To his right, Heron sat in a blind, chanting and singing. To his left, Singing Wolf looked uneasily at the caribou coming steadily toward them. Then his eyes shifted to Heron's blind, awed.
A strange warmth built in Runs In Light's chest, a feeling of rightness—of Power. On the wings of the drive line, the women crouched, their darts nocked in the hooks of their atlatls. A total silence descended, broken only by the haunting chant from Heron's blind.
Heart racing, Runs In Light watched the animals; ever closer they came, breath puffing up from their black noses, white beards waving, flanks gray against the snow. So many?'
"Only kill thirty," Heron had warned, the glow of the Dream bright in her eyes. "That's what I've promised. Only thirty. Be quick, be merciful. They must not suffer."
"Only thirty," he whispered under his breath.
The lead cow was even with him now. She pulled up, head high, two streams of breath blowing from her nose before she stepped lightly forward, cocking her head at him.
Runs In Light picked up the chant, adding his admiration of her stately beauty, how he would sing her soul to the Blessed Star People.
"You will live through me," he promised. "Your life is our life. Share with us, brothers and sisters of the stars." A warm feeling spread in his breast as she stepped closer, one hoof held in the air, waiting.
In that moment, their eyes met and a soft harmony possessed him, as if his soul drifted to touch hers. He reveled in it, a unity with all life, a weaving, dancing wholeness.
Awed, his heart bursting with love, he explained his need. "Please, Mother. The People need you. Hear our cries? I'm sorry to have to ask."
She stepped forward again, the Power of the Dreaming reaching her. He heard the snow crunch under her splay-toed feet, the huge hooves sinking down until the dewclaws locked in the ice. With her, he breathed the uneasy air. Her concern became his. They moved forward into the killing pen— together—the old cow turning sideways.
Gripped by the Power flowing through his veins, Runs In Light stood, rock steady, every nerve humming. He cast, seeing the dart sink deeply into the cow's side, feeling the point angling forward into her vitals. She stood as he nocked his second dart and pivoted, throwing with all his might, sending the dart home in the side of a young bull. The bone patches left by recently shed antlers gleamed white against the black of his fur.
The cow dropped to her knees, frothy blood at her mouth. Runs In Light continued to sing, soul-sharing the pain with the caribou. Tears filled his eyes, streaking his tanned cheeks. Vaguely, he could sense Singing Wolf on his feet, casting his darts. From the sides, the women ran forward, sending their darts true as the caribou milled. Green Water's arm whipped forward, burying a dart in a bull's shoulder. Laughing Sunshine rushed, her weight impelling the stone head of her lance into a young cow. Another and another went down.
"Enough!" Heron cried, standing, breaking the trance. Caribou turned on their heels, dashing through the ranks of the women, dark feet throwing spurts of snow into the air.
A wounded caribou hobbled to one side, circling to stand meekly before Heron. The old woman settled her dart, balancing the weapon, casting true. The young cow turned, reeling, and pitched on her side to kick futilely.
Only the rasping breath of dying beasts broke the silence.
Runs In Light gasped a deep breath, unaware of how he'd become so winded. Across the space, Heron's eyes locked with his, probing.
"Did you know you did it?" she called. The words echoed in his mind.
He shook his head. "What?"
"You sang them the rest of the way in. You did."
Runs In Light eased down on a rock to stare dumbly at the bloody snow, the feel of the cow's pain still deep in his breast.
"I'm sorry, Mother," he said in a wounded voice, gazing at the dead animal.
Chapter 19
The Long Dark waned.
The spirits that haunted the eddies of Wind Woman's breath whimpered to the north while warmer winds circled up from the southwest, leaving the snow sodden and heavy. To the west, the mountains gleamed dazzlingly white on the few days when the sun shone in the sky. Water trickled from the knife-edged ridges. To the north, the huge braided river poured in torrents, white water shooting high as it bashed from rock to rock.
Time after time, the People hunted the caribou and—best of all—the small herds of musk oxen who foraged in the foothills. Musk ox's flesh had always been a favorite, rich, sweet, heavy with fat—even in this terrible year.
"Leave the mammoth alone," Heron warned, seeing the old bull entering the lower portion of the pool to soak his joints. "Sure, he's got cows and calves up there—but I know them. I won't Dream them in."