People of the Fire (68 page)

 
          
 
The way had been so easy when Wolf Dreamer had
taken him to Dance. He'd experienced the thundering silence, the unity and
disharmony. He'd gloried—and felt nothing. The call strengthened, drawing him
on, like a man suffering of thirst while the river retreated just beyond his
fingertips.

 
          
 
It was so easy! I just took Wolf Dreamer's
hand and crossed. Why can't I do that now? Why do I get so close-only to lose
it to illusion?

 
          
 
He settled himself again, blanking his mind,
driving the deceptions of illusion from his concentration. Stillness, quiet, he
stretched his mind and soul, forgetting the world around him. The One hovered
closer, the sweetness of it caressing his very soul like the radiant warmth of
a fire on a cold night. He sought the flames, extending himself in an effort to
encompass.

 
          
 
Laughter drifted up on the still air, carrying
the emotions of the people. The image burst.

 
          
 
The panic within him spread. The One lay so close—yet
so far away.

 
          
 
To drop the thresholds was so easy. I did it.
I can do it again. Just let go, drift around the One. He imagined Wolf
Dreamer's hand in his. His fingers tightened on nothingness until his muscles
trembled, pain eating into his concentration. No, not that way. That's a false
trial. Another illusion to trap you.

 
          
 
In the back of his mind, a voice reminded.
"The time is now. You must go and Dream. You must. You must

 
          
 
He clamped his eyes closed, desperation
bottled within his burning breast. "What if I can't?"

 
          
 
Panic burned free until he collapsed in tears

           
 
* * *

 
          
 
Morning had begun to cast a muddy yellow haze
across the implacable wall of the mountains to the east. The mighty crags of
rock stood resolute, impervious to the light. A giant black wall, it rose,
irregular and jagged, to block the coming of the sun.

 
          
 
Like my soul, Elk Charm thought.

 
          
 
She climbed the last bit of steep trail,
stepping out onto the cap rock in the chill morning air. A robin called
plaintively in the predawn. Already a knot of people stood uncomfortably, their
forms contrasting with the puffy shapes of the juniper and
rabbitbrush
.
To one side, Little Dancer sat cross-legged, staring out to the east, hands in
his lap, eyes closed, face expressionless.

 
          
 
Gravel grated on the rock underfoot. She
forced her muscles to work, walking awkwardly as if to spite her natural grace.
Cricket's feet scuffed the rock behind her. She hadn't slept that night.
Instead, they'd talked of love and life and pain. Did anything else exist in
this world?

 
          
 
Her heart beat dully in her chest as she
stopped, staring at her husband. Memories of his smiles, his jokes and
uncertainties whirled through her mind. And it had all come to this?

 
          
 
He's the hope of the people—Red Hand and Short
Buffalo. He's got to go. He's got to. He's a Power warrior, fighting for his
world. She shook her head, remembering how Two Smokes had warned her. Cricket's
tales of fear and death only strengthened the knowledge that his time had come.
I must let go. I have to free him. But why does it hurt so much?

 
          
 
As if he heard, Little Dancer opened his eyes,
turning his head to look at her. He rose to his feet. Wolf appeared magically
at his side, following as he approached. The others might not have existed as he
came to stand before her. The sight of his tortured features, of the
desperation, sliced her composure with the keenness of sharp obsidian.

 
          
 
What tormented him so? What terror gave him
that look of anguish? The curb on her emotions broke and she threw her arms
around him, hugging him tightly. His arms went around her.

 
          
 
'Tm sorry," he whispered in her ear.
"You'll understand one day."

           
 
"Maybe I understand now. Go, Little
Dancer. Dream the world back to normal. I'll Sing for you. Chant. Do anything I
... by the Wise One, I'm so proud of you it hurts."

 
          
 
"I love you. I'll never stop loving you.
Maybe, well, it's my strength in the Dream. I had to know love, be willing to
give up everything for it. You've given me the greatest of gifts."

 
          
 
"We'll be waiting. Your girls, all of us.
Come back."

 
          
 
"If lean."

 
          
 
And he pulled away.

 
          
 
Dry-eyed, she stared up at him, seeing the
pain in his eyes. Slowly she shook her head. "I'll be waiting for you. For
as long as it takes. Forever."

 
          
 
His smile warmed her soul despite the chill.

 
          
 
He stepped back, turning to Cricket, who held
his youngest daughter. He reached where the child slept in Cricket's arms, and
touched the little girl's forehead, the caress as tender as a spring breeze on
a fawn's hide. A delighted smile curled his daughter's lips and a gurgle
erupted.

 
          
 
Next, Little Dancer settled where their oldest
daughter stood, an uncertain thumb in her mouth.

 
          
 
"You will be good? You will mind your
mother and grow to be as beautiful?"

 
          
 
She nodded curtly and rushed into his arms.
"Don' go. Don' leave me!"

 
          
 
"I must, little one. The Power
calls." He bent to kiss her on the top of the head and her tears dried,
lit by a smile.

 
          
 
"
Tha'sgood
."

 
          
 
"That's the Power, little one. Take it
with you."

 
          
 
And he stood, a tear leaving a trail along his
cheek. "This is so hard."

 
          
 
Elk Charm's stomach knotted as if she'd been
kicked.

 
          
 
"Come," Two Smokes said gently,
stepping out of the crowd. "We've a long way to go."

 
          
 
Elk Charm's protests died in her throat.
Silently, she watched as Two Smokes and Little Dancer took the trail to the
east.

 
          
 
"As long as it takes," she
whispered.

 
          
 
She barely realized her daughter had clutched
her hand, hugging her leg. A wailing rose within. Despite the promises, her
eyes swelled with tears, shimmering her vision so he j walked away in a silver
mist.

 
          
 
Tanager watched the sunset, gazing at the
magnificent swell of blaze-orange cloud that glowed with the dying day's light.
The sky overhead had turned a forever shade of cerulean blue in contrast to the
gaudy colors of the sky. The land below her position might have been touched by
fire as the crimson rays of light
diffiised
from the
spectacular sky.

 
          
 
"A world aflame," she mused, before
forcing herself to tear her eyes away from the marvel and make another
inspection of the surrounding country. Enemy war parties might be anywhere,
skulking through the trees. Prior to the fading of last light, any dangerous
parties of warriors must be located. Tanager couldn't allow another surprise
attack. In the intervening weeks, she'd led her growing band successfully.
They'd tracked enemy parties, ambushing them, scattering the prowling Short
Buffalo warriors as more and more of the Red Hand retreated to Rattling Hooves
and the camps there.

 
          
 
Below her in the rocks, her warriors settled
in for the night,
cookfires
carefully screened, smoke
rising on the still night air so as not to alert raiders. This camp couldn't be
surprised. Scouts lay out, spending the night along the trails to raise the
alarm.

 
          
 
As she turned her attention to the remarkable
sky again, she couldn't banish the thought that they'd already lost. Despite
her courage and the will she instilled in her warriors, they remained so few
against so many.

 
          
 
"Then here I'll die," she promised
as she had so many times before. "This land is mine. Given to us by First
Man."

 
          
 
So she'd resigned herself. Absently, she ran
long fingers over the
atlatl
, feeling the Power of
it, knowing White Calf's soul had truly gone into the weapon. When she fought,
she Danced and Sang, and called that Power forth. With it, she remained
invincible. Her daring feats had broken more than one heated fight. Where she
Danced inviolate, her warriors followed, stirring their own courage to a raging
heat.

 
          
 
Darts ghosted by her, leaving her untouched.
The enemy stood dumbfounded, refusing to believe a woman would kill them as she
bashed their skulls or drove her darts into their bodies. She'd chosen
carefully, finding a rock, shaping it, and binding it to the
atlatl
shaft she'd taken from Two Blue Moons to fashion a
war club just right for her balance and strength.

 
          
 
Already her fame had spread as Red Hand
warriors came seeking her camp.

 
          
 
As she watched, the burning clouds reddened,
enraged by the setting sun. "So is my world maddened. Like fire, my anger
pushes me. So the Short Buffalo People feel my heat— the burning of Tanager's
soul."

 
          
 
Without thinking, she raised her hands to the
towering clouds that shot flame through the sky. Did her eyes deceive her, or
did she see the form of a man staring at her with blazing eyes?

 
          
 
“Give me the anger and strength to drive the
Short Buffalo from my lands. Hear me, First Man. Hear the plea of Tanager. Give
me the weapon to drive these beasts from the lands of your Red Hand!"

 
          
 
A low rumble of thunder rolled across the
land.

 
          
 
As quickly, the color in the clouds faded,
going dark and drab.

 
          
 
She lowered her hands, wondering. Turning, she
scrutinized the timber again, searching the meadows and the fringes of forest.
So dry. No matter that the clouds had piled high, no rain had fallen. Where she
could look over the basins, they remained sere and dry, a land parched. Even
here, high in the
Buffalo
Mountains
, the timber was desiccated, and the few
night fires they allowed themselves guarded carefully lest the sparks fall upon
the dry grass or settle in the branches of the desperate trees.

 
          
 
"A land that cries," she whispered,
lowering herself amid crumbling grasses. "And the Red Hand cry with the
land."

 
          
 
The buffalo had become more numerous, climbing
from the heat-cracked basins, seeking the water and grass of the high country.
So the Short Buffalo lived off the land, as did her warriors. But what of
winter? What of the food that men and women should even now be caching? Who
could prepare when warfare raged and parties fought in the shadows of the
trees?

 
          
 
She shook her head, a gloom settling with the
fall of darkness.

 
          
 
Wiggling around the rocks, she wrapped her
hide tight against the dry chill of the night. She'd seen no movement. The
scouts had made no report. This night, they should rest secure before sending
more parties out in the morning, blood and anger in their hearts as they cut
for tracks. Where they should have been hunting balsam and sego lily, now they
hunted men.

 
          
 
Weary, she allowed the tension and anger to
drain from her fatigued muscles. Heat lightning flickered in the tall mass of
clouds to the west.

 
          
 
She huddled in her robe, willing her eyes to
close, willing sleep to come.

 
          
 
And with it, the Dream . . .

 
          
 
Blood Bear led the way. Behind him, the
remains of his band ducked through the tinder-dry timber, stepping cautiously
over deadfall, moccasins crackling on the dry needles. Dusk loomed overhead,
lit only by the striking sunset they could catch a glimpse of through the
somber trees.

 
          
 
Snaps Horn and the others followed him
blindly, led by the knowledge that he carried the Wolf Bundle. Even through so
many setbacks, so many deaths and defeats, their spirit remained loyal to the
tiny bundle of hide.

 
          
 
Fools! Couldn't they see the silly thing had
no Power? Blood Bear clutched the Bundle to his sweaty chest. Nevertheless,
without it, his hold over the Red Hand would have eroded long ago. Even though
he was Keeper of the Bundle, men and women had begun to look sideways at him,
skepticism in their eyes.

 
          
 
He, the greatest warrior of the Red Hand,
remained powerless to stop the advance of the Short Buffalo People. Even with
the Bundle in his possession, more and more of his warriors trickled away into
the timber, following the path south to this new leader, this Tanager.

 
          
 
Tanager? That skinny girl who haunted the
canyons and ran wild through the meadows? What could she possibly know of war?
Of the men who'd bedded her, most said she remained aloof, and none had planted
a child in her muscular loins. Granted, for a woman, she had strength and
balance. None could Dance as well as Tanager. But she'd been so odd. Even the
charms of her body had eluded Blood Bear. Around her, he'd been uneasy, as if she
knew too much. Who wanted a woman who could move through the trees with more
craft than he, who could throw a dart with such accuracy?

 
          
 
He grunted to himself. And perhaps that was
her secret in warfare? That she never missed?

 
          
 
The challenge of her rising status simply
couldn't be ignored. Blood Bear's resentment had been stirred when talk
centered around her, and a curious light began to fill the people's eyes. The
Red Hand could afford no other leader than he when it came to this war with the
Short Buffalo. Who better to lead them than Blood Bear, who'd survived for
years alone in the land of the enemy? Who understood their ways better?

 
          
 
No matter. He knew where Tanager operated,
cutting off the trails available to the enemy. He had only to confront her,
perhaps bed her to show her his mastery, and her following would fly apart like
cattail down in the wind.

 
          
 
He smiled to himself, thumping the Wolf Bundle
with his thumb as he walked.

 
          
 
Heavy Beaver stalked the camp, hearing the
subtle talk of the People, muffled now by the lodges. What could he do? He
batted at a mosquito that hummed eerily about his head. The bones of the
Clear
River
stood out in the channel where the crystal
water wound around the rocks. Behind him. the Red Wall glared gaudy in the
light of the burning clouds high above the
Buffalo
Mountains
. Like fire, they reflected the sunset.
Shades of pink, red. yellow, and orange glared against the incredible blue of
the sky.

 
          
 
The lush valley they'd entered had withered
brown under the lack of rain—as if by camping here, they'd condemned the
grasses and plants. Only for a moment did Heavy Beaver let the thought bother
him.

 
          
 
"Is that fire up there?" someone
asked, stepping out of a lodge and staring west.

 
          
 
"Only the sunset of the
Anit'ah
," another called—but the joke didn't carry any
humor.

 
          
 
And there lay the crux of his problem.
Straight Wood had taken two days to die, during the last of which he lay in
delirium, spouting on about White Calf the witch and her unsettling prophecy.

 
          
 
Heavy Beaver had Sung over his fevered body,
nauseated by the pus that dribbled from the man's side. The smell had been
terrible, that of punctured gut and putrefaction. No matter that he'd been
locked away in a lodge at the edge of camp, Straight Wood's shrieks and dire
warnings could be heard all through the night.

 
          
 
"White Calf," Heavy Beaver whispered
under his breath. "Still trouble, even in death."

 
          
 
He swatted another mosquito, wishing he could
so easily crush the rumors that circulated, undermining his authority.
Viciously, he ground the dead insect between his fingers.

 
          
 
No matter that he'd claimed that Straight Wood
was possessed by an evil spirit, the people still doubted. The news of a
terrible female warrior had been carried down from the mountains. And with it
came stories of his warriors being cut to pieces, routed by her ferocity and
Power. Already some of the women had developed a spark in their eyes, a
resentment in their actions. More than one had been beaten bloody because of
her flippant remarks.

 
          
 
So how did he regain mastery of the situation?

 
          
 
"Mother?" He looked up at the sky.
"What would you do? What would you tell me?"

 
          
 
In the still air, nothing came to him.

 
          
 
Memories of the Blessing returned to stalk his
mind. When the drums boomed and the people Sang, he could almost hear. If only
the words didn't elude him. But that had been a different time—the Power of the
People unchallenged. When he walked among them now, he could still see respect
in their eyes, but another feeling now lay hidden in their thoughts: doubt.

           
 
Why now? Meat came down the trail in a
constant stream. More than enough had been dried, cured for winter by the women
and youths. His warriors continued to loot the prize lands of the
Anit'ah
. He could have recalled his men and sent small
camps out to kill those last herds of buffalo along the major rivers. He could
rest assured in his Power, in the vision his mother had dreamed.