Her eyes methodically searched the low sandstone outcrops on the fringes of the marsh for a place to make camp. Her hips ached miserably. And, too often, her legs cramped so badly that she had to rub the knots out of them before she could go on. When she thought that she couldn’t take another step, she filled her soul with thoughts of Otter Clan Village, nestled in a tall fir forest at the edge of the ocean. She could smell the saltwater, hear the crashing waves. Iceplant had described it to her over and over on the long winter nights when they’d held each other and watched the Star People travel through the Land of the Dead.
Now, those visions kept her sane.
On the opposite bank of the marsh, a small village hid in the shadows cast by a grove of willows. The ten grass lodges, their dome-shaped roofs made from woven cattail, looked new and well-kept. As dusk settled in a blue veil over the land, cook fires glittered to life. The sound of voices carried across the shallow water. A child laughed, and Kestrel glimpsed a boy racing through the village, a spotted dog nipping playfully at his moccasins.
She waded on, fixing her attention on the minnows that shot like silver daggers through the quiet pool. If she’d had the strength, she would have run to get away from those
happy sounds. They reminded her of the cook fires—warm and golden—that shed known as a little girl.
Her mother had taken her by the hand every evening and gone outside to join the other women in preparing supper. The grownups had stood around laughing and gossiping about village events while the children played. Kestrel and Waxwing had usually crouched at the border of the fire’s glow, discussing their little-girl dreams of their future husbands, who would be good hunters and give them many sons. They’d wished for rare seashells to decorate their dresses with, and had helped each other memorize the sacred stories so they could tell them to their children.
Kestrel could not recall ever hearing—in all that time-any stories about a man beating his wife or hurting his child. Oh, there had been murders, and one or two rapes, but they had always happened at distant villages.
Kestrel’s eyes involuntarily strayed across the water, and she caught sight of a man ducking out of a lodge. He was smiling. He walked toward a woman who stood in the central plaza and softly stroked her hair.
Why couldn’t I have been born here, Above-Old-Man? If I’d been born here, I’d have a husband who loved me and Cloud Girl. I’d be kneeling before the fire, frying fish or roasting cattail root and half-listening to the other women whisper about who was going to marry who. Cloud Girl would be sleeping on a silky bed of fox hides in my lodge. I’d smile at my husband when he came to sit cross-legged beside me and finish knapping out his new dart point. We’d talk gently to each other. He’d examine his point, studying the workmanship. Then he’d lay it aside and tenderly squeeze my hand.
Kestrel peered down at her reflection in the water. The dark-blue bruises had faded to purple and yellow. Tenderness . Did such a thing really exist anywhere, for anyone, now? Did some people’s lives just seem beautiful because they kept all of the violence and pain hidden behind the walls of their lodges?
Just as she had, for five long cycles.
“Somewhere, it must exist,” she whispered desperately. “Please, Above-Old-Man, let it exist for someone. It can’t have all died with Iceplant.”
Her right leg cramped again. She groaned softly.
There, that was the place she needed. Warily, cautiously, she slogged toward a rock overhang that darkened the face of a red sandstone knoll barely visible through the screening marsh vegetation. The reeds and mud ended, and moss created a velvet blanket on the rising ground around the knoll, cushioning her steps as she bent low to enter the rock shelter.
Her eyes had deceived her. It was smaller than it had seemed from a distance—barely a body length across and half a length wide. But it would be big enough for a night’s rest. Other humans had taken refuge here. Shreds of woven grass matting were lying about, and someone had knapped out a stone tool here and left brown chert flakes in a pile. A fire pit filled with charcoal marked the middle of the floor. Ash rose when Kestrel slumped down beside it. The jolt brought Cloud Girl awake. She mewed softly.
“It’s all right, baby. We’re safe,” Kestrel soothed. She untied the sack and lifted it over her head, then carefully laid it in her lap. The baby yawned. She had one tiny fist twined in the rabbit fur and the other stuffed in her mouth. She mewed again. “Are you hungry, Cloud Girl? Me, too. We had a long day, didn’t we?”
Kestrel stretched. Taking the weight from her shoulders had eased her, but her lower back still hurt. She twisted and sighed. “It won’t be long now, Cloud Girl. Another seven or eight days and we should reach the sea. Then we just have to walk by the water’s edge until we find Otter Clan Village. They’ll let us rest. They’ll help us. You’ll see. Iceplant told me they would.” She tipped Cloud Girl’s sack on its side to retrieve the small pack of tools and dried meat she had tied behind the hood. She couldn’t risk building a fire. If the villagers saw