People of the River(30)

"Forgive me. Lichen." Wanderer tore off a leg and handed it to her. She took it gratefully. It had been a long day, and she needed to eat. Fat smeared her mouth as she bit into the succulent flesh. It tasted rich and earthy, like a mixture of sweet grass and com.

Lichen wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Do you know that we're doing the Beauty Way Dance tomorrow?"

Wanderer stopped in mid-bite. "Yes, it is tomorrow, isn't it?"

"You should come."

He closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall, resting the skewer of rabbit on one raised knee. Lichen hoped he was thinking about the curative properties of the ceremonial. The Dance brought the world back into harmony and healed the wounds inflicted by humans on Mother Earth before the people planted their fields again.

"I can't come, Lichen. You know they wouldn't let me."

"Oh, yes they would. If my mother invited you," she asserted boldly.

Wanderer smiled for the first time that day, and it warmed her soul. "And how could we get your mother to invite me? The last time I saw Meadow Vole, she called me some things I'd just as soon forget."

"I'll tell her I want you there. She'll do it. You just come. You know it starts at nightfall. You can Dance beside me. I'll hold your hand. Then you'll feel better about your Dream."

Wanderer's smile faded. "Lichen, have you talked to the Stone Wolf yet?"

She squirmed uneasily. "I tried. It wouldn't talk to me at all. It didn't even attempt to answer—at least I don't think it did. Why do you ask?"

"Ever since we talked about your Dream," he whispered in a low, savage voice, "I've been having the same nightmare. I don't think it's a Dream—not really. It's more like a ... a 'shout.' " He shrugged his shoulders in futility. "I don't know how to explain it. But I'll be lying half awake when a smothering shroud of black falls over my face. I have to fight to get it off before it suffocates me. And I keep hearing this voice. I . . ." His mouth pursed. "I think it's Nightshade's voice, calling me."

Lichen licked the sheen of fat from her fingers. Fear nipped at her belly, but she tried not to show it. "It's a woman's voice?"

"Yes."

"Kind of deep and very beautiful?"

Wanderer blinked before he turned to her. "Have you been hearing the same voice, Lichen?"

"I think so. But I'm not sure. I don't know who she is, but she called my name and woke me up."

"She just called your name? She didn't say anything else?"

Lichen shook her head. "Just my name. Maybe our souls are sick. Wanderer. What do you think? I could have my mother give us a Sing. If our souls are sick—"

"No," he interrupted sternly. "I think it's more than that."

Wanderer ran a greasy hand through his gray hair while he stared absently at the fire. The chokecherry had burned away into a pile of gray ashes dotted with crimson coals. Thin wisps of smoke curled upward, adding a new layer to the already thick patina of charcoal blackening the rock overhang. "I'm worried. Lichen. Maybe . . . maybe I will come to the Beauty Way. Even if people drive me out of the village . . . well, at least I'll get to see your mother again.

Maybe even talk to her for a while." A wistful nostalgia gleamed in his eyes.

Wanderer put an arm around Lichen's narrow shoulders and hugged her. She fit neatly into the crook of his arm, like an eagle chick sheltered under the wing of its mother. She tilted her head and rested it against his bony chest. She kicked one foot back and forth while she fmished her meat. Clouds had started to gather, crowding the sky like lumbering beasts. She laughed at them. When she leaned forward to wipe the fat from her hands onto her skirt, Wanderer's stick of rabbit appeared before her eyes.

"Share this with me?"

"Sure!" Lichen tore out a chunk with her teeth and flopped back into the crook of his arm.

"Maybe I will come tomorrow," he said, as though trying to convince himself. "Maybe it'll be all right."



Retaga's golden robe brushed his legs as he circled the irregular splotch that marked the floor of the Inner Chamber. In the flickering mustard glow, it looked like nothing more than a spill of dye made from sumac berries, dark and brown.

Jenos' body had been prepared, left in the House of the Dead on the chamel mound, with food and drink for his Spirit. Slaves had washed his headless flesh and left it to cleanse in smoke from the red cedar-bark smudge pots. After the six ritual days had passed, Jenos would be buried in a log-lined tomb in the conical mound next to the temple. With him would be placed his wife . . .

According to custom, she, and all the others, should be strangled by a relative—in her case, by Petaga's own hand. And I can't do it. I'm weak at the thought. My blood becomes water.