People of the Fire (57 page)

 
          
 
"And one of the these days when Blood
Bear comes to make us?"

 
          
 
"We'll leave, wife. We'll leave and go
see those mountains over there across the basin."

 
          
 
Ramshorn
had timed
his visit perfectly; for the first time that year the warm air off the basin
rose with the night, sending pleasant dry breezes up the canyons. The gentle
scent of sage, juniper, and limber pine mixed with the perfume of blooming
phlox, buttercup, and yellow bell.

 
          
 
For the feast, a large crackling fire had been
laid before Hungry Bull's ample shelter. The dance of the flames reflected in
yellow-bronze tones off the high arch of the overhanging sandstone and cast
darting shadows over the juniper that crowded the
rimrock
,
seeming to weave eerie forms against the background. Shadow patterns jumped in
accordance to the rising and falling of speech, animated by laughter.

 
          
 
Over it all, the night sky stretched
endlessly. The
Starweb
sparkled in brilliant radiance
as each point of light glimmered and danced in the velvet night.

           
 
The people of Hungry Bull's band sat around,
talking and joking, knowing the night would bring good and bad. Rams-horn came
with news—and Rattling Hooves had already cut her hair short in mourning. Elk
Charm had not only cut her hair, but wore her worst clothing. She wouldn't
change until at least a moon had passed. Among the Red Hand, the death of a mother—even
by marriage—did not occur without sorrow.

 
          
 
Then, when everyone had eaten, they would talk
of Blood Bear's request for warriors.

 
          
 
Little Dancer had found himself a place to sit
in the rear, where he could see and hear and avoid involvement in the talks as
much as possible. For the moment, he simply enjoyed the night, watching the
firelight play on Elk Charm's beautiful face. Already, he missed her long
luxurious hair. How would it be to make love to her in the evening and not have
that soft wealth spilling around him? How would it be, not to be able to reach
over in the night, as he so often did, and run the silky strands through his
fingers?

 
          
 
His infant daughter had dropped off to sleep
in Elk Charm's arms. Her mouth—toothless and pink—hung partly open in her fat
face while tiny fists clutched nothingness. She'd pinched her eyes shut, giving
herself a strained look. Only infants worked that hard at sleeping.

 
          
 
He looked over to see his oldest
daughter—finger in mouth, dirt and soot smudged around her face—watching
wide-eyed as Grasshopper attempted to flake a stone tool. Dancing Leaf, Black
Crow's number-two daughter, rested on her knees, offering sarcastic advice—to
Grasshopper's infinite disgust. The clacking of his futile stonework lent background
to the rising and falling talk of the adults.

 
          
 
Meadowlark and Makes Fun hovered about the
fire and poked anxiously with their digging sticks where the deer fawn roasted
under layers of dirt covered by a bed of glowing coals. The meat had been wrapped
in balsam leaves and packed with biscuit root and yarrow leaves for flavoring.
So sealed, it simmered in its own juices. Unborn fawn cooked over an open fire
fit anyone's description of delicacy—but roasted like this? Little Dancer's
mouth watered at the thought.

 
          
 
Meadowlark shot wary glances toward Three
Toes, who listened with interest to whatever
Ramshorn
said. The hunter still had to concentrate to keep track of the
Anit'ah
tongue, but he'd learned over the years. Black Crow
simply nodded, smoking willow bark in his straight clay pipe. Rattling Hooves
monitored the roasting pit full of pine-nut patties Makes Fun had produced that
afternoon. Already the sweet odor had begun to seep from the insulating layer
of earth to tantalize the air.

 
          
 
Two Smokes, looking like the elder he'd
become, sat propped comfortably, maimed leg stuck out. He used a small rock to
press a bone awl through an elk hide he'd tanned and cut to size. As he punched
the hole, he'd double-stitch the seam of the jacket he worked. His attention
did not wander; no single word uttered by
Ramshorn
missed his keen ears. Only a careful observer would notice the flash of his
eyes as
Ramshorn
told of this or that occurrence. The
weathered expression of Two Smokes' face seemed to tighten at each mention of
Blood Bear.

 
          
 
Beyond the ring of the fire, Little Dancer
could occasionally make out wolf's shadow as he slipped through the sagebrush,
perpetually alert. That link—now so familiar—never seemed to weaken. They both
waited, always knowing it must happen some day. Wolf tolerated the People, and
they watched him skeptically, understanding instinctively that this wasn't
simply a displaced animal, but something more. In the passing years, that
knowledge had set Little Dancer apart. Even Hungry Bull treated him with
respect and no little awkwardness.

 
          
 
The people didn't know quite what to make of
his yearly winter visits to White Calf's. They simply accepted. Spirit Power
was good to have around—and unnerving at the same time.

 
          
 
Little Dancer had built his own Power wheel
out of stones on the windblown flat above the canyon. There they'd find him
every so often as the sun came up, checking the alignment of his lines of rocks
where they transected the circle. They looked at him with awe when he calmly
told them that a certain day was the longest of the year, or that winter would
only last a moon more before the final melt started.

 
          
 
When someone got hurt, they came to him,
expecting him to mend broken legs, heal cuts and burns and toothaches. Last fall,
an old man known as Flat-Nosed Badger had come all the way from the Red Hand
camps for advice on a lump that had formed under his armpit. Remembering
something White Calf had told him, he gave the man a
hideful
of
ephedra
and sent him back with instructions to
boil it into a strong tea. When visiting White Calf, he'd been told the man had
died, but that the
ephedra
had helped ease the pain.

 
          
 
Now he waited, watching Hungry Bull, the
leader of the small band, pacing back and forth, helping with the cooking,
adding wood to the fire, sharing a joke with
Ramshorn
.
Then Hungry Bull teased Grasshopper over his crude turtle-backed scraper,
chiding him over the cuts he'd made in his fingers.

 
          
 
“You look happy, husband." Elk Charm
reached up to lace her slim fingers in his.

 
          
 
"It's a good night." He filled his
lungs, enjoying the smells of plants and food and the familiar pungency of sage
smoke. "This is the sort of occasion a person should savor and memorize so
that he can have each detail to enjoy for the rest of his life."

 
          
 
She squeezed his hand, a signal that she
sensed his hidden desperation. Unconsciously, his attention went to the dark,
searching for the ghost shadow of wolf, seeing nothing but the uplifted spikes
of the sage protruding from the clusters of white-green leaves. Nevertheless,
he could feel the animal, waiting, guarding.

 
          
 
Yes, you 're there. Wolf Dreamer didn't need
to send you. I made my decision that time in the snow. I understand what's
coming—but I don't have to like it.

 
          
 
At that moment, he caught sight of wolf. He
could only make out the head, but both eyes burned in the darkness, catching
and reflecting the light of the fire, looking identical to the old rock carving
in Two Smokes' shelter on the south side of the mountain.

 
          
 
Now, when he thought of things like that, the
path of the Spiral could be followed so clearly. Many a night he'd lain awake,
thinking back on who he'd been forced to become and where his path would
eventually lead. He felt frustrated, impotent; but then, what good had
resistance ever done him? Almost with anguish, he remembered his excitement
that day Chokecherry had tried to tell his mother about Spirit Power— and the
whole time, he'd been no more than a feather in the spirit wind. Meanwhile, he
drifted on the gusts and eddies, his friends around him, like unfettered birds,
darting and dashing where they would, without restraint.

 
          
 
And therein lay the irony. He studied Hungry
Bull—the man who'd always disliked involvement with Spirit Power, the man who'd
been cast loose from his people and had reluctantly agreed to lead this unusual
band of refugees. Hungry Bull, who seemed so much adrift in life, could fly
where he wanted, unaware of his freedom to choose.

 
          
 
No one cared that Little Dancer—whose Power
people had begun to revere—remained a captive of the Spirit Wind, waiting for
the Power to blow him where it would.

 
          
 
Things can change. Wolf Dreamer worries about
free will. Perhaps someone will kill Heavy Beaver. Perhaps some An-it 'ah will
drive a dart through him, or some illness will take him. I may not have to give
this up. I may escape!

 
          
 
Hope, like a sliver of fire-treated
chert
, rose hot and sharp within his breast. Fervently, he
clutched Elk Charm's hand-praying with all his soul that some hole would appear
in the net of fate to allow him to wriggle free.

 
          
 
"Hey." She tugged at him.
"You're about to break every bone in my hand! You're squeezing so hard the
blood will pop out the ends of my fingers!"

 
          
 
"Sorry, I was . . . just. . ." He
let her tug her hand away, watching her rub it as she stared soberly up at him,
a sly smile on her lips.

 
          
 
"Got lost in your head again?"

 
          
 
He nodded—the familiar longing pumping with
his blood. How could he let this go? How could he turn his back and walk away
from this woman and his children? The very thought of it wrenched his heart.

 
          
 
Hungry Bull's cry drew his attention. "I
call this food done!" He looked up at the night sky, raising his hands
over his head. "Hear me, spirits! We call on you to lift the deer mother
to your safe heaven in the
Starweb
. Lift her unborn
fawn and place him in an honored spot. From them, we receive life. So, too,
will we one day die in our physical forms and go back to the Earth Mother. And
from us, the worms will feed and brother coyote will eat. Our flesh will
nourish the plants that nourish the deer. We are the Spiral of life. What we
take, one day will we give back. Perhaps on that day, mother deer and her fawn
will pray our way to the Star-web."

 
          
 
Little Dancer added his voice to the prayer,
Singing the doe and her fawn to the stars, thanking the plants for their
bounty, feeling the harmony of the Spiral of life.

 
          
 
And that's why you '11 turn your back on those
you love. Because you know your place, your responsibility. You are the lever
that will move the Spiral back into place.

 
          
 
"But can't someone else do it?" he
asked under his breath.

 
          
 
The taste of warm blood in Tanager's mouth
gave her strength. Blood, the life that pumped strength through a person's
veins. Her blood, her life, feeding her with her own strength ... a Circle
within.

 
          
 
She bit her lip hard again, the pain acting as
means of stifling the scream born in the bottom of her throat. Anything to keep
from screaming, from admitting the pain or the reality of what continued to
happen to her. Each time she bit down on the inside of her mouth, more blood
seeped from her ravaged lip, feeding her strength, keeping her going.

 
          
 
She'd closed her eyes long ago, refusing to
see what she couldn't help feel. Eyes could be closed—one small comfort in her
situation. Ears, however, continued to hear. Her body continued to feel, and
the pain lingered, dull, aching. No longer did the men's entry and movement
make a tearing hurt. For the moment, the fluids had eased the discomfort to a
burning chafe. Where they'd bitten her, the sting lasted, irritated by their
salt-sweaty skin rubbing the wounds.

 
          
 
She felt the one on top of her stiffen,
groaning, his organ pulsing inside. She swallowed hard, enjoying the taste of
the blood in her mouth, taking strength from her life.

 
          
 
He lay limp on her while they chattered among
themselves in their guttural tongue.

 
          
 
How long would this continue? Hadn't they
exhausted themselves? She kept her eyes pressed closed, bloody lip pinched in
her teeth. She felt him rise, cool air drifting over her sweat-dampened chest
and belly.

 
          
 
Was he the last? Was he the—

 
          
 
Another body dropped on hers, almost driving
the air from her lungs with its weight. They'd ceased holding her legs and arms
long ago, figuring her resistance had broken. She bit her lip as he thrust.

 
          
 
She'd lost count, but there hadn't been that
many, only seven in the party that had captured her. Only seven, but they'd
been young, eager, with that keen look in their eyes. This way they could hurt
back, do to her what they couldn't do to the Red Hand.

 
          
 
She bit her lip again as he hurt her, stifling
the scream, feeding herself on the taste of her blood, battling the pain they
caused by drowning it in pain she controlled.

 
          
 
I'll live. I swear, I'll live and repay them
all. She swallowed again, subsisting on the strength she drew from herself.

 
          
 
Finally, he lay spent on top of her. He didn't
rise. She waited, suffering to breathe under his weight. Through
slitted
eyes, she saw they had seated themselves, talking
in a desultory way. A fatigue had crept into their faces, dulling the eyes,
sagging muscular shoulders. Each clutched his weapons, the camp dark lest a
fire bring the Red Hand down upon them.

 
          
 
She lay quiet, unable to move, feeling the
warrior on her relaxing, drifting off to sleep. Did he lie like this on his
woman at home? Was that his weakness? She opened her eyes in the darkness,
carefully searching for anything to use.

 
          
 
Someone called. She clamped her eyes shut again,
hearing feet in the grass, feeling the man on top of her start as he was nudged
by his leader.

 
          
 
The man raised himself, and the toe nudged
her. She looked up, seeing him gesture, pointing toward a blanket.

           
 
The chill of the evening iced the man-sweat on
her skin. She fought the groan as she sat up, knowing how she'd hurt the next
morning.

 
          
 
The leader spoke in gravel tones, gesturing
toward his bedding. She waited.

 
          
 
In response, he kicked her hard and she
couldn't stop the pain cry. Numbly, she crawled to his blanket and pulled
herself into a ball, hugging her knees to her wounded breasts, aware of the
burning inside. Her captor stood tall, well muscled and poised, the braids of
his black hair hanging down | over his shoulders.

 
          
 
From a pack he took a thong, gesturing that
she extend her legs. She did, and waited.

 
          
 
Satisfied, he laid his darts to the side and
bent down to tie her.

 
          
 
In that moment, she moved, powered by the
strength she'd garnered from her blood. She snatched his darts, kicking out,
whirling, using all of her anger to drive the sharp point into his flesh and
up.

 
          
 
He shrieked, backing away, grabbing futilely
at the feathered shaft that stuck out from his lower ribs.

 
          
 
She stood,
nocking
a
dart in his
atlatl
, knowing the balance would be
different. She held a man's weapon, awkward for a woman's muscles.
Nevertheless, she drove a dart into the next man on his feet and, turning,
bolted for the trees and the safe haven of the darkness.

 
          
 
They shouted in the night behind her. She gripped
the darts, pounding through the trees, head down as the branches tore at her,
lashing her bare skin. She used the branches as scourges to keep her fear
charged, to spur her flight into the night.

 
          
 
Her feet ached from the bruising of rocks. She
stubbed unprotected toes on sticks, stone, and deadfall. Still she ran, lungs
heaving, body burning. Nothing remained now but pain and escape.

 
          
 
The first blind panic drained as she staggered
on. They couldn't track her until morning. She slowed, taking note of her
surroundings, trotting into a clearing to study the pattern of the
Starweb
. Finding her bearings, she pushed onward* climbing
a ridge to stare across the jumbled landscape. She picked out
Cloud Peak
, realizing where she was. Not that far from
Blood Bear's camp—if he still remained there during the raids. White Calf's
would be closer. She turned, locating the valley of the
Clear
River
and changing her direction, staying to the
rocks and pine duff where it lay thick under the trees. Her bare feet wouldn't
make a track—so long as they didn't bleed too much.

 
          
 
In her hands, two darts remained.

 
          
 
"You know, if we can't stop the Short
Buffalo People, you're not safe either."
Ramshorn
met their gazes one by one with his own. "I've heard the stories. You're
all fleeing from this Spirit Man, this Heavy Beaver and his new way. Just
because your relatives are among his warriors doesn't mean they won't skewer
you. I may not be much of a judge on why humans act like they do, but I'd bet
they'd love the chance to kill people who had the nerve to leave."

 
          
 
Three Toes pursed his lips, a deep frown
lining his face as he stared down at his feet.

 
          
 
Black Crow caught the look in Makes Fun's hard
eyes and cleared his throat. "
Ramshorn
,
everything you say is true. We don't deny it." He spread his arms.
"But I ask you, as a host to a guest. Place yourself in my shelter for a
moment. Look out at the world through my eyes. We came here at the bidding of
White Calf. She told us that if we could go no other place, to come to her. We
did that, and Blood Bear came with warriors—yourself among them—to kill
us."

 
          
 
"And I, for one, have apologized for
that. You must remember the times."

 
          
 
"We do." Black Crow tugged at his
braid, composing his next words. "But many things have happened since
then. Rattling Hooves and Elk Charm have come to live among us. We've adopted
many of the ways of the Red Hand, but we've become a different thing—a new
People, not
Anit'ah
, not Short Buffalo. We are us,
even if there aren't very many of us."

 
          
 
"And what will you do when Heavy Beaver
comes?"
Ramshorn
crossed his arms over his
chest.

 
          
 
Hungry Bull pointed to the west. "We'll
go there, to those mountains. Or if not, we'll find a place where the people
don't war and we can live by ourselves."

 
          
 
"The Fish Eaters live over there."
Ramshorn's
lips twitched. ''Would you want to be a Fish
Eater?"

 
          
 
"Once I would have died rather than eat
roots and leaves." Hungry Bull's wry smile beguiled. "Food is food,
my friend. So long as it keeps blood and bone strong, the soul can take care of
itself.''

 
          
 
"I agree with Hungry Bull,"
Meadowlark added. "I don't understand the changes that are occurring. The
fact that my children are threatened by this is enough for me. I know Heavy
Beaver. I grew up with him. Maybe I could have done something to stop him.
Maybe it would have gotten me Cursed, too. I don't know. All I know is that I
can't keep my family fed and clothed if my foolish husband runs off and gets
killed in your war like his heart wants him to do."

 
          
 
Three Toes sighed and lifted his hands.
"Yes, yes, I want to. What can I say? I wish I could drive a dart right
through Heavy Beaver. Look what he's done to us! You find trouble everywhere
these days—and it's Heavy Beaver at the bottom of it!" He looked around.
"I don't like the idea of fighting alongside the Red Hand. They killed my
father."

 
          
 
"And your father killed more than one Red
Hand," Rattling Hooves reminded, her mind obviously on Wet Rain.

 
          
 
"That's precisely the point," Makes
Fun agreed. "And at the same time, Rattling Hooves, here we are. What do
we call ourselves? We're something new, a new People made of two old ones. Your
relatives killed mine, and mine yours, and now we're living happily, sharing
jokes and work and food. You care for my children when I go out hunting with
Black Crow, and I open my camp to you as if you were my sister." She shook
her head, making the gesture for "no more" with her hands. "No,
I think if we get involved, it will only lead to trouble, to bad feelings and
hurt and anger among ourselves."

 
          
 
Elk Charm cleared her throat, asking, "
Ramshorn
, if we don't want to get involved in this, what
will Blood Bear do? Will he come here, angry, and try and kill us? I don't know
Heavy Beaver, but Blood Bear isn't reasonable either. You never know what he'll
do from day to day. Please, you're my cousin. Once you were my father's best
friend. Tell me from your heart."

 
          
 
Ramshorn
reached up
to rub his eyes. "I don't think Blood Bear will come here. At least not
until the Red Hand have driven the Short Buffalo People out of the mountains
for good. And if we lose? I don't think Blood Bear will be among the people
fleeing the mountains. I think he'll die before then."

 
          
 
Rattling Hooves nodded to herself. "Then
I say we stay out of the insanity." She looked at Makes Fun. "I'm
sorry I spoke in the tone I did."

 
          
 
Makes Fun winked at her. "Grief does
that. Tomorrow, when you have a chance, would you come cut my hair? I'll share
your grief with you."

 
          
 
Rattling Hooves, ever invincible, nodded
slowly, lower lip trembling as she averted her eyes.