People of the River(148)

His closeness comforted Vole, though she spent a good deal of time fighting with herself about it, trying to convince her soul that she felt that way only because she had been weak and ill and he had been fluttering over her like a worried hen. He had cooked, brought her water, cleaned her wounds, and until last night, when her fever had broken, spent hands of time mopping her brow with a cool cloth—which he'd torn from his shirt for that very purpose.

Vole inhaled deeply of the dawn-scented air. Sparkflies continued to dance in the shadowed trough of the floodplain. Vole watched their luminescent arcs while she thought about the war and Lichen.

Yesterday afternoon Wanderer had climbed up onto the bluff to survey the battle situation. He'd seen a number of isolated warriors dashing up and down the drainages, but no war parties. The fact had worried him because it implied that the parties had settled down and gone undercover in preparation for a long and arduous fight.

And somewhere in the midst of the madness, their daughter hid, no doubt frightened half out of her wits.

Night before last, when the fever had come upon Vole like a raging fire, she had mustered the courage to attempt something she had shied away from for cycles: she'd sent her soul out hunting for Lichen. But she'd barely had the strength to get as far as Redweed Village, and the devastation there had wrenched her heart so terribly that her soul had immediately retreated to the sanctuary of her body.

She had awakened from that brief voyage to find Wanderer sitting over her, his bushy brows knitted inquiringly. He had commented, "I didn't know that you could do that. Vole. Have you ever tried visiting the Star Ogres?"

She had evaded a long discourse on the various Ogres— "Hanged Woman is so irritable. But then, I'd be irritable, too—" by blessedly falling asleep.

Vole eased around to study the side of his face. His mouth was half open. His unruly gray hair stuck out every which way. Above the hook of his nose, his closed eyelids twitched with Dreams.

The old lunatic. An uneasy contentment filled her. With a war brewing around them, she had picked this moment to start liking him again. Power played with people's lives in the

Strangest ways. She wondered what Power's purpose was in throwing her and Wanderer together like this. Could it have something to do with Lichen?

Vole frowned thoughtfully, then gave up. No human could fathom the ways of Power. And it didn't really matter. First she had to concentrate on finding Lichen. Then she had to figure out where they could go to find a new home. Then, if she had the time, she would think about Wanderer. It made no difference which side won the war. Her village ^d family had been destroyed. They had to move on.

Light crept through the sunflowers and mottled Vole's face with splinters of gold.

A faint squawk carried on the morning air as three ravens glided down past the lip of the rock shelter and flapped to perch on the nearest sunflowers. The stalks bobbed and swayed under their weight. One of the ravens, the one with the ugly, gnarled beak, scrutinized Vole curiously before it lifted its beak and began cawing while it shook its wings. Its midnight feathers glinted in the sunshine.

"What?" Wanderer asked sleepily. "Are you sure?"

The raven cawed louder.

Wanderer sat up and used a fist to rub sleep from his eyes. Cocking his head, he stared into nothingness before he nodded. "I guess you are right, Crossed Beak. Well then, that's that."

Wanderer jumped to his feet and trotted to the sheltered nook where he had stored his Power pouches and began tying them to his breechclout.

Vole propped herself up on her elbows. "What?"

"What?"

"What are you doing?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did you want me to leave these?" He graciously extended the pouch with the elderberries.

She scowled at it. "Leave? Are you going somewhere?"

"Yes, I'm afraid it's time. Vole."

"Time for what?"

The ravens let out a series of guttural squawks, and Wanderer nodded agreeably. "I'm hurrying, Crossed Beak. But if she's that close, she'll probably reach Cahokia before we do."

"She . . . Lichen?" Vole sat up and pulled Wanderer's red shirt from her shoulders into a crumpled pile in her lap. "What's Crossed Beak saying about Lichen?"

Wanderer strode out into the brilliant sunshine, where he knelt before the cerulean flowers of a blue flag plant. Dewdrops glimmered on the petals. He picked up a flat piece of limestone and dug around the plant to get to the roots. When he'd succeeded and the roots lay in a wilted pile, he called over his shoulder, "Crossed Beak says that Lichen has started for Cahokia. Which means that I—"

''What? Why?”

Wanderer spun around, startled. "Why, because she must! Really, Vole, it's the only way she'll get to the point that she understands darkness, nakedness, and nothing."