People of the Wolf(38)

The boy muttered, voice thick, the words only half-formed. In the darkness, she could read his confused eyes. She knew this boy. Something inside tensed.

"Long ago ..." she muttered. "You've finally come."

The next evening Heron ducked under the door flap, leaving the wide-eyed boy to stare at her back. He'd remained quiet, absorbed in his own thoughts. She hadn't wanted to push him yet, but would have to soon.

Stepping along the mist-slick rocks at the edge of the pool, she stopped suddenly. The old mammoth lumbered down the hillside and into the pool, soaking up water with his trunk and spraying it over his back.

"Back again, are you? Brought me a human, you know? Followed your trail."

An explosive exhale and a grunt were her only answers as he scented the air warily. He always came before a storm. Regular as the call of a plover, the huge animal plodded to the hot springs to suck up the mineral waters and wade in the steaming pool. She accepted that, understanding how joints ached prior to the storm. Her own, stiff now with pain, reacted the same way.

She waited, speaking softly to her two dogs who watched with pricked ears. She motioned with a flat hand, keeping them steady, silent.

While they had a truce of sorts—she and the old bull—they didn't crowd each other's territory. On a rock, she waited, keeping a cautious eye on the mammoth who stood up to his belly in rolling mist. He swayed his trunk, splashing slightly as though the odor of the mineral springs was distasteful to his sensitive nose.

In the lee of the rocks, the wind didn't touch her, though tiny flakes of snow drifted down from the sky to disappear as they landed on the warm rocks. Magically, from the mist, caribou appeared. Young "one antler" held his head irritably, shaking it, as the itch to shed tormented his lopsided head. Warily, the caribou drank, feeling Heron's serenity.

Black shifted uneasily. She signaled the dog to quiet.

White stifled a low whine, her eyes on the caribou, speculative.

The old mammoth grunted, lifting his trunk, stepping gingerly toward shore. A ponderous beast, his huge legs ran silver-crested waves toward the rocky beach, the swirling fog from the hot water-almost obscuring him from her view. Amidst splashes, the patriarch of the herd gracefully placed his treelike feet; rock grated under the weight. Rivulets of runoff drained in threads from his coarse red-brown hair.

"Yes," Heron cooed. "You'd best get back to your cows. What have you got up there? Three now? And two calves to keep track of? Better beware, old man. The Long Light is growing. Other young sprouts will be coming, trying to drive you off and keep the old dames to themselves, eh?"

At her words, he turned, facing her, grunting again.

"Oh, go on with you." She waved him away. "What's one old woman to you?"

He lifted his trunk, working his mouth noisily, and turned into the storm, a moving mountain of hair and meat. His bulk faded into the darkness, becoming one with the haze.

Black shifted nervously, nose working as he watched the big animal vanish into the roiling mists.

The caribou eyed her warily. Heron waited until they'd drunk their fill of the water, splashing disdain at the taste with their noses. Uneasy, they moved off, licking black muzzles. They, too, had been enveloped by the steam before she stood, stripping in the icy air.

She picked her way over the rock, wading into the warm water until it reached her hips. Gracefully, she dove, letting the warmth tingle and eat into her skin. Bathed in radiant heat, she stroked across the pool, rising, spitting a mouthful of sulfurous water before standing on the other side.

Ah, how the heat helped. With callused fingers, she squeezed her hair dry and sighed, swirling the waters around her. Ice crystals formed in her hair as the breeze skimmed the surface, fraying the mists.

Black scrutinized her anxiously from the shore, stepping lightly along the rocks.

Heron lay floating as the dusk settled, feeling life in her old joints. Indeed, this was bliss. Such a treasure, this pool of hers. Above, higher in the rocks and hidden by mist, the

geyser hissed and gushed, steam billowing down as hot water shot to the sky. The fount splattered the rocks in a melodic staccato.

Refreshed, Heron paddled to shore, stepping from the water. Her breath fogged before her as she shook water from her arms and legs, shivering. Gathering her clothing, she walked a dart's-throw to the mouth of her cave, feet tingling on the cold snow. Black followed, White trailing him, sniffing the wind.

She passed the caribou-hide door flaps and dropped another stick of birch onto the glowing coals, standing above them in the heat, letting her body dry before dressing. The boy sat across the fire, watching her hesitantly. He was a good-looking brat, perfect oval face with wide eyes and full lips. Tall, too, with broad shoulders.