People of the River(134)

For the dowel. Wanderer had stripped the bark from a straight hickory branch as long as his shin. Next, he had whittled one end to a point. The second piece of wood consisted of a section of oak into which he had gouged a round hole. This he now steadied on the ground with his feet and sprinkled punky material in the hole. Taking the pointed hickory dowel, he speared it into the punky stick on the floor and began spinning it as fast as he could between his palms. In no time, the friction had heated the punky wood to the point that it smoked. He quickly bent down and blew on it to bring the embers to glowing life. With great care, he then scraped them against the dry leaves and blew some more, gently coaxing until the tinder caught and he could start adding knots of grass, and finally twigs, and then wood.

"Aren't you afraid that some warrior will see the glow?*' Vole asked.

"No," he said reassuringly. "I walked a long way out onto the floodplain to see how well-concealed this hollow is. The sunflowers completely shroud us. If it were day, I'd worry because of the smoke. But not tonight. We'll be all right."

Wanderer carefully arranged the rose burls at the edges of the blaze and sank back on his haunches to watch their thin outer husks sizzle and wither. Exhaustion deepened the web of lines that covered his face. Sitting there like that, the flames dancing in his eyes, he looked very old and a little sad—like an ancient woman peering down curiously at her reflection in water and trying desperately to recall the image that had gazed back at her twenty cycles before.

Tenderly, Vole said, "You're die only man—er, raven—^I know who could Dance with such energy after crawling on his belly half the night to escape people who wanted to kill him."

"Really? I'd think anyone would want to Dance after that. In sheer relief, if nothing else." He used the knife to turn the burls. As he did so, his bushy brows plunged down to meet over his nose.

"What is it, Wanderer?"

"Hmm? . . . Oh, I'm just thinking."

"I could see that. About what?"

"Wondering if Badgertail survived. Wondering when you'll be well enough to travel."

"Tomorrow!" She sat up suddenly, but her body mocked her by trembling under the strain. She hastily sank back down.

Wanderer lowered his eyes to his rose burls. "How's your leg?"

"Bad."

"And your fever?"

"Getting worse."

"I thought so. I doubt that you'll be able to travel for days. But I don't know how long we can stay here. If Badgertail is alive, he'll eventually have search parties combing the hills for us. He wants the Wolf." More softly, he added, "And me."

Wanderer gazed in the direction of Pumpkin Creek, his eyes going vacant as if he had sent his raven soul flying to see what creatures skulked along the dark banks. That expression had always set Vole's gut to writhing.

"Forget about us. Wanderer. I'm worried about Lichen."

"Don't be. She's fine. Frightened, hungry, but fine."

A terrible hope tightened Vole's chest. Shakily, she asked, "How do you know? Did you Dream something?"

"No, not a Dream. She's been calling to me."

"Calling . . . ?"

Wanderer scooped the rose burls out of the fire onto the ground, where they rolled in tiny circles before settling down to smoke. Thin gray columns rose. He went to the edge of the hollow and picked up a flat piece of limestone. Bringing it back, he set it next to the fire and began to methodically crush each charred burl into paste. "I mean that her soul has grown Powerful enough to make itself heard over long distances."

"But how is she? What's she saying?" Vole found herself sitting bolt upright, the limestone hollow swimming nauseatingly around her. Her heart jammed against her ribs as the flames of the fire blended into the images of firelit sunflowers, damp earth, and blurs of stars.

"Vole?" Wanderer called faintly through the dark fog that descended on her. "Oh, no."

His face suddenly loomed large, and she felt strong hands grip her arms to halt her fall. Her head bounced limply. Slipping a cool hand behind her neck, Wanderer let her down easily and rearranged his red shirt over her shoulders. She hated it when anyone tried to take care of her. It made her feel weak and helpless. Feebly, she flailed at him.

"Don't . . . touch me."

Wanderer drew back and studied her anxiously. "FU be glad to oblige, so long as you're not about to bash your brains out on a rock." He pointed at her "pillow."

"Lichen . . . tell me about Lichen. Where is she?"

"I don't know that," he said. "But she's been calling to me steadily. When she stops calling, then I'll panic." He got to his feet. "Vole, I have to wash your leg before I can apply the salve. It'll hurt. Can you stand it?"