People of the Moon(168)

“Show yourself!” he cried. “Or I kill her!” He jabbed the knife at Crow Woman.

She tried to squirm away; the pole slipped sideways, toppling her onto the grass. Her knee wrenched, but she bit off the shriek.

Narrow-frame grinned as he placed his foot on her neck and pressed down. She could see him lift the war club, knew how warriors practiced this stroke: the death blow for executions.

“I am a White Moccasin! Come and get me, you cowardly filth! This woman is dead! I will eat her flesh!”

From the corner of her eye, Crow Woman watched the stone-headed club rise in the firelight.

A sense of peace filled her. It would be over now. A sharp pain, and then her souls would be free. Free. It wasn’t so bad.

The blur came from the sandstone boulder. She felt the impact, heard her neck crack, and then the white moccasins flashed before her eyes. The warrior was driven into the grass before her, his breath making a whuff as he hit. It might have been wild animals given the howls and screams that tore from the men’s throats as they rolled and kicked.

Crow Woman gasped for breath, watching as a bulky form emerged from behind the warrior. She caught the firelight on a litter-matted hunting shirt as thick hands grasped the warrior’s throat.

“You are no stronger!” the apparition bellowed. “Without death, there is no life! No future!”

Narrow-frame made a gagging sound as Wrapped Wrist’s hands tightened on his throat. The warrior was flailing his arms, the obsidian knife flashing this way and that, whipping backward in an attempt to find Wrapped Wrist’s body.

Wrapped Wrist threw his head back, away from the blade, and a wild “Aaaragh!” broke from his lips.

Crow Woman watched as Wrapped Wrist’s legs tightened about the warrior’s waist. She saw the muscles swell, knot, and strain. The crackling sounded like breaking pottery. Wrapped Wrist heaved again, and a final pop carried on the still night.

Wrapped Wrist tossed the twitching body away. For a moment he stared at his hands, perhaps seeing them for the first time. A shudder racked his body; then he turned, seeing her where she lay trussed. Blood streaked his right cheek.

He asked, “Gods, why am I so scared?”





Bad Cast watched with a curious reluctance as Ironwood held Night Sun in his arms. The war chief cradled her to him like a precious and delicate bird; his face was a reflection of pained love.

Bad Cast would have walked away, but he had to wait his turn by the cleft in the rimrock where the trail led down the slope. Faint morning light filtered pink through the pall of smoke that masked the north and east.

Most of the warriors had already started down the narrow defile. Bad Cast shifted from foot to foot beside Ripple. Oddly, his friend had a sad look on his face as he turned to Orenda and said, “I need you to do something for me.”

She gazed thoughtfully at him. “Yes?”

“In three days, I need you to pick mint from the river just below the hot springs where the Mountain Witch tended my body.”

Bad Cast expected her to say something like “What? That’s silly,” but she didn’t. She just nodded, as if this was the most ordinary of requests despite the fact it meant a half-day’s journey for her.

Bad Cast glanced back to where Ironwood’s powerful arms were wrapped around Night Sun.

“I’ll see you soon,” he promised. “Remember, each breath I take is for you.”

“You stay safe for me, my love.” Her smile carried the warmth of the sun as she reached up and stroked the side of his scarred face.

Bad Cast swallowed hard and looked away. Were the roles reversed, would he and Soft Cloth have had that same Power of affection between them? Or was this something born of a different trial? The worship reflected in Ironwood’s and Night Sun’s eyes would cling to his memory for a lifetime.

Ripple had turned away from Orenda, noticed Bad Cast’s attention, and pushed him toward the trailhead, whispering, “He knows. Just not the way of it.”

“The way of what?” Bad Cast took his turn, easing himself down through the cleft, oddly reassured by the rock closing around him.

“The sacrifice he has to make for the world,” Ripple added. “I wish I had her courage.”

“Whose? Night Sun’s?”

“Her love is greater than mine.”

Whatever Ripple might be talking about, Bad Cast could agree. When had he ever seen devotion like that reflected in lovers’ eyes?

Love. Just what was it? Oh, granted, he missed Soft Cloth something terrible, and he had always thought he loved her. But did what he felt in his heart mirror what he’d just seen shared by Ironwood and Night Sun?

“Gods,” Ripple whispered behind him. “It hurts.”