People of the Masks(52)

She tiptoed back to her hides, removed her cape, and started unlacing her moccasins.

Rumbler lifted his head, and gazed at her desperately. “Did you find her?”

“No, but I’m going to keep looking, Rumbler. While you are on Lost Hill, I’ll go out into the forest every morning and night, and call to her. Don’t worry, I …”

Rumbler pulled a buffalo hide over his head. The sounds he made reminded her of a hurt puppy.

They sounded like Trickster’s cries the night he’d died.

She took off her moccasins and set them aside, then she crawled into her bedding.

“Rumbler?” she whispered.

When he didn’t answer, she reached out, slipped her fingers beneath his buffalo hide and dug around until she found his hand. She squeezed it tightly. “I’m right here, Rumbler. Everything’s going to be all right. I promise.”

Rumbler gripped her hand as though he would never let go.





Jumping Badger moved through the longhouse with the silence of mist, clutching the fabric doll in both hands. He’d sewn it from basswood fabric, painted its eyes brown and lips red. A slit revealed the doll’s empty stomach cavity.

Sleeping people snored and shifted as he passed. The four fires had burned down to gleaming beds of coals, and threw red light over the bark walls. The scent of burning cedar pervaded the chilly air.

Outside in the black cold, a ghost moaned. He could hear her scratching against the walls of the longhouse, trying to get in. To find him.

Jumping Badger’s long black hair swayed as he knelt beside Little Wren. The bottom fringe of his knee-length shirt hissed over the hide-covered floor.

The girl had called out to Briar, led her here.

Little Wren lay on her back with her hides pulled up to her pointed chin. A wealth of hair haloed her pretty face. Her right arm stretched across the floor, her limp fingers holding the False Face Child’s stubby left hand.

Jumping Badger bent down and whispered in her ear,

“I saw you outside in the forest.”

He rested the doll on the hide over her chest, and slipped his knife from his belt. Picking up a lock of her hair, he intimately brushed it over his cheek and lips. Then he kissed the hair, and blew on it, sending his soul down the shaft and into her body. His warm breath condensed into a white cloud.

Wren’s eyelids twitched.

Jumping Badger cut the lock off, picked up the doll, and stuffed the hair into the stomach cavity. It made a dark glistening well.

Something thumped against the wall, and he lunged to his feet, panting like a hunted animal. Fists. Invisible fists striking the walls …

She wanted him.

Jumping Badger’s gaze searched the dark corners as he walked back down the longhouse. When he reached the fire pit nearest his bedding, he threw the doll onto the coals.

Smoke fluttered up.

Little Wren gasped for breath.

Jumping Badger smiled as the doll’s head burst into flame and the whole fire pit caught. The burst of light drenched the walls and ceiling.

Little Wren cried out, and sat bolt upright. Blue Raven threw off his bedding, lurched to his feet, and ran to Wren’s side.

“Shh, Wren,” he murmured. “You are safe. We are all well.”

Wren blinked wide-eyed, her gaze searching the firelit darkness. “Oh, Uncle!” she whimpered and threw her arms around his neck. “I dreamed the longhouse was burning down around me!”

Blue Raven murmured something Jumping Badger couldn’t hear, and kissed Wren’s forehead.

The False Face Child rolled over and his gaze fixed on Jumping Badger. Black. Glittering.

Jumping Badger backed up to his hides. As he stretched out on top of them, he watched the False Face Child.

The boy lifted his chin and turned his face to the firelight, as if making certain Jumping Badger could see him. He smiled, his teeth glinting, then pursed his lips. The breath he blew at Jumping Badger came out in a sparkling stream.

Jumping Badger’s belly cramped suddenly. He stifled his groan, crawled under his hides, and tugged them over his head.





Ten



“Mother?” Planter called. “Mother, the Trader, Cornhusk, is here. He wishes to speak with you.”

Dust Moon sighed. She’d plaited her long gray hair into a single braid, and let it fall over her left shoulder as she looked around her warm lodge. Three paces across, it had a low ceiling and hide-covered floor. A small fire burned in the middle of the lodge, throwing wavering light over the baskets that lined the floor to her right. Filled with four different kinds of corn, sunflower seeds, gourds, and nuts, they provided almost everything she needed. She hated the idea of going out into such a dreary morning. A beautiful buckskin dress lay on her lap, the quillwork almost finished. Blue and red chevrons covered the sleeves, and a yellow spiral coiled across the chest. It would be a gift for Planter, if she ever finished it. She’d been working on the dress since last summer.