Wren stared blindly at the starlit snow. Her footsteps were wells of shadow … like her heart. Where would she go now? What would she do? And what of Rumbler? She’d rescued him. He was her responsibility. She had to make certain he was all right before she could even think of her own future. But his village was gone, his clan dead. Neither of them had relatives they could turn to. No, that wasn’t true. She had no one to turn to. Rumbler might.
Wren crawled back into the shelter and saw that Rumbler had wakened. He sat on the fox-fur cape before the fire, a pot of tea boiling. His cheeks had a rosy hue, and his eyes seemed brighter.
“Are you feeling better, Rumbler?”
“Yes. I found tea in your pack, Wren. I hope that was all right.”
“Yes. Thank you for making it.” She took their cups and bowls from her pockets and set them by the fire, then sat cross-legged across from Rumbler, and filled the cups. The tangy fragrance of fir needles bathed her face. “Smells good.”
Rumbler sipped his tea, and smiled. He’d been wearing that same black shirt with the shell ornaments for almost a moon. Wrinkled and filthy, it hurt to look at.
“I brought one of my shirts for you, Rumbler,” she lied—she’d actually brought it for herself. “I hope it fits.”
Wren set her teacup down and dragged her pack over. When she pulled out the pale blue shirt embroidered with whelk shells and columella beads, his mouth dropped open.
“For me? You brought that for me?”
Wren handed it to him. “You need it.”
Rumbler carefully propped his cup on one of the hearthstones and reached for it. As he ran his frostbitten fingers over the fine fabric, made from the soft inner bark of the basswood tree, pain lined his face. He whispered, “I’ve never had such a beautiful shirt.. Thank you, Wren.”
“Why don’t you put it on? It’s been in my pack by the fire all night. It should be warm. Tomorrow we’ll wash your black one so you’ll have an extra to wear.”
Rumbler awkwardly slipped his dirty shirt over his head. Wren stared at him. His short arms only reached to his hips, and they bowed outward from his body. His neck also seemed longer than a normal person’s neck. He put on the pale blue shirt. The whelk shells flashed in the firelight. He smoothed it down with his hands, then smelled the sleeve. “It smells like flowers,” he said.
“My grandmother makes me wash our clothes in rose hips,” she explained. “She says it helps to keep away bugs.”
The sleeves hung almost to his knees. Wren leaned over and rolled them up for him.
Rumbler smiled, then his expression changed. He slowly lowered his arms. “You’ll never see her again, will you? Or any of the rest of your family?”
“If Jumping Badger catches us, I’ll see them, but not for long. I imagine they’ll kill us pretty quick.”
Rumbler lightly touched one of the whelk shells on the sleeve. He seemed to be contemplating the shape and texture. “You gave up everything for me, didn’t you, Wren?”
“I still have my life, Rumbler. And so do you.” She sipped her tea, and concentrated on the tart flavor. She didn’t want to let him see her cry. That would just make him feel bad, and he’d already suffered enough at the hands of her clan. “Do you think the soup is warm? I’m hungry.”
Rumbler watched her as she leaned over the soup pot. The look in his eyes was not that of a child, but an ancient old man who’d seen too much of life. Despair lived in those dark depths. Very softly, he said, “I’m sorry, Wren.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong, Rumbler. Don’t be sorry.”
Wren picked up a horn spoon and stirred the soup. It had thickened overnight. “This is more like mush than soup, Rumbler, but it’s hot.”
“I like mush.” Rumbler smoothed his hands over his knees. “My mother and I ate mostly seeds and roots.”
“Didn’t you have meat in your village?”
“We had meat.”
Wren frowned. “Then why didn’t you have any to eat?”
Rumbler smiled faintly. “I asked my mother that once. We were eating corn gruel for supper, and I saw that my cousins in the next lodge were roasting venison and wild ducks, and I remembered that a man had paid my mother that very morning with a duck and a haunch of venison. I wanted that meat so badly it made me angry. I said to my mother, ‘People are always bringing you meat to pay for your Healings. Why can’t we ever eat it?’” He tilted his head as if remembering fondly, but with pain.
“What did she say?”
“She said, ‘Would you deny your cousins the meat so that you might have it?’ I said, ‘I like meat, Mother. Couldn’t I have it just now and then?’ Without another word, my mother rose to her feet, took my bowl of corn gruel, and walked to my cousin’s lodge. She gave my bowl to my youngest cousin, Lynx, who was three winters old. In exchange, she took away Lynx’s steaming bowl of duck. My little cousin’s eyes filled with tears, but she did not say a word. She just started eating my corn gruel. My mother walked back and handed me Lynx’s bowl of duck, then sat down again, and started eating her corn gruel.