He tugged his lynxhide cape closed and glowered.
“I remember the stories,” he whispered. “I remember them well.”
Around the winter fires, his grandmother had told many stories of the Beginning Time when their people first arrived here. Glaciers had covered most of the world. The people, guided by the North Wind, had paddled their canoes down the icy coastline, looking for a sanctuary, and found it on the islands off the coast. Everything they could have wanted was there—a paradise of fish, sea mammals, berries, tubers, algae, and kelp. In the springtime, the islands had been rich with tender shoots and greens. In summer and fall, the raspberries, blueberries, cranberries, and others had filled the baskets.
Generations passed in peace and plenty, and the people split, becoming Cougar People, Buffalo People, and Elderberry People who moved off in different directions. Finally the Raven People had appeared in the north, wearing their black hair in buns, reddish brown of skin, with round heads and high-cheeked faces. Few in numbers, they drifted down the coast. They’d been timid, awed by the North Wind People.
At first, the North Wind People gladly shared their fishing and gathering grounds. There was plenty for everyone. But the elders hadn’t realized that the Raven People bred like meadow vales. Within a few cycles, they had begun moving east, south, and north. The Buffalo People retreated farther eastward to the grassy plains; the Elderberry People headed south along the shore. The Cougar People had retreated into the rugged mountains, crossing the passes and heading inland. Others had made their homes on distant islands to the north.
With the burgeoning population, it didn’t take long for the resources to run short. The Raven People no longer wished to share. Fights broke out. Many died.
The North Wind elders decided to move their villages inland to Fire Mountain. A strange choice for a maritime people, since the terrain was steep and uneven and there weren’t many resources, but they’d been trying to get away from the greedy Raven People. Every summer for tens of tens of tens of cycles, the North Wind People had moved higher and higher up the slopes. Ever closer to their ancestors, the Star People.
The Raven People sought them out. It was little wonder. The North Wind People had been in this world longer; they knew the best places to gather berries, tubers, nuts. They knew the best fishing coves and where to find elk and buffalo, even in the worst winters. And most importantly, they knew the Healing plants.
Seven tens of cycles ago, when Cimmis’s mother had led the Council, she’d started to demand payment for such valuable knowledge. They’d exhausted their own mountain resources and needed supplies. She’d told the Raven People they could come to the North Wind villages twice a cycle, on the solstices, and ask anything they wished, but they had to bring “tribute” or they would not be allowed to return.
His mother had never dreamed what a wealth of food, exotic shells, furs, and other precious things would pour in—including slaves. When the Raven People could not afford to send food or other valuables, they sent some of their children. Many Raven People served here as cooks, wood carriers, basketmakers, weavers, and warriors. Lately, others had been captured in raids and brought back as additional slaves.
“May the gods curse you, Mother. You made a terrible mistake. We are at war because of tribute.”
After seven tens of cycles, tribute had freed the North Wind People from the drudgery of finding food every day and had allowed them to pursue grander things. Nearly every elder here was an accomplished Dreamer, Healer, painter, carver, or weaver. They could cure many diseases, and when they couldn’t, their Dreamers could fly to the House of Air where the ancestors lived and seek the advice of ancient holy people who’d been dead for cycles.
As Cimmis walked around a massive lava boulder, he glimpsed old Red Dog talking to the guards at the western entry—a gap in the circle of lodges—and Cimmis continued up the trail. The runner could find him sitting before his fire just as easily as standing out here in the cold night wind.
When he neared his lodge flap, he heard his only surviving daughter, Kstawl, say, “Oh, Mother, please try to eat.”
Cimmis took a deep and despairing breath before he lifted the lodge flap and stepped into the soft yellow glow.
The lodge measured four paces across. The interior wood had been smoked to a deep brown, and the dark walls provided a stunning background for the white buffalohide shields that hung from the lodgepoles. Each had served him in battle over the years, but they still looked new. He constantly repainted the images of the gods who had blessed his weapons: Wolf, Cougar, and Bear had given him strength for the land battles he’d fought; but out on the ocean, he’d relied upon Killer Whale, Dolphin, and Sea Lion. Their painted eyes seemed to follow him as he removed his lynxhide cape and hung it on a peg beside the door.