People of the Masks(32)

Why hadn’t he reached Earth Thunderer Village yet?

He scooped a handful of snow from the boulder and put it in his mouth. The crystals tasted cool, blessedly cool.

“I cannot be lost,” he whispered to the doe. “I know this trail!” She flicked her ears at him, and trotted into the trees. Twigs snapped in her wake.

At the base of the hill, a lightning-riven black stump stood. He remembered it.

He had been here with Lamedeer not more than four moons ago. Lamedeer … oh, Lamedeer.

Emotion choked Crowfire. He’d never known what to think about the man. Crowfire had seen five winters when Lamedeer murdered his own father for witchcraft. The fact had always left Crowfire uncertain and fearful—but Lamedeer had saved Crowfire.

He looked down at his bandaged leg. The arrow had pierced the bone just above his ankle as he’d scrambled over the crest of the bluff, but Crowfire had kept running, dashing through the forest like a madman. The first night, he’d taken his knife and tried to cut the stone point out, but it had lodged in the bone. Two nights later, the swelling had outgrown his pant leg. He’d slit the deerhide to the knee, then all the way to his hip. With every breath he took now, he could smell the taint of Shadow Spirits feeding upon his flesh. Their foulness overpowered the tangs of wet bark and dirt.

… Laughter wove through the trees.

“Who’s there?” Crowfire shouted. “Who are you? Why do you not show yourself?”

He examined every shadow, every odd color, then he bowed his head and shook it.

For three nights voices had been speaking to him, whirling out of the air. Once, he’d heard his grandmother calling his name over and over, and followed it through the forest. Later, when he remembered that she’d been dead for more than ten winters, terror had gripped him.

A freezing gust blasted through the oaks and maples, and whipped black hair around Crowfire’s face. He fought to stay on his feet.

“Hurry!” the child called. “I’m over here!”

“Who are you!”

Snow blew along the forest trails, twisting and leaping. Crowfire limped forward, the pain in his leg throbbing through his entire body. He feared that if he sat down to rest, he might not be able to rise again.

“This way! This way!”

Crowfire slipped on ice, and his feet skidded out from under him. A hoarse cry of agony escaped his throat when he struck the ground. Lungs panting for air, he longed to weep.

“Blessed ancestors,” he whispered. When he struggled to sit up, blurs of sky, forest, and ground swirled sickeningly.

“Stop being lazy! I’m this way! Come this way.”

A fuzzy form stood no more than seven paces away. Crowfire rubbed his eyes. It looked like a … a boy. One of the Paint Rock children?

Crowfire yelled, “Do I know you, boy? Did you escape the Paint Rock massacre? Come here! I need help!”

The child didn’t move, and Crowfire dug his fingers into the trail and hauled himself forward. Snow mounded before him, freezing his bare hands and packing the front of his shirt.

The boy skipped away down the trail.

“Wait. Wait! Boy? Bring help! Do you hear? Bring someone to help me!” At the top of his lungs, he screamed, “For the sake of Falling Woman, I’m wounded!”

The apparition vanished into a twisting wreath of snow.

Crowfire dropped his forehead onto his hands. He longed to give in to the cold and exhaustion. If he could just sleep for a day, perhaps the swelling would go down.

Snow crunched.

“Who is he?” a woman asked.

“I do not know, Planter,” a man answered. “But I recognize the markings on his clothing. He’s from Paint Rock Village.”

Crowfire looked up.

He had never seen the young woman, but he knew the old man. Long white hair framed that deeply wrinkled face, highlighting the elder’s broad cheekbones and the curve of his hooked nose. Intense eyes peered into Crowfire’s.

“Silver Sparrow? You … you are, aren’t you?”

The old man knelt. He nodded solemnly. “I am. Who are you?”

“Oh, gods.” Tears tightened his throat. “Silver Sparrow, Lamedeer sent me. To tell you that you were right. Jumping Badger stole the False Face Child.” He mustered his last strength to reach out to the old man. Silver Sparrow took his hand in a strong grip. “Lamedeer is dead. Just as you Dreamed. He’s dead!”

The old man’s fingers tightened around Crowfire’s. “When did it happen?”

“I—I am not certain … of anything. I—”

“What is your name, warrior?”

“Crowfire,” he said and his strength vanished in a rush. He sprawled face first into the snow, sobbing like a child.