People of the Nightland(154)

Sixty-four

Ashes sat with her war club across her lap. Throughout the long day’s walk, she had kept it in hand, swinging it, practicing a leap, skip, strike, and then whirling, preparing to block a blow.

Silvertip had watched her, as if he’d seen it all before. Once she’d raised an eyebrow, asking, “Problem?”

“Nothing that will not fix itself over time.”

She had swung the club up onto her shoulder, shooting him a sidelong look. “It’s been four days now. Why did you turn us to the south?”

“You will know soon enough.”

“I suppose.” She matched her pace with his. “I thought I heard Mother’s voice last night.”

“I’m sure you did,” he had said simply.

She had pondered that, wondering what it would be like to know everything, including another person’s Dreams. The idea of it was unsettling.

Now, as they sat by the evening fire, Lookingbill snored softly, his mouth open. Dipper placed the last of the wooden bowls in her pack and shot a curious smile at her father, saying, “He’s not as young as he used to be. A full day’s walk used to be nothing for him.”

Silvertip watched the fire crackle and spit, and then looked out toward the north again. He had insisted that they camp on the highest point. Across the moonlit night, the distant waters of Loon Lake could be seen, its surface silver against the black land.

“He will make it, Mother. Most of the danger is past now.” Silvertip rubbed his nose, as if it itched.

Dipper glanced at Ashes. “Are you ever going to lay that club down?”

“No,” she replied. “They put me in a pen once. They will never do it again.”

Silvertip turned his large eyes on hers. “The pens will be gone soon. No others will be built in our lifetimes.”

“Idiocy,” Dipper murmured, “putting people in pens. We don’t even do that to animals.”

Ashes felt the sudden tension in Silvertip, watched him rise to his feet, staring out at the darkness. Then he started to walk out past the fire.

“Where are you going?” Dipper called.

“I have to speak with someone.”

“You don’t go past the line of guards,” she insisted.

Ashes walked a step behind, casting suspicious glances around. The Lame Bull camps had been laid out in a large circle, and Silvertip walked past one after another until he reached the outer edge.

People watched them pass, pointing, some whispering, others smiling and waving. Ashes carefully nodded, her gaze roving, searching for danger.

Passing the last camp, she said, “Going beyond the fires could be dangerous.”

“No,” he answered. “Not tonight.” He glanced at her. “If you weren’t Raven Hunter’s perhaps you could hear him as clearly as I can.”

“Hear who?” She shifted her war club, trying to widen her eyes to the dark forest beyond the camp. The way led downhill now, winding around spruce and patches of sumac. Moonlight limned the prickly spruce needles and silvered the sumac, budded now with the first hints of spring.

Ashes gasped, tightening her grip on the club.

A large black wolf stood in a clearing where a great spruce had toppled and now lay rotting into the duff. Even in the moonlight, the animal’s eyes seemed to glow an odd yellow, as if lit from within.

“Greetings, Grandfather,” Silvertip said respectfully. For a long time, he and the wolf stared at each other, Silvertip whispering under his breath, then pausing, as if receiving an answer.

Finally, Silvertip nodded, saying, “I understand.”

Ashes felt rather than heard the rasping of feathers on the cool night air. She looked up, seeing her breath cloud in the moon’s white light.

The raven sailed around the clearing, gliding on midnight wings to perch on an old branch that stuck up from the long-fallen tree. The raven—a bird comfortable in the daylight—now peered intently at the wolf, as if distrustful.

Silvertip nodded respectfully to the bird, turned to Ashes, and said, “The Guide is dead.”

For a moment, Ashes wanted to leap and scream out a whoop of victory, but something held her back. “Did Mother kill him?”

Silvertip shook his head. “She would have saved him.”

“Why? She hates him. I hate him.”

He reached down, fingers tracing the old worn sides of the Wolf Bundle. “She has accepted her destiny. Another part of the balance is restored.”

“How?”

“Keresa came to Wolf Dreamer; your mother has gone to Raven Hunter. A trade—opposites crossed. Keresa has turned to peace and light, your mother to chaos and darkness.”

“What does that mean?”