People of the River(154)

What's going to happen, Foxfire? What if I can't get into the Underworld to see First Woman? Will Mother Earth let everyone die in this war? So she can eat?

Lichen rubbed her forehead. In the creek bed below, fog rose from the gurgling water and roiled like earthbound clouds. While she watched, the mist shifted, forming strange, haunting shapes—one of them almost a face that peered up at her through wide, black eyes. Lichen had not slept in two days, not since her Dream of Foxfire, and she had eaten only a few roots found along the way. She felt woozy. She squinted hard to focus on the wavering face in the mist, but her vision blurred with tears of exhaustion. The sun rose higher, piercing the fog with a dagger of light, and the amorphous face glowed pink and seemed to solidify.

Lichen blinked, not certain that she saw it. Who are you? A Water Spirit? Have you come to take my soul?

The pink creature lifted its arms and began the steps of a Dance that Lichen had never seen. It pranced on the surface of the water, its feet lifting in high steps before it began to spin.

The mist swirled after the creature as it Danced down the creek.

Lichen crawled over the lip of the bank and jumped to the sandy shore. Silver veils of fog swept around her, clutching with cold, transparent fingers. On her left, the creek ran over a series of rocks. White froth bobbed down the channel until it disappeared in the thick fog.

Lichen filled her lungs with the scents of water and damp grass. She saw nothing now, except fog. Butthe Stone Wolf resting over her heart had grown warm and heavy. Its weight seemed to be pulling her forward.

Do you know the best way to get there, Wolf?

The weight of the stone tugged at her neck.

Go ahead. Wolf. You lead me there.

She walked forward, parting the mist like an arrow.



“They've made it down into the flats!"

At Soapstone's shout of warning, Elkhom spun around and yelled, "Pick a spot! We're going to have to try to stand them off, or they'll shoot us in the back." Then he ripped his antler stiletto from his belt. The contents of his quiver had been exhausted long ago—like his strength. He locked his knees to keep himself standing.

All day they had been fighting and running, fighting and running. The three war parties under his command had entered the battle late, because it had taken time for them to grasp the layout of the terrain and get into position to shore up Black Birch's failing lines.

But they had failed anyway. Petaga's warriors had just kept coming, roaring through the hills in wave after wave. They fought as fearlessly as enraged wolves protecting their pups.

During the first part of the retreat, Elkhom had been able to pluck arrows from the battlefield. But the enemy had pushed them far to the south, herding them along the bluff until they had been forced down over the edge north of Hickory Mounds.

Blessed Father Sun, at this rate, they'll have pushed us back to the palisades of Cahokia by midday tomorrow. Then what will we do?

They now fought in a field of pink toadflax interspersed with tangles of buffalo-gourd vines. Elkhom could barely take a step without his feet becoming knotted in the creeping tendrils.

Soapstone stood a few hands to his right, panting, sweat running down his round face. His warshirt clung to his body in blood-drenched wrinkles. About forty members of their original war party had survived; they dotted the field, their eyes on the slight rise a thousand hands away—back in the direction from which they had come.

War cries erupted, and the enemy warriors flooded down the trail.

Elkhom made a futile attempt to count them, braced his feet, and fell into a wary crouch, his knees shaking. Too many . . .

A tall, burly man targeted Elkhom and rushed with his war club lifted high over his head. He let out a ululating cry as he dove, tackling Elkhom and dragging him to the ground.

The world spun crazily around Elkhom while he and the warrior rolled over and over, each trying to get on top. Vines grabbed their legs and broke with loud pops, cmshed in the fury of the battle.

Elkhom maneuvered his opponent into a patch of prickly pear cactus. As the poisonous spines sank into the man's back, he flinched, and Elkhom jerked his hand loose and plunged his stiletto deep into the man's side, trying to pierce a kidney.

His enemy shrieked and reared up in panic. Elkhom drove his weapon into the man's chest, struck a rib, tugged it free, and plunged it down again. Blood spattered Elkhom's face as he shoved the other over and threw all of his weight behind the stiletto. The man flopped like a fish out of water while his ineffectual war club feebly pounded Elkhom's broad back.

The instant his enemy stopped moving, Elkhom was on his feet, bracing for another attack. Woodchuck sprawled a few hands away, his skull split open. Already greedy flies had landed in the thick clots of blood.