Wren reached down, and plucked a red stone from the side of the hole. One of the sacred colors, red meant life. Red stones also frequently hid the quivering body of the bad twin, Red Flint. She held it to her ear, didn’t hear it breathing, and put it in her cape pocket, then she started running again.
With each gust of wind, shadows and sunlight swayed across her path. She sprinted past the bare oaks at the foot of the trail, and out onto the beach. Waves dashed the shore, throwing spray two body lengths high. As the droplets fell, they sparkled like the rainbow. Wren watched them for a few moments, then glanced to her left at the grove of trees where she had seen the bloody boy. Though it had happened eight nights ago, it seemed like eight heartbeats. Her pulse raced as she searched the tangled deadfall, and brush. “ … You will come with me. Power has decided.” In the daylight she wasn’t so scared, but when she had to come down here to deliver Uncle Blue Raven’s food at dusk … she prayed she didn’t wet her new pants.
She glanced at Lost Hill.
Uncle Blue Raven sat near the top with an elkhide around his shoulders. His bow and arrows lay beside him, and he had a small fire going. About fifty hands down the hillside from the fire, Rumbler lay. His small misshapen body had been stretched out and his hands and feet bound, then staked down.
He rested about two hundred hands from Wren, but she could see him clearly. He wore only moccasins and his black shirt. The shell ornaments sewn across his chest winked when the wind blew them. The cold must be eating at his bones, but he looked so still, so brave.
An eagle spiraled over the hill, and Wren wondered if it was really an ordinary bird or a Thunderbird in disguise. The personal Spirit Helpers of Grandmother Earth, Thunderbirds possessed great Power. They gave Grandmother Earth drink when she thirsted, cleansed her when she needed refreshing, and kept her fruitful. They also stoked fires in their skyforges and threw flaming arrows at the forests to burn away underbrush and create lush green meadows. From early spring to late fall, the Thunderbirds diligently tended to the needs of Grandmother Earth, then, in winter, they played. Often that play included changing themselves into eagles.
Wren’s brows pinched. The eagle’s circles tightened. He picked up speed. When he neared the top of Lost Hill, a whirlwind of dirt and old leaves churned up beneath him. The funnel twisted into the sky like a dirty serpent. It stormed across the slope, blasted Uncle Blue Raven, then corkscrewed its way down the hill. Just before striking Rumbler, the funnel vanished. All the old leaves it had been holding aloft came fluttering down.
Wren’s jaw slackened as they landed around Rumbler, covering him like a thick brown blanket.
“Did you call out to the Spirits for help, Rumbler?” she whispered. “Is that why …”
He lifted his head.
Wren straightened in surprise. She hadn’t expected him to hear her. The breeze must have been just right to carry her voice to him. She glanced at her uncle to make sure he wasn’t watching, then gave Rumbler a quick wave.
Rumbler looked at her for as long as he could, his mouth moving, then he sank to the ground.
Defeat filled Wren. She tried to memorize every line in his face, the way his stubby arms and legs lay, even the glimmers on his black shirt. If a person had to die, it seemed to her that the people responsible should at least have to watch it happen. Perhaps if everyone in Walksalong Village were required to sit Vigils, fewer people would be condemned.
Wren had to force herself to swallow before she could breathe.
She stayed at the bottom of Lost Hill, watching, until the light began to fade, and she knew she had to go home.
Silver Sparrow added branches to the morning fire. Frost coated the grass, and outlined the trail like fresh snow. His breath misted as he leaned over the soot-coated pot hanging from the tripod at the edge of the coals. The tea smelled tangy. Made of dried crabapples and hardened chunks of maple sap, it had a deliciously tart flavor. He’d been up for about a hand of time, getting the fire going, boiling water for tea, setting out gourd cups, and rolling his hides. His pack sat an arm’s length to his left. Dust slept on the other side of the fire, her beautiful face serene. Beyond her, a long forested ridge curved down to the shore of Leafing Lake. The treetops gleamed in the faint gray of dawn. The brightest lodges of the Night Walkers twinkled above the indigo water.
Sparrow sank back upon his deerhide, and watched the winking dance of the sparks as they climbed through the winter-bare oak branches into the dark sky. Yesterday had been a very long day. From early morning, until almost dark, they had run, walked, and run some more, until they’d reached the three canoes that Earth Thunderer Clan always left hidden in the brush along the lakeshore. He could feel every one of his fifty-three winters in his joints.