"Where is Lichen, Screechowl?"
"I don't know," the boy said. "I saw her running away last night, but I don't know where she went."
Badgertail rose to his feet and stood stiffly. His mouth twitching, he ordered Locust, "Take care of the boy. Then organize a search party. Tell them they're looking for a little girl."
Twenty-seven
Dawn light threw a pink halo across the bluff. Lichen's breath fogged before her as she leaned forward to prod the coals of her fire with a stick. Orange sparks rose and winked in the morning sky. Amidst the ashes, six egg-sized gay-feather roots roasted. She tossed on a few more chokecherry twigs, keeping the fire small, just big enough to cook the roots and fend off the chill while she beheld the rising sun. She had never seen a sunrise without her mother or father close by.
Lichen bit her lip and puttered with the stick, using the charred end to draw serpentine designs across the limestone while she remembered other mornings. Often she would wake when the fragrance of frying com cakes wafted to her. She'd half-open her eyes and poke her nose above her buffalo hide to watch Meadow Vole moving silently around the fire. The glow of the flames would be reflecting from her mother's round face, calm and serene as she cooked. Lichen used to lie for a long time just smelling breakfast and watching her mother from the warmth of her bed.
Now she dug her stick beneath the ashes to turn her roots over, trying not to think about those times. But the ache grew worse. Wanderer's beaky face appeared in her thoughts, gazing up at her from the limestone ledge that hung over sheer nothingness. "You know, Lichen, there are Dreamers who believe that all of the Spiral is illusion."
Lichen pondered the hunger that gnawed at her stomach and wondered how anyone could think that. Didn't every hurt disprove it?
Are my parents all right, Father Sun? Let them be all right.
She had not given up hope that Wanderer might trudge up the trail at any moment and find her. All night long in her Dreams, she had called out to him. Wanderer, Wanderer, I'm here, up on the bluff. South and west, near the old burned-out stump.
The stump stood, huge and black—like a toothy mouth— in a hollow in the tan rock twenty hands away. When Brother Lightning had struck it, the bolt had winnowed out the center, leaving a charred husk behind. Worms had been feasting on it for cycles. Their distinctive trails spiraled through the ancient bark with a woodworker's artistry.
Her parents lived. Last night, curled in the hollow of the stump, she had sent out wisps of her soul, seeking theirs. Wanderer's had been easy to find; it radiated with a gentle blue light. But her mother's had been more difficult. Lichen had searched long into the night before she had recognized that faint yellow glow. But Lichen couldn't tell whether they were safe or hurting.
How bad were Mother's injuries? Smoky odors of melted hair and singed flesh still hung cloyingly in the back of Lichen's nose. When her throat started to tighten, to ache, she swallowed to make the feeling go away. But it didn't help much. Tears blurred her eyes.
Stop it. They don't do any good.
She used her digging stick, a sharpened length of oak, to scoop the gayfeather roots from the ashes of the fire onto the rock. Yellow threads of flame licked up angrily at the disturbance, then died down again to a mellow coral glow. The roots sizzled and bubbled. While they cooled. Lichen watched a doe and fawn graze in the meadow below.
Curious, to see them so close to Redweed Village. Elk, buffalo, and most of the deer had been hunted out long before Lichen was bom. Everyone traded for hides now because they couldn't harvest them themselves. But these deer appeared unafiraid. The animals had discovered a shady nook where the wildflowers and grass flourished despite the drought. Deer were faithful lookouts. Her ears might miss the approach of warriors, but the deer would scent their coming long before they posed a threat to Lichen. Nothing had spooked them so far. They sauntered lazily amidst the wildflowers, chewing and glancing up, only to bow their heads again while their tails flicked to keep off the biting flies.
The roots had cooled. Lichen peeled off the charred exterior to get to the meat, which she gobbled down greedily. Her stomach had been too knotted up to eat last night, but this morning it whined with gratimde and begged for more.
By the time she had finished all six of the roots, a warm satisfaction pervaded her body, trickling strength into her limbs. She sat quietly, staring out across the vista. On Pumpkin Creek, the white flowers of dogwood gleamed with an unearthly light amidst a jumble of tilted stone slabs.
Somewhere down there, her parents watched this same sunrise.
Wanderer? Can you hear me? I want you to come for me. I'm up here . . . up here.
Lichen took her stick and pushed the fibrous peelings of her roots into the fire. They withered and clenched into tiny, writhing fists.