Despite herself, she smiled. “He knew I meant it, too. My mother was a great Healer. The first lessons she taught me were about poisonous plants and their uses.”
Sparrow tilted his head. “You’d seen seven winters, Dust. Twitter was four times your size. I couldn’t believe how brave you were.”
They looked at each other for a long moment. Between them lay a lifetime of shared joys and sorrows. Once, not so long ago, only the sorrows had hurt. Now the joys did, too.
The cook pot boiled over, sending froth cascading onto the coals, and Dust leaped for the bag of acorn meal. She dumped half of it into the pot, then stirred it with her stick. “This will be done very soon.”
He reached for his pack, drew out cups and bowls, and set them on the ground, then searched for their horn spoons. As he tucked them into the bowls, he said, “I think the tea is warm. I’ll fill our cups.”
Sparrow dipped her gourd cup full, and set it near her feet. “You know,” he said, taking the chance, “Planter’s house sits next to yours.”
“Did you think I was unaware of that?”
He toyed with his cup. “Planter told me that you often call out to me in your sleep. I know it probably doesn’t matter to you, but I wish I were there, Dust. To hold you. I really do.”
Planter’s small betrayal hurt, but not nearly as much as the look in Sparrow’s eyes.
Dust swallowed the lump in her throat, and said, “Hand me your bowl, Sparrow. The mush is ready.”
Wren brushed snow from her eyelashes, and bent to examine Rumbler. He lay inside her fox-fur cape, his head sticking out through the neck hole. His round face looked as pale as the whirling flakes. He still couldn’t focus his eyes; they kept darting about, the lids falling closed, then jerking wide. He’d been mumbling incoherently, speaking to people Wren couldn’t see.
“R-Rumbler?” she said, her teeth chattering. “Are you all right?”
“Little Wren?” he called, as if he couldn’t see her. “Wren?”
“I’m … h-here. Right here, Rumbler.”
She twined her fists into the fox-fur collar, and stumbled forward another three steps, dragging Rumbler along the shore of Pipe Stem Lake. Snow danced around them like white wraiths. The muscles in her shoulders and legs ached so badly that she kept wobbling off the shore and into the deep drifts that had blown against the base of the hill.
She staggered out, and went on. She had to, or Rumbler would die, and … and, now, she might die, too. As soon as Uncle Blue Raven discovered what she’d done, he would go to the village matrons, and they would authorize a search party.
Hot tears burned Wren’s eyes.
How could two children outrun fifty warriors?
… Oh, gods, what have I done?
She could feel the Sunshine Boy watching from the darkness, grinning, waiting for the right moment to sneak inside her or Rumbler. Every wave that washed the shore, and breath of wind that stirred the trees, whispered to Wren, Hurry! Hurry!
She threw all of her strength into pulling the cape forward a few more paces, then stopped, and braced her shaking legs. Sobs ate at her chest. She bowed her head and let herself cry. The tears tasted warm and salty. Soon, it would be morning, and warriors would be crawling through the forests.
Jumping Badger would find them. It might take him a day, but eventually somebody would stumble onto their trail, and then they …
Wren’s head snapped up. She blinked, and her blood throbbed. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, Spirits, of course! If we can make it.”
She leaned forward, weaving drunkenly as she tugged Rumbler off the sandy shore and into a snowy meadow. Her aching arms burned, but she kept going, slogging through the drifts.
Across the meadow, at the place where the Dancing Man River emptied into Pipe Stem Lake, lay the canoe landing used by the Traders.
Fourteen
Cornhusk lay in Frost-in-the-Willows’ longhouse, wide awake, listening to Jumping Badger whisper to Lamedeer’s rotting head. It gave Cornhusk a bellyache. How could anyone sleep with that grisly war trophy staring at them? Jumping Badger had set the head on a short staff, six hands tall, and leaned it in the corner near his bedding. Cornhusk lay twenty hands away, by the door, and still found the stench overpowering. He could not understand why Frost-in-the-Willows allowed Jumping Badger to keep it inside. Staked in the plaza it would stand as a reminder of their victory, but inside the longhouse it was just a putrefying head. The eyes had sunken into the skull, becoming hard and dull, and the hair had started to slip. Every time Jumping Badger moved the staff, long graying black clumps fell to the floor.