People of the Sea(24)

“Look, Grandfather!” Mountain Lake pointed up at the gulls that circled above the villagers. The birds screamed at them, angry that they couldn’t get to the juicy piles of meat, begging for a tidbit anyway. Mountain Lake shrieked and flapped her arms, frightening the birds into higher flight, then laughed. “I told them they’d have to wait until we’d finished our share.” Her face radiated happiness. Oxbalm could barely make out her features through the dried blood. He ran his thumb over her cheek and chuckled.

“You look like you were killed by a short-faced bear and dragged around by the cats,” he told her.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Grandmother and me got a lot of work done. Did you see that big pile of kidney slices we cut up?”

“It was huge. We’ll throw them all into the fat and fry them crisp for supper tonight.”

Mountain Lake smiled. “I love mammoth.”

“This is the first time you’ve had it, how would you know?”

“We’ve eaten it for supper three nights in a row. That’s enough to know.” She watched her moccasins as she walked, kicking up sand, giggling when the grains showered Oxbalm. He tried to sound stern. “Quit that.”

“You like it, Grandfather. You know you do.”

She gave him the winning smile that always melted his soul and he sighed, “You’re right. Go ahead.”



Mountain Lake kicked up a haze of sand and giggled when Oxbalm squeezed his eyes half-closed to fend off the onslaught. Dragging her by the hand, he hiked up to the rocky terrace where the bonfire burned. The delicious aroma of fat hung heavy in the air. On the north side of the fire, two girls used black chert flakes to cut up dried meat and handed full baskets of it to three women who mixed the meat with last autumn’s dried berries. The women, in turn, gave the baskets to another woman, who stuffed the mixture into a length of mammoth intestine, tied at one end with yucca twine. Finally, Big Striped Bee held the tube open for her mother, Fernleaf, who poured cupfuls of hot fat over the meat and berries. Big Striped Bee then tied off the open end of the intestine and draped the tube over one of the meat poles. Hundreds of such tubes had already been stuffed.

“The pemmican ropes look like bent logs,” Mountain Lake observed as they neared the bonfire. She hesitated for a moment, then twisted her head and frowned over her shoulder. “Uh-oh, Grandfather. Here comes Catchstraw, and he looks mad.”

“He always looks mad,” Oxbalm said as he turned. Catchstraw strode across the sand purposefully, his gaze riveted on Oxbalm. “Mountain Lake, why don’t you go ask Fernleaf for a piece of fried fat? I’ll be there shortly.”

She craned her neck to look up, then squinted one eye against the sun. “Grandfather, why isn’t Catchstraw happy that the mammoths gave themselves to us to eat? Doesn’t he like mammoths?” “I’m not sure that he likes much of anything,” Oxbalm answered. “Now go. Run along.”

“Yes, Grandfather.” Reluctantly, she released his hand and raced away. Female laughter rose as Mountain Lake stopped to greet the women in the pemmican line.

Catchstraw looked determined. Oxbalm had the distinct urge to run in the opposite direction—as if his ancient legs would allow him that luxury. But he folded his arms and



stood his ground. The afternoon was wearing on, and mist curled from the deep-blue surface of Mother Ocean. Coyote is smoking his pipe in the Land of the Dead.

When. Catchstraw was twenty hands away, Oxbalm called, “What is it, Dreamer?” “We have to finish our discussion, Oxbalm.”

“I didn’t think there was anything left to say.”

Catchstraw propped bloody hands on his hips and expelled a breath. “I’m growing tired of you, elder. I have been leading the Mammoth Spirit Dance, Oxbalm. Not Sunchaser. Doesn’t that tell you something?”

“What?”

“That I am the new spiritual leader here! I should have some right to talk to you about the matters of the clan.”

“Catchstraw," Oxbalm said, “you know as well as I that you’ll never be the spiritual leader here until more of your Dreams start coming true. But you do have rights as a member of this clan. Talk. I’m listening.”

“No one’s Dreams are always accurate, Oxbalm. Not even the great Sunchaser’s!”

He’d said Sunchaser’s name in a mocking, belittling fashion that grated on Oxbalm like sandstone on a raw wound. “When has Sunchaser ever been wrong?”

Catchstraw ignored the question. “Sometimes Evil Spirits tell Dreamers things that aren’t true. That’s not my fault. It wouldn’t happen to me so often if I weren’t always Dreaming, trying to see the Way for our people.”