Rain Bear made no reply as he rubbed the toe of his moccasin over a wet hearthstone.
As though irritated, Rides-the-Wind braced his walking stick in front of him and gripped the slippery knob in a tight fist. Firelight ran up the wet shaft like honey. “You are about to accept the most difficult challenge any man ever has.”
“What challenge?”
“The decisions you make in the next few days will touch thousands of lives as yet unborn.” The old man’s eyes seemed to burn. “So, how will you choose?”
“Choose what, Elder?”
A faint smile twisted the old man’s lips. “That is what I have come here to see.”
Twenty-two
Pitch walked slowly across the village, conserving his strength. Every time he planted his left foot, pain stabbed his wounded shoulder. News of the attack on War Gods Village had panicked the clans. Warriors had been dispatched to the perimeters, leaving only women, children, and the elderly to sit around their evening fires and whisper about what might come next.
After days of snow and rain, cold damp drafts seeped through the forest, penetrating every garment. To make matters worse, soaked wood, when it burned at all, belched blue smoke but not much heat. Pitch couldn’t seem to get warm.
Because he was a young Singer, people turned strained and frightened faces toward him as he passed, mutely asking him why this was happening, what they had done to deserve such punishments from the gods.
Pitch tried to smile reassuringly, but they knew as well as he that something was coming. Too many villages had been destroyed. Too many people needed food. Summer had lasted longer than anyone could remember. Mother Ocean was rising. Everyone saw it. Many of the lesser rock formations near the shore had drowned last cycle. The beach was being eaten away.
The trail ran through a heavily forested area and emerged at the edge of the sea cliff where—less than five tens of body lengths away—silver waves washed the rocky littoral. He paused for a moment. Canoes dotted the water between the beach and the outlying islands. He could see fishermen casting nets in the vain hope of adding to the dwindling larders. As he watched, the calm roar of the Mother’s voice soothed him. Two gray-headed elders hunched over a small fire down near the water, and a group of young women watched several children playing chase. They ran up and down the shore, laughing. The firelight cast their huge shadows across the ocean like those of giants.
Rides-the-Wind sat on a rocky ledge overlooking the water. A tan sea-grass blanket draped his shoulders.
Pitch ground his teeth, refusing to move. Why on earth had he thought the old man might help him? He belonged to the North Wind People, and had no obligation to any paltry Healer-in-the-Making …
“Stop babbling to yourself and come join me,” Rides-the-Wind called without turning. “I’ve been expecting you for days.”
Pitch looked to see if there was anyone else standing close by. “Are—are you talking to me?”
“Of course I’m talking to you.”
He hesitantly walked forward. “Babbling? I wasn’t speaking out loud. Was I?”
“Are you going to sit, or not?” The elder pointed to the ledge.
Pitch eased down onto the damp gray stone and winced. “Forgive me, Elder. I hope you do not consider my presence an intrusion.”
“An intrusion is only made by someone obsessed with his own needs, young Singer. Is that why you’ve come? To have me assuage your personal needs?”
“No, Elder.” Pitch took a breath to fortify his courage. “Dzoo and I had trouble at Antler Spoon’s village.”
“Yes, I heard.”
Rides-the-Wind frowned at the bald eagles perched on one of the dead firs that jutted up along the shoreline; their white heads glinted like beacons. They always flocked to Sandy Point Village during the Sits Down Moon.
Pitch was forming his question when Rides-the-Wind asked, “Are you going up to care for the dead in War Gods Village?”
“As soon as I’ve spoken with you.”
Rides-the-Wind gestured to the sling on Pitch’s arm. “Are you sure you’re well enough?”
“I’ll be all right. Since there is no one else, I have to be. I just hope I have the strength to Sing the sacred Songs.”
A faint smile tugged at Rides-the-Wind’s wrinkled lips, and his dark eyes turned luminous. “If you need, I would be honored to help you. As a youth I made a full study of your rituals and Songs.”
“You did?”
The old man shrugged. “All of my life I have been fascinated by the ways that lead to the One Life. Each is a path that takes the traveler past different sights and experiences. In the end, however, the destination is still the same.”