People of the Fire (4 page)

 
          
 
'The Wolf Bundle?" A cry pierced the haze
in his mind. "We can't live without the Wolf Bundle!"

 
          
 
But Clear Water had taken it. Spirit Dream . .
. Clear Water knew what she was doing. His thoughts slipped away like smoke
into a night sky. Fading. Fading. Grayness.

 
          
 
"Looks like you were wrong again, Blood
Bear. You killed me despite yourself." And he chuckled.

 
          
 
The haze dimmed and floated around him, like
tufted clouds on a mountaintop. His soul drifted, sinking into a calming
warmth. Then he began to rise, upward, above his crumpled body.

 
          
 
Are you coming? a soft voice asked.

 
          
 
"Who? Who called?"

 
          
 
They call me Wolf Dreamer . . . the Sun Man .
. . a new way lies before you now, A new way . . .

 
          
 
What must come, will Human souls flow like the
currents of a river—often angry, thrashing white, boiling and mad— against the
resistant rock that blocks the way. At other times human souls move peacefully,
slow and lazy, barely rippling the surface of the tepid water they wind
through. Then, depending on the time of year, they flow encased in blue-white
ice, locked in a secret darkness.

 
          
 
Around the Wolf Bundle, souls gather, unaware
of the rapids around this last bend.

 
          
 
"You must be patient," the voice of
the Wolf Dreamer whispers through the mists.

 
          
 
' I know, " the Wolf Bundle answers.

            
The lodge trapped the
heat of the night, warm and muggy despite the rustling dry wind shivering the
smoke-browned hide cover. The cover had been drawn down tight, firmly pegged to
the hard clay in order to form a seal so that none of the malicious Spirit
Powers might wiggle beneath to steal in and find a home. The People did that
during a birthing.

           
Newborn children had
no soul, and into that warm haven any manner of evil could creep. To further
ward off harmful powers, sagebrush—the
lifegiver
—had
been piled around, the purposely bruised leaves adding a rich pungency to the
desiccating air.

            
From where the boy
crouched outside in the darkness, a frayed seam had come unraveled enough to
allow a peephole view of the interior.

            
A single fire of
punky
cottonwood smoldered and smoked, adding to the
stifling heat in the lodge and giving light in the midst of so dark and windy a
night. The warm, steamy air issuing from inside puffed on the boy's eye. It
brought the odors of tanned hide, smoke, and sage to his nose. Mixed with it
were other smells of sweat, wood, and fear. The delicately bitter taint of
herbs wafted out as he watched.

            
Dancing Doe cried out
where she lay naked on
sweatsoaked
robes. The smooth
planes of her young face twisted and contorted as her belly contracted, seeking
to force the child within from the safe confines of her womb. Between her
breasts lay a natal bundle, a figure in the shape of Turtle—the magical animal
that never sickened. Turtle brought health and luck. He disappeared with the
coming of the winter gales, crawling down into the Earth Mother, returning when
Father Sun brought spring and life to the world. The fetish on Dancing Doe's breast
had been constructed of finely sewn antelope hide and stuffed with sage, bits
of twigs, feathers, and other sorts of Power.

 
          
 
On her belly, a series of designs had been
drawn to center the Spirit Power of
biith
. The most
important, a bright yellow stripe, had been painted down from the natal bundle
between her full breasts to end in a point in the mat of her black pubic hair.
The Path of Light, it would lead the child on its way to the world.

 
          
 
The boy stared, feeling the Power of the
women's chant within. Though he feared discovery, he couldn't force himself
away from the fascinating events. He knew his mother would punish him—and Two
Smokes would no doubt even now be looking for him, beginning to worry about his
absence from his sleeping robes.

 
          
 
A night of heat, a night of pain. Across the
mound of Dancing Doe's swollen belly, two women—one young, one old—looked at
each other, worry etching their tension-worn faces.

 
          
 
The old woman's gray hair glinted in the
light. Patterns of wrinkles were cast into a tracery of shadows across her
withered face. The set of her mouth had gone grim as she continued her vigil
over the struggling woman. Back curved from age, she hunched, upper body bared
and sweaty in the heat. Long-dry breasts hung low and flat over the folds of
her stomach. Lines of scars puckered the wrinkled skin of her shoulders, mute
evidence of the number of times she'd offered bits of herself to the Spirit
World. The people called her Choke-cherry, after the bittersweet plant that
grew in the high lands.

 
          
 
The boy watched as his mother, Sage Root,
crouched to help, her anxious eyes on Dancing Doe's fevered body. He knew that
strained look. Worry marked the faces of all the People. Lines, like arroyos on
the land, etched deep into their faces. But the helpless concern his mother
betrayed frightened him. When Dancing Doe cried again, his gut tightened like
sun-dried sinew.

 
          
 
Poor Dancing Doe. Her husband, Long Runner,
had gone to hunt the foothills of the
Buffalo
Mountains
. He'd never returned.

 
          
 
Chokecherry took a breath, reaching into a
neatly sewn sack to withdraw damp sage and sprinkle it on the red eyes of
coals. The perfume of life roiled up on a mist of steam.

 
          
 
She chanted softly in a singsong, "Come,
little one. Come to walk in life and bless the land and sun and plants and
animals. Come to join us on the path to the
Starweb
which leads to all good things. Hear our song. Hear our joy. Come, little one.
Come into this world and make us smile."

 
          
 
Dancing Doe grunted again, tensing the muscles
of her powerful brown legs. She sucked a frantic breath, exhaling sharply, eyes
clamped tight, teeth bared in a
rictus
of effort.
Beads of sweat traced irregular paths down her trembling flesh.

 
          
 
Sage Root gripped Dancing Doe's fingers in her
own. "Easy. Breathe easy. It won't be long now."

 
          
 
Dancing Doe relaxed as the spasms passed. She
gasped and looked up at the old woman, who continued chanting. "It doesn't
always take so long. Chokecherry, is it all right? Am I dying?"

 
          
 
The old woman finished the litany and lifted a
shoulder, smiling. "I've borne children more difficult than this. It's
your first time. Those muscles have to be stretched and they don't know how
yet. Nothing's torn. All that's come out is water—washing you, you see, making
the way clean. That's all." She looked across, laughing reassuringly.
"Just like Sage Root. She kept me and Horn Core up for almost a whole
day."

 
          
 
Sage Root smiled wistfully. "I remember.
But my son was born strong."

 
          
 
Only when Dancing Doe closed her eyes and
nodded did Sage Root's expression tighten. Tension hung in the air like winter
mist, reflected in the set of her features and in Choke-cherry's burning eyes.
It drifted from the rent in the lodge to settle like a water-heavy green hide
on the boy's shoulders.

 
          
 
Chokecherry resumed singing under her breath,
taking another handful of sage leaves from the pouch and sprinkling it over the
fire to fill the lodge with a clinging steams odor.

 
          
 
Dancing Doe cried out, anguish palpable as her
belly tightened.

           
 
"Should we call Heavy Beaver?" Sage
Root's hard eyes leveled on Chokecherry's.

 
          
 
From where he sat outside, the boy winced.
Heavy Beaver, the Spirit Dreamer of the People, brought that kind of reaction.
In his head, a voice whispered, "No. "

 
          
 
Like a shadow in the night, he eased back,
parting the piled sagebrush with careful fingers and creeping from his
peephole. Free of the brush, he sprinted across the camp on light feet,
heedless of the barking dogs. Before him, on the packed clay, the lodges huddled,
squat, the bottoms rolled up over the peeled poles to allow the night breeze to
blow through and cool the occupants where they slept on grass-padded bedding.
Here and there, the sanguine eye of a dying fire cast a sunrise sheen on
boiling pouches hanging from tripods, black orbs of hearthstones dotting the
glowing coals.

 
          
 
Cottonwoods rose against the night sky,
silhouetted black; the ghostly image of clouds could be vaguely discerned
against the exposed patches of stars. In the trees, an owl hooted cautiously.

 
          
 
"Wolf Bundle, " the voice in his
head whispered.

 
          
 
Before he reached the lodge, he recognized Two
Smokes' figure hobbling across the camp. No one walked like Two Smokes.
"Two Smokes?" He changed course, trotting up.

 
          
 
"There you are! I've been half-sick
worrying about you. Here your father is gone to hunt, your mother is—"

 
          
 
"I need you. I think we need the Wolf
Bundle."

 
          
 
"The Wolf Bundle?" Two Smokes cocked
his head, the familiar curious expression hidden by the shades of night. Tone
softening and reserved, he asked in his
Anit'ah
-accented
voice, "Why do we need the Wolf Bundle, Little Dancer?"

 
          
 
He hesitated. "I just . . . well, a voice
told me."

 
          
 
"A voice? The one that speaks in your
head?"

 
          
 
"Yes. Please, bring the Bundle," he
pleaded. "Dancing Doe's baby isn't coming. Mother and Chokecherry are
worried. Dancing Doe is afraid she'll die. And Chokecherry didn't say it, but I
could feel. You know, what she didn't say. The look in her eyes. I thought the
Wolf Bundle ..."

 
          
 
"You thought right. Come. Let's see what
we can do."

 
          
 
Two Smokes pivoted on his good leg, heading
off in his wobbling stride for their lodge, the fringed skirts of his dress
swaying in time to his off-balanced pace.

 
          
 
The
berdache
had
always been an enigma to Little Dancer's mind. No other man among the People
wore a dress. In response to his childish questions, Two Smokes had smiled
wistfully and replied that he was
berdache
—between
the worlds. A woman in a man's body.

 
          
 
The
berdache
had
lived with the People for as long as Little Dancer could remember, always
staying in their lodge—a strange silent man who'd come to them from the
Anit'ah
. Patiently he endured, despite the jokes and gibes
and the open ridicule of the People. Alone and aloof, Two Smokes helped Little Dancer's
mother with chores, scraping hides, cooking stew, accepting the duties a second
wife would.

 
          
 
Little Dancer's father, Hungry Bull, the
greatest hunter among the People, remained civil to Two Smokes, his innate
disapproval tempered by some other veiled concern the boy had never been able
to penetrate. Mystery surrounded the
berdache
like
the swirl of smoke from a rain-wet fire.

 
          
 
Not that Little Dancer cared. For all his
eight summers, Two Smokes remained his best friend, listening intently when Little
Dancer told him of the voices he often heard. When his mother or father scolded
him, he ran to Two Smokes like other children ran to their grandparents.

 
          
 
"So you were hiding around the birthing
lodge?"

 
          
 
Little Dancer stiffened. "I . . ."

 
          
 
"You know, men should never get close to
a birthing lodge. That's a place for women. What if you change the Power?"

 
          
 
Shamed, Little Dancer dropped his gaze to the
ghostly clay they trod, heart sinking in his chest. "I'm not a man. I'm
just a boy. I'm not a man until I'm named and have proven myself."

 
          
 
"And you didn't think that even a boy
might make a difference?"

 
          
 
"The voice didn't tell me I would. When
I'm around Power, I usually know."

 
          
 
"Indeed?"

 
          
 
Into the stretching silence, Little Dancer
added, "It's a feeling. Like . . . well, the silence before thunder. Only
longer. Just a feeling, that's all. And sometimes the voice."

           
 
He stopped before his family's lodge, waiting
as Two Smokes ducked inside, hearing the shuffling as the
berdache
carefully unwrapped the Wolf Bundle from the heavy par-fleche that kept it
safe.