People of the Masks(4)

Rumbler, the dwarf boy who lived two nights to the north in Paint Rock Village, had great Power. He terrified most people, including Sparrow, and Sparrow loved the little boy with all his heart and souls.

“I’m sure Rumbler has more important things to do than worry about an old man’s pains.” To emphasize his point, Sparrow groaned as he stretched his aching back muscles. “Go home now, Blue. I’m having a difficult vision quest. I need to concentrate.”

Tall Blue rose to his feet. “Very well, Elder.”

But the young war leader stood with his brows lowered, peering worriedly at Sparrow.

Sparrow pointed. “Just follow your own footprints in the snow, Blue.”

Blue gave him an irritated look, as though that were not news to him. “I pray your Spirit Helper arrives soon, Elder.”

“So do I.”

Tall Blue nodded, and walked away. Sparrow watched him wade through the frosty meadow grass, toward the trail back to Earth Thunderer Village.

Sparrow braced his shaking arms on his knees. The past three days had taken a greater toll on his strength than he’d thought. He inhaled several deep breaths and let them out slowly while he scanned the forest. The slant of sunlight had changed. Its flaxen veils fell through the trees, glittering and twinkling. Where they struck the ground, it steamed.

Sparrow forced his legs to hold him as he rose, and headed toward the crest of the hill.

Pines flanked the way, their fragrance heavy on the breeze. The trail curved around a boulder, then wove through a tangle of deadfall and onto a flat stone ledge. Sparrow made it to the ledge and bent over to catch his breath. Lungs heaving, he barely heard the change in the timbre of Wind Mother’s voice. It had gone from a faint whimper to a deep-throated growl. When the distant cry of a wolf carried to him, Sparrow turned, his long white hair whipping around his wrinkled face. High-pitched and haunting, the mournful call tingled his spine.

Deadfall cracked behind Sparrow.

He turned, expecting to see Tall Blue again, but only flailing tree limbs met his gaze. Frigid wind flapped his collar around his throat.

He heard it again, to his left, twigs snapping beneath heavy feet, closer this time.

Blessed gods, I didn’t lure a cougar, did I? Or a disgruntled moose? He slowly turned around. The brown leaves that clung to the hardwoods fluttered, creating a gorgeous interplay of light and shadow. Maybe it’s just a deer, or …

A new sound reached his ears, low, rhythmic, like the panting of an animal, rushing toward him.

The hair on Sparrow’s neck prickled. He backed away.

The breathing seemed to come from everywhere at once, as though it lived in Wind Mother’s heart.

His gaze darted from one shadow to the next. “There’s nothing there!” he roughly told himself. “Nothing. Look around! You’re just—”

Branches exploded over his head. Sparrow hit the ground on his belly, crawling for cover. When he’d made it into a shelter of tangled limbs, he looked up.

Near the pointed top of the pine, a squirrel sat, working its jaws. Bits of debris floated down. Sparrow struggled to see what the little animal was eating, then a pinecone fell, producing a breathy sound as it tumbled through the air, and cracks when it struck lower limbs.

The forest had gone quiet, the sunlight almost too brilliant to bear. Sparrow wanted to laugh. He rolled to his back, and took a few moments to satisfy his starving lungs. “Blessed gods,” he cried, “I can be such a fool.”

From the air around him, an eerie childish voice whispered, “Yes, you can.”

Sparrow’s blood turned to ice.





Two



Lamedeer’s silver-streaked black hair fell around his square-jawed face as he leaned forward to warm his hands before the fire. The patriarch of Paint Rock Village sat on a log across from him, his wrinkled face dour. The old man hadn’t said a word in over a finger of time. Lamedeer longed to rise and go about his duties as war leader, but the clan patron had called him here, and he had to stay until dismissed. Red Pipe’s gaunt face looked shriveled. The few gray hairs left on his freckled scalp clustered around his ears. He wore a beautifully tanned buffalo cape, the fur turned inward where it rested warmly against his skin. Starbursts of blue and yellow porcupine quills encircled his collar.

“So,” Red Pipe finally murmured. “What do we do? Wait and see? Or burden our sister villages by asking for their help?”

“These rumors have been flying for half a moon, Patron. Yet we are still safe, our village prosperous.” Red Pipe’s wrinkled lips sank inward over his toothless gums. He nodded, and went silent again, thinking.

Eight small bark-covered lodges nestled at the edge of the trees to Lamedeer’s left. Curls of blue smoke rose from the rounded roofs, twined through the dark oak branches and drifted into the late afternoon sky. Lamedeer could not see Grandfather Day Maker, but knew he must be sitting on the western horizon. The heavens had a bronze sheen. Most of the villagers had retreated inside their lodges to cook supper, leaving Lamedeer and Red Pipe alone in the plaza.