The caribou grunted softly, a puff of condensed breath twisted and blown away in Wind Woman's growing fury. The animal shifted, back to the wind, looking around with its good eye. Raven Hunter froze, noting for the first time that the blind eye, like Grow Caller's, was on the left side of the head. He started, carelessly knocking a rock loose to rattle and tumble down.
The old bull's head snapped up, ears swiveling. Nervously, the animal trotted off, nose to the wind, sniffing anxiously.
Cursing himself under his breath for such superstition, Raven Hunter followed, sneaking through the falling light. The old caribou hobbled ahead, always just out of reach. Still, it drifted into rougher country, the glacial rubble piled ever higher, a perfect place for a man to ambush the old beast, bash it to death with a dropped rock.
Raven Hunter licked his lips, the lure of the hunt driving him. With a full belly, the White Hide wouldn't be so ... The White Hide! Raven Hunter looked over his shoulder, back at the way he'd come.
The old caribou hobbled along on its lame leg, pausing every so often to scent the breeze and stare around with its one good eye. An animal near death, its ribs stuck out, pelvic bones visible through the thin hide.
Food. Easily had for a short stalk, the right ambush. Food that a man without weapons couldn't have hoped for.
Behind, the lure of the White Hide tugged at him. And what if I'm not worthy? Raven Hunter wondered. What if some wolf comes along and chews it? Or a mouse strips the hair to make a nest? What if the White Hide thinks I've left it?
Frantic, he looked at the old caribou where it followed a rocky drainage up into the boulder piles. Raven Hunter worked his cold fingers together, knowing the chances were excellent that he could circle, drop a heavy rock, and the old
deer would be trapped. Generally, the washouts led to dead ends, blocked by huge boulders undercut and tumbled by the melt.
And if the White Hide were damaged by his negligence? The Power would evaporate—leave him. Dancing Fox would never be his. The People would never be his. They'd laugh that he'd let his stomach stand in the way of leadership!
For a long moment, he watched the old caribou walk into the certain trap. A wrenching agony possessed him. He imagined the thick steaks, the warm liver and heart blood.
Worry over the White Hide grew. What if—as he stood here thinking of food—a wolf was already ravaging the soft leather of the White Hide? What if some bear had found it-was rending the Sacred Hide to shreds? He winced, looking longingly back at the old caribou as its rump disappeared in a bend in the washout.
Raven Hunter turned heavy steps back down his trail.
"The Hide will keep me," he whispered. "The White Hide is my Power. The White Hide won't let anything happen to me. It's Power—it's my destiny!"
He ran on wobbly legs, frantic to assure himself that the Hide remained safe. On uneven footing, he tripped, falling, pain lancing up his arm as he bruised his elbow. For a moment, he lay half-stunned.
"The White Hide . . ."He gritted his teeth, staggering to his feet despite the thrumming agony in his arm. The feeling came back as he bulled along, anxious eyes seeking his tracks. He practically fell over the trail left by the People, turning, running on rickety legs.
He cried out as he found the Hide, resting where he'd left it on the stained snow. Whispering to himself, he caressed it, heedless of the numbness in his arm. A surge of relief washed through him with the power of sexual release.
"You're safe," he repeated in an undertone. "Safe. See? I 'm worthy of you.''
His arm wouldn't work to lift the burden. Pain flashed white in his mind, leaving him dizzy, disoriented. His empty stomach rebelled, causing him to retch. Breathing deeply, he controlled his spinning senses, backing under the Hide. With his good arm, he managed to roll it over one shoulder. He grunted, lifting, almost falling under the burden.
"Power," he whispered, cheek against the soft leather. "The heart and soul of the Mammoth People. My destiny. The greatest warrior of the People. The leader. No one is stronger than Raven Hunter—the half-Other! No one!"
The next morning, haggard, tripping, eyes glazed, he located the entrance to the Big Ice. The chill wind caressed his face as snow drifted down around him. His hurt arm had swollen, the joint throbbing violently. His stomach churned. He chewed stoically on another strip of leather from his battered clothing.
"Close now," he grunted to the Hide. "So close. Just through the ice ... through the ice." Wearily, he hefted the White Hide again and wandered into the blackness.
One Who Cries joked in the dark, patting shoulders, telling stories on himself. Occasionally a knotty willow root would smolder and die, causing mild confusion until it was rekindled. For the most part, they conserved the fuel, eyes adjusted to the blackness.