Vole looked out toward the field of sunflowers beyond the cliff face and saw Wanderer. He stood in only his breech-clout, its attached array of Power pouches dangling like cocoons around his waist. In the sky above him, a single cloud blotted the stars. The rest of the heavens shone crystal-clear and beautiful. Why would he be standing out in the rain? Don't be silly. That's just the sort of thing he'd do. But surely fatigue weighed as heavily on him as it did on her—probably more, since he was twice her age.
As she watched. Wanderer tipped his chin to the mist. Water slicked his gray hair against his skull and reflected with an ethereal sheen from his starlit face. He spread his arms, hesitating like a hovering kestrel, then began the fluid motions of the Thunderbird Dance. His ribs stuck out as he swayed and spun, dipping his hands to stroke the earth before lifting them reverently to the sky. All the while, his outstretched fingers imitated the rhytfimic sprinkling of rain.
From far off, the distant roar of thunder answered . . .
Wanderer Danced harder, gyrating as he stamped his feet. Mud caked his sandals, leaving dry tracks in the moistened dirt. Power built. Each fluid lacing of his arms quickened it, until the hair at the nape of Vole's neck crawled. When Wanderer began a prolonged spin, his head thrown back, his arms reaching straight up to Thunderbird, lightning flickered through the cloud, gently at first, as though Thunderbird had just awakened and blinked his eternal eyes. Thunder rumbled lazily. Then, abruptly, a lance of lightning split the darkness and zigzagged across the black fleece of night. The flash illuminated Wanderer's skeletal form in a deluge of blue.
From deep inside Vole, awe rose. She felt the same half-worship of him that she had when she'd loved him those many years ago. He had always been able to call lightning from the clouds—at least as long as he'd had a bird soul, whether Eagle, Magpie, Raven, or any of the others who had inhabited his body. She had asked him about it once. Wanderer had told her that all animals of flight, even flying squirrels, had a kinship to Thunderbird. Their calls, he said, resonated more clearly in Thunderbird's soul than the calls of other animals did, rousing him as though they were the muted echoes of his own sacred voice seeping up from the crevices of his thoughts.
Vole sucked in a deep breath of the rain-sharp wind and studied Wanderer as he plodded along the base of the towering cliff. Bushes crowded every shadowed nook. He bent to fumble with the leaves of a scrawny plant, then moved on. He felt his way around the concave curve of the wall, prodding first one bush, then another.
There are warriors crawling all over the floodplain and bluff. Where can we go? We're trapped here.
Who were the warriors who had launched the attack against Badgertail? Petaga's forces? She had not recognized any of them. But the Moon Chief would have gathered hundreds by now, perhaps thousands. She couldn't know all of them.
So much is happening, and. Blessed Thunderbird, I'm tired. She rubbed her eyes.
Badgertail and Petaga had locked themselves in mortal combat, while the small villages lashed out with hit-and-run raids to steal supplies from the camps of the warriors. She had overheard Locust talking about it. A runner had come in from the north to announce that Oxbow Village had joined them. But he had complained bitterly of the traitorous stragglers who had abandoned their homes and taken up bows against both sides, creeping into camp at night, looting, and then fleeing in all directions before the lookouts could decide which thief to shoot at.
Wanderer shoved a thorny rosebush sideways. His chert knife glinted, and the plant quaked. What could he be cutting from the stems? After about a finger of time, he straightened up and awkwardly fumbled with a handful of something.
The rain cloud sailed eastward over the bluff, and the stars returned in a glittering canopy to illuminate the world. Vole saw Wanderer shiver, and guilt darted through her. Without his shirt, even the slightest breeze must prick his bones. He hurried, trotting around bushes and jumping fallen rocks, back to the hollow.
"1 thought maybe you'd left me for the wolves," she commented.
Startled, he whirled and frowned into the darkness. "Have you seen any?"
"No," she sighed.
Wanderer turned, smiled happily, and knelt to pile his handful of small, round objects on the dirt near an old firepit. The jagged edges of the rock ring scarcely thrust above the surface. "You were whimpering in your sleep. Vole. That's why I left. I thought maybe I could help."
"Help?"
"Yes. You see, these bulbous growths come from the lower stems of rosebushes. When charred and crushed to powder, they take the pain from bums. It's lucky for us that so many rosebushes grow here."
He smiled faintly at her and rose to pull wood and dried leaves from the pack-rat nest clogging a hole in the comer. Using the pointed end of a piece of pack-rat htter, he dug out the firepit before arranging the leaves and wood just so; then he reached for the fire sticks that he had made while she'd been asleep.