People of the River(151)

Dawn spilled through a labyrinth of twisted roots, mottling Badgertail's face where he sat at the edge of a pond studying the calm green surface. The reflections of clouds sailed across the water. He picked up a pebble and tossed it through the roots into the center of a cloud. Rings distorted the peaceful image.

Badgertail let his gaze wander. Frogs croaked and splashed along the shore, startling the turtles that floated placidly with their noses poking up. The pond's wave action had scooped out the bank, providing a perfect hiding place for his small party on the run. But it proved a haunted spot.

Huge roots thaist gnarled fingers out over the water. Especially in the half-light, they looked like skeletal hands groping for him. Badgertail hunched down and propped his elbows on his knees to think.

Locust's nightmares had kept him awake. Twice in the night he had been forced to clamp a hand over her mouth to cut off her screams. Flute and the other warriors had awakened in terror, but Badgertail had just motioned them back down and spoken softly to Locust, telling her that he was close and she need not worry.

What am I going to do? Should I try to sneak through the battlefield and join up with Black Birch and Elkhorn? What will I do with Locust? Her wounds have started to fester. If she doesn't get to a healer soon, she may lose that right leg.

Despite Locust's bravery last night, she had barely been able to run to the ambush site where Longtail, Cloudshadow, and Bud worm had been waiting to pounce on their pursuers. Badgertail had carried her most of the way here.

As dawn softened into morning, the turtles began paddling around the pond, snapping at the insects that unwisely landed on the shining surface.

"Flute, loan me your warshirt." When the warrior had

Stripped, Badgertail ducked under the roots and quietly wandered down the narrow shore. The breeze nipped at his bare chest and flapped his beaded forelocks against his shoulders. He angled toward a beaver run, a tiny dug-out inlet that nicked the bank. Five turtles floated there; through the transparent green, he could see their round shells bobbing just beneath the surface. When his shadow passed over them, the turtles splashed and dove.

Carrying Flute's shirt, Badgertail eased into the cold water, wading out until the ripples came up to the middle of his chest. Then he took a deep breath and dove.

The chill ate into his flesh and curled around his bones. Blessed Father Sun, this is bitter! He grabbed onto the plants that grew on the bottom and pulled himself along, stirring the water as little as possible. Dark minnows darted around him through delicate filaments of algae. He curved out into the belly of the pond, then doubled back toward the beaver run.

Ahead, gossamer hairs of mud trailed up through the still water. His eyes followed the hairs to their lumpy source, where the turtles had half-buried themselves in the mud of the bottom.

He eased forward, checked their shells to make certain none were snapping turtles, then began grabbing them and tucking their squirming bodies into Flute's warshirt.

When he broke the surface and slogged up onto shore, the chill dawn air felt wonderfully warm against his wet skin. He headed straight for camp.

Stooping beneath the protruding talons of a long-dead tree, he rounded the bend and saw that the whole camp had roused—except for Locust. Flute and the other three warriors crouched around the fire, feeding it just enough dry sticks to keep the coals hot without smoking. Soft conversation carried to him.

Badgertail knelt beside Flute and began handing out turtles. "Breakfast. It may be your last. You'd better enjoy it." He wrung out the fabric and returned the garment to the warrior. "And thanks for the loan of your shirt."

Locust lay a few hands distant. Her eyes fluttered open. "Always the . . . optimist.*' She had curled on her side, and her hair fell around her cheeks in a dark, silken veil. His warshirt swallowed her slender body, keeping her warm.

Badgertail smiled, watching as one of the painted turtles peed on Flute when the warrior turned it upside down.

"After the past two days, I think we're all cynical," Flute noted as he gave the turtle a sour glare and shoved it deeply into the coals. To avoid blistering his hands, he held it down with a stick. After several seconds, the animal stopped fighting and Hute laid his stick by the fireside. His seventeen-summers-old face had aged of late. Lines etched his high forehead, giving his round face with its blunt nose a craggy look, like weather-beaten granite. "What are we going to do, Badgertail?"

"I'm not sure yet. Let's eat, then we'll talk about it."

Badgertail poked his and Locust's turtles into the pit of glowing coals, keeping them down with a stick for a sufficient time before he rose and went to kneel at her side. "How are you feeling?"