People of the Wolf(160)

"I know a way."

She probed his gentle expression cautiously. "Tell me about it."

' 'Will you trust me? Take me and a handful of my young men to your camp beyond the Big Ice to get the White Hide back? If your people were to return it as a gesture of goodwill, and my clan were to offer gifts of clothing, food, and new shelters, we might be able to forge a new people."

"Or reforge an old one?"

He smiled, squeezing her hand. "Yes. Then you think we could share the south together?"

"Together." The word rested easily on the tip of her tongue. "I've been alone for so long, I'm not sure what that means anymore."

His warm smile caressed her heart. "Nor do I, but it's part of the Dream. A chance to reunite that which should have never been sundered."

She peered into the fire, watching the rose-amber flames lick at the rocks lining the pit. Slowly, her eyes shifted to rest on their entwined fingers. Noting her gaze, he hesitantly brought his other hand over to turn up her chin and meet her eyes.

Do I trust him? She looked hard into his eyes, trying to read his soul. How many times have men made promises to me? He has a new land to gain. And the People? Can we stand against them in the end? His warriors look healthy, strong, eager for war. Can our young men stop them?

A grim reality blocked her thoughts. What choice do I have? And yes . . . despite my fears, I trust him. Her heart raced. Fool!

"It won't be easy," he warned, seeing her caution. "I think we both know that."

She nodded. "I'll take you—and only a handful of your young men—to the People. Call it a test of your resolve. But Raven Hunter will be there."

"Yes." He nodded soberly. "I've been preparing for that final confrontation."

"It will be ... cataclysmic." She stilled, tensing.

He nodded soberly, meeting her eyes. "You know what's coming, then?"

Her teeth ground hollowly as she nodded. "Not completely."

He began to say something and hesitated, seeing her stiffen. "I wish I knew which of them is stronger."





Chapter 63



Wolf Dreamer resettled his legs, easing the cramp. His mind continued to replay the scenes of joy and release as he'd led the People from the cleft in the ice. Little Moss had danced out of joy—an expression of the One not even the young boy understood. Shouts and cries had carried sharply on the cold air, people hugging each other, laughing, some with tears tracing down wrinkled brown faces long etched by sorrow and hardship.

He'd led them, climbing up out of the valley, the first to see Jumping Hare as he came streaking down the slope, his arms waving wildly, face radiant.

So much joy after so much suffering. A spiral, a circle within a circle having no distinction between the levels. All things came around, changing, moving down the spiral of life. Despair's time had passed for this cycle. Only challenge remained—until the next curve of the spiral.

And how could anyone forget the shining relief in One Who Cries' face as he ran to his wife that day, stopping,

holding her at arm's length as they both looked into each other's eyes with worship. They'd embraced then, violently, holding each other until ribs cracked.

Wolf Dreamer lowered his head, feeling air and life filling his chest. With a sigh, he stood, plucking his hide from the ground, a lingering remorse over the loss of Heron's shelter nibbled at his peace. Ah, for the darkness, the faint moist odor of the purifying steam. He looked around, seeing Broken Branch dropping boiling stones into a buffalo-gut bag. Steam.

Wolf Dreamer considered, hearing the commotion around the camp. Distraction, no way to clear his mind. They wanted him to Dream the animals in tomorrow.

Walking to the fire, he bent and picked up a burning chunk of spruce. He couldn't help but feel their eyes on him as he studied the glowing end of the thick branch, bluish smoke twirling in the cold air. Grunting to himself, he turned, walking up the slope toward the trees, blowing on the branch to keep it burning. The People parted before him, conversation evaporating.

In the trees, he snapped more dead branches from the snags and threw them into the fire over his glowing embers. As they crackled to life, he kicked some of the hand-sized cobbles—like Broken Branch's boiling stones—from the snow and piled them in the fire, letting them heat.

He could feel them. On all sides, faces peeked from around rocks, from over drifts, through the trees, as the People came to peer at him. They, followed him everywhere, watching, ever curious at what he might be about.

Distraction.

Dreaming was becoming impossible.

"You told me, Heron. But I didn't believe it could ever be so difficult."

He walked along, scooping up snow, cradling it in the hem of the robe he'd taken from Grandfather White Bear's steaming body that day so long ago on the ice. Hunching over, he rolled the hot rocks from the fire, using them in the same manner as a mother might warm her child's robes. The robe over his head, he reached for the snow pile, sprinkling the white crystals over the rocks.