People of the Fire (14 page)

 
          
 
Tongue sticking out the side of his mouth,
Three Toes pressured a tiny flake from the fragile tip, leaving a razor-sharp
edge. That done, he looked up.

 
          
 
"In a hurry? Maybe he found
something?"

 
          
 
Black Crow trotted in his loose-limbed,
swinging stride that made it look like all his joints were unhooked. Tall and
lanky, he had lived about twenty-five winters. His face, like the rest of his
body, had been stretched out of shape. His ugliest feature consisted of his
long fleshy crooked nose. People joked that it looked like a long
turd
slapped haphazardly on his face. The other
incongruity—considering Black Crow was the finest scout among the people—came
from the slight sag of belly, with protruding navel, in an otherwise whip-thin
body.

 
          
 
Black Crow walked to where the water skin hung
in the shade of a particularly stubborn sagebrush that had repeatedly resisted
their attempts to twist it out.

 
          
 
"We better hope so. Tracks make thin
soup. I mean, there's nothing but dust and last year's buffalo sign."

 
          
 
"See anything else that looks like we
could eat it?"

 
          
 
"Just
tweety
little birds—the ones you like to sound like. And I thought I saw some antelope
out in the basin."

 
          
 
"Can't figure it. I mean, look out there.
No water in the basin. Grass is brown and dead. You look around at the sky and all
you see are those stringy little strands of thin clouds way up. How
long's
it been since it rained, huh? And no snow last
winter." As he spoke, Three Toes resumed his careful pressure flaking,
rolling the punch slightly in his hand as he finished the edge of the tool.

 
          
 
"Too long." Black Crow gulped water.
"You know, if this keeps up, we're going to be living off packrats and
mice. Think you can manage to Sing for a jackrabbit surround?"

 
          
 
"Ever hear this?" Three Toes lifted
an eyebrow and reached into his pouch. Black Crow leaned down, curious, as
Three Toes lifted a carved bone tube to his lips and blew.

 
          
 
Whhhaaaaahh
! the
sound carried on the still air.

 
          
 
"Pretty good, huh?" Three Toes
grinned happily.

 
          
 
"So you can sound like a dying
jackrabbit. That's important? It'd be better if you could smell like a buffalo
cow in heat!"

           
 
Three Toes went back to his work, lifting a
shoulder in a shrug. "You'd be surprised. Coyotes, skunks, badgers,
weasels, wolves, lots of things come to a dying-rabbit call."

 
          
 
"Great! The answer to hunger in the
camps. We can eat skunks and badgers. Wolf is sacred and must never be eaten,
and coyote tastes like . . . like . . . Well, I've never been that
hungry."

 
          
 
Three Toes frowned at his point, lifting it to
the light, squinting along the flake-rippled surface, peering closely for any
flaws he might have missed, for any cracks he'd made in the manufacture.

 
          
 
"I don't know. Them jackrabbits, they can
get pretty mean sometimes, turn around in a trap and charge you."

 
          
 
Black Crow settled on his haunches, fingers
clasped before him. "And you're worried? Remember the buffalo trap up on
Red Water Creek? Remember when that big bull ran over Black Bird and charged
down snorting and blowing snot all over? I '
ve
never
seen a man go over the corral as fast as you did! People Ye still laughing
about the way you landed face-first in the—"

 
          
 
"Hey! Look! I'm alive and in one piece.
Black Bird still can't breathe right after that bull stepped on his chest and
broke all them ribs."

 
          
 
“Yeah, but you'd have saved yourself a lot of
grief if you hadn't landed
facefirst
in the—-"

 
          
 
“Okay! So buffalo get scared. They make those
runny piles when they get scared!"

 
          
 
Black Crow grinned, dark eyes twinkling. “Let's
see if my mind serves me. Seems to me, that wasn't the only runny pile-"

 
          
 
“I get scared, too!"

 
          
 
They both stood as Hungry Bull came trotting
in, deep chest rising and falling as he slowed to a stop, grinning uncertainly.

 
          
 
“Well?" Black Crow and Three Toes cried
at once.

 
          
 
Walking forward, Hungry Bull puffed and shook
his head. “No game. But ... I guess we're in trouble."

 
          
 
“Why don't I like the way he says that?"
Three Toes grunted, half to himself.

 
          
 
“What kind of trouble?
Anit'ah
?"

 
          
 
Hungry Bull shook himself, as if to clear his
thoughts, and walked to the gut water sack. He lifted it to his lips, draining
a hand's section. Dragging a forearm over his mouth, he turned. “Not
Anit'ah
. You've heard of White Calf? It all happened this
morning. ..." And the story unfolded.

 
          
 
“Monster Bone Springs?" Black Crow
wondered, from where he squatted on his haunches. “White Calf, the witch. wants
us to meet her at Monster Bone Springs at dark?"

 
          
 
Three Toes scratched at the back of his head,
staring skeptically at Hungry Bull. He's always been sane before this. Not only
that, he hates the idea of fooling around with Spirit Power. He even denies he
has bad dreams at night!

 
          
 
“I guess I've got to go. You don't have to. I
guess I should have just done that in the beginning. Just gone with her. I mean
. . . well, you might get ghost-sick or something. I don't know. I don't like
spirit stuff."

 
          
 
Black Crow had been frowning into the thin
patterns of smoke rising from the fire pit. "And if we just run? Maybe
Heavy Beaver could ..."

 
          
 
"I don't think so." Hungry Bull's
features had fallen. "She didn't seem the least bit worried about
him."

 
          
 
"If she's been that close to you, she's
got a hold of our soul," Three Toes decided. "Maybe inhaled part of
your breath or something."

 
          
 
"What? Inhaled my-"

 
          
 
"How do I know? I don't know how witches
steal souls!"

 
          
 
"Hey! Quiet! You two are making each
other crazy," Black Crow called from the fire. He cocked his head, staring
up at Hungry Bull. "You know that Green Willow and your grandfather, Big
Fox, were married, don't you?"

 
          
 
Hungry Bull started, color draining.
"Married?" He swallowed hard. "You mean ..."

 
          
 
"That's just what I mean. Red Moon—the
woman you called Grandmother—she came later. Green Willow bore your father,
Seven Foxes. There was trouble and she left the People. Left your grandfather,
Big Fox, with the child."

 
          
 
"How do you know all this?"

 
          
 
Black Crow's features pinched; he shrugged
selfconsciously
. "Not all families like to remember
things . . . especially things they think are embarrassing. Big Fox never told
your father. He never told you. People are polite. They don't mention what your
family doesn't want told."

 
          
 
"She's my . . . No."

 
          
 
Black Crow tilted his head, sharp eyes on
Hungry Bull. "Yes. She's your grandmother. And I think we'd better go to
Monster Bone Springs and see what she wants of us."

 
          
 
Hungry Bull lifted his hands, shaking his
head. "Not now, not after what you've just—"

 
          
 
"Hungry Bull," Black Crow reminded
sternly, "she's not the kind of woman you want mad at you. According to
the stories, she killed a woman who . . . Well, she killed her, that's all. The
stories say she did it by looking at her. On the fourth day, the woman was
dead. Green Willow left in shame, in the night."

            
Hungry Bull cast
pleading eyes toward Three Toes.

            
What do I do? What do
I say? He cleared his throat. "But Black Crow, if we just leave,
maybe—"

            
"She knows
us," Black Crow added firmly. "Hungry Bull gave her our names. She's
looking for a camp of the People. Like it or not, we’re in this."

            
The words were
twisted from him like a rabbit from its hole. "Then we don't have very
long to make it to Monster Bone Springs, do we?"

            
Snaps Horn laughed
and danced away as Tanager chased him through the fir trees. Elk Charm ran
along behind, shrieking her joy. It didn't matter that Snaps Horn was older, no
one ran like Tanager.

            
The game had started
with dart and hoop, where a willow hoop laced with thongs was rolled along the
ground and the children cast sticks at it. The winner was the one who could pin
the hoop the most times with thrown darts. Tanager, of course, had won, until
Snaps Horn's patience cracked like a
chert
cobble in
a fire. He'd turned and thrown his dart at Tanager.

            
Nimble on her feet,
she'd dodged, grinning as she readied her own throw. Knowing her aim was
deadly, Snaps Horn had fled.

            
Now she closed on
him, feeling the power of her young legs. She planted her feet suddenly,
putting all the strength of her supple body into the throw. Her dart, made of
whittled willow, flew straight, catching Snaps Horn full in the back.

            
Snaps Horn howled at
the pain and ignominy.

            
Thus repaid, Tanager
shrieked her victory to the air.

            
She saw him turn, saw
the anger in his eyes, the rage twisting his face. She almost flattened Elk
Charm as she burst past her, weaving around the trees. But no one could run
like Tanager. She yipped her happiness into the still mountain air. Let him run
himself to the stumbles. No man—not even Snaps Horn—would catch her.

 
          
 
In the twilight, Sage Root walked, an ache
pulsing through her. She looked up at the darkening indigo skies, eyes
searching, as if solace lay there beyond her reach. Here, in the interim
between night and day, Father Sun had vanished and the
Starweb
remained obscured in the half-light.

 
          
 
In her loneliness, she wished desperately for
Hungry Bull's strong arms. But he spent this night far to the north hunting,
seeking to do what she had done here. This dilemma, this problem of the meat,
she faced alone.

 
          
 
What to do? She stopped, fists clenched at her
sides as the evening breeze bobbed the dry grasses. Each heartbeat sounded a
dull thud, hollow against her chest. Fear tickled her insides while an ill
feeling weighted her stomach.

 
          
 
Heavy Beaver's power outmatched her—left her
looking foolish and futile. How could a lone woman stand against a shaman? How
could she prove she had acted correctly?

 
          
 
"I can't stand against him," she
whispered. And if I do, I'm ruined. My son will be suspect. And Hungry Bull?
What of him? He'll be devastated, humiliated. For the first time, I’ll force
him to beat me. He’ll have to protect his honor. The very thought of the pain
in his eyes left her soul cringing. I can’t act alone!

 
          
 
And she remembered the desperation in Dancing
Doe's eyes. Poor Dancing Doe, who sat alone, refusing to eat, staring into the
distance in her head hour after hour.

 
          
 
Will I end up like that? Heavy Beaver didn't
bear any festering anger against Dancing Doe. But he did against her.

 
          
 
The chill of evening settled over her as the
stillness grew. The first
flickerings
of the
Starweb
twinkled on the eastern horizon. "Why is this
happening?" she pleaded to the rising stars. "All I did was feed my
people!"

 
          
 
The wind tugged at her fringed sleeve,
threading soothing fingers through her hair, tickling her cheek.

 
          
 
Below her, in the deeper shadow cast by the
ridge, a wealth of rich antelope meat lay drying on the sagebrush. In the
night, coyotes wailed and yipped, held at bay by the odor of human urine and
the soft movements of the old women who guarded the meat. Here and there along
the arroyo, fires blinked amber eyes at the night. In the glow, people sat huddled,
gesturing as they wondered, argued, and tried to make sense of the day. From
where she stood, their conversations whispered, no more than a murmur.

 
          
 
Uneasy premonition hung heavily over the kill
site, like blue smoke from winter fires on a crisp morning. Sage Root swallowed
hard. The ghosts of the slain antelope hovered in the chilling air around her.
A tingle ran through her as her people looked up from below, watching, the
power of their scrutiny raising the hair at the nape of her neck.

 
          
 
Everyone waited ... on her.

 
          
 
Gravel crunched under a light foot. Sagebrush
rasped on tanned moccasins as a woman climbed from below. Sage Root steeled
herself, knowing the decision loomed over her. Why did the responsibility have
to be hers?

 
          
 
"What are you going to do?"
Chokecherry asked, puffing up the last bit of slope, stopping, pressing
wrinkled hands to the small of her back as she straightened and winced. Joints
crackled in the stillness. The old woman cocked her head, staring across the
darkened hollow and the knots of worried people.

 
          
 
Sage Root sighed, picking at the long-dried
blood caking her fingers. "I don't know. They're afraid. He Cursed the
meat."

 
          
 
Chokecherry grunted noncommittally.

 
          
 
“I know I didn't offend the antelope. I just
know it! I looked into the doe's eyes. Our souls locked and she understood. I
saw! I know the antelope don't begrudge the meat. I felt the tightness of the
song as I Sang in my head."

 
          
 
Chokecherry nodded, a quick birdlike motion.
"Then the meat's clean.”

 
          
 
“But what about Heavy Beaver's Curse?"

 
          
 
Chokecherry smacked thin lips over toothless
gums 'What about it?" She hesitated uneasily. "1 think he's out to
get you one way or another "

 
          
 
She nodded, soul frost settling around her
miserable heart

           
 
"I can't win, can I? There isn't a way
out of this that won't waste the antelope, or offend Heavy Beaver."

 
          
 
"No."

 
          
 
"But what can I do? Tell me what
to—"

 
          
 
"I can't. It's on your shoulders,
girl."

 
          
 
Sage Root stepped closer, peering at the old
woman's night-shadowed face. "I—I'm not a Spirit Dreamer. I'm just . . .
me.

 
          
 
Chokecherry nodded. "Just you. And this
is your decision. You killed the antelope. Heavy Beaver took it as an
opportunity to destroy you. He—"

 
          
 
"We're starving! I refuse to look at the
hunger in my boy's face! I refuse to watch his ribs sticking out, his limbs
wasting! Look into the eyes of the children, Chokecherry! Look at them! I lost
two babies. Two! I'm not about to lose this one. Heavy Beaver's got us killing
our own children if they're born female! How do you think Dancing Doe will ever
live with herself? We're dying!"

 
          
 
The old woman stood before her tirade,
unflinching. "And Heavy Beaver's Dreamed a new way—"

 
          
 
"You don't believe what he says about
women—that we're a pollution, that it's our fault the buffalo have become ever
more scarce."

 
          
 
"He's a Spirit Dreamer."

 
          
 
"You've known a lot of people with
Power."

 
          
 
"Yes, I have." Chokecherry laughed—a
hollow brittle sound. "I think I know what he is. But you're avoiding the
problem. What are you going to do about the meat down there? You going to eat
it? Going to feed your son? Set an example?"

 
          
 
"I don't—"

 
          
 
"Dung and flies, girl! You're in the
middle of it! Don't you understand yet? You're the one who has to lead now.
It's your responsibility to take this by the horns and twist the People into
acting . . . making a decision. Now, the meat's down there and all the People
are waiting to see what you do."

 
          
 
"I didn't want this. I didn't want any
of—"

 
          
 
"Well, it's yours. Quit whining and live
with it. Life happens to people. Now, accept it and get on with it. What are
you going to do? We need a leader. Maybe you're it."

 
          
 
“And if I challenge Heavy Beaver? If he Curses
me? I mean I ... He could kill me."

 
          
 
Chokecherry crossed her arms. In a soft voice
she asked, “You believe that? You really believe he could kill you?"

 
          
 
Sage Root reeled at the implications, reading
the old woman's challenge in her defiant posture. "He's a shaman, a . .
." She stopped herself, remembering Heavy Beaver as she'd always known
him. “You don't think he could, do you?"

 
          
 
Chokecherry shrugged age-thin shoulders. “He
might." A pause. “If you believe he can. But it's up to you. I don't know
much about how Power works, but I know that you can defend yourself against it.
I know that you can fight back. I also know that you can submit—and die—if
that's your belief. What do you believe? You know Heavy Beaver. You know what
sort of man he is. You grew up with him. Do you really believe Power came to
him, just like that, when Horn Core died?" She snapped her fingers in
emphasis.

 
          
 
Sage Root caught a handful of her hair,
twisting it around into a thick rope, feeling the pull against the back of her
scalp. “I only started to take him seriously when he began seeking
visions."

 
          
 
“Uh-huh."

 
          
 
Sage Root frowned into the night sky, the
reassuring flickers of stars beginning to fill the
Starweb
.
“But he wouldn't get Spirit Power if he didn't deserve it, would he?"

 
          
 
Chokecherry placed a hand on her arm. “I don't
know what to think. I don't know what's happening, why the game is going away,
but Heavy Beaver's always been a little strange. I've watched him grow up as an
adult watches a child develop. I don't know. His mother always protected him.
She ran over his father like a buffalo tramples grass. She kept the boy from
life, from play with the others. She never let him run with the pack. She
always fought his battles for him. You know what happened to Heavy Beaver's
father? He left. Took what was on his back and moved out of the lodge. Last I
heard he'd finally died over east somewhere in Two Stones’ band."

           
 
"Men and dogs are the same. Beat one, and
it gets mean. Keep one from the pack and it never quite fits in. Never has a
place with the others."

 
          
 
"You think he's ..."

 
          
 
"Not right in the head?" Chokecherry
spread her arms wide. "How should I know? Girl, we've lost so much, maybe
we've lost our way to Spirit Power. Horn Core always worried that he didn't
really understand. But he tried with all his heart. He gave all of himself, but
he told me once that he didn't have the fire in his soul—and it worried him. A
person with Spirit Power can Dance with fire, can Sing the stars."