People of the Fire (50 page)

 
          
 
"He had to go," she reminded
herself, trying not to think of the things that could have happened. A broken
leg in the black timber would have meant a terrible death. A careless step on
an unstable slope could trigger an avalanche. A misstep on an icy trail and a
fall could . . . No, don y t think it.

 
          
 
"Yes," Two Smokes' voice soothed.
"He had to go. Someone had to check on White Calf. I think, too, the
Dreams were . . . Well, he needed to talk to White Calf. Maybe, after all the
fights they had over the years, this was good. Maybe they needed this time to
finally talk."

 
          
 
She couldn't deny it. How many nights had he
tossed and turned, waking to stare at the wolf face that had been so
laboriously pecked into the rock in the back of the shelter? Even sitting in
the sun as she was, she could feel the wolf effigy staring at the back of her
head. Sometimes, when she'd been awakened by Little Dancer's troubled sleep,
she'd look up, and could swear the eyes glowed yellow in the night.

 
          
 
And the tension had ebbed in the shelter.
People no longer snapped at each other, looking furtively at Little Dancer.

           
 
Laughter had returned, the Short Buffalo
People learning
Anit'ah
, while the Red Hand learned
their language in return. Stories had been told in both languages—a healing.
And Little Dancer's leaving had triggered it all.

 
          
 
The memory of that last day stung with the
burning of cactus in a finger. "You've got to go. You've got to see White
Calf."

 
          
 
"I don't like her. She'll just push
me."

 
          
 
"Please," she pleaded.
"Otherwise, the Dreams will tear us apart. Two Smokes knows. Go, ask him.
I love you, Little Dancer. If not for yourself or the others, do this for me.
Please."

 
          
 
And he'd gone, knowing all the while that he'd
wanted to, and refusing to admit it to himself.

 
          
 
"But so long?" The question she
dared not allow herself slipped out.

 
          
 
Her mother's feet grated on the pebbles and a
warm hand settled on her shoulder. "It hasn't been so long,
daughter."

 
          
 
"Almost three moons."

 
          
 
"The weather's been bad, perhaps White
Calf needed him. She might have been hurt. You never know."

 
          
 
Elk Charm nodded slowly, a grisly memory of
her father's curiously swollen body rising from the depths of her memory. At
first, she hadn't believed that hideously deformed face had been his, with the
lips all pulled back to expose the teeth, the jaw cocked at an angle under
empty orbits where his soft brown eyes had once been. But she had recognized
his clothing.

 
          
 
Could that same ghost-mask face now belong to
Little Dancer?

 
          
 
Little Dancer stepped out, blinking in the
gray morning light.

 
          
 
White Calf parted the hanging skins behind
him, pushing on the small of her back as she straightened. "Looks like
good weather for traveling. Watch the talus slope when you go over the divide.
This time of year, it'll be tricky footing. No telling what's frozen and what's
loose. Stuff shifts, too."

 
          
 
"I'll watch myself."

 
          
 
White Calf worked her toothless gums, looking
up at him with sparkling eyes. "And give my best to Elk Charm. I don't
know what you'll tell her. I suppose that you're just fooling around with a
woman old enough to be your grandmother. ''

 
          
 
"Great-grandmother," Little Dancer
corrected. "And you are.”

 
          
 
"You get all the questions
answered?"

 
          
 
"I think so. All but that one
Dream."

 
          
 
"The one with Wolf in the burning
forest?"

 
          
 
He nodded, looking away, down the trail.

 
          
 
She smacked her lips. "Yes, well, enjoy
Elk Charm while you have time."

 
          
 
He tilted his head, staring down at her.
"The Wolf-Man said I'd have time. And besides"—he smiled
wryly—"Power can't make me into something I don't want to be. No, that I
refuse to be."

 
          
 
"Care to bet?" she asked dryly.

 
          
 
He nodded soberly. "I promised my mother.
Every time you talk about Power, I hear her words echoing in my mind."

 
          
 
"Your mother was Clear Water."

 
          
 
"My mother was Sage Root—and besides,
look what listening to Power did for Clear Water.''

 
          
 
White Calf grinned at him, exposing empty pink
gums. "The problem with Power, boy, is that we mortals can only see a tiny
piece of the Spiral."

 
          
 
He clapped her on the back with an affectionate
pat. "And I don't even want to see that much."

 
          
 
"Go see your woman. Her bed's been empty
for a long time. If she's as passionate as I was at that age, she'll be
dragging you between the robes before you've set your pack down."

 
          
 
He shook his head and hugged her good-bye one
last time.

 
          
 
"Thank you for the talk . . . and the
lessons."

 
          
 
"Thank you for the firewood. Come back
when you feel like it. Send Hungry Bull and the rest, too. I like the
company."

 
          
 
He waved as he set off down the trail.

 
          
 
As he warmed his sleep-stiff muscles, he
struggled to make sense of the ideas spinning in his mind. A framework lay
there, starting to sort itself out, a means for understanding the Dreams, the
way of Power—and, he hoped, the trick to avoiding its snares.

 
          
 
Ahead, the trail wound around through the
timber before dividing one way, heading down toward the
Clear
River
, the other climbing up through the trees to
the ridge top and following the elk route to the south. He took the high path,
following the way of the elk—fitting, the way that led to Elk Charm.

 
          
 
At least now, after months of talking, of
listening to an old Dreamer's words and thoughts, he could keep the Dreams in
perspective. Besides, he had a week's worth of travel ahead. In that time, he
could work it all out, rehash the arguments with White Calf, figure out how to
combat the Dreams and keep himself happy while living with his wife. It would
all work.

 
          
 
She says a person can't do both. Very well,
Mother, I hear your warning. Your son will never do what Heavy Beaver did to
others. No one will feel like that. I choose my wife. The Dreams, Wolf, and the
ghost of the First Man can make their own way.

 
          
 
For the first time since Sage Root's death and
the defiling of the Wolf Bundle, he felt satisfied with himself and who he was.

 
          
 
Charging along the path, he laughed aloud,
enjoying the fire of sunrise among the clouds.

 
          
 
A movement in the trees caught his attention;
as he looked eagerly, hoping to see an elk, a patch of black slipped through an
opening in the trees.

 
          
 
Deer?

 
          
 
Then the animal darted across a
meadowed
pocket in the trees. The huge black wolf stopped,
a foot lifted as he stared at Little Dancer with large burning yellow eyes: the
Watcher!

 
          
 
His feet lost their lightness as a tightness restricted
the bottom of his throat, making it difficult to swallow.

 
          
 
“Go back!" He waved his darts at the
animal. "Go back and tell First Man I'm not his Dreamer! You and he well,
you can't make me if I don't want to! You hi

 
          
 
Wolf didn't move.

 
          
 
"I'm Little Dancer . . . and I belong to
no one but myself!"

           
 
Wolf lowered his head, nose coursing over the
crusted snow, as if casting for scent, wary eyes on Little Dancer.

           
 
"Go!" He pointed toward the timber
with the darts.

 
          
 
Wolf turned, head low, tail down, and trotted
silently into the trees.

 
          
 
Little Dancer grinned, knocking his dart
shafts rhythmically together as he hummed a song. The lightness had returned to
his feet and again he practically danced his way down the trail. Images of Elk
Charm, along with the vanquishing of the wolf, competed for attention in his
mind.

 
          
 
Only then did he notice the few strands of
cloud overhead had dulled, losing the enflamed look of the sunrise. Now they
seemed to darken. As he topped out on the ridge, he studied the western
horizon, slightly unnerved by the bank of black clouds rolling down.

 
          
 
Snaps Horn eased out onto the trail, bracing
his feet. The dart—so carefully crafted—rested in the hook of his
atlatl
. He measured the distance, centering his aim in the
middle of Little Dancer's broad back. The oblivious youth walked with eyes only
to the front. From this distance, Snaps Horn couldn't miss.

 
          
 
"For Elk Charm," he whispered under
his breath. A tingle of victory shot hot through his heart. A grim smile played
on his lips.

 
          
 
Arm extended, his powerful muscles rippled—and
he almost fell over backward as the
atlatl
was seized
from behind.

 
          
 
A cry stifled in his throat as he caught
himself and whirled to face his assailant.

 
          
 
Tanager!

 
          
 
She placed a finger to her lips, gesturing him
back. Then she skipped lightly into the thick mat of timber.

 
          
 
He followed, burning rage building. Once in
the cover of the firs, he gritted, "I don't believe you! What kind of
crazy idiocy—"

 
          
 
"
Shhh
!"
She shot him a reproving look, craning to stare down the trail.

 
          
 
He sat, practically trembling with anger.
"This time you've gone too far! This time—"

 
          
 
"Fool!" she hissed. "Come on,
we've got to talk."

           
 
She led him farther from the trail, winding
around through the timber. She slipped lightly over a deadfall he had to
clamber over.