Wolf Dreamer resettled his legs, easing the cramp. His mind continued to replay the scenes of joy and release as he’d led the People from the cleft in the ice. Little Moss had danced out of joy—an expression of the One not even the young boy understood. Shouts and cries had carried sharply on the cold air, people hugging each other, laughing, some with tears tracing down wrinkled brown faces long etched by sorrow and hardship.
He’d led them, climbing up out of the valley, the first to see Jumping Hare as he came streaking down the slope, his arms waving wildly, face radiant.
So much joy after so much suffering. A spiral, a circle within a circle having no distinction between the levels. All things came around, changing, moving down the spiral of life. Despair’s time had passed for this cycle. Only challenge remained—until the next curve of the spiral.
And how could anyone forget the shining relief in One Who Cries’ face as he ran to his wife that day, stopping,
holding her at arm’s length as they both looked into each other’s eyes with worship. They’d embraced then, violently, holding each other until ribs cracked.
Wolf Dreamer lowered his head, feeling air and life filling his chest. With a sigh, he stood, plucking his hide from the ground, a lingering remorse over the loss of Heron’s shelter nibbled at his peace. Ah, for the darkness, the faint moist odor of the purifying steam. He looked around, seeing Broken Branch dropping boiling stones into a buffalo-gut bag. Steam.
Wolf Dreamer considered, hearing the commotion around the camp. Distraction, no way to clear his mind. They wanted him to Dream the animals in tomorrow.
Walking to the fire, he bent and picked up a burning chunk of spruce. He couldn’t help but feel their eyes on him as he studied the glowing end of the thick branch, bluish smoke twirling in the cold air. Grunting to himself, he turned, walking up the slope toward the trees, blowing on the branch to keep it burning. The People parted before him, conversation evaporating.
In the trees, he snapped more dead branches from the snags and threw them into the fire over his glowing embers. As they crackled to life, he kicked some of the hand-sized cobbles—like Broken Branch’s boiling stones—from the snow and piled them in the fire, letting them heat.
He could feel them. On all sides, faces peeked from around rocks, from over drifts, through the trees, as the People came to peer at him. They followed him everywhere, watching, ever curious at what he might be about.
Distraction.
Dreaming was becoming impossible.
“You told me, Heron. But I didn’t believe it could ever be so difficult.”
He walked along, scooping up snow, cradling it in the hem of the robe he’d taken from Grandfather White Bear’s steaming body that day so long ago on the ice. Hunching over, he rolled the hot rocks from the fire, using them in the same manner as a mother might warm her child’s robes. The robe over his head, he reached for the snow pile, sprinkling the white crystals over the rocks.
Sizzling explosions of steam rose warm, circling about his
head. Perhaps it wasn’t Heron’s shelter, but it cleared his mind, eased his thoughts with that feeling of Oneness. As the steam dissipated, he sprinkled more snow on the rocks, breathing deeply, feeling the tensions, the distractions, fading. He could carry his geyser anywhere now. He could cleanse his mind—Dream.
Stretching his consciousness, he sensed a dark presence moving somewhere nearby. His heart pounded suddenly. As he’d known for months, the conflict approached, drawing down from the north.
He pulled his white bear robe over his head, letting the steam fill the canopy and caress his face. In the moist darkness, painful images swirled.