From out of the darkness, the old woman pounded her drum, and her cackle penetrated the black. "The One Life. It's all a Dance, and you have to feel its motions before you can understand it."
The pool of blood began to sway, rocking Lichen back and forth in time to the drumbeat. It washed over her and filled her with warmth. The fluid motions of the Dance seeped into her soul. She began to float with them.
"Free yourself," the old woman instructed. "Move with the sounds. Dream this world away. It doesn't exist. Nothing exists but the Dance."
Lichen Danced, dipping and swaying to the old woman's monotonous chant.
Like mist dispersing beneath a hot sun, her soul faded, growing thinner and thinner, blending with the Dance itself, until it melted into the blackness . . .
And from that nothingness came light.
As though Bird-Man had opened his beak, a stream of gold flooded down through an opening above. It filled her with a bright glow, and Lichen reached for the warmth, but her fingers were . . . different . . . like, yes, like wings. They prickled as though circulation had just been restored, frail Dreamer's wings strengthening, growing. She shook herself, and white bits of down fell away, revealing brown-speckled feathers.
From deep in her throat, Prairie Falcon's shriek rose: kree, kree, kree!
Lichen spread her wings and soared upward. The opening above acted as a lure; it was round, and so brilliant that it hurt her eyes. She flew out into a vast sea of amber sky. Clouds twisted and tumbled in the high winds. Lichen tested her wings, diving and sailing on the warm air currents, feeling the way that each feather affected her flight when she flapped, or flexed her tail. Joy brought tears to her eyes. Such freedom!
A heron, formed from the gold filaments of sky, stepped lithely across the puffs of clouds ahead, as though walking on the rocks in a stream. "So you found me," the old woman's voice called.
"Are you First Woman?"
"That's what your people call me. And, yes. / was there at the Beginning of this Spiral."
"I need to talk to you."
The heron cocked its head, and a curious glint sparked in its eyes. "Well, come on, child. You've earned the right to talk. Come and sit with me and we'll discuss it. But don't think you're going to convince me. For thousands of cycles, I've watched humans. Part of my soul died with the last mammoth calf. Another part went with Giant Beaver. When Sloth and Horse were hunted down and slaughtered, the last bit of my sympathy for humans died, too. Mother Earth will be better off without people."
"No, First Woman, no!" Lichen cried as she flew closer, thinking about Wanderer and her mother . . . and about Orenda, who had bravely tried to save her. They would die if First Woman wouldn't listen to her. And Flycatcher might already be dead—starved because of the drought, or killed because people were hungry enough to slaughter each other for a basket of com. Her sobs sounded eerie to her ears, as though coming from a great distance. They rolled around the sky like muted thunder, echoing from every shred of cloud. Reluctant sadness entered First Woman's eyes.
Lichen tipped her wings back and softly lighted on the golden-hued puff of cloud where First Woman stood.
Get down, Elkhom!" Badgertail shouted, flattening himself on the shooting platform as another volley of arrows lanced up from the creek drainage. Sheltered by the palisade poles, he heard the arrows thwok against the wood.
The horrified shrieks of the crowd huddling in the plaza below penetrated the din of battle. People didn't dare stay in their houses. They didn't know when Petaga would resort to firing the thatched roofs, but they knew that he would do it. Badgertail could not stop thinking about Locust. He didn't know where she was, though certainly she and Primrose would have left his house by now. Only Wanderer and Vole remained in the temple, because they were afraid to move Lichen. The last time Badgertail had run through the dark halls in search of Nightshade, he had checked on Lichen and found the little girl near death—her heartbeat erratic, her breathing so shallow it was almost imperceptible.
Elkhom pulled himself forward on his elbows, panting, his brown eyes wild with fear. Blood streaked his face and spattered the shells in his forelocks. "What are we going to do? You can hear them down there. If we can't stand up to shoot at them, they'll be through in no time!"
Badgertail licked his dry lips. The pounding cadence of axes and adzes biting into the wooden guts of the palisade resounded through the high wall. His thoughts darted, trying to find a last-ditch strategy to buy time. "Take a third of the warriors we have left. Order half of them to dig shooting pits into the side of the Temple Mound. Tell the other half to build a barricade around the area where Petaga's forces will break through. If we can cage them and shoot down from safe positions—"