People of the Masks(34)

Blue Raven caught an odd undercurrent in her voice. “Do you have a special reason?”

“Well, it’s just that he does not seem wicked to me, Uncle. That’s all.”

“You did not see him for more than a finger of time, Wren. He may …” When red mottled her cheeks, Blue Raven’s brows lowered. “Did you?”

“Uncle, I … Do you remember that I promised Trickster I would go to visit him today?”

“Blessed Falling Woman!” he shouted. “Despite three deaths, and Matron Starflower’s orders, you—”

“I had to! Trickster called to me in my dreams last night, and I promised!”

Tears moistened her eyes, and Blue Raven bit off his next words. Though their people ate dogs on special occasions, they also kept them as cherished pets. Many of their sacred stories were about great heroic dogs who had saved humans from destruction. Wren had loved Trickster. For three moons after the death of her mother—his sister—Blue Raven’s own grief had prevented him from truly caring for Wren. Only Trickster had comforted her.

Blue Raven put a hand on her back. “You could have been injured, or worse, Wren. How do you think that would have made me feel? You are the warmth that keeps my heart beating. I could not bear to lose you. Please do not go there again. Not until we know more about the False Face Child.” He guided her toward the door, slowing his steps to match hers.

When they came out into the cold wind, Blue Raven unhooked the door curtain and let it fall closed behind him. Almost three fingers of snow had fallen in the past hand of time, and he suspected there would be much more before nightfall.

“Did the False Face Child say anything to you, Wren?”

“No,” she answered, then apparently thought better of it, and added, “Well, he—he said he thinks something is wrong with his mother.”

Blue Raven started up the trail toward the village with Wren beside him. Snowflakes whirled about them as they walked, as silent as delicate white feathers. “And what did you say?”

After a long pause, she replied, “I told him she was probably dead. But I wish I hadn’t, Uncle. He cried. He cried hard. Just like a human boy.”

Blue Raven rested his hand on top of her head. Though she exasperated him by questioning every order he, or anyone else, gave her, she also spent a good deal of time thinking about the world around her. She would make a fine village matron one day, as his sister would have, if she’d lived. “Remember that tomorrow, Wren, when you are asked to cast your voice in council.”

“I will, Uncle.”

He patted her black hair. “Now, tell me about Trickster. What did you take him today? Another bone? Or a toy?”

She tipped her head to smile up at him. “A toy. Do you remember the oak stick he loved so much? I found it behind a basket. I was afraid the Night Walkers might not understand about dog toys. Do you think they do?”

Blue Raven smiled. “I think so. But I’m glad you took it.”

Wren turned and abruptly hugged him around the waist. “Thank you for not yelling at me, Uncle. I love you.”

A huge hand seemed to tighten around his heart. He smiled. “I love you, too, Wren.”





Seven



As late afternoon changed to evening, cold wind gusted across the plaza and assaulted the fire in front of Little Wren. Ashes and smoke blew into her face. She wiped her eyes, and lowered her half-finished wooden bowl to her lap. The sweet scent of burning hickory encircled her. The two other girls, Dark Wind and Vine, who knelt across the fire, lifted their bowls to shield their faces. Firelight flickered on the rough-hewn bowl bottoms.

Building thunderheads promised more storms, but for now twilight cast pale light over the people who sat around the plaza fires. To Wren’s right, a group of eleven old women huddled together, including Bogbean. Bogbean had finished her Teaching about wooden bowls, and left the girls to work while she tended her own duties, making cordage from the soft inner bark of the basswood tree. Bogbean’s silver head glinted in the wavering gleam of the flames. She wore a brightly painted leather cape, covered with seashells and stitched with blue porcupine quills. The old women’s laughter rang through the village. When finished, the finer cordage would be woven into scarfs, collars, and bracelets. The coarser cordage would become mats, and hanging baskets. To her left, about twenty men, mostly the very young and the very old, stood in a circle. Nearly every man of warring age, and many women, had accompanied Jumping Badger on the raid. Those who had remained were supposed to guard Walksalong Village, but like these loungers they generally spent their time boasting about war parties they’d been on, or raids they hoped to make.