People of the Masks(29)

A chill always ate at her stomach when she came here. The Sunshine Boy moved with the silence of hawk’s shadow, stalking the sick or the weak. If he sneaked inside someone, they withered and died. She’d seen it happen.

Stopping at a high point, Wren scanned her backtrail to make certain no one had seen her, then silently stepped into a dense stand of pines. She tiptoed forward several paces, before breaking into a run. If she hurried, she might make it there ahead of Uncle Blue Raven—and she needed to. She had promised Trickster she would come today.

Many people and animals lay buried beneath the Sunshine Boy’s spreading limbs, including her own best friend. As she climbed a small hill, she saw Trickster’s grave. The dirt had sunken into the hole, leaving a shallow depression at the base of the massive twisted oak. Just seeing it made her heart pound.

She felt around in her cape pocket for the gift she’d brought, then raced down the hill.

Before she had made ten paces, though, she glimpsed Uncle Blue Raven and the False Face Child entering the meadow. He was moving faster than she’d thought. Wren leaped behind a fallen log, praying she had not been seen. After Matron Starflower’s warning, if she were caught, she would be grinding corn and hauling water for the rest of her life.

Scents of damp wood and frozen dirt encircled her. Her uncle walked like a man going to his own execution, his steps quick, but deliberate, leading the child toward the Sunshine Boy. The False Face Child swaggered along with his eyes on the trees that bordered the meadow. Just before they reached the oak, Acorn came sprinting down the trail behind them with a coil of rope in his hands.

It took almost no time. The men made the little boy lie down, tied his hands and feet, then staked his feet down. Next, they drew the boy’s bound hands over his head, and staked them, too.

Acorn hastily backed away, wiping his palms on his red shirt as if to rid himself of the boy’s feel. Uncle Blue Raven, however, knelt and spread his cape over Rumbler. He said something Wren could not hear, and the False Face Child laughed again, a high-pitched unearthly sound that made Wren’s whole body sting.

He hadn’t laughed like that in the longhouse—thank the Spirits.

She had not realized until this moment what a brave man Uncle Blue Raven must be. When he rose from the boy’s side, he did not even seem to be shaking. He heaved a breath that condensed into a white cloud before him, and turned to walk up the trail beside Acorn.

Wren waited until they’d disappeared into the trees, then stared at Rumbler.

Wind Mother tousled his black hair around his plump face, and tugged at the edges of the cape that covered him. He was staring wide-eyed at the Sunshine Boy. The oak’s right half had been charred black by a lightning strike, and in the spring the burned limbs appeared eerie beside the green leaves that covered the left half. Wren wondered if the False Face Child could see the terrible Spirit Boy with sunshine eyes who lived in the tree. The Walksalong elders said that only those with great Power could look directly into the sacred boy’s blinding eyes. Wren gathered her courage. Trickster’s grave rested about twenty hands from the False Face’s bound feet.

I’m coming, Trickster.

She checked the trail again, making sure no one saw her, then ran across the snowy meadow. The False Face Child’s black eyes glinted when he saw her coming.

She walked directly to Trickster’s grave.

“It’s me, Trickster,” she whispered. Snow had begun to fill the depression.

The False Face Child shifted to keep his eyes on her.

Wren knelt beside the grave. “I have been worried about you, Trickster. Are you warm enough? It’s such a cold day.”

She brushed the snow from the hole, and sighed. The hurt that lived in her souls reared. After the deaths of her parents and brother, Trickster had been her only friend. He’d slept with her at night, keeping her warm, licking her face when she’d cried. Trickster had made her grief bearable.

“Is it a dog?” the False Face Child whispered. “A dead dog?”

Wren’s throat tightened. “He was my best friend.”

“I had a dog,” the boy said softly. “He’s dead, too.”

Wren swallowed hard as she looked at the shallow depression. She knew exactly how he lay in the grave. With her eyes, she traced the point of his nose, down his back and around his tail. He had two black spots on his forehead, which looked like an extra pair of eyes. Among her people, such dogs were believed to have special Powers. Trickster had been a great hunter. He always picked up the scent of game before any other dog in the village, and he could keep a bear or cougar treed all day.

“I’m sorry, Trickster,” she said. “I still love you.”