People of the River(29)

He peered at her seriously. "Oh, I think it's because for you, hunter and hunted are the same. Just as they are for me."

"I don't understand."

"I mean that every good hunter takes the soul of the animal into himself before he kills. You know how you feel when the animal turns and stares you in the eyes for the first time during the stalking?"

"I can feel its fear and confusion."

"I know." Wanderer squeezed her sandaled foot. "You remember what Bird-Man told you the first time he came, when you were four summers old?"

"What?"

"That in the Beginning Time, humans and animals lived together. Animals could be humans if they wanted, and humans could be animals."

"Yes, but what does that have to do with hunting?"

Wanderer took a twig of chokecherry from the remaining pile. He bit off a thin strip of bark and chewed it thoughtfully. "For most people, the only time that happens now is when they hunt. When the eyes of predator and prey meet, they exchange souls. So when a hunter kills, a part of him dies with the animal. And it should, because he's done something terrible. Necessary, but terrible."

"But why do we have to kill, Wanderer? I could live on plants, the way Deer does."

He brushed the twig lightly over his cheek. Sweat matted his gray hair against his temples and forehead, forcing it to he flat for a change. His beaked nose looked longer as a result. "Ah, but you're not Deer, Lichen. You have the body of a human. Earthmaker designed it that way for a reason. Deer eats grass and wildflowers. Humans eat wildflowers, grasses, and animals. Everything has a specific duty—for a reason." He paused. The lines between his dark eyes deepened. "Do you know who the ultimate hunter is. Lichen?"

"People?"

"No."

"Who?"

"Mother Earth. She stalks us constantly. All of us. Plants, animals, humans. It is only through our deaths that she lives. Our bodies provide her with sustenance. That makes dying more sacred than living. When we live, we live for ourselves. But when we die, we give to everything in the world. It's the most important thing we do, eating and being eaten. Do you understand what I mean?"

She lifted a shoulder nonconrniittally but responded, "Yes, I think so. But . . . but. Wanderer? I always feel guilty. My soul bums and aches. If it's so important to Mother Earth, why don't I just feel good? Do you know old Bone Whistle? He really likes killing. He boasts about it all the time. Why doesn't Mother Earth make us all feel that way? She'd be a lot happier, wouldn't she?"

His eyes narrowed. "Bone Whistle is a fool. If you love and respect what you hunt, you can't be happy at its death. And boasting of it . . ." He spat on the ground violently. "Hunters aren't murderers! And murderers aren't hunters."

He slammed down his twig before getting up to turn the rabbit. The sweet scent of roasting meat pirouetted around her head as she watched the reverent way he treated the sizzling rabbit, touching it delicately as he shifted the roasting stick on the tripod.

"What's wrong, Wanderer?''

"Nothing, Lichen. I'm sorry. Don't worry about it."

"Did you have a bad Dream?"

He had his back to her, but she saw his arms sink slowly to rest at his sides. "Don't ... I ... I don't want to talk about it. I need more time to think."

Lichen nodded, though she knew he couldn't see her. "All right."

Sometimes, when she had a really bad Dream, she liked to think about it for a long time before she talked to him. She understood. But she hurt for him, knowing the gnawing terror of those Dreams. Lichen sat quietly, playing with her skirt, creasing it between her fingertips.

Wanderer stepped away from the fire and went to the edge of the cliff and stared out across the flat river bottom. His gaze focused on the tan-and-gray bluffs to the west, where Pretty Mounds nestled. She saw him shake his head—^thought he exhaled a tense breath—before he looked back over his shoulder at her. In those dark, troubled eyes. Lichen felt Power surging and withdrawing, frightened of itself.

She pulled up her knees and hugged them to her chest, giving him time. With the toe of her sandal, she drew a spiral into the thin veneer of sand that had eroded from the limestone, while she prayed to Moon Maiden to help Wanderer. Only Moon Maiden had the Power to do that—^to penetrate the darkness. Oh, the Star Ogres could shed some light, but only Moon Maiden could dispel the dark shadows that imprisoned a person's Spirit.

Rabbit fat dripped into the fire, bubbling on the hot rocks, causing the flames to crackle. The sound seemed to wake Wanderer. He came back and knelt before the tripod. He checked the rabbit, apparently decided it had cooked enough, and removed the stick from the tripod. Blowing on the daric, steaming flesh of Brother Rabbit to cool it, Wanderer carried it back and sat down cross-legged beside Lichen-He had one of those strange looks in his eyes. Far away. He blew on the rabbit for an unusually long time, until fat had congealed on the meat again. But she didn't say anything, though she preferred it hot and juicy. She let her gaze drift over the irregular line of the cliff and settle on the rock where Rabbit's head drooped sideways. His right ear sank lower and lower, first touching the rock, then bowing against it.