People of the River(58)

Crossed Beak, the leader of the flock, swooped down and hovered in front of Wanderer's face. He tipped his wings illustratively. Wanderer swiveled his arms in the same way, but couldn't quite get it right.

"My soul wants to, Crossed Beak," he explained in pained embarrassment, "but my human body is stubborn."

Crossed Beak eyed him before letting out a guttural cawww and sailing up into the cloud-strewn sky in disappointment.

"Maybe in my next life, Earthmaker will let me have wings so I can fly better," he called to the flock. "I—"

"I doubt it," a famihar-sounding voice wafted up from his house on the ledge below. "You'll probably be a rat's liver in your next life."

His concentration shattered. Wanderer lost his balance. He listed sideways precariously before he slid off the point of rock. Only by sheer luck did he sink his fingers into the right crevice to keep from plunging off the cliff to his doom. He hung there for ten heartbeats, staring down wide-eyed at the limestone boulders that looked like ants below. Finally he managed to swing his legs up and edge down to the overhang that formed the roof of his house. Beneath him, Vole and Lichen stood awkwardly. The packs on their backs made it difficult for them to crane their necks to peer up at him. Their bare chests gleamed with a coppery sheen in the midday sunlight. Lichen's breasts not yet budded. Vole's full and high.

"Hello!" Wanderer yelled in surprise. After that last night in Redweed Village, he had never expected to see Vole again—at least not unless he sought her out. His gaze took in the packs again, and a tiny dagger of hope pierced his heart. "What are you doing here?"

Vole cocked a brow. Her long hair, as blue-black as magpie feathers, fluttered about her shoulders. "Walk down here like a human and we'll discuss it."

"Oh, of course!" Wanderer raced down the narrow trail to the lowest place on the overhang, where he jumped off. He landed hard in front of his house and stumbled several steps sideways before he caught himself. "My, it's good to see you both! Come in. Have some tea."

He hurried forward, but Vole's voice halted him before he could duck through the doorway.

"Wanderer ..." she began. Then the words flowed out of her in a worried stream, as though she must speak now or she would never be able to. "You've been right all along. I'm sorry I tried to prevent Lichen from becoming a Dreamer. I was just trying to protect her. You know—"

"Yes." He gave her a kind smile and waved down her explanation. "I know. The life of a Dreamer is very hard, and you love Lichen very much. I know that. Thank you for letting Lichen make her own decision."

Vole made a gesture of futility. "I'm giving you ten days. You should be able to teach Lichen the basic skills of Dreaming in that time. Is that fair? Is it enough time?"

"I'll do what I can. It would be easier if I could teach her for three moons straight . . . but it will be enough." He extended a hand toward his house. "Now, please come inside and have a cup of tea. You've walked a great distance today."

Voie wet her lips nervously, as if after all these cycles, she still feared him. "No. Thank you. I must be getting back. The village council is meeting late this afternoon . . . and you know how important our decision will be."

Vole slipped the pack from her back and dropped it in the shade of the rock overhang, then knelt to hug Lichen desperately. "Learn as much as you can," she whispered into her daughter's ear. "Perhaps you'll be able to teach me the things that Wanderer couldn't." She threw Wanderer an apologetic glance that made his heart pound.

"Yes, Mother," Lichen answered in a small voice. She kissed Vole's cheek, and two tears left Vole's eyes, tracing fine lines through the dust on her round face.

Wanderer turned away and gazed out at the fluffy clouds that scalloped the bluff over Pretty Mounds while Vole finished saying good-bye to her daughter. He could hear their hushed words entwining: Vole giving orders and reminders. Lichen responding obediently, a hint of sorrow in her voice.

His thoughts returned to the cycles long before, when Vole had first come to him, begging to be taught, on the verge of madness from the Dreams that tormented her sleep. She had been so young then, fifteen, and so frightened that of course he had agreed—even though he knew that it would take precious time from his own search. But things had not gone at all the way he had planned. Rather than using the things he taught her to deepen her Dreaming skills, Vole had used them to build a wall so high around her soul that she had cut herself off jfrom Power. Then when her husband. Shouts-At-Night, had gone on that last battle-walk, Vole had asked Wanderer for something he had never planned on giving any woman. Sexual intimacy lessened the ways of Dreaming, forcing Power to disperse in order to handle the thousand problems such intimacy brought. But, for a few moons, he had allowed himself to love her. She had left him when news had come of Shouts-At-Night's death, but she would have left him sooner or later anyway. Vole feared Dreamers more than the invisible talons of death itself.