People of the River(7)

"So why would the little girl be calling me. Wanderer? How could I help her?"

Wanderer blinked suddenly. "Why, I haven't the slightest notion." Throwing up his skinny arms, he blurted, "Now, where was I? Oh, I was looking for that bowl of berries I collected on Flycatcher's life. Where could I have put it?"

Flycatcher pinched Lichen's arm so hard that she yipped. "I'm getting out of here before he can fmd it!" he announced.

Wanderer was shuffling through a tailgled clump of par-fleches, mumbling to himself, when Lichen said, "I guess we should be going, Wanderer. We have to be home before sundown." She finished her tea in three long gulps and handed her cup to him. "Thank you for the tea and for talking to me about my Dream."

Rycatcher scrambled across the floor, crawling madly for the doorway. He was out into the sunlight before Lichen even got to her feet. She heard the cawing of ravens and the mad pounding of his moccasins.

Lichen walked over to Wanderer and patted his arm. He grinned. In the wavering amber glow of the fire, his face seemed older, more wrinkled and gaunt, but the twinkle had returned to his eyes. "You take care of yourself. Wanderer. I missed you this winter."

"Oh, I've been fine, really. I'm just a little disturbed about this weasel that's trying to take over my soul, but I guess if First Woman's set on it, there's nothing I can do to stop it." His face slackened. Vulnerability and an odd tinge of fear entered his voice. "Lichen, about your Dream ... I want you to talk about it with the Stone Wolf. Maybe it can help. The darkness moving north worries me."

Her hand quaked before she let it fall to her side. "But Mother doesn't like me to get near the Wolf, Wanderer, and it's never called out to me before. What makes you think—"

"Power has taken to the wind again. The Wolf will know that. There's no saying who or what it's trying to comer.

Maybe you, my only friend." He rapped the top of her head, listened speculatively to the hollow sound, then smiled approvingly. "You'd better go. Flycatcher's probably to the cornfields by now."

Lichen laughed. "Yes, I'll bet he is. Thank you again. I'll try to come back soon."

"Good. I've missed our talks."

She ducked out the doorway and into the slanting rays of afternoon sunlight, shielding her eyes to see if she could spot Flycatcher. A flock of ravens soared over the trail in the distance, and beneath it, curls of dust sprouted. She thought she heard vague shrieks.

Lichen picked up her feet and began running with all her might, flying over the wet limestone, trying to catch up with Flycatcher before he could hurt himself again.





Two


More than one hundred war canoes sliced through the predawn mist that rose in ghostly streamers from Marsh Elder Lake. Curving prows cut acute chevrons into the glassy water as they slipped silently forward, phantoms in the wavering haze. The red-and-blue animal figures painted on the hulls of the slim dugouts gleamed as darkly as old blood in the dim light. Paddles flashed, powered by muscular arms sending the craft onward. The tattooed faces of the warriors displayed a variety of emotions: unease on some; here and there, anticipation, grim purpose, or fear; and, finally, the thin-lipped tension of distaste.

Night still cloaked the water, but a faint slate-blue glow shone on the eastern horizon. The scent of fish mixed pungently with the odors of frozen mud and dead grass.

The great warrior Badgertail crouched in the bow of the lead war canoe, feeling ill, shivering. His heavy brows lowered as he squinted into the chilly mist, vainly attempting to penetrate its twisting veil.

Defeated, he raised his gaze to the purpling sky. Grandmother Morning Star hung above. Her bright countenance tarnished the land with a silver sheen. A few of the Star Ogres' constellations huddled around her. Faint outlines betrayed their identities: Hanged Woman, Wolf Pup, and Great Deer. But most of the Ogres had retreated to their caves in the Underworld to catch some sleep before Father Sun ordered them to rise again and light the evening skies.

"I hate this," Bobcat murmured behind Badgertail, keeping his voice low lest the other six warriors in the canoe hear him. "I wish we could run away."

Badgertail exhaled, his breath clouding in a wreath around his face. "You're young. Battle is as much a part of life as eating or breathing."

"And you, my brother, are getting old and blind. This is not battle. It's slaughter! The Sun Chief has truly gone mad this time."

"Tharon frightens me, too. Bobcat. But I don't think he's mad. I'm inclined to believe he's a boy in a man's body. Petulant. He's—"

"He's my age! Twenty-eight summers. How can you call him a boy?"