Blue Raven’s heart continued to pound, each beat like a hammer swung against his chest wall, but he forced himself to straighten up. How long had the snow been falling this heavily? They might not be that far ahead of him. If he could find them before dawn and bring them back, Wren would be safe. He would tell no one, and swear her to secrecy. Oh, she would feel his wrath! He’d have her scraping the flesh off fresh hides for the rest of her life.
He called, “Wren? Wren!”
He bounded ahead, kicking up a white haze. At the current rate of snowfall, the trail would be gone in less than half a hand of time. Each moment that passed, his hope of finding them diminished.
The trail led to the water’s edge, headed west, and vanished.
Blue Raven trotted a short distance westward, then turned back and headed east. As the storm rushed overhead, a few of the Cloud Giants stretched themselves too thin, and dim starlight touched the lake. The reflection wavered over the beach. Blue Raven picked up the trail and ran. Wren had tried to drag Rumbler between the water and the snow, figuring the waves would obscure her trail, but she’d had to dodge the incoming waves. Every now and then, drag marks scalloped the snow.
She appeared to be heading due north, toward Leafing Lake.
The pain ate at his ribs, forcing him to slow to a stagger. He had to find Wren.
“Walk!” he ordered himself. “Keep walking. Wren! Wren, where are you?”
In the dream, I touch my nose to the cold green surface of the pond, trying to fathom who this stranger is that stares back at me.
I remember the first night I returned home after my Spirit journey.
I told you everything. Gave you the broken pieces of my heart and souls, prayed you could show me how to fit them together again.
As you always had.
You looked at me as if you hadn’t heard.
Sitting there before the fire in your plain doeskin dress, I could see you growing dark, growing dark everywhere at once.
And I managed to be farther away from you inside myself than anywhere else I’ve ever been.
Love is pain.
I know this.
I just can’t get used to it after the lifetime of joy we shared.
I tilt my head to the side, examining my reflection, the deep wrinkles that line my cheeks and forehead.
What happened to the man you loved?
I keep thinking he must be in here somewhere.
I’ve begun to fear that you’re the only one who can find him.
And you don’t want to.
Gods, Dust, I … I’m lost.
Without your eyes looking at me inside, I don’t know who I am.
I don’t know who anyone …
“Sparrow?” Dust Moon called, and rolled over in her blankets to face him.
He lay on the other side of the fire pit, his forehead and bushy eyebrows showing above his elkhide. Before going to sleep last night, they’d built a crude structure by leaning deadfall limbs against a rock outcrop, then covering them with brush. Through the open ends of the structure, Dust could see how much snow had fallen. She sat up. “Sparrow?”
“Mmph.”
“Sparrow, there are several hands of snow on the ground!”
Groggily, he asked, “Where are the Night Walkers’ lodges?”
“It’s snowing, you fool. I can’t see anything more than ten hands away.”
She crawled to the small triangular opening on her left, and scooped away enough to stick her head out, gauging the dim light that filtered through the storm clouds. “All I see is snow.”
“Dust, I’m exhausted. I feel like I’ve slept for about four hands of time. Let’s rest a little longer.” He huddled into his bedding.
“I’m not sleeping, and neither are you. The drifts on the trail are probably head-high. Even if we get to our canoe immediately, we’re not going to reach Walksalong Village before late afternoon.” She crawled back, and started rolling up her blankets. “Sparrow? Get up. Now!”
He blinked his eyes open.
“Imagine how Rumbler must be feeling,” she said as she tied her blankets with a basswood cord. “That should wake you up.”
“I have been,” he said in a quiet voice. “I Dreamed about him all night long. Strange, haunting Dreams. My Spirit Helper was there beside him, speaking with Rumbler, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying.”
At the mention of his Spirit Helper pain lanced her heart, bringing back memories of Flintboy’s death and the terrible days of wrenching loneliness that had followed. A curious low roaring filled her ears, as if she held shells to them, and her throat ached with the urge to weep or strike something. For two winters she had been fighting to overcome the sting of his abandonment, but had failed.
“Well, I hope you’re not relying on your Spirit Helper to get Rumbler out of this,” she said bitterly, “because if you are—”