People of the Nightland(26)
“I don’t care if you have to kill her,” a dirty-haired woman named Kite shouted. “Keep her quiet!”
Swan looked up, eyes wide, moonlit tears glistening on her cheeks.
Some woman Skimmer didn’t know hauled back and kicked Kicking Fawn in the mouth.
Swan gathered her mother in her arms protectively, sobbing, “Don’t hurt her! The warriors killed the rest of our family. She’s crazy from the pain!”
White Bat, once a good friend, thrust a finger into Skimmer’s face, saying, “You’re a chief ’s wife. Make her stop!”
“Stop her yourself,” Skimmer whispered, and looked away. “Where were you when we tried to rally our people to fight the Nightland?”
“Listening to your husband,” White Bat answered acidly. “It was Hookmaker who counseled for peace and restraint.”
Skimmer glanced around the enclosure. Terror shone from every face, madness about to burst the very walls enclosing them. Trembling from fatigue and panic, soon they’d all be crazy enough to kill for a breath of silence, or a place to lie down.
“Our souls are loose,” Young Elk said. “It … it must be the cold.”
“Yes, the cold.”
As the night dragged on, fights broke out when women struggled to find sleeping positions. Skimmer remained standing, letting Ashes sleep between her spread feet. In the distance, the towering bulk of the Ice Giants gleamed with an unnatural blue fire. Legends said that a vast ocean of fresh water spread beneath them. She dreamed of dipping her hands in it, and drinking endlessly.
Then, in the middle of the night, when the Blessed Star People gleamed like frost crystals cast across the heavens, a wrenching scream sent a jolt through her. In the dim star glow, she saw Kicking Fawn stand up and stretch her arm toward the Ice Giants. Her hair jutted out at odd angles, making her look like an evil Spirit straight from the underworlds.
“Look! The wave! It swallows our children! Oh, Spirits above, what have we done to deserve such punishment?”
Skimmer stared up at the Blessed Star People, trying to force her thoughts from the horrifying prediction. A meaty slap sounded in the darkness, followed by another and another. Three women shoved the crying Swan away and grabbed Kicking Fawn. They pressed her to the ground, each kicking the woman.
Kicking Fawn cried, “Why can’t you see it? It’s so close! Can’t you—”
“Hallowed Ancestors, shut her up!” a hoarse voice called. “We have to get some sleep!”
Grunts sounded, and Skimmer turned to see one of the women drive an elbow into Swan’s face as she tried to interfere. Another woman jammed a hide knot into Kicking Fawn’s mouth. She struggled pitifully, choking. Swan huddled to the side, dark blood dripping from her nose.
Skimmer squeezed her eyes closed. Would the night never end?
Quietly she prayed, “Wolf Dreamer, why won’t you help us?”
She put a hand over her mouth as silent, dry sobs choked her.
“M-Mother,” Ashes said, patting her mother’s leg soothingly. “Don’t cry.”
Skimmer sat down, squeezing tightly between two women, to hug her daughter.
“Get up!” an older woman yelled. “There’s no room!”
The woman cursed and pounded her back, but she huddled against the beating, refusing to rise. Her trembling legs refused to hold her.
“Don’t hit my mother!” Ashes shrieked, using her tiny fists to weakly flail at the woman’s leg.
In a cold voice, Skimmer said, “If you touch me again, I will get up and choke the air out of your throat!”
In defeat, the woman lifted her hands, muttering, “All right. For now.”
Ashes crawled into Skimmer’s lap. “Don’t cry, Mother.” Her daughter extended a tired, dirty hand to pat her back.
Skimmer stroked Ashes’ hair. “You’re the one who must sleep. Tomorrow might be worse. We have to save our strength.”
“But you have to sleep, too.”
“All right, I’ll try. Close your eyes now.”
Ashes relaxed in Skimmer’s arms.
She turned to glance through the mass at Kicking Fawn. The woman was staring across the enclosure with still black eyes.
Two guards had climbed up to sit on top of the logs. In the silver wash of starlight, their faces shone a ghostly gray.
Nine
War Chief Kakala was an unhappy man. He peered through a tangle of rosebushes and counted the Lame Bull warriors. His black-painted beaverhide shirt and pants—the hair turned in for warmth—blended perfectly with the darkness. Seven guards stood in front of the cave. Worse, tens of villagers moved up and down the trails. They wore their finest capes. For them—as it had been for him in his youth—this was a holy day. But that had been before the coming of the Guide.