People of the River(172)

Nightshade laughed—and it made him laugh. They gazed at each other from no more than three hands away. Warmth grew, like a strengthening fire on a cold winter's night. How can you look at me like that. Nightshade, when our world is on the brink of destruction?

"Badgertail?"

Something about the softness in Nightshade's face buffeted him. It was a rare occasion when he couldn't hold an opponent's gaze, but this was one of those times. He dropped his eyes to the dog. "What is it, Nightshade?"

Vaguely at first, then stronger, the din of battle came to him: shouts of surprise, roars of victory and pain. The warriors on the platforms began a ululating battle cry as they pulled arrows from quivers and hunched down to nock them in their bows.

Badgertail lunged to his feet and ran.



Fear propelled Lichen along the narrow dirt trail. Around her stretched a wide expanse of rolling, tree-covered hills. Towering cottonwoods lifted their crooked gray limbs into the sky, creating a woven canopy that filtered the gleam of twilight; it fell across her path in patches of muddy blue.

From the depths of the forest, a chant drifted, deep, rhythmic. An old woman's voice, it lilted on the wind in time to a sacred drumbeat.

"Hello!" Lichen shouted.

Flutes added their wails to the woman's chant, giving it a haunted quality that struck fear into Lichen's heart. The Song reminded her of the Ghost Chants her own people Sang to drive away evil Spirits.

"Hello! Who's there?"

The forest seemed to close in around her, the trees bending down to peer at her more carefully. Lichen shivered. This place was not beautiful, though she had the feeling that it was old, very old, and that living humans had never dared to tiptoe beyond the well-worn trails. Tumbled piles of deadfall choked the forest floor, and wherever light struck, thorny underbrush flourished. Voices murmured in the tangles, low and muted, like the whimpers of coyotes closing in on wounded prey.

“Where are you? I'm scared. I don't know how to find you. First Woman?"

Sobs clutched at her chest as she started to run again, dashing down a dip in the trail and up the other side.

As Father Sun sank in the west, his purple glory was shattered into a thousand pieces by the infinity of branches. It would be getting colder, and she had neither a coat nor a blanket. How cold did it get in the Underworld? Could she just sleep in the grass and . . .No, you can't sleep! You have to keep going. You know what Nightshade told you. Petaga is going to attack Cahokia soon. Maybe even now! If you don't find First Woman, everyone is going to die! Hunting. Mother Earth was hunting.

When Lichen's confused soul had first escaped her body, it had been lost and terrified. Then a brilliant white light swam out of the utter blackness and spoke to her in gentle tones. Nightshade's soul had lit the path for Lichen, leading her on like a winter bonfire.

"First Woman? I have to find you. You know I do. Why won't you help me?"

With the deepening of night, the chant grew louder, and life stirred the depths of the forest. But Lichen did not think she knew this kind of life. Gourd rattles sounded in time to the chant. Feet pounded, heavy, thrashing angrily in a Dance that shook the trail where she stood. Trees creaked and cracked as though being torn up by the roots.

Lichen backed away. Then she ran like the wind, trying to get out of this low spot. Shadows moved at the edges of the trail, some of them loping along beside her, keeping pace while they hissed their resentment at her presence. Lichen's fear burst into terror.

"First Woman? First Woman, please!"

She rounded a bend, and one of the Dancers' masks— enormous black eyes, and a protruding mouth shaped from pink pipestone—caught the sunset and held it prisoner. Colorful feathers adorned the Dancer's costume, as if Eagle, Hawk, and Owl had been spattered from different pots of dye. The Dancer dodged behind a tree when Lichen looked at him. But she could see others moving nearby. Their masks glinted as they darted through the thicket.

Lichen ran on, racing down a winding trail through the trees and brush, but she slowed when the undergrowth became denser, the leaves and branches weaving a mat around her.

Could this be the way? If the path became any narrower, she would be crawling on hands and knees on a rabbit run. An owl hooted somewhere, and Lichen scurried on. Suddenly she broke out of the interlaced forest and stood on a slender backbone of ridge. A multitude of trails crisscrossed the slate-gray vista, winding in and out and across each other like worm patterns in aspen bark.

Which one? Which one do I take? They all lead in different directions.

Lichen spun around, checking the weave that dropped into the eastern valley, then examining the trails that climbed the highlands and those that plummeted back into the darkest part of the woods.