But he had lain there, awake, his heart pounding, the terrible image of falling still tingling in his blood, muscles, and bone. The sight of that green ground had been so real! The spreading arches of the clan grounds, the buildings casting shadows, couldn’t have been imagined. Even the pathways, beaten into the grass by countless bare feet, could be seen spreading out like veins.
With great care, he slipped out from under the heavy robe. Chill washed his sweat-clammy skin as he tied his breechcloth on and found a feather cloak to wrap around him. Moving the palmettomat door to one side, he stepped out into the gale.
Wind whipped his hair, half blinding him. Bits of sand and debris shot pinpricks into his skin. Turning, he pulled the cloak tight and walked straight into the teeth of the storm until he reached the third ridge. Counting houses, he hunched his way to the Serpent’s.
He huddled against the south wall, in the lee of the blast, and called, “Elder? It is Salamander. Are you awake?”
“I am now,” the reedy voice called. “Come.”
Salamander ducked into the wind, wrestled the wicker door aside, and replaced it behind him as he stepped into the cold darkness of the Serpent’s house. Here, at least, the gale was moderated to a gentler movement of air.
Wood clattered as the old man threw it atop the gleaming redeyed coals in the central fire pit. Helped by the cool breeze, flames immediately leaped up. Their flickering yellow light showed the Serpent, sitting naked on his bed, his flesh hanging in wrinkled folds, his flat face puffy with sleep. Gray hair stuck out like winter grass in all directions.
“What is it? Salamander? What brings you here? You are not ill are you?”
“No, Serpent. It was a Dream,” he explained as the old man seated himself and pulled his elkhide blanket around his shoulders. The fire shot yellow light, and Salamander glanced about the interior. The clay walls had been engraved with designs of interlocking owls, sitting foxes, panthers, and snakes. Above the old man’s bed a great bird had been carved into the daub, its wings and feet outspread, the beaked head turned sideways.
Bags of herbs hung from every rafter, their sides sooty from countless fires. A line of wooden and leather masks were propped along one bench, ritual faces that the Serpent adopted for healings and ceremonials. A pouch that Salamander knew contained stone sucking tubes, feather wands, and diamondback rattles rested by the old man’s swollen feet.
Other ceramic jars and small soapstone bowls held bits of mushrooms, dried nightshade, jimsonweed, gumweed, snakemaster root, dried hemp leaves, and other medicine plants. One big bowl was filled with bear fat as a base to mix his potions.
The old man listened to Salamander’s recounting of the Dream, nodding. As he spoke, Salamander realized that the old Serpent’s flesh seemed to be even thinner on his bones than it had been.
“Many Colored Crow is gaining in Power,” the Serpent said after Salamander finished. He ran a hand over his flat face, the action rearranging his wrinkles.
“What does it mean? Falling like that?” Salamander extended his hands to the fire and shivered at the warmth.
“It is a sign.” The Serpent pulled his elkhide close as another gust of wind shivered his house. “You are supposed to be frightened. Many Colored Crow is telling you that if you give up, go away, you will not have to be destroyed.”
Salamander studied his hands, black silhouettes against the flame. “I have started to relax, Elder. As fall came to the land and the leaves changed, my world began to take form.”
“And Anhinga?”
“She carries my child, but leaves with every full moon to pretend to pass her woman’s bleeding in seclusion. She uses that time to plot with Jaguar Hide.”
“That is very dangerous.”
He bowed his head. “I know.”
“Why do you not throw her out? You know she bears you no goodwill.”
“Masked Owl whispers that I will need her.”
“To achieve your death?”
Salamander shrugged. “I am not certain, but maybe. If I must die, Elder, to serve Masked Owl, and if Anhinga is to be the manner of it, then I accept that.”
“I, too, am dying.”
Salamander looked up, startled. “What?”
The old man pointed to his gaunt stomach. “I have a pain inside that only gets worse with the passing of the moon. Something evil is growing in my gut. When I squat to defecate, what comes out is half blood. It gets worse with the passing of days.”
A sinking sensation left Salamander shaken. “No, not you, my old friend. I need you! Without you, I am alone. You must take something! Do something. Surely some licorice root, or …”