People of the River(126)

"I'll bet it's sooner," Fescue called from where she stood against the northern wall talking to Checkerberry.

"Perhaps it was the starvation," Checkerberry said. "Hunger does strange things to a woman's body. Maybe, if Green Ash had been healthier—"

"There's no sense in speculating on it now," Nit admonished. "They're here, and they're alive. Be grateful."

Primrose started across the floor with the child. "Here, Checkerberry. You take him. You know babies better than I do. I'm afraid I might do something wrong."

But that wasn't the real reason. The sight of those pathetic stubs of arms tore Primrose apart. And that face. He girded himself and peered at the other boy, nestled on the blanket at Green Ash's side. The child stared back—as though it could see him through those enormous pink eyes. White hair clung to the tiny head in a thick mat, framing a face so strikingly like a wolf's that it terrified Primrose. The mouth jutted so far forward that it resembled a snout. Primrose looked away hurriedly and continued across the floor.

"Here, Checkerberry," he repeated. "You take him."

The old woman gingerly accepted the bundle and held it tightly to her withered breasts. "Where's Nettle?"

"I sent Big-Nosed Rattler to fetch him. He should be here soon."

With the coming of night, the broiling heat had dwindled, replaced by a cool breeze that sawed in and out of the window like the breath of a slumbering giant. But instead of soothing him, the breeze chilled Primrose's drenched clothing. Sweat trickled coldly from his armpits, rolling down his sides until it soaked into the waistband of his skirt.

Outside, feet pounded closer, and Nettle ducked through the doorway, his eyes searching for Green Ash. He rushed to her, knelt and clasped her limp fmgers safely in his— diligently avoiding looking at the misshapen boy on the blanket beside her. Nettle looked up at Nit.

"Green Ash . . . she's all right?" he asked.

"Don't fiddle with her," Nit ordered. "She's dead tired and needs her rest. And I don't want you troubling her about the babies. I ... I don't know why First Woman did this, but I sense great Power in these children."

Nettle tenderly kissed Green Ash's fmgers, then laid them back at her side before rising. He faced Checkerberry very nobly. "Now that the babies have been bom, when may I marry Green Ash? I was hoping—"

"You don't have to do that. Nettle," Checkerberry said wearily. "I know it frightens you. And there's no guarantee that future children won't—"

"I want to marry Green Ash," he insisted vehemently. "When? When will you allow it?"

Checkerberry's expression conveyed her deep respect for his brave decision. "Once she's up and around. Don't be overanxious. She'll have preparations to make . . . and she has other things to think about."

Checkerberry touched Nettle on the shoulder and edged around him to stand before Primrose. She looked almost as tired as Primrose felt. Dark circles ringed her old eyes. "With Green Ash down, I'll need a spokeswoman for the clan. I was thinking that maybe you'd like to be it."

Primrose's mouth worked soundlessly. "I . . . it's never been done before." He was awed that she would even suggest it.

"The world is full of strange things. Primrose. And we've important business to take care of. Redhaw has begun openly charging us with treason. I'm worried about what she might do next. You have a female soul—that's all that counts. No one will be crude enough to point out that you have a man's body."

Primrose bowed his head in assent. "I would be honored, Aunt."

"Good. Come see me later in my house. We'll discuss your duties."

Checkerberry cast a final loving glance at Green Ash's sleeping form, then went out into the mauve veil of dusk, leaving Primrose and the others alone with the mews of the newborns.





Twenty-nine


The clouds that sailed westward over Badgertail's camp gleamed with a rusty hue. From where he stood leaning against the rock, he could see all the way to the Father Water. The wind had picked up, stirring the blossom-laden branches that formed the green canopy over his head.

Badgertail forced himself to work on his stiletto, made from the foreleg of a white-tailed deer. The needle-sharp point had a tendency to dull quickly, when it didn't outright break in the process of being withdrawn from a victim. He began to sharpen it, anxious, his heart pounding. He was eager to be away from this "sanctuary." At first it had been a shield against the enemy, but now the tall rocks hemmed him in like a cage. Worse, not even the dogwood blossoms could keep away the odor of death that blew down from Redweed Village when the wind changed. Wolves had growled and fought there all night, tearing the bloating corpses to pieces. Nor had the hot sun brought any relief, for with the day had come the shrill cries of vultures. Badgertail clamped his eyes shut and shook his head. The whole world rang with the sounds of death.