People of the Nightland(31)

Windwolf had to bend low to follow Trembler and Dipper through the narrow passage that led into the depths of Headswift Village. The little bark lamp Dipper carried flickered on the rough-sided boulders. The tunnels were often so narrow that the shoulders of his buffalo coat scraped roughly against the stone. In the dry coolness, the smell of the fresh-roasted elk tongue Dipper carried in her belt pouch sent growls of anticipation through his stomach.

Now Trembler stopped and blinked at another of the many smaller tunnels that jutted off from the main one they followed. “Dipper? This is the turn, isn’t it? I thought I remembered—”

“No.” She shook her head, and long black hair fell over the front of her cape. A pudgy woman with a face too round and eyes too large, she reminded Windwolf of a timid owl.

“No, it’s farther.” Her voice cracked.

“My place is with the warriors,” Windwolf insisted.

“Father said to keep you safe!” she cried, almost to the point of tears.

Windwolf closed his eyes. The chasm of dread in his chest yawned until it seemed a somber, frightening darkness pervaded everything.

“What made these caves?” he asked, thinking to distract them, and himself.

“Ice.” Trembler swallowed hard. “In some of the lower ones, the ice is still there. It melts back a little each year. The big rocks settle some with each summer.”

Dipper seemed to have collected her wits. “It’s this way. Trust me.”

She started forward. Finally Dipper led the way into a small rounded chamber. Windwolf ducked his head and followed.

In feeble lamplight, the cavern spread five body lengths across and about seven tall. Calling it a cave was a curious word. Actually, it was a pile of boulders and dirt that had, at some time in the past, been hollowed out by water. A stack of dusty, rolled hides rested against the rear wall. Gourds and hide bags filled the crevices in the walls. Food and water? Or ceremonial objects?

“What is this place?” Windwolf asked, dusting off his shoulders.

Dipper said, “Father calls it the Deep Cave. He comes here to Dream and pray. It’s the only place he feels truly s-safe.” Her voice broke, and she put a trembling hand to her mouth.

“Dipper,” Trembler whispered. “Why don’t you go back up to see what’s happening? I can care for—”

“Soon. Not yet.” She walked over to the stack of hides and began rolling them out. “The insides shouldn’t be too dusty.”

Windwolf spread out his hide and sat down.

Dipper untied her belt pouch and handed it to him. “You must be hungry. I grabbed this for you. Please, eat. I’ll fetch water.” She went to one of the wall niches and pulled down a gourd, which she set beside Windwolf.

“You have my thanks, Dipper.”

Dipper spread her hide and sat down across from Windwolf, but Trembler paced nervously.

Windwolf pulled out a thick slice of elk tongue and took a bite. It tasted wonderful and tender. He forced himself to eat slowly, to savor it.

Trembler sighed. “War Chief, I assume Lookingbill told you that we have to kill the Prophet.”

Windwolf swallowed his food and looked up. His gaze went first to Trembler, then to Dipper. “He did. We can only hope the Nightland haven’t altered it.”

Trembler and Dipper exchanged solemn looks.

Windwolf took a long drink from the water gourd and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

Trembler turned away, and seemed to be staring at the small gourds that filled one of the wall niches. Lamp oil, perhaps? He said only, “You’ll need to stay here, until Kakala leaves.”

Dipper added, “I pray there’s something left alive after Kakala finishes with us.”

Windwolf looked down at his atlatl. It would be too good to be true, but maybe he’d gotten lucky with that first cast. Maybe Kakala was lying in the moonlight, coughing blood out with his last breath.





Darkness

People often ask me where I live in the Nightland Caves, mostly because they hope to find me. But I am never quite able to answer that question. You see, my home is not a place; it is a black womb that floats somewhere between the brilliant Star People and the dark hole in the ice, a womb that never stops giving birth to me.

By day the darkness empties my soul of its own petty worries and selfishness. By night it Sings to me until the Dreaming comes … and I begin the search for a legend.

I have heard holy people say that darkness is evil.

I’ve never understood their words. For me darkness is light. Light is darkness. That is the hoop of life. That is goodness. Evil arises only when the hoop is broken into two parts; then both light and darkness wound.

Like the Hero Twins.