People called, “Let the name of Wolf be blessed forever more.”
A shiver played along Lookingbill’s spine—one spurred by memories of ancient stories and a longing that this feeling of community might last forever. He stole glances at the people around him. Their faces gleamed with faith and reverence, particularly Silvertip’s face.
“He who seeks light in the dark places, may he seek light for us and for all of the Lame Bull People.”
Mossy walked straight across the cavern and out the front entrance, to prepare for the telling of the great story. The young Storyteller-in-the-making, Ringing Shield, a youth of six and ten summers, took her place. He began a recitation of all the sacred names of Wolf Dreamer and Raven Hunter.
At the mention of Raven Hunter’s name, Silvertip’s breathing quickened. Lookingbill patted him gently on the back. Leaning down, he asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Raven Hunter is evil.”
“It is said that he tried to deceive and destroy our people.”
Silvertip stared into Lookingbill’s eyes. “He isn’t gone, Grandfather. He’s come back.”
“Our prophecies tell us that if that ever happens the Last Mammoth will trumpet Raven Hunter’s arrival, and Wolf Dreamer will send a new Dreamer to save us.”
“But what if the new Dreamer—whoever he is—fails? Would Raven Hunter lead the Nightland People against us and kill us all?”
The boy’s words wrung a pang from his heart. “Don’t think such things, Silvertip. Wolf Dreamer would not punish us so.”
Silvertip dropped his gaze. In a panicked whisper, he said, “I had a Dream last night, Grandfather. In it Raven Hunter swooped down, and his black wings sound like a huge wind—”
At that moment a white-haired man stepped into the cavern. The shell beads stitched on his long cape reflected the light, making it glisten as if it were sprinkled with filaments of fire. The stranger’s eyes searched the temple, going over each firelit face, fixing on Lookingbill’s and nodding.
“Forgive me, Grandson,” he said. “I must go, but I’ll return soon.”
As Lookingbill walked through the crowd, people’s gazes followed him.
“Trembler?” he called when he reached the mouth of the rockshelter. “Old friend, what have you learned?”
“He’s here.”
A curious mixture of relief and anxiety flooded Lookingbill’s veins. “Where?”
“We’re hiding him in a rockshelter at the foot of the hill. War Chief Fish Hawk and six warriors are guarding him.”
Lookingbill followed the old man down the hillside trail. Above the cliff, Sister Moon wavered through a layer of mist, casting a milky light on the towering spruce trees.
A raven cawed in the forest—unusual for the middle of the night—and a sudden shiver climbed Lookingbill’s spine. He looked toward the distant trees and could feel a presence out there, a looming darkness that peered wide-eyed at him, like a huge predator about to pounce.
He’s come! Silvertip’s words haunted his soul. Let’s hope the Last Mammoth isn’t about to trumpet.
He’d felt such Power before, many times, usually when he picked up the Wolf Bundle.
He put his hand on his belt pouch and hurried toward the group of warriors who guarded the rockshelter.
Six
Nashat disliked the cold. His thoughts dwelled on that inescapable fact as he strode down the cavernous dark tunnel. Around him, the ice groaned and creaked. He could hear the constant harmonic of wind as it blew through the tunnels that honeycombed the ice. Once he had thought it familiar and comforting, but that had been his childhood ignorance. Only after he had left, traveled, and finally returned did the place give him shivers.
Tunnels and caverns were formed by meltwater. The constant warm winds blowing up from the south melted the upper ice, creating pools in hollows. The gravel, sand, and dust that settled in the pool bottoms caught sunlight, warming the water even more. When a shift in the ice created a crack, warm water trickled down. The action bored tunnels, passageways, and hollows into the depths. When the pools drained, they drew warm air after them, cooling it, causing it to sink, and sucking more warm air behind it, all of which caused even more melting, enlarging the passageway.
At such times, the sound of rushing and falling water added a roar to the moaning winds, the creaking ice, and the clatter of gravel and stone borne by the deep-ice streams.
Living inside such a mass of unstable ice now seemed lunacy, especially since cave-ins, collapses, and sudden quakes could crush a person under slabs of rock-encrusted ice. Some, who ventured far back into the tunnels, could be isolated when the ice shifted, blocking a tunnel and leaving them to die alone in the darkness.