“Yes, no matter what it is,” Oxbalm finished as he sat down beside Sumac and kissed her cheek. “If a man picked up a chip of mammoth dung from the trail and told these people that he could chart their future by crumbling it and tracing the patterns, why, they would sit right down and wait for the reading.”
Horseweed laughed softly.
“Don’t laugh,” Oxbalm admonished. “I’m not joking. People are frightened. They will cling to any Dreamer who promises them a brighter life.”
Balsam hoisted himself up on the rock beside Horse weed. His round face had flushed red from the Dancing. He said, “But look at the people who are listening, Grandfather. They’re all stupid! It’s old woman Yucca Thorn and her friends. What do they know?”
Oxbalm gently replied, “A great deal, my grandson. A very great deal. Without those people, we have no village at all.”
Balsam asked, “Why not?”
“They have the Power to split this village down the middle. If they choose to follow Catchstraw, they will do so, because I cannot follow him. Dreamers, even false Dreamers, are very Powerful. I’ll have to take those who will follow me and make a new village somewhere else.” Sadness tinged his voice. “I want all of our people to be together. They’re my relatives, and precious to me. I don’t know who I would be without them. I need them in my life.”
Horseweed interjected, “But, Grandfather, why not let them go? It might be better—”
Oxbalm shook his head. “It would not be better. These are important people. Desperate people. If a leader fails to heed desperation, my grandson, he’s no leader.”
Horseweed spread his hands. “But look at them! They’re standing out there like frightened fawns. How do they know what’s good for them? If Sunchaser were here—”
“Yes, yes, that’s true.” Oxbalm sighed. “If Sunchaser were here, he would tell people the truth, whether they liked it or
not. And they would respect what he said. But he’s not here. We don’t know where he is.”
Horseweed turned to peer solemnly at his grandfather. “You mean that his absence dooms him? That people will believe whatever message they hear the most frequently?”
“He who speaks more often carries greater weight than he who speaks best, Horseweed.” Oxbalm massaged his wrinkled chin while he gazed at the villagers. Many had gone to stand beneath the death litters of lost loved ones and weep. “Remember that. It’s a very important truth.”
“Blessed Mother Ocean,” Horseweed breathed. “In that case, I pray Sunchaser comes back to us quickly.”
Sumac echoed him. “Yes. Please, Mammoth Above, send Sunchaser back to us soon.”
Seventeen
Lambkill slowly circled the dead body, his steps as light as a hunting wolf’s. Father Sun had come up bright and hot, making sweat pour from Lambkill’s wrinkled face, run down his heavy jowls and splat in the middle of his elk hide shirt.
Tannin stood talking to Buffalo Bird’s four brothers a short distance away in the oak grove. Already, ravens had gathered. Twenty or more perched in the trees, their black feathers shining while they cawed back and forth, drawn by the carrion smell. Lambkill admired them. Only the ravens and he would profit from this day.
“Yes,” he heard Tannin say to Harrier, the oldest brother. Tannin had his head down, his mouth pursed tightly. They’d gathered around the smoldering camp fire to drink cups of fir-needle tea. “It must have been Kestrel.”
Far below, a creek meandered through thick willows in the valley bottom. Copses of oaks and pines dotted the hills beyond it. Lambkill slitted his eyes and studied them for a moment, then returned his gaze to Buffalo Bird. Strands of Kestrel’s ‘dark hair wound through the corpse’s stiff fingers. The body had been ravaged in the night. A lion had clawed gashes across the chest, partially dislodging the tapir-bone stiletto. Then, when it couldn’t move the body, the lion had bitten clean through Buffalo Bird’s shoulder. A swath of blood fifteen hands long stained the grass.
By the fire, Harrier said, “The lion came when we were in the forest, trying to track her. We returned and found Buffalo Bird… like this.”
Harrier’s young face twisted in hatred and grief. He had a massive brow, with small eyes and a flat nose. His hide shirt, dyed a deep red, stood out against the background of green oak trees. Lambkill knelt to touch the blood that had coagulated around the chest wound. Pack rats had gnawed a? it for the salt; their tiny, bloody footprints sprinkled the buckskin shirt.
“We will help you find her,” Harrier said to Tannin.