People of the River(168)

The two priestesses picked up rattles and lifted their voices in a Healing Song while they Danced around the central altar. They seemed an odd pair to Vole, Kettle with her pudgy body and homely face next to Thrushsong, who was as skinny as a weasel's tail.

Vole set the bowl at Wanderer's side and went back to holding Lichen's hand.

Wanderer lifted his old voice in Song while he submerged his tools in the sacred beaver-root broth.

When he had finished Singing, he gazed across at Vole, and she could see the fear in his faded eyes. He suddenly looked very ancient. His gray hair hung in tiny, sweat-drenched curls over his forehead.

Vole gave him a brave smile and reached out to take his hand in hers. His fingers felt long and gnarled, but singularly comforting. He tightened his grip, and she said, "I trust you. Wanderer. Tell me what you need me to do."

"Nothing for the moment. I'll have to cut her hair and pull back the scalp before I can drill."

Vole sat quietly, studying him as he used an obsidian blade to shave away a palm-sized patch of Lichen's hair. Each lock that came off in his hand he tenderly placed on a red piece of fabric. When he had finished, he took the steaming cloth from the bowl and without wringing it out, sopped it over Lichen's bald spot. The brownish-green liquid ran down and drenched her hair before it soaked into the blanket beneath her.

Wanderer exhaled a halting breath and seemed to be collecting himself. His bushy brows rose when he focused on Lichen's face.

The pause lasted for so long that Vole asked, "What's wrong? Is something wrong?"

"No," Wanderer replied faintly. "I've done this many times, but I . . .1 never imagined it would be so hard when the patient was someone I loved so dearly."

He picked up a stone knife and lowered it to the pale skin of Lichen's head. Vole turned away, unable to watch.

"Vole," Wanderer said after a few moments, "please hand me a dry cloth."

She bent sideways to pull one from the pile to her left and handed it to him.

Wanderer used the cloth to soak up the blood that flowed in a rich, red flood from the skin he had peeled back. "Scalp wounds always bleed like this."

The flap lay like a folded square of deerhide, revealing the blood-streaked skull beneath.

Oh, Lichen . . . Vole swallowed hard. She felt queasy and light-headed.

Wanderer seemed to sense her panic. He looked up in a kindly way. "Vole, I know this is hard. Do you want to leave? Kettle can—"

"No." The thought of entrusting Lichen to a stranger affected her like a cold slap. "No, I— I'm fine. What do we do next?"

"I need to outline the hole with the drill, so we'll know exactly how big it will be before we start."

Wanderer removed the hafted chert drill from the beaver-root broth and sucked in a breath before he lowered the tool to Lichen's skull.

Silent tears rose in Vole's eyes as she watched him spin the drill between his palms to create a small circle of six dots. Six. A holy number.

"Now comes the hard part. Vole," he said gently. "There's a thick membrane that lines the interior of the skull. I have to remove this circle of bone without breaking it. And it adheres much more tightly in a child's skull than in an adult's."

"So what will you do?"

"I have to drill each of these holes to just the right depth, then saw through the remaining connecting bone until I can easily lift this piece out."

"And you have to detach the tissue before you can lift it out. Is that right?"

"Yes," he whispered. "But we'll worry about trimming the tissue away from the bone once we've sawed the circle."

"Then what will we do?"

"If everything goes well, the tissue will puff out through the hole, giving the evil Spirits a chance to escape. Then we'll sew the scalp back over the hole."

She blinked. "Without putting the piece of skull back in place?"

"Oh, Lichen won't need it." He gave her a feeble imitation of that old demented smile. "It will just give her another opening through which to speak to Earthmaker. . . . Are you ready, Vole?"

Vole studied his frightened eyes, noting the way they glinted in the burnished gold of the firelight. "Yes. I'm ready."



The cold wind batted at Hailcloud's forelocks, rattling the beads. He leaned back against the sandy bank of Marsh Elder Lake and cupped a knee in his hands while he gazed across the rough water. The gale had ravaged the flowering dogwood trees and strewn their petals over the choppy surface. A few petals still bobbed in the middle of the lake, but most of them had worked their way to shore. In the moonglow, they glistened like a pale blue ribbon stretched along the curving rim of the lake.

"Beautiful," he murmured to himself.