“I looked at the duck, then at my little cousin, and I went over and returned her bowl. Lynx smiled so joyfully, I cried. When I came back to my mother’s fire, she said, ‘So. What made you happier, my son? Having a bowl of duck? Or giving the bowl of duck away?’”
Rumbler’s eyes shone. “I like mush.”
Wren thought about the story as she ladled his bowl full. “When you are stronger, I would like to hear more stories about your mother. I think I would have liked her.” She handed the steaming bowl to Rumbler.
“You will like her,” he said and set it in his lap, waiting for her to fill her own bowl. When she had, Rumbler started eating like a boy who feared he’d never get another meal. He shoveled soup into his mouth as fast as he could.
Wren ate slowly, enjoying each bite. The flavor of the onions had suffused the cornmeal, and tasted deliciously spicy. Not only that, during the Moon of Frozen Leaves, turkeys scattered at the first sign of a hunter. They might not get any more of this succulent meat until spring.
A branch in the fire burned through and snapped, making the flames leap and sputter. The sudden light threw Rumbler’s shadow on the back wall like a Dancing ghost. Wren tried not to see. It reminded her of the first moment she’d seen him, hanging from the ceiling like a deadly black spider, his eyes alight. He seemed different now. Innocent and vulnerable. How could a boy change this much in such a short time?
“Do you want more, Rumbler? You didn’t eat very much last night, and you’re going to need your strength.”
He handed her his bowl. “Divide it between us. You will need strength, too, and we may not have a chance to eat again until nightfall.”
She ladled half of the remaining soup into her bowl and half into his. But when she handed his bowl back, she said, “Actually, I brought along a bag of elk jerky. So if we grow hungry along the way, we can eat some of that.”
Rumbler smiled. “You are so smart, Wren.”
To hide her embarrassment, she took another bite of soup, and shrugged. “My uncle Blue Raven taught me how to pack for long trips. He used to be a great warrior. My people tell many stories of his courage.” Her heart ached. “During one battle, twenty winters ago, he saw that a young warrior was about to be shot. Uncle Blue Raven threw himself in front of the youth. The arrow pierced my uncle’s shoulder, but he killed the enemy warrior anyway. On cold nights, that old wound still bothers him.” She filled her mouth with soup to drive back her sudden tears.
Rumbler’s bowl trembled in his hands. He lowered it to rest on his knee. “He is brave. I liked him.”
Wren swallowed. After thirty heartbeats, she could manage a smile. She said, “I will miss him.”
They finished their meals in silence, not looking at each other.
As the fire burned lower, the leaping shadows retreated to the dark corners, and a soft crimson glow filled the shelter.
Rumbler softly asked, “Did you say goodbye to Trickster?”
Before Wren realized what was happening, sobs wracked her chest. She choked out, “I told him I—I was going to do something that would get me into a lot of trouble.”
Rumbler looked at her with his whole heart in his eyes. “Did Trickster answer?”
Wren wiped her runny nose, trying to remember the exact moment. She hadn’t heard him bark, or whine, but … “No,” she answered, “but I think he wagged his tail.”
Rumbler smiled.
Wren felt better. Talking about Trickster gave her strength. “Rumbler? Where are we going to go? I’ve been worrying about that. I was hoping that maybe you had relatives in one of the nearby Turtle villages.”
“Yes, but I … I have to go home first, Wren.”
“Home?” she asked in confusion. “You mean to Paint Rock Village? But Rumbler, I heard Jumping Badger himself say that he’d burned it to the ground. There’s nothing left. Why would you—”
“There’s something … someone … I have to search for.”
She knew who he must mean. “I—I’ll help you look, Rumbler.”
He frowned at his swollen fingers. He would lose the tips of the first three fingers on each hand, and two knuckles from each little finger. As if wishing to speak of something else, he said, “You are going to have to help me cut off these fingers, Wren. I can feel the Shadow Spirits creeping into my hands.”
“I will, Rumbler. You tell me when.”
He fought to blink back his tears. His eyes sparkled. “Will you help me catch a bird, Wren?”
His voice sounded even more desperate to speak of something else.
Wren reached up to the tangled branches in the roof, and began pulling off strips of bark. “I’ll weave these strips into a net right now, Rumbler. There won’t be any birds until Grandfather Day Maker rises, but we can find the place to set up our trap.”