With those thoughts lodged in his head, he was surprised by a sudden prickling of unease. He stopped short, collecting his thoughts. He came this way every morning, following the trail that was beaten into the grass where people rounded the eastern end of the borrow ditch before climbing Owl Clan’s first ridge.
The dog lay on its side in the weeds at the water’s edge. From the way the vegetation was bruised, it was apparent that the animal had thrashed as it died. Even the earth was torn up where it had clawed frantically in its last moments.
Salamander stepped over and bent down. The animal, a bitch, was young. Her expanded nipples and fat sides indicated that she was just days shy of a litter. Her lips were pulled back, exposing foam-flecked teeth and gums. Even in death, terror reflected from her wide brown eyes, the pupils gray. Feces had been squirted onto the matted weeds behind her.
“What happened to you?” Salamander asked, his heart softening. He grabbed a foot, pulling the stiff animal over. She hadn’t died that long ago. Not even the flies had found her yet.
Salamander made a face, feeling the presentiment that tingled along his soul.
“Why are you trying to warn me, little mother?” he asked gently. “What do you wish to tell me?”
He closed his eyes, trying to hear the dead dog’s Dream Soul. With an aching longing, he listened, and heard nothing.
Some people said dogs didn’t have Dream Souls, but he didn’t believe it. Too many times he had seen the sleeping animals, their eyes twitching, their feet jerking, as they made muffled woofs. If they weren’t Dreaming, running in the Dream world, what were they doing?
“I am sorry, little mother, but I will beware. Thank you for trying to tell me, even if I’m too stupid to hear.”
He lifted the animal, feeling how stiff the body was, as if wooden beneath the thin hair. With great care he bore the carcass to the drop-off overlooking Morning Lake and laid it over the edge. The dead dog slid down along the steep embankment and lodged in some stalks of marsh elder that clung there.
Depressed, he turned his steps for home. Wing Heart sat at her loom despite the early hour. Water Petal—hunched at the side of the ramada—was graining a deerhide on a polished post set in the ground.
To Salamander’s surprise, a third person sat in the morning sun just outside the ramada. It took a moment for the silver hair, the thick shoulders, and lined face to register. Thunder Tail wore one of his bear necklaces, which consisted of claws strung to either side of twin mandibles. A sleek cloak of black bearskin was draped over one shoulder.
Salamander walked past his house and over to the ramada. “Good morning, Council Leader. What brings you here?”
“Good morning to you, too, Speaker Salamander.” Thunder Tail’s serious face reflected the gravity of his visit. “I came to see Elder Wing Heart. It has been a while since I have had the pleasure of her company.”
“She is no longer an Elder.”
“She will always be an Elder to me, Salamander.” Thunder Tail smiled precisely.
Salamander could see that his mother was oblivious to her guest. Her fingers continued to work the threads, arms rising and falling with a supple grace. Those vacant eyes saw nothing of this world but the fabric before her. Her head continued to move loosely as she dwelt on conversations no one else could hear.
“We thank you for your concern, Speaker. She didn’t say anything to you, did she?”
Thunder Tail shook his head, pensive brown eyes on Salamander.
“I am sorry you didn’t reach her. We remain hopeful. Water Petal and I keep believing that some familiar face will draw her back long enough that her souls would remember this world.”
Thunder Tail gestured for Salamander to sit, then wrapped his thick arms around his knees. “I was a good friend of your mother’s. She and I …”
“Yes, I know. You were lovers. She always spoke of you with great respect and admiration, Speaker. I’m sure that she is proud that you followed her into the leadership of the Council.”
Thunder Tail studied him for a long moment. “You speak very well for such a young man, Salamander.”
“I had good teachers.” He indicated his mother. “I spent my childhood listening to her and Uncle Cloud Heron. Something of their skill must have rubbed off.”
He hesitated. “I didn’t just come to see Wing Heart.”
“You are concerned about the talk of witchcraft,” Salamander filled in. “Mud Stalker and Deep Hunter are going to introduce that claim at the next Council meeting, aren’t they?”
“Are you so complacent that you do not understand the threat, young Salamander?”