People of the Moon(4)
Soft Cloth stepped around the tree, stopping short as she took in Bad Cast’s naked body. Her shapely eyebrow lifted, a quiver at the corner of her mouth. “Let me guess. It’s the heat, right? Things got a little too warm down there in the shade under the tree?”
Spots grinned up at her and raised the wadded shirt. “Your husband bet triples, and I rolled a six. He couldn’t cover his bet. I’ve got his atlatl—and that pretty blanket you gave him!”
“I see.” She said nothing more. Bad Cast winced as her knowing brown eyes met his—and spoke with a greater eloquence than any words.
She was a Bee Flower Clan woman of the Soft Earth Moiety. They had been married for over a year now. In all that time, Bad Cast had never done anything remotely like this. At least, nothing he’d ever been caught at before.
It was Wrapped Wrist who said, “You know, Spots, you might be willing to lend your kinsman a hunting shirt. You know, just for today so that his dangling man parts don’t get too much sun. It would be a real pity if they got burned, sore, and started to peel.”
Bad Cast glared obsidian spikes at his cousin.
Soft Cloth couldn’t keep her lips from lifting with amusement. “My husband would appreciate that. Not that his man parts are high on my list of concerns right now.”
“That hurts,” Wrapped Wrist said.
Bad Cast threw his hands up in despair. “Woman, what are you doing here?”
She flipped her long black hair over her shoulder, amusement in her eyes. “I just came down to remind my husband that if he wants to eat tonight, he needs to bring me enough firewood to bake the corn cakes I’ve just finished making.” She shot a look at the blanket before adding, “If he carries enough wood, it should protect certain delicate parts of him from the sun.”
Bad Cast jumped to his feet, ripping the shirt out of Spots’s hand. “All right, I’m going.”
Soft Cloth dropped to her knees at the edge of the elkhide. With her free hand, she picked up the cup and dropped one of the gaming pieces inside.
Bad Cast pulled on his hunting shirt and stopped to watch as she rattled it back and forth, mischievous eyes on Spots.
“I’ll play you for the blanket,” Soft Cloth said.
Spots narrowed an eye. “Women aren’t supposed to play this game.”
“One cast. If it comes up hatched, I take the blanket.”
“What if it’s crosses? What do I get?”
“I make you another.”
“Done.”
Soft Cloth rattled the gaming piece around the cup and tossed it onto the hide. The hatched surface gleamed in the light. Spots laughed aloud and shoved the blanket across.
“It’s a nice blanket, isn’t it?” She plucked it up, carefully folding it under the baby. Then she gracefully stood. With a mocking smile she told Bad Cast, “I hope you don’t freeze this winter.”
“You know, I just—”
“Smoke,” Wrapped Wrist said, his eyes fixed on the northern mountains. “It’s high on Snow Mountain. Just down from Cougar Pass.”
“Ripple,” Spots cried, standing and staring to the north. “He’s killed something.”
“Not just that,” Bad Cast added, “but he needs our help.”
The amusement had left Soft Cloth’s eyes. “I need firewood before you run off to help your kinsman.”
“I think we can all see to it,” Wrapped Wrist said as he climbed to his feet. Only then did it become apparent that for all the muscle packed on his frame, the top of his head barely came to the middle of Bad Cast’s chest.
“What about my atlatl?” Bad Cast asked as Spots began rolling up the elkhide.
“I’d talk to your wife. Maybe she can win it back for you.”
Two
Once, years before, lightning had struck the bulging shoulder of the high peak called Snow Mountain. The resulting blaze had burned hot through the old-growth spruce and fir. Ash had settled in a little hollow to nourish the grasses and a stand of aspen that found a hold in the fire’s wake. Now the delicate white-barked trees skirted one side of the open meadow. Columbines, daisies, shooting star, and yarrow flourished. Fed from snowmelt and rain, a small stream cut through the bottom, gurgling and trickling over the rocks.
It was there, below Cougar Pass, sheltered from the prevailing winds, that Ripple had made his camp for the night. While a thousand stars lay like dust on the sky, a moonless night turned the surrounding spruce and fir into inky lances.
The portion of night-darkened meadow illuminated by the flickering fire was carpeted in grass. Flowers in night-washed dots lay dreaming. The stream, no wider than his open hand, trickled in its mossy channel to his left. Rounded boulders—like the one he leaned against—glowed in the firelight, as did the jagged branches of the fir and spruce that rose along the slope to the right.