She knotted a fringe as she had done before and cut his cord, then weakly gripped his arm and jerked on it. He cried. She did not clean him. A short while later, the afterbirth flooded out onto the floor. For another two fingers of time, Kestrel had to sit slumped in the blood, breathing deeply, before she could marshal enough energy to rise. Leaves of fall grass might have had more strength than her quaking legs. She locked her knees, aware of the watery droplets of her blood that fell to splat on the stone in starburst patterns.
All the while, her daughter shrieked urgently and waved tiny fists. The boy mewed softly where he lay on his back in the pool of blood.
Kestrel picked up the boy and cradled his head to her breast. “Shh. Shh, baby,” she whispered as he nursed. The feel of that soft mouth against her flesh stabbed her to the soul. She whimpered and patted his back gently. When the infant had finished and lay quietly sleeping in her arms, Kestrel rose, hips aching, and carried him to the entry of the cave.
The wind had picked up. It whipped her drenched hair into a black web that obscured her face. Naked and cold, she stood watching the whitecaps that undulated across the Big Spoonwood River. She tried to close her ears to the wails of her daughter, alone in the cave.
Do it, Kestrel. You must.
The storm had let up slightly. Wavering gray veils of rain swept the vista, but here on the river, only a bare mist fell.
Kestrel could make out the hazy shapes of the mountains that lay a six or seven days’ walk from the opposite side of the river—their images only a dim blue band at the base of a rolling sea of gray clouds.
The boy squirmed and shivered. He began to cry again. Kestrel’s heart ached. She turned to peer back at the cleft in the bluff from where she’d descended to the river. The trough shone wetly. Nearby, a gull wheeled and dove into the water, then flapped upward with a mussel in its mouth. Spinning around, it hovered over the slick rocks along the shore and dropped the mussel, cracking it open so as to eat it.
No man stood anywhere in view.
But Lambkill was coming, she knew.
Somehow, some way, he would find her—despite the wind and the rain that obscured her trail, and no matter how far or how long she ran. He would find her.
Two crying babies would make it certain.
“The Otter Clan … they … trace their lineage through the women,” she said as she cradled her son in her arms and stepped out onto the ledge in front of the cave.
Her arms trembled so violently that she almost couldn’t keep hold of the baby as she walked flown the deer trail. Muddy brown water rumbled by below, speckled with juniper needles, twigs and bits of spinning grass.
Kestrel knelt on the sandy shore at the base of the bluff and laid her son down in front of her. Rain beaded on his bloody face. His blue eyes seemed to be searching for her, moving back and forth frantically. He cried and kicked his legs.
“Oh, Spirits, please … I… I can’t do this!”
Sobs shook Kestrel. Desperately, she lifted the baby into her arms again and held him tightly, rocking him back and forth to comfort his fears. “Shh, it’s all right. It’s all right, my son. Try to understand. I love you …” Tears constricted her throat. For several moments, she couldn’t speak. Iceplant, you understand, don’t you? Finally she whispered, “My son, your death may keep your sister alive. And me. Forgive
me…” She sobbed the words in bitter gasps. “I love you so much.”
Kestrel tipped her face up to the cloudy sky and Sang, “Hear me, Star People. I pray for you to come, to meet this little boy when he gets to the Land of the Dead. Hear me, Star People, I pray for you to come. Please… take good care of him.”
She laid the boy on the sand again, then turned and walked weakly up the trail toward the cave. Her son’s cries grew shrill, panicked. Kestrel broke into a run that made her exhausted, wounded body scream in pain. “Oh, Spirits, help me! Make him stop crying. I—I won’t be able to stand it!”
Gulls squealed.
Kestrel glanced up at them through tear-filled eyes. They swooped over her head angrily.
She ducked back into the cave and sank down atop her antelope hide dress next to her daughter. She could still hear the faint wails of her son. Beside her, the little girl lay as still as a corpse. For a moment, Kestrel didn’t breathe. Then her daughter blinked and looked up at the Lion-men who hovered over them. Time seemed to whirl and spin in the wells of those blurry newborn eyes. The growl began again, like animals calling warnings in the night. Deep, barely audible, the sound sent a chill up Kestrel’s spine.
“Blessed… Mammoth Above…”