Rumbler twisted his head at a funny angle, and Wren realized he’d found a gap in the bushes where he could watch the trap.
One of the siskins hopped closer. The bird pecked around at the base of the sticks, examining the net, its head tilting first to the left, then to the right. It seemed to sense something amiss, but couldn’t quite figure it out. The siskin ate for a while longer, glancing at the cornbread crumbs, then stopped and took another long careful look at the net. Finally, he hopped underneath it, and tasted a crumb. Then he began gobbling as fast as he could.
The other birds noticed. In a flurry of wings and chirps, five more siskins fluttered beneath the net.
Wren could hear Rumbler’s shallow breathing. He turned his head and looked at her.
With lightning quickness, Wren jerked the sticks from beneath the net, and it collapsed on three birds. The others skittered from beneath the net’s edges and soared up and away, and the whole flock burst into flight.
“Come on!” Wren yelled. She leaped to her feet and ran for the net.
The trapped birds struggled beneath the weave, pecking at the net and each other. Wren used both hands to slide the net beneath the birds and scoop them up, turning the net into a bag. The birds shrilled as she twisted the weave to secure it. “Look, Rumbler! We did it. Whichever ones you aren’t going to need, we’ll have for supper tonight.”
“We can’t eat them, Wren.”
Rumbler sat in the snow beside her and held out his wounded hands for the net.
Wren gave it to him, but said, “Not even one of them? What would that hurt? There isn’t much meat on a siskin but it would add flavor to gruel.”
He shook his head. “I need to ask one of these birds to help me, Wren. I can’t eat his relatives.”
As he untwisted the net and slipped his hand in with the birds, one of the siskins screamed. Rumbler’s fingers tightened around the bird’s body, and he drew it out, then released the other two birds. The freed siskins shot away like arrows.
Wren sat in the snow beside him, watching. “What now?”
Rumbler pulled the bird to his chest, and relief crossed his face. “I’m the one who has to do it, Wren.”
“Do what?”
He tenderly stroked the siskin’s head with his thumb, and murmured, “You’re safe. Don’t be afraid. Shh. Shh.”
Wren frowned..
Rumbler lifted the bird to his forehead and closed his eyes. His lips moved soundlessly, as if speaking to the bird. The siskin chirped, then struggled against his hands, and Rumbler suddenly opened them, freeing the bird. It circled the clearing, then flew straight up.
Wren shielded her eyes to watch. The black spot grew smaller and smaller until the bird vanished into the gleaming golden bellies of the Cloud Giants that crowded the blue sky.
Then she lowered her hand, and looked at Rumbler. Tears filled his eyes.
“What did you say to the bird, Rumbler?”
He whispered, “I asked the siskin if he would fly to the Up-Above-World and look for my mother. If she’s there, then I … I don’t …”
Wren slipped her arm around his narrow shoulders, and he buried his face against her deerhide cape. “Then you don’t have to go home?”
He nodded.
And you won’t have to see her body. You can remember her as she was before my clan killed her.
Wren said, “Rumbler, I’ve been thinking that maybe we should leave our canoe hidden here, and go the rest of the way on foot.”
“In case they’re following us?”
She nodded and hugged him. “Yes. The bird will find us on the trail, won’t he? If he has a message from your mother?”
Rumbler wiped his nose. “Yes. And we need to go. I know we are in danger.”
She helped him up, and started for the trail, but his feet didn’t crunch the snow behind her. Wren turned.
Rumbler stood at the edge of the clearing with his face tipped up, and all the hope in the world shining in his eyes.
She shifted, waiting.
Then said, “It’s a long way to the Up-Above-World, Rumbler. It may take the siskin a while. Give him the time he needs.”
Rumbler bowed his head. Tears dripped onto his moccasins. After several heartbeats, he nodded, and followed in her footsteps.
Early morning sunlight glittered from the still water of Leafing Lake, and flashed on the paddles of the Walksalong warriors.
Elk Ivory knelt in the rear of the canoe, timing her strokes to Acorn’s, who sat in the front. Muscles bulged beneath the shoulders of Acorn’s tan shirt as he dipped his paddle and pulled. Sweat drenched his collar, dotted the ridge of hair on the top of his skull, and created a sheen over the shaved sides of his head.
They had been driving hard, canoeing until well after dark, and rising long before dawn, tracing Blue Raven’s path along the shore.