People of the Nightland (North America's Forgotten Past) (30 page)

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Authors: W. Michael Gear,Kathleen O'Neal Gear

BOOK: People of the Nightland (North America's Forgotten Past)
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K
akala weakly pushed the hide off his chest and rolled onto his side, blinking at the hazy ceiling. His flesh burned with fever. Thirst plagued him. Dim silver light came from somewhere.
How long had his soul been out wandering? Days? A moon?
He took a deep breath, and the room swirled around him. “What a … headache.”
His skull throbbed agonizingly. Gently, he tried to push up on one elbow to reach for his blurry pack, but the effort sent his soul tumbling, thought after thought, memory after memory. From the corner of his eye, he saw someone move. He blinked and fell back to his sweat-soaked hide. Closing his eyes, he struggled to control the cascading images.
“Are you finally awake?” Keresa asked.
“You don’t … sound happy about it.”
He pried an eye open; even that hurt. A blue spot wavered in the direction of her voice.
“I am happy. Now I can stop wasting my strength cursing you.”
“Glad to … to finally be of some use. How long … how long has it been?”
“Since the battle? This is our fifth night here.”
Keresa cautiously stepped over sleeping warriors to reach him. He closed his eyes and listened to her quiet movements.
“Where … are we?”
“In a rotted hole beneath Headswift Village.”
He opened his eyes and saw the blue spot hovering above him. He squinted and thought he could make out the shape of her face. Her eyes looked more red than brown.
“You look terrible,” he commented.
“Probably because I’ve been slaving to keep our warriors from killing each other while worrying myself sick about you.”
He smiled. “Is there … water?”
She made noise, and he heard water splashing into a cup. Keresa sat beside him, slid an arm beneath his shoulders, and gently lifted him. Then he felt the cup touch his lips. He drank greedily. Liquid spilled from the corners of his mouth and ran coolly over his chest. He finished it and let his head fall back against her arm.
“Better?” she asked.
He nodded, but as she pulled her arm from beneath his shoulders, his mind tumbled again, confused memories flying close, then soaring away.
“Wh-where am I?”
Suddenly, he couldn’t remember. He shook his head, struggling to recall. In the background he heard the shrill whine of the Ice Giants … didn’t he?
“Kakala, are you all right?”
“Hako?” Hope burst his heart. He reached out for her.
“No, War Chief. It’s Keresa.”
Images of lightning-filled skies pulsed behind his closed eyes. He could smell the vile odors of blood and torn intestines. Hako looked at him in utter terror.
“Hako, I told you to run!
Run!
”
Darts cracked on the rocks all around them. Someone screamed … .
“War Chief. Do you remember that Windwolf captured us at Headswift Village?”
“Windwolf?” His mind struggled to sort images of many battles. “He … he what?”
“There was a battle. We lost. He took us hostage.”
Not Hako.
Hako’s dead. Dead for too many summers.
He shuddered, twining fingers in his damp hide. The battle at Headswift Village … Windwolf bashing him with his war club … Trap, ambush … Keresa’s hard voice demanding, “Kakala? Kakala, hold onto me! We have to get out of here!”
“I remember … Keresa.”
“Good. Lie still. A Healer will be coming to check on you. He’s been here twice.”
“Healer? What Healer?”
“A man from Headswift Village. I don’t know his name.”
He threw her a questioning look. “Search him … before he touches me, all right?”
“Forget it. Windwolf assured me he wanted to finish you off himself.”
He felt like laughing, but figured it would kill him. “How are our warriors?”
She exhaled hard. “Not well. In order to get a Healer to come and see you, I had to order them to turn over their weapons. No one is happy about it.”
“But they … did it?”
“Of course. I threatened to kill each man who hesitated.”
“Keresa? What do the warriors … think … I … ?”
Even in his haze and pain, he’d been worried to death about that. Surely the ones who’d lost friends would be blaming him, praying he’d die. When he was able to take control again, would they obey his commands?
“Some have misgivings. But most of them are with you. I’m with you.”
“I … I know that.”
With hushed violence Keresa said, “The world out there has gone mad, Kakala. There are tens of refugees crawling all over Headswift Village, and more appear every hand of time. Windwolf’s forces are growing rapidly.”
He sucked in a deep breath. “Have we … heard …”
“We’ve heard nothing. Windwolf must have ordered the warriors who guard us to keep their mouths closed. At first I heard many interesting things, but since then, nothing.”
“What about Goodeagle. Did he … did he survive?”
She stopped pacing to stare down at him. “Did you want him to?”
“Not really. I just … thought he might suddenly … be of use.”
Keresa laughed, but it was a strange, near-desperate sound. Since he felt the same way, he chuckled with her—and instantly regretted it. His head shattered like a block of ice dropped from a mountaintop.
She said, “Windwolf did say something that made me think he might be alive.”
“What?”
“He asked me if Goodeagle was in this chamber with us, which made me think he meant there were other chambers where our warriors were being held.”
“Keresa … when possible … try to find Goodeagle … . Get organized.”
He thought he saw Keresa run a hand through her hair, but it was a splotch-on-splotch movement so he couldn’t be sure. Her voice came out soft, strained. “I’ve missed you, Kakala.”
He smiled. “You … scared?”
“Terrified.”
“Don’t be. Windwolf … may have taken … us hostage, but he can’t … can’t hold us. We’ll escape.”
“I think you’re right. If he keeps taking in more and more refugees, it won’t be long. When the people here are going hungry, tensions will rise. He’ll have his hands full just managing his own refugees’ quarrels. And it won’t be long until the Nightland Elders realize we haven’t returned from this raid. We might be dead before they get here, but surely—”
“No … we won’t.”
She took a deep breath and spread her feet, looking like she’d just braced herself for hand-to-hand combat.
“You have more faith in our Elders than I do.” A treasonous tone invaded her voice.
Why did she do that to him? It set him on edge, and she knew it.
He lay still, thinking until he felt the silence so desperately he knew he had to get up—get the warriors organized. He pushed up on his elbows, and a sharp pain nearly fragmented his skull. He fell back weakly, thoughts rolling, jumbling, pieces of images swirling, slips of different voices shouting … .
 
 
K
eresa watched him writhe; her fists clenched in futility. She should have let him sleep. But she’d needed to talk to him, to bolster her own flagging spirits.
Many of her warriors were awake now. Their eyes gleamed in the faint slivers of light that fell through the boulders.
“Hako?” Kakala called. “Don’t … don’t leave me.” He feebly lifted a hand, reaching out.
Keresa felt like she intruded on some private memory, but she knelt and—
Footsteps grated on the rocks above, probably warriors changing watches, but in Kakala’s soul they were enemy warriors.
“No!” he screamed. “No! Don’t! Oh, gods, not … our fault!” He raised his hands to his head, squeezing hard as he tossed from side to side.
“Kakala,” she called. “It’s Keresa. You’re here with me. You’re safe!” What a lie that was.
“Safe?”
“Yes.”
He shook his head, as though clearing the feverish fog. “No. Even if we … Hako?”
He turned toward her, and the soft pained look in his usually hard eyes made her feel like he’d ripped her guts out.
“Kakala,” she assured him, “Calm down. Try to sleep.”
“No, I … I’m frightened, Hako. I—I don’t … Hold me?”
He weakly lifted his arms to her. She sat down and let him wrap his arms around her.
Warriors whispered, and she didn’t like the sound of their voices.
“You’re safe, Kakala. Get some sleep.”
He tightened his arms around her back and feebly pulled her against his chest, tenderly rubbing his chin in her hair. “Never safe … no … never.”
Drained from his outburst, he blinked wearily and drifted off. His arms slowly slid back to his sides.
Keresa got up and looked around the chamber, her eyes squinted. “Any warrior here who thinks what I just did makes me weak had better never turn his back on me.”
Laughter rose. Some of the tension eased.
Footsteps grated above her again, and this time there were voices.
She looked up as one of the boulders was rolled aside.
Windwolf loomed tall and hard-eyed in the moonlight. A shorter man stood behind him, a bag beneath his arm. “Deputy,” Windwolf greeted. “How’s the war chief?”
“Bad.”
“I’ve brought the Healer, Flathead, again. Just like last time, before he comes down I want all of your warriors to gather on the far side of the chamber.”
She turned. “Do it.”
Her men rose and moved to the rear, muttering unpleasantly to each other. They should be used to it by now.
A pine pole ladder was lowered into the chamber; then an old man descended one step at a time. He had a small pack on his back. The Healer immediately went to Kakala’s side and put a hand to his fevered brow.
“Now, Deputy,” Windwolf said, “I want you to climb out.”
“Me?” Keresa asked.
“If you’re no longer deputy war chief, I’ll take your successor. Someone has to keep a promise you made.”
The map of the caves …
Keresa glanced nervously at her warriors. “All right. I’m coming up.”
She climbed and stepped out onto the boulders. Eight warriors surrounded the entry to the chamber. Four clutched war clubs; four held nocked atlatls. Just in case any of her people escaped.
She heard Kakala whimper; then the Healer said something soft.
Windwolf crouched over the opening and looked down.
“Hako?” Kakala called feebly. “No … no. Reach … farther. I can almost touch … Don’t! I—I need you. I—”
“It’s all right,” the Healer soothed. “You’re going to be all right.”
“No! Please … please no more. I can’t …”
Keresa shifted uncomfortably. Windwolf had no right
—no right!—
to see Kakala like this. She tried to impale him with her fiery glare, but he kept looking thoughtfully at Kakala.
He rose suddenly, said, “Come with me,” and walked away.
She followed him. Two guards fell in line behind her.
What had he felt? His expression had betrayed deep, grudging emotion.
By instinct, she studied the high points, noting every place a warrior stood silhouetted. Frowning, she looked again. No good warrior would allow himself to be seen so easily. And these warriors looked very slender, and short.
When Windwolf turned around and caught her scrutinizing the high points, he said, “Deputy, I would prefer that you walk beside me. We can talk on the way to my chamber.”
W
indwolf almost breathed an audible sigh of relief when Keresa finally followed him into his chamber. Once he had wondered how the Lame Bull People could live in these holes. Now he felt distinctly uncomfortable out in the open—especially with so many refugees filling the valley.
Most were just reverent, but too many insisted on crowding around him, reaching out to touch him, demanding his attention. The look in their eyes left him shaken; each and every one believed that he could save them.
By Wolf Dreamer’s sacred breath, it will be a relief when the first groups leave tomorrow.
Too many things disturbed him these days. As he had watched Kakala, his heart had saddened. Why would his old enemy’s suffering bother him so? Was it just the things he’d learned? That Kakala had tried to kill Karigi for what he’d done to Bramble? Or that somehow, he’d gone from a heartless butcher to a vulnerable captive?
I can’t afford sympathy for a man who’d love nothing more than parading me into the Nightland Council.
But what about Keresa?
He studied her as someone down in the camps started playing a wooden flute. The mournful lilting notes made him stop and listen. It was too beautiful for this time and place.
She stood by the fire, arms folded tightly across her chest. Her red doehide war shirt conformed to her body, accenting every curve. He couldn’t keep from staring at her, wishing so desperately that this able woman was anyone but his foe. Something about her manner, the way she handled herself, spoke to his loneliness. How long had it been since he’d spoken to anyone as frankly as he did to her? If only …
“Those acorn nut cakes smell wonderful,” she said, breaking the spell and pointing to the basket that rested beside the hearth.
“I’m sure they do, since you haven’t had anything but water for two days. Please, eat some.”
She didn’t waste any time, but knelt, unfolded the hide wrapping, and pulled out one of the cakes. She gobbled it down as fast as she could and reached for another.
Windwolf walked across the chamber and picked up the hide he’d chosen earlier. As he walked back, he asked, “Do you like them?”
Crumbs had fallen onto her dress. She didn’t take any time to brush them away. Around a mouthful of food, she replied, “Wonderful.”
“They were made for me by a woman who once lived in Walking Seal Village.”
She stopped chewing.
Well, that tells me something about your conscience.
He sat down on the opposite side of the fire, and watched her.
She swallowed, and said, “I’m grateful for the food.”
“You’re welcome.”
She finished the cake, sank to the floor, and exhaled slowly. “May I dip myself a cup of tea?”
“Please.”
As she did, he unrolled the deer hide and found the piece of charcoal he’d been saving from the fire.
She shifted positions, brought one knee up, and propped her cup on it. From this side view she seemed all the more slender. It touched something inside him, some illogical masculine need to protect—as if this warrior needed anybody’s protection. Nonetheless, it softened his guarded responses to her.
“Windwolf, tell me something?”
He lifted his brows, expecting something unpleasant. “Go on?”
“Why is it that Sunpath People keep plotting to kill our Guide? We’ve wiped out one nest of conspirators after another, but more spring up immediately.”
He listened to the lilting note of the flute. If he let himself, he could almost feel as though he’d stepped backward in time, and Bramble was still alive. He could hear their son laughing … .
“Your Guide preaches the extermination of anyone who believes in Wolf Dreamer. What do you expect my people to do?”
“Some have converted. Like the Seadog band.”
“Yes,” he said. “I remember. It was the first day I took my son into the forest and started teaching him how to throw a dart and swing a war club.”
In a graceful motion, she made a sweeping gesture to Headswift Village. “So, he owes all this to you? Is he grateful in his praise?”
He lightly stroked the fine hairs on the deer hide. “My son is dead.”
Her stony expression melted. “Forgive me. I didn’t know.” After a few heartbeats, she added, “The earlier a boy learns to fight, the better. You were clearly a good father.”
She looked like she wanted to ask him what had happened, but restrained herself.
He was thankful for that. It might have been one of her darts that had killed Lion Boy four summers ago. The fight had been swift and hot. Nightland warriors had struck the Hunting Horse camp fast and hard before they dashed away into the forest like cowardly dogs.
In the fireglow, her hair had shaded golden, as though a glistening web of real summer sunlight netted her head. He fumbled with the piece of hide, suppressing an ache for the family he’d lost, for the scents of wet dirt and wildflowers, the rustling of wind through pines around the Hunting Horse camp.
“What have we done to ourselves?” she asked softly.
He said, “That almost sounded friendly.”
“Did it? I must be exhausted beyond good sense. But I’m not blind, Windwolf. My angle of vision is just different from yours. I’ve seen the Sunpath People kill many of our children, too.”
“
I’ve
never killed your children.”
She smoothed her fingers down the side of her cup. “No, you haven’t.”
Thoughtfully, he rolled up the hide, then unrolled it again. “Deputy,
I know some of the stories of the Nightland People. Do you any Sunpath stories?”
“I know about the Exile and the climb through the hole in the ice to this world of light. I know about Wolf Dreamer, and his battle with Raven Hunter.” She smiled wistfully. “They used to be our stories, too.”
“There are others. Every time my people got settled into a nice comfortable place, something went wrong, and we ended up running for our lives. It was as though Wolf Dreamer had abandoned us. So we dedicated ourselves to seeking the One. We …”
She put a hand to her mouth to cover a yawn, and Windwolf said, “Am I boring you?”
“No, it’s not you. It’s just … I’ve never been this exhausted in my entire life.”
He unrolled the hide again. “Draw this map for me and you can go.”
He started to rise; to hand her the hide and charcoal, but she reached around the fire to touch his sleeve. He could feel the chill of her delicate fingers through his shirt.
“I’m sorry; it’s not you.” She laughed, as if amused at herself, eyes softening. “Odd, isn’t it? Here I am, facing my enemy, and I feel at ease.” She hesitated. “Can we talk while I draw?”
He lowered himself back to the hide. “Of course.”
“For just this one moment, can we forget who we really are?”
He lifted a shoulder noncommittally. “What would you like to discuss?”
“Only things that don’t matter. Tell me …” She drew a line on the hide and shrugged. “If you could have one wish, what would it be?”
“To be left alone.” He looked down at his hands. “The problem with life is that you never know what to miss until it’s gone.”
She nodded sympathetically. “And your favorite food?”
“Nothing you’d like. It’s a plant so spicy almost no one but me can eat it. It’s called beeweed and comes from the far west.”
“How do you get it?”
“From the river Traders. One summer they brought a sack of beeweed to our camp in the Hunting Horse territory. That’s the only time I’ve had beeweed, but I remember the flavor.”
She smiled, a true gesture, not one of those carefully contrived to ease tension. It made him feel better. She drew a black curving line
on the hide. “The Waterthrush People make an acorn bread that they serve with bumblebee honey. That’s my favorite.”
He leaned forward. “I’ll have to try it the next time I’m there.”
She smiled, white teeth flashing behind her lips. “Do. You’ll like it.”
They fell silent, gazing across the fire at each other.
Who is this woman?
As he looked into her eyes, it was as if to touch her soul. He could sense her fear and the worry that chewed away at her. For that moment, she wasn’t deadly, didn’t mask her insecurity in the face of the future. In the firelight, he watched her pupils expand, her lips part. Then, self-consciously, she took a breath and went back to drawing.
A long silence stretched.
“Windwolf …” She pressed her lips tightly together. “I’m sorry that all this …” She bit it off, averting her eyes, irritated with herself.
“You did what you had to, Deputy.” He smiled wearily. “We all do.”
He watched the fire dance over her smooth cheeks, wondering why no man had devoted himself to her.
As if in defeat, she murmured, “As Kakala says, we have to be Nightland warriors.”
“You sound like you’d rather not.”
“Like you, I’m tired of it.” She met his eyes, that curious vulnerability calling to him. “Do you believe in what you’re doing?”
He made a helpless gesture. “If I don’t save my people, who will?”
“Can’t they save themselves?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. Think about what we were: loosely knit bands of hunters and gatherers, moving our villages from place to place. All anyone wanted was enough to eat, to watch our children grow, to appease the Spirits of the animals we hunted and the plants we ate. Most of our time was spent squabbling with each other over trivialities.” He paused, staring into her eyes with a desperation of his own. “Now it all seems so silly.”
She broke the connection, frowning as she bent down to trace another line, scowled, and spit on her palm to rub it out. “Tell me … do you ever long to just run away? Maybe travel south to the nut forests, or out to the grassy plains?”
“More than you could know,” he said sadly. “Were it not for my responsibility to save my people, I would be gone.” He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling curiously uneasy. “There’s nothing left here now.
Only painful memories of my wife and child, dead friends, and a happy life that is lost.”
She nodded, lips pursed. He decided he liked the pouting frown in her forehead.
“Do you and Kakala wish to run away, too?”
“I do. Kakala …” She looked up, slightly startled. “No, Kakala and I aren’t like that. It’s hard to explain. We’re …” The frown was back, a mirror for her own confusion. “Closest friends.” She gave a dismissive gesture. “There’s no man in my life.”
“Are they all fools?”
She laughed, genuinely amused. “No, and I guess that’s the problem. You’d have to be a fool to want a woman like me. Few men can stand a woman who runs faster, throws harder, or hunts better.”
“Some do.” He glanced down at his hands again. “Once, I had a woman like that.”
“I know.” She shook her head, voice dropping. “Bramble was my friend.”
“Then you know what they did to her?”
She nodded. “Karigi.” She swallowed hard. “When Kakala saw …”
“Go on.” He felt his chest tightening.
“If you hadn’t attacked, Kakala would have killed Karigi. I’ve never seen him in such a rage. He was in the process of beating him to death. It wasn’t just that Karigi had disobeyed orders.”
“Why?”
She looked up at him, eyes liquid. “Because Kakala liked and respected Bramble. It takes a great deal to earn Kakala’s respect. But Bramble did. Seeing … It wounded him.” She rolled the charcoal in her fingers, staring into his eyes, the corners of her lips twitching.
“What was Kakala’s plan at Walking Seal Village?”
“He thought if he could take Bramble, hand you a crushing defeat, it would be an incentive for your people to leave without more killing. If the Sunpath just went away, left, the Nightland would have only the Lame Bull to convince. With no enemies, the Council would have no reason to send out war parties. No one who believed in Wolf Dreamer could follow us when the Guide took us into the paradise of the Long Dark.”

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