People of the River(96)

Wolves howled faintly in the distance. Twelve of them had roamed around the rock shelter all day, spying on Lichen and himself from behind rocks or brush. Every time he had told a story, they'd pricked their ears. Odd. He had never seen so many so unafraid.

Wanderer slipped his arm under his head, floating on the memory of those burning yellow eyes. They had been trying to tell him something. What was it? He let himself drift, thinking about it. Tension trickled from his body, leaving him feeling as light as a hovering milkweed seed. Into that peace a Dream swelled with the rumbling Power of Thunderbird's roar . . .



Snow blasted Wanderer, shoving him sideways into an outcrop of boulders sheathed in ice. He fought to gain a handhold, but as he clawed at the transparent surface, his feet slipped. He tumbled down the slope, over and over, head over heels. When he saw the towering snowdrift loom up before him, he raised his arms to protect his head. Flakes gushed around him as he struck it.

Wanderer lowered his arms slowly. Glittering apparitions of ice spread for as far as he could see. To the west, plains coUided with indigo peaks so jagged and lofty that they lanced the bellies of the Star Ogres. But ... the Ogres looked different. Their shapes had changed. Wolf Pup's leg stuck out more. Hanged Woman's neck bent almost double.

"Where am I?" he cried in fear.

Blood oozed from a gash in his arm, soaking his worn cottonwood-bark shirt. Under the brilliant bands of light that wavered in the heavens, the drops of his blood shone like black tears.

The wind seized his plea and blew it out across a wasteland of glacial hills.

Wanderer's toes had gone numb. He had to find shelter or he would freeze to death. His steps squealing on snow, he dodged out of the protection of the drift to get a better look at the terrain.

Southward, stringers of foam rode the fms of waves on a vast, churning sea. The lights battling in the sky cast an opalescent sheen across the dark surface.

"Hello! . . . Anybody? Where am I?"

"In the land of the Long Dark, Dreamer. "

The sky flared, exploding in silent bursts of purple, green, and azure. Wind Mother held her breath in awe. Stillness. The colors hung like splashes of paint. Then, as though warmed by Wolf Pup's breath, they trickled through the glistening net of stars and fused into a rainbow that arched across the bosom of the night.

"Come, Dreamer, we must talk, you and /."

The gentle voice reverberated from the snowdrifts. On the crest of the rainbow, a tall youth stood. Wanderer stared up in awe. "Who are you? What do you want?"

"Power has need of your strength. Come. Climb to me. Talk to me. Lichen may be a great Dreamer, but she will need your help."

"How?" The word lodged suffocatingly in Wanderer's throat. He gazed up at that glowing figure. "How can I help her?"

"Teach her that to step onto the Path, she must leave it. Only the lost come to stand alone before the entrance to the Cave, and only the defenseless step over its threshold. She is young. Surrender does not come naturally to one so full of life. Teach her that in union   she will find the light, though it appears as darkness, nakedness, nothingness "

"Who are you?"

"Your people know me as Wolf Slayer. My people called me Wolf Dreamer. I Dance with Power."

"Wolf Slayer?" his voice quaked. "Are you the Spirit who spoke to Lichen in the Underworld?"

"Yes. Hurry . . . hurry ..."

Wanderer forced his wobbly legs to carry him to the edge of the rainbow, where he sank his fingers into the bands of light and hoisted himself onto the arch. A thrill filled him as he ran up the center. By the time he reached the crest where the youth waited, he was panting. Glorious colors curled up around him with translucent splendor.

Wolf Slayer's body radiated a golden light, as if Father Sun lived inside him. Black eyes stared out from either side of his straight nose. The grief and concern in those eyes rent Wanderer's soul. Wolf Slayer's smile turned wistful.

"Do you hear them. Dreamer? Listen." -

Faint screams crept up from every sparkle in the rainbow. Agony clutched at Wanderer, a pain so overwhelming that he crumpled to his knees and dug his fingers into the red-and-purple bands.

The colors swirled and twined, solidifying into war. Sparkflies glittered in the air, seemingly unaware of the tattooed warriors who raced through a plaza with their chert-studded war clubs raised. And the fires! Flames vaulted from house to house before catching in the bone-dry grass. The fire swelled to a brilliant orange wall as it consumed the underbrush and swept into the parched cornfields like a raging beast.

Wanderer felt himself descending, being pulled into the midst of the battle. Women and children lunged out of their blazing homes and into the haze of smoke that billowed into the starry sky. The pungent odor of fear-sweat sickened Wanderer. Shrieks and shouts tore the air as people rushed around him, their terrified faces bleached by the flames engulfing the night.