

“Leave me alone! All of you!”

He hadn’t slept in so long that he kept forgetting things. Only a hand of time ago, he’d ordered Buckeye to bring Blue Raven to him so he could question him. When Buckeye’s mouth had dropped open, he’d realized his cousin was dead.

But not gone. Blue Raven’s carefully placed steps echoed his own, close, less than a body’s length away, and he could smell the man, the odor of torn intestines overpowering. Blue Raven suddenly ran at him, his steps shaking the ground.