People of the Moon(8)

Despite yesterday’s gambling disaster, Bad Cast considered himself the responsible one. While he had certainly made a “bad cast” in the game, his name actually came from an unfortunate incident when he was a six-summers-old boy learning the atlatl. The dart had slipped as he cast. He’d watched in horror as it sailed sideways. Old Chief Hard Clay had happened to be walking past—just in time for the errant dart to drive its way right into his stringy left buttock. The old man had walked with a limp for the rest of his life.

Bad Cast was average in height, unremarkable in looks. Some considered him to be the most boring man in his village. Of the four friends he was the only one who had married—as all responsible young men should. He and Soft Cloth had one child—a three-moon-old girl that he doted over to the point it irritated Soft Cloth and her family.

He glanced back at his companions. Wrapped Wrist wasn’t just a mediocre gambler, but the shortest and strongest man in First Moon Valley. He was known for his amiable nature, his love of a good joke; but most of all his reputation with women had traveled the length and breadth of their territory. They fawned over him, not only for the size of his organ and its legendary endurance, but for his reputed talent when using it.

Spots was the irreverent one. The lodge fire that had left him hideously burned on the left side of his body and face had also wounded his souls. His parents had both been holy people, Seers and Healers, who had invested significant portions of their lives in the quest to understand the ways of the gods and Spirits.

After the fire, Spots had shied away from such things, aware of the injustice worked on his parents by the very Spirits they had tried to propitiate. The sleek patches of scar tissue, mottled against pink and normal brown skin, acted as a constant reminder of this betrayal. To his way of thinking, the youngster named Bead had died in that searing heat, so he had embraced the appellation “Spots” with a sense of inevitability.

Sniffing, Bad Cast caught the acrid odor of smoke. He climbed toward a fringe of aspen that skirted an old burn, feeling the weary looseness in his muscles. It had been a long climb, perilous and exhausting. For him, however, it had been much better than having to face Soft Cloth after the loss of his blanket and the embarrassing situation in which she had found him. The teasing dished out through the night by Spots and Wrapped Wrist had been merciful compared to the sarcastic wit with which Soft Cloth would have assaulted him.

Now, as they entered the flower-strewn clearing, he hoped that Ripple’s kill was big enough to warrant his inclusion in the party. If he showed up at Soft Cloth’s with a single partridge, or a couple of strips of venison, he’d never hear the end of it.

Smoke hung in a blue layer that stretched back into the fir trees. A fire smoldered beside a trickle of water that burbled its way down toward a patch of willows.

Bad Cast caught sight of Ripple and tossed a wave toward his still figure. His friend sat, back braced against a rounded boulder. The hunter might have been frozen in place, wide eyes staring vacantly at a ring of wilted vegetation beside a stand of aspen.

“He might show a bit of delight at seeing us,” Spots grumbled from behind. “After all, we’ve only spent half the night running into things, tripping over roots, rocks, and being slapped in the face by branches.”

Bad Cast slowed, frowning. “Something’s not right.” He could see it in the set of Ripple’s shoulders, in the tight grip he kept on his atlatl and dart. Blood splotched his hunting shirt—normal enough after having processed a kill. From a quick glance at the pieces of carcass Bad Cast could tell it was a young elk. The hide had been rolled into a bundle and tied; it rested on the grass behind the four quarters. Spruce branches had been tossed this way and that, as if Ripple had rapidly pulled them from the meat.

“Hey! Ripple! We’re here. Got breakfast ready?” Wrapped Wrist called, waving as he burst into the clearing. “Nice elk. That’s meat for five families.”

Wrapped Wrist pulled up, a puzzled expression on his face as he took in Ripple’s stiff posture, wide eyes, and slack visage. “What’s wrong?”

“Let’s find out.” Bad Cast stepped warily forward, head tilted nervously. “Gods, is he even alive?”

Wrapped Wrist muttered, “My father’s brother was found just like that: sitting up in his lodge, dead as a rock. I wanted to keep him there. He was a lot easier to talk to that way. Wasn’t nearly as picky about the food, and the odor would have kept my sister’s in-laws away until he finally petrified.”

“He was four tens and five winters old,” Spots growled. “Ripple’s just past two tens. He’s young. Healthier than any of the rest of us.”