People of the Nightland

One

THE WINTER OF ICEBACKED MAMMOTHS …

His name was Ti-Bish. Most people called him “the Idiot.” He huddled in the lee of the snowdrift and stared out at the pine and spruce trees that rose like dark spears to threaten the star-glazed night sky. Wind Woman howled over the peaks of the Ice Giants and thrashed the dark forests, whipping branches back and forth. A camp of the Nine Pipes band of Sunpath People—down the hill in front of him—lay quiet and still. The people slept warmly in their conical lodges made from pole frames and covered with hides. Ti-Bish could hear the snoring. Somewhere on the far side of the village, a baby whimpered. He didn’t see any dogs. It was cold, very cold. The people must have brought the dogs into their lodges for the night.

“They’re asleep,” he murmured to himself. “All asleep. No one will see me.”

A tall gawky man with a boyish face and two long black braids, he had seen ten and nine summers. He pulled his bearskin cape more tightly around his skinny body, and hunched against the cold. Doing so pulled the straps tight on the floppy hide pack that hung down his back.

On the wind, he heard the rasping sound of feathers shredding air.

A bird? At this time of night? He craned his neck to look up. No great bird darkened the stars, but the constellation known as Horn Spoon Village had climbed high into the sky. At this time of year, it indicated that morning would be several hands of time behind the eastern horizon.

Surely no one would be awake at this time. No one would come outside, even if they heard a slight noise.

He rose and picked his way down the hill, carefully placing his snowshoes. They were made from willow hoops laced with rawhide and bound to his moccasins. If he slipped on the ice beneath the dusting of snow, he would tumble down the hill like a thrown rock. At that commotion, however, the entire village would wake and come looking for the intruder.

He eased into a spruce grove. Amid the dark branches, needles rattled and he could smell human waste. Snow had piled around the trunks. The shadowed hollows of the drifts gleamed dark blue, while the cornices shone purple.

He listened for ten heartbeats, then carefully picked his way down the slope toward the shell midden.

The people of Nine Pipes Village collected freshwater mussels from the nearby lakes and rivers. He lifted his nose and could smell the new shells they’d thrown on the midden.

“No one will care,” he whispered. “They’ve already eaten their fill.”

He crept closer and heard something pecking. Talons scratched on shell.

Ti-Bish cocked his head. He had a sudden affinity for the scavenging night bird. “We are all the same when it comes to hunger,” he whispered softly, feeling the rightness of it.

He removed his mitten, pulled his pack around, and felt inside. His cold fingers located one of the stones, and he pulled out his bolo, a contraption of three rocks that dangled from thongs. The light of the Blessed Star People reflected from the snow with a faint pale glow. He might be able to see well enough to ensnare an owl. The thought of warm meat made his empty belly moan.

Wings flapped again.

He crept downwind of the shell midden, praying Wind Woman would keep his scent from the owl. When he reached the edge of the midden, the shells glittered faintly in the starlight. He got down and crawled forward with the silence of a dire wolf on a hunt.

A caw erupted, then several more.

Ti-Bish frowned. A raven? Scavenging in the middle of the night? He’d never seen or heard of such a thing. Perhaps the bird, too, was starving?

He fought the urge to rise, to rush around the midden and cast his bolo in one desperate gamble for food. No, way too risky. Ravens were very smart.

Sliding forward on his belly, Ti-Bish could see the bird feasting on the fresh shells at the base of the midden. The raven was big, black as night, with eyes that glowed silver in the star gleam.

Raven stood on a mussel shell, grasping it with his feet, and used his beak to tug out a stubborn bit of meat. Tossing his head back, he gobbled the morsel down, and went back for more.

Ti-Bish took a deep breath, rose on his knees, and judged the distance. He lifted his bolo by the center knot, letting the stones hang.

Raven stopped eating.

Ti-Bish froze.

Raven cocked his head and searched the midden for predators.

Ti-Bish waited, hoping his belly would not moan again and give away his position.

For long moments, he remained still, not even breathing, while Wind Woman battered the forest. Cold began to sting his exposed fingers. Raven’s fears eased, and his black beak lowered to flip empty shells this way and that. The clawed feet skittered on the uncertain footing.

With the noise as cover, Ti-Bish drew back and flung his bolo. He put all his strength into the cast, hearing the thongs swish wickedly through the silent air. Raven let out a sharp cry, leaping up as the bolo caught him at midbody, pinning his wings to his sides. He flopped over, and cawed in terror. His frozen puff of breath hung in the air before it was swept away by the wind. Ti-Bish raced forward as Raven clawed to his feet and tried to run.