People of the Earth (26 page)

 
          
 
Bad Belly winced. "I have nightmares
about that. But, Left Hand, even if I hadn't promised Warm Fire, what do you
think it would be like if I went back now?"

 
          
 
"You know, it won't be easy. If you
decide you want to be a Trader, the trail is always longer than you
think."

 
          
 
"No. I—I have someone to look for
first."

 
          
 
"Someone?"

 
          
 
Bed Belly grinned uneasily. "What if I
told you it was Power?"

 
          
 
"You had a Dream?"

 
          
 
"Not me. Warm Fire. He told me just
before he died."

 
          
 
"Well, where did he tell you to go?"

 
          
 
"North."

 
          
 
"That's a lot of territory. You can come
with me to the Wolf People if you want. Or I can tell you how to get to other
places. You know, which trails to take. Where to find water and good camps.
Just where do you want to end up?"

 
          
 
"Uh, I guess I hadn't really thought that
far ahead."

 
          
 
"Come with me. You'd like the Wolf
People. You could make a place for yourself among us. Or you could be a
Trader.''

           
 
"You said I had to find my Power
first."

 
          
 
"Yes, you do." Left Hand stopped and
turned to face Bad Belly. "Listen, to a Trader, the journey is part of the
Power. It's not something undertaken lightly. Here." Left Hand reached
down and undid the laces that held a small leather pouch at his belt, then
handed the pouch to Bad Belly.

 
          
 
"What is it?" Bad Belly used his
teeth to pull the drawstring open. Inside he could see a collection of curious
triangular black rocks, each one polished and gleaming.

           
 
"A gift for the trail, my friend."
Left Hand's voice had softened.

 
          
 
"A gift?"

 
          
 
Left Hand nodded. "The basis for a Trade,
actually. I'm a Trader, remember."

 
          
 
Bad Belly felt a hollow anxiety in his gut.
"But I don't have anything to Trade. Just the few things in my pack. A
couple of biscuit-root cakes that—"

 
          
 
Left Hand chuckled. "Not all Trades are
made at the same time. Think of it as bond ... a bond of Power. Trading is a
thing of the soul, a sharing. One day you will come across a gift to repay that
one—something as important to you as those teeth were to me. I trust your soul,
Bad Belly. You won't forget me."

 
          
 
"Teeth?" Bad Belly pulled one of the
curious flat stones from the pouch.

 
          
 
"Teeth." Left Hand turned his steps
to the trail again. "I wouldn't have known myself, but I showed them to a
Trader in the lands of the Antelope People. He had carried a pack of
olivella
shells from the Western Water and told me that
these are teeth out of a terrible fish that swims there—but this Trader had
never seen any of its teeth so large, or of stone."

 
          
 
"Then where did you get them?"

 
          
 
Left Hand grinned. "That's part of the
Power of Trade, Bad Belly—and a mystery at the same time. I got them from Old
One Fist, over at White Sandstone camp. He said he found them washing out of
the dirt down in the Rim Country. He says there are lots of bones there and
that they're all washing out of the soil. But that's not the curious
part."

 
          
 
"Oh?" Bad Belly hurried to catch up,
eager to hear more.

 
          
 
"Oh, yes, the curious part is that all
the bones are stone. Now, I've traveled more than any Trader I know, and I've
never seen an animal with bones made of rock."

 
          
 
Bad Belly inspected the tooth again, noting
the serrated edges and how flat they were. "These would make a wonderful
necklace."

 
          
 
Left Hand nodded. "You and I think a lot
the same. But tell me, Bad Belly, where are you going to start looking for this
Power of yours?"

           
 
Bed Belly frowned. Where did a person start to
look for Power? The fish's stone tooth felt cool and heavy in his fingers.

 
          
 
The Dream possessed White Ash, lifting her
like a feather on the wind. She flipped and twirled, rising, then falling, her
soul sailing on the currents.

 
          
 
She settled into a familiar and comforting
gray haze.

 
          
 
The mist around her swirled, turning golden
with a honeyed glow. It seemed to thicken, forming the features of a handsome
young man. Light changed, growing brighter and darker by stages.

 
          
 
"Who are you?"

 
          
 
“All that you are . . . and are not. That
which I am Dances the fire and Sings the stars.”

 
          
 
"Why am I here?"

 
          
 
"Your time is coming. A way must be made.
You are part of the Spiral: the circle without beginning or end. Your
People—all of your People—will need you. You are the way . . . and you are not.
''

 
          
 
"What do you mean, the way and not the
way?"

 
          
 
The young man smiled, and White Ash's soul
ached for that beauty. His love seemed to radiate like heat from glowing coals,
shooting her soul full of ecstasy.

 
          
 
"The time has come. The trail you take
will be difficult. Are you strong enough? Can you learn all you will need to?”

 
          
 
"I don't know. What are you talking
about?"

 
          
 
“A new path starts for you now. Seek . . . and
test yourself. Power has its reasons. You may be the one we seek. The Bundle is
waiting for you . . . if you can find the way and trust yourself ''

 
          
 
The haze shimmered, blurring the image of the
young man.

 
          
 
"Wait! Comeback!"

 
          
 
"Seek. Learn yourself first. Know love
and hate. Know happiness and sorrow. Know pain and pleasure. Learn.

 
          
 
"Comeback!"

           
 
She reached for him, but the golden haze
shifted and she fell, grabbing into the silky nothingness as the light dimmed
and the golden hues went gray.

 
          
 
Falling—her stomach rose and tingled—falling,
dropping like a rock into an abyss.

 
          
 
White Ash cried out and jerked awake. She
gasped in the cold air and sat up. Sweat ran hot down her face as she blinked
in the darkness. Somewhere in the distance a wolf howled. The wind whispered
around the lodge poles and batted the smoke-hole flap back and forth.

 
          
 
White Ash reached over and poked at the coals.
A tiny flame flickered to life. She froze; Sage Ghost's robes lay empty. Worry
gnawed at her. He'd sat silently in the lodge while she'd attended the council.
When she'd repeated what had been said, he'd listened, eyes lackluster.

 
          
 
"Where are you, Sage Ghost? Don't tell me
you've lost your mind, too."

 
          
 
White Ash pushed her hair back and found her
worn coat. She took her moccasins from where they sat propped by the fire to
dry and slipped them on; then she ducked out of the flap.

 
          
 
The moon hung low over the ridge to the west.
White Ash peered around the shadowed landscape. Sage Ghost's possessions
remained in the lodge, so he hadn't gone far.

 
          
 
She walked around the camp, watched by the
dogs, who raised their heads, ears pricked. The lodges cast eerie shadows that
made her think of Brave Man's Camp of the Dead.

 
          
 
Coupled with the images of the Dream, the
night pressed down as if to smother her. The camp seemed too quiet. Even the
usual snoring had gone silent in the lodges. The wind whimpered, flapped the
lodge covers, and died. Overhead, the brighter stars glowed with cold light.

 
          
 
A shiver—prompted by more than the chill—ran
down her spine.

 
          
 
Her steps crunched on granular snow; the sound
grated in the darkness. Her skin prickled, as if unseen eyes followed her from
the concealing shadows. She whirled, feeling a malignant presence lurking
behind her, stalking on predator feet.

 
          
 
Sage Ghost might have vanished into the
crystal air. A sudden muted gust of wind tickled the loose hair along her
cheek. She batted at it. The dog-travois poles stuck up like ghostly fingers.
White Ash nerved herself and stepped out into the sage so that she could look
up at the sandstone ridge. A faint silhouette moved against the moonlight.

 
          
 
Sage Ghost? Walking the night, lost in his grief
over Bright Moon? A coyote? Or something else?

 
          
 
She worked her way carefully up the shadowed
slope. A rustling in the sage caused her heart to jump. She peered into the
darkness: nothing. She forced herself to continue, step by fear-charged step.

 
          
 
She crouched as she reached the crest of the
ridge, afraid to show herself on the skyline. The shadowy figure—definitely a
man—paced slowly in the moonlight, hands behind his back as he looked up at the
stars. She made her way through the short sagebrush on silent feet until she
could see the man clearly.

 
          
 
"Wind Runner?"

 
          
 
He turned, crouching slightly before he
recognized her.

 
          
 
"What are you doing up here at this time
of night?" he asked quietly.