People of the River(132)

Mother? Are you alive?

She tucked her green hem around her toes. Every time she thought about her parents, a chill swelled in her chest and tingled in her hands and feet. The cave did not help. Its oblong womb of darkness was no wider than two of her body lengths, and little taller. Cold seeped in from the rocks. Her teeth had chattered all of last night.

She was tired ... so very tired. It took great effort to stay awake, to keep watch on the trails.

"Bird-Man, Bird-Man, Bird-Man, Bird-Man," she called desperately to her Spirit Helper, trying to suppress the ache in her heart. "Help me stay awake. I have to wait for Wanderer or my mother. They might not see me here. I have to stay awake."

Her voice faded as though the wind had sucked it away and blown it up to the newborn stars. Lichen fought the heaviness of her eyes, but weariness overcame her. Images danced on the back of her lids, flickering orange and blue as sleep numbed her body and coiled through her thoughts . . .

. . The hiss of a moccasin against stone startled her. Lichen scrambled up, panting in terror, to stare at a little boy who squatted in the mouth of the cave. Two black braids framed his oval face and glistening black eyes. He was younger than she, maybe eight sunmiers, and dressed in strange hides. The red face of Wolf adorned his chest.

"Who . . . who are you?" she croaked.

"My name is Foxfire. Your Spirit Helper sent me. Come with me, Lichen. We haven't much time."



"Where are we going?"

"On a Dream-walk. Just like warriors on battle-walks. Dreamers have to confront their enemies, too. I'll take you. Hurry."

But Lichen couldn't move. She scrutinized the curious hides he wore. For all of their beauty, they were thick and mottled in a way she had never seen, as if they came from animals that didn't live in her world.

Lichen cocked her head. "What kind of hides are those?"

"Mammoth," he said, lifting his arms. Then he pointed to his braided belt. "And this is horsehair."

"What are those animals? I've never heard of them before."

"Come with me and you can see them if you'd like."

Foxfire ducked out of the cave and stood on the narrow lip of rock that overlooked the floodplain. Gingerly, Lichen followed and stood beside him beneath a vast, glittering bowl of stars. The Road of Light tied the heavens together with a broad band of white. Lichen frowned. Wolf Pup had already galloped two thirds of the way across the sky. How had it grown so late without her knowing it?

"Where do these mammoth and horse live?"

"Far away . . . arui a long time ago. When the threads of the Starweb pulled apart, the world changed and they died."

"You mean they're all gone?"

He nodded wistfully. "Yes. Every time a Dreamer fails, a part of the Spiral dies."

Sadness filled Lichen. Her soul seemed to remember Manmioth and Horse, but dimly, like the recollection of birth buried deep inside every living creature. "If they're gone, how can we see them?"

"Spider will help us. The Circles are coming full again, and you're going to need to see for yourself what happens when a Dreamer gives up."

Foxfire extended his hand and blew across his palm. Strands of light shot from his fingertips, spreading across the darkness like a spiderweb iced in blue fire. Lichen's mouth gaped when he trotted out onto the swaying web. "Please, Lichen, we must hurry."

"I . . . I'm coming."

Lichen tested the blue thread with the toe of her sandal before biting her lip and racing out after Foxfire.



Vole woke. Rain drifted out of the night sky in a wind-borne mist. A hushed whisper filled the air as drops pattered on the sunflowers that curtained the undercut hollow where she lay hidden. Soft. Soothing. For a moment she almost forgot her pain. But as she moved, seeking to draw up one knee, the agony returned with a ferocity that left her gasping for breath.

Don't . . . force yourself. Just rest for a while.

They had crawled in the underbrush for half the night, desperately dodging the warriors who ghosted through the darkness. Every patch of cat's claw and stinging nettle had scoured the blisters of her injured leg; now she had to stifle whimpers whenever a blade of grass brushed her. Somewhere in the terror, her fever had begun. It burned bright inside her, leaving her weak and trembling while it seared her soul with its fire.

Vole lifted her head so she could peer at her leg. Despite the poor light, she could see it, clotted with blood, dripping pus, and coated with dry leaves. Shreds of skin hung loose where the blisters had been torn. The sight sickened her. She would have to clean it soon, or evil Spirits would smell the blood and come to feast. Then she would be in real trouble.

As she eased her head back to her rock pillow, she noticed that Wanderer's tattered red shirt draped her shoulders, protecting her against the chill of the mist. Where was he? Her gaze roamed the hollow. Small and gray, the rock shelter spread about twenty hands by ten. The rounded overhang arched thirty hands over her head, protruding just enough to fend off the moisture. No more than an arm's length away, a ragged border of dampness darkened the soil.