Little Wren huddled in her red and black striped blanket on the south side of the enormous plaza fire, watching the masked Dancers who pirouetted around the central fire, and absently listening to Matron Starflower tell the tale of White Kit’s death. Her rusty voice had been
speaking for over a hand of time, explaining every detail. Wren had paid attention through the part where Rumbler had plunged the knife into Kit’s chest, then her interest had flown away like geese in winter. By now, she had heard the tale a hundred times. She watched the Masked Spirits.
They Danced in a circle around the fire. Their moccasins, covered with shell bells, stamped the earth, the rhythm simple, perfect. Wren could feel it rise through her legs and eddy all the way to the hairs on top of her head. Their pounded copper, shell, and stone eyes flickered in the firelight. Silent, they Danced round and round, their motion hypnotic.
Their presence sanctified the gathering, assuring that only the truth would be spoken.
The Spirit of Red-Dew-Eagle Danced by Wren, and she felt her blood tingle. His sacred mask was enormous, three times the size of a human face. Carved from walnut, and polished with sunflower oil, it gleamed blackly. The hideously twisted face had a long beak and large glistening shell eyes. The mouth curved up the right cheek so that the corner of the lips touched the corner of the eye. The Spirit leaned down and peered directly at Wren, and she instinctively slid backward, her heart pounding.
The Dew Eagles soared in the clouds beyond human sight. They collected pools of dew in the hollows between their shoulders, and when the Thunderbirds failed in their duty to water Grandmother Earth, the Dew Eagles tilted their wings and mist fell. They also snatched bad children in their talons and carried them off to be eaten by the Ice Monsters who lived in the far north.
Red-Dew-Eagle Danced on, and Wren let out a relieved breath, and looked at Rumbler.
He knelt at Uncle Blue Raven’s side, inside the ring of Dancers, near the fire. A brightly painted elkhide
draped his shoulders. Small and misshapen, he had chin-length black hair which framed his round face. He stared unblinking into the flames, obviously aware of the whispers demanding vengeance, and the fear in people’s eyes. He had his bound hands propped in his lap, and twisted them anxiously. He looked scared.
Three freshly washed bodies lay atop buffalohides to Wren’s left, next to Starflower, but Rumbler never looked at them. Offerings encircled the dead: stone knives, seed bead necklaces, precious seashells, and a variety of blankets and hides.
Elk Ivory sat cross-legged on the ground to Wren’s right, her buffalohide coat darkly splotched with old bloodstains, her expression dour. She kept glancing sideways at Jumping Badger.
Jumping Badger stood at the edge of the firelight, his shoulder braced against a huge birch tree. Dressed in a hide shirt covered with bone beads, he looked like one of the sky gods come to earth. He’d left his long hair loose; it shone a deep black against the white bark.
All day long Jumping Badger had been parading around the village like an elder. Stealing the child and killing Lamedeer had improved Jumping Badger’s reputation. Everyone who passed him bowed reverently. Women kept bringing him fresh cups of hot pine-needle tea to drink, or more venison stew to eat. He seemed to be enjoying the attention.
Beside Jumping Badger stood the ugly Trader, Cornhusk. He wore a smile, as if greatly entertained by this spectacle. From what Wren had heard, Cornhusk had better enjoy life all he could. Though Cornhusk had a wife in Grand Banks Village, there had been rumors going round that he’d violated the honor of a woman in the south, and the village chieftain had dispatched a war party to hunt Cornhusk down.
Warriors lounged on hides in front of Jumping Badger, telling jokes, and poking each other. Every now and then one of them would point to the bloody head on the staff planted to Jumping Badger’s right, and whoop.
Wren hated it. Crows had pecked out the eyes. The black and gray hair hung in blood-clotted strands, and a strange expression creased the face. She wondered at that. What had the Paint Rock war leader been thinking in his last moments?
For some reason, the severed head made her think of the bloody little boy in the forest. Wren glanced around the council, afraid she might see him grinning at her over someone’s shoulders. The boy’s voice had chased her all the way home, his ghostly laughter echoing through her like a glacial wind. She kept dreaming about him, and had the uncomfortable feeling that this might be the beginning of a long and terrible trial.
Matron Starflower lifted her withered arms and Wren tried to pay attention again. Starflower’s white hair fluttered in the cold night-scented breeze. She shouted. “The Dew Eagles stand as my witnesses that I have spoken truth this night!” The Dancers stopped as if frozen in time, some with feet lifted, others with arms up.
Starflower’s frightened gaze lowered to the False Face Child. “This evil Spirit in a human child’s body has killed three of our people, two of our greatest warriors, and our beloved White Kit. I cannot say what its fate should be. That decision will rest within each of your hearts. But I advise you to think wisely. The False Face Child does not even need to see or touch to kill. It was staked out beneath the Sunshine Boy when Mossybill and Skullcap perished.” Murmurs swept the gathering. “How can any of us sleep at night with it living and breathing close by? I do not think I shall ever sleep again.” She lifted a hand to the crowd, and closed her
eyes. “I have spoken,” she said. “Let others rise.”
Red-Dew-Eagle led the masked Dancers away from the fire. They fell into line behind him, and shuffled to the outskirts of the gathering where they stood in the shadows, watching and listening.
Starflower sank wearily to the log that had been drawn up for her by the fire. Her eldest daughter, Yellow Leaf Blowing, draped a blanket around her frail old shoulders and said something soft. Starflower nodded and gratefully patted her daughter’s hand.
Uncle Blue Raven stepped forward. He had a curious dignity about him. He stood tall and erect, his soft brown eyes calm. He waited until only the crackling of the flames filled the silence.
“I arrived in the council house after White Kit’s death,” he said in a deep ringing voice, “but I studied her wounds while her family prepared her for burial. I ask that each of you do the same before you cast your voice tonight. Though Rumbler, known as the False Face Child, did stab Kit, he did it out of a little boy’s fear and desperation. The knife did not penetrate! It struck a rib! You may see this for yourselves. It struck a rib and the boy threw the knife down. That was how it happened.” He made a helpless gesture. “I cannot say why Kit’s souls fled. Perhaps out of fear. Perhaps Falling Woman simply decided to take Kit from her body. Kit had seen seventy winters. That is a long time for anyone.”
Gasps and cries of disbelief mingled with the wailing of the bereaved. The crowd seemed to surge forward, closing in around Uncle Blue Raven like cougars scenting prey.
He shouted, “Hear me! You may each go into the council house and see the place where the deed was done. The amount of blood on the floor is not enough to fill a horn spoon. I give you my pledge!”
“And what of Mossybill and Skullcap?” someone shouted. “Did Falling Woman take them, too?”
Little Wren got on her knees to see who had spoken. Rides-the-Bear sat cross-legged, glaring at Uncle Blue Raven as if he wished to strike him. A muscular man of twenty winters, he had a thick square-jawed face and small, slanting eyes. The blue images of Falcon and Hawk painted his cape.
“Their deaths,” Blue Raven replied, “trouble me deeply. They were friends to us all, but Starflower has already told you that Rumbler was across the village when they died. He could not have harmed them!”
“False Faces and sorcerers can send their souls flying! We all know this!” Mossybill’s wife, Loon, shouted.
Wren craned her neck to see, but could only make out Loon’s red cape.
“Come forward,” Blue Raven called gently. “We all wish to hear your thoughts, Loon.”
She pushed through the crowd and into the fire’s orange halo. Her once-long beautiful hair had been hacked off in mourning. “This is foolishness, Blue Raven,” she said. “Who has not heard the stories of this child’s Powers?” Her swollen eyes searched the crowd. Nods went round. “They say it kills animals with a word. Perhaps that’s what it did to my husband. He—he was foaming at the mouth, and …” Her voice went tight, and for a long while she could not speak. “And he died jerking and clawing at his own flesh!”
“I know, Loon,” Blue Raven said softly, “but you must set your feelings aside and look at the facts.”
“There are no wounds on my husband’s body! Oh, some scratches, on his neck and arms, but those might have come from running through brush. I searched every part of him!” Her gaze fixed on the False Face Child, and she reflexively stepped backward. “I know only that
I have no husband, and my children have no father. I tell you this evil Spirit is more Powerful than Falling Woman! It murdered Mossybill. I am sure of it!”
Shouts of agreement rose, and Uncle Blue Raven’s face tensed. He spread his hands in a pleading gesture. “Please think about this, Loon. We must wait until we have all—”
“Wait?” Loon shouted. “For the False Face to kill another?”
“Please, Loon. If the boy were that Powerful, how do you imagine that we could attack his village? Why didn’t he kill our warriors with a word the instant they arrived? Why is Jumping Badger standing over there next to that birch tree? Surely Rumbler saw him when he first entered Paint Rock Village. Why would the boy let Jumping Badger, of all people, live?”
Rumbler’s head swiveled and his black gaze fixed on Jumping Badger, as if seeing the war leader for the first time.
Jumping Badger tried to stare the boy down, but couldn’t. When he dropped his gaze, hisses eddied through the gathering.
Little Wren could feel it. Building. Fear clutched at her throat like an invisible hand. She huddled deeper into her blanket, and examined Rumbler. His intent gaze swept Jumping Badger from head to moccasins, as if memorizing every feature of the man who had murdered his people.
A chill tickled Wren’s spine.
Frost-in-the-Willows leaned over. “Stop fidgeting, girl. Do you wish to lie down in my lap?”
Her grandmother wore her white hair in a bun on top of her head, and the style highlighted the deep wrinkles that carved her brown face. Wren shook her head. “No. I want to watch. I’m worried about Rumbler.”
Frost-in-the-Willows gave her an alarmed look. “Do you think it is a child to be pitied? It is a murdering Forest Spirit in disguise!”
“But …” Wren looked back at Rumbler. “He has a boy’s eyes, Grandmother.”
“You are not looking, girl. Like a dog fascinated by its own reflection in a pond, all you see is appearance. Look deeper. Find the fish swimming beneath the surface. That is the way to wisdom.”
Wren toyed with the laces on her moccasins and wondered about the things Uncle Blue Raven had said. How could Jumping Badger have attacked Paint Rock Village if Rumbler possessed such great Power?
“Grandmother? Do you think the boy … the False Face … can fly? Starflower called him the Disowned and said he flew up to the roof after he killed White Kit. I know that some people say the Disowned is just an old man who lives far to the north, but if he’s really a Spirit, I was wondering—”
“Shh! Blue Raven has a hand up. Try listening to your elders, not thinking a little girl’s puny thoughts.”
Wren closed her mouth, and puzzled over the Disowned comment. She had heard the story many times, about a young man who so desired his brother’s wife that he murdered his brother to get her. The horrified woman killed herself in grief, and the young man, overcome with guilt, drowned himself. When his soul reached the Up-Above-World, the Night Walkers refused to let him enter. Wind Mother herself shoved him through a hole in the sky and sent him tumbling toward earth. The forsaken young man sprouted wings as he fell. He became a homeless Forest Spirit, fluttering from place to place, shunned by all other beings.
Could the Disowned be the same Forest Spirit that had
fathered Rumbler? Memory tugged. She had heard that somewhere. Maybe from Jumping Badger.
Uncle Blue Raven spoke to Loon. “For many winters, I fought at Mossybill’s side. More than once, he saved my life.” He paused, then added, “And more than once I saved his. I cannot believe he would have wished this spectacle. He risked his life to capture the False Face Child, and to bring him back to us safely. Do you think that Mossybill or Skullcap would have wanted to see us arguing over whether or not the child should live? Let us all speak directly. That is what we are discussing. Search your souls. The Walksalong Clan lost many precious members in this raid. Shall we spit upon their sacrifices? They believed that the False Face Child would bring us safety, and peace!”
“But all it has brought us is death!” Loon said, wringing her hands. “Let’s kill it before we lose anyone else! The raid was a mistake! A terrible mistake! Let us admit it, and go on!”
Blue Raven threw up his arms when the clamor increased. “Wait! Quiet! Please!”
Elk Ivory stood up at the edge of the circle behind Blue Raven. She wore her shoulder-length hair tucked behind her ears. She shouted, “Listen to Blue Raven! This is not how we live our lives! Everyone has the right to speak, and we have the obligation to hear their words!”
Blue Raven turned and gave her a grateful look, but the din only grew worse.
Wren cupped her hands over her ears. The deer hair that stuck out around Rumbler’s neck quivered and glittered in the firelight. He was shaking. The sight made Wren feel small and broken inside—like a featherless baby bird tumbling from a tree. He had seen his village burned, seen people killed before his eyes, and now this.
The people who had taken everything from him had decided it was a mistake.
He must hate us.
“Let us waste no more time!” Loon yelled. “I cast my voice for death! Who will join me?”
Usually these deliberations went on until midnight. The sudden question must have stunned people, because a hush fell. Whispers replaced the shouts.
Uncle Blue Raven said, “There are many others we need to hear, Loon. Where is Skullcap’s wife? Where are the men who fought at his side during the battle? Perhaps they observed an injury that would not show up on the body. A hard blow to the liver? Or a—”
“Neither man received any blows.” Jumping Badger’s deep voice pierced the night.
All heads turned toward him, and a hush fell.
Blue Raven took a step toward Jumping Badger. “How do you know, cousin? Did you watch them every moment of the battle?”
“Do you dare to say that I would select injured men to carry out the sacred duty of bringing the False Face Child back to our village?”
“Cousin, in the heat of battle it is difficult to know—”
“They were not in the heat of battle! I ordered them to come with me to attack the child’s house. Once I gave the child into their arms, they left!”
Uncle Blue Raven stood unmoving, but his expression said plainly that he did not believe this. “You did not use two of your best warriors in the fight? Anyone could have guarded the boy until the end of the battle.”
Jumping Badger stepped away from the birch tree and lowered his fists to his sides. “I had no way of knowing how Powerful he was. Of course I assigned my best warriors! Do you challenge my words, cousin?”
“I do not. I simply wish to know—”
“Ask my men. They will tell you the same.”
Wren’s gaze went over the warriors. They sat like stones, waiting to see if Uncle Blue Raven would shame the victorious war leader by asking.
Blue Raven said nothing for a time, as if considering the matter. “What about after they left the battle, cousin? You cannot know what happened to Skullcap and Mossybill once they had run beyond your sight. Can you say for certain that they received no injuries on the journey home?”
“I say that if they did, the injuries came from the False Face Child!”
Rumbler stared at Jumping Badger with unblinking eyes.
“Do you wish this child dead?” Uncle Blue Raven asked. “You were the one who urged this raid against the advice of our elders. You were the one who said, ‘We must have the child.’ Will you now stand before us and concede your judgment was in error?”
Jumping Badger lifted his chin. “At the time, I believed the child would give us Power over our enemies, and keep our bellies from hunger. I see now that he will do none of these things. He is wicked beyond my imaginings.”
Little Wren glanced at Rumbler. He was shaking worse, his whole cape glittering.
“Are you casting your voice, cousin?” Uncle Blue Raven asked. “Before you have heard all sides you would—”
“I would,” Jumping Badger said, and swung around to point at the severed head on the staff. “Before Lamedeer died, he told me that old Silver Sparrow had come to Paint Rock Village to warn them we were going to attack and steal the False Face Child. He said that the False Face Child would be our deaths!”
Gasps eddied through the assembly. Silver Sparrow was greatly feared and respected. If he had said such a thing …
But Wren heard something strange beneath the general din. Jumping Badger’s warriors whispered to each other, and shook their heads.
Wren’s gaze went from face to face. They did not seem to agree with their leader’s words. Would any dare to speak out against him? It would be a challenge to Jumping Badger’s position as war leader, and would require a fight to the death. In mere instants, the whispering quieted, and the warriors sat with their heads down.
Jumping Badger continued. “My voice joins Loon’s! I cast for death!”
“Death! Death! Death!” The cry rumbled through the warriors. They lifted their fists in a show of unity.
Uncle Blue Raven shouted, “It is too early to cast your voices! We have not heard from everyone!”
Jumping Badger tramped across the plaza, and one by one his warriors rose and followed. People watched until they ducked into their longhouses, then voices rose, shouting down those that disagreed. Shoving matches started, and men leaped to their feet to break up the fights. Women hustled children away from the fire.
Uncle Blue Raven yelled, “Wait! Come back! We are not finished!”
Wren got to her feet, cupped her hands to her mouth, and cried, “I cast my voice for life! Let the boy live! He does not deserve death!”
Rumbler swung around to look at her. Tears blurred his eyes.
“I wish him to live!” she cried. “Let the boy live!”
Rumbler tucked a shaking finger into his mouth and his eyes fixed on Wren, as if she were his only hope in the entire world.
At the top of her lungs, Wren shouted, “Let him live!”
Frost-in-the-Willows picked up her walking stick and swung it at Wren with all her might. Wren yipped, ducked the blow, and scampered backward. “Enough, child!”
“I have a right to cast my voice, Grandmother! I am part of this clan!”
Frost-in-the-Willow’s toothless mouth pursed. “That may be, but you do not have to cast with such enthusiasm. Let us go. This council is over. The decision has been made.”
“But Grandmother, I don’t wish to go! I want to stay and find out what will happen!”
“Blue Raven plans to bring the boy back to our longhouse later, after he meets with Starflower. When she has decreed how the child will die, Blue Raven will come home. You can find out then.”
“But—”
“Don’t struggle against me, girl! I’ll break your neck!”
Wren twisted free, and saw tears running down Rumbler’s face. Without thinking, she took a step toward him.
Frost-in-the-Willows jerked Wren’s arm painfully. “You are a weasel, girl! If you keep sticking your nose in the wrong places, someday it will get nipped off!”
Frost-in-the-Willows hauled Wren through the crowd. Wren had to duck repeatedly to keep from being struck by arguers’ hands and elbows. The masked Dancers watched them pass, their copper, shell, and stone eyes glittering.
“Grandmother!” Wren cried as they neared the longhouse. “Let me go! I don’t wish to go home!”
When Uncle Blue Raven lifted the door curtain, cold wind fanned the dying fire. Flames crackled, and sparks spun upward. Wren threw the hides off her head to look.
He stood holding Rumbler’s hand. Two warriors flanked them, their eyes ablaze in the sudden firelight.
Blue Raven spoke to the warriors, his voice weary. “We all have our duties. Yours is to stand guard. Mine is to see that the boy is as comfortable as possible for the next seven nights. It will not be necessary for you to check upon him. I will do that. I wish him to sleep, and eat. Given what awaits him, he will need his strength.”
Acorn said, “Very well, Elder. We will be here if you call out.”
“Thank you.”
Blue Raven let the curtain fall. He squeezed the False Face Child’s hand, and whispered, “Come this way, Rumbler.” He led the child to his own buffalo hides. “This will be your bed.”
As though anxious to lie down, Rumbler trotted forward on his stubby legs and curled on his side, facing the wavering bed of coals. In the ruddy glow, his plump face shone.
Uncle Blue Raven spread two more hides over Rumbler. “You mustn’t be afraid,” he said. “I will be there with you. Do you understand?”
Rumbler closed his eyes.
Wren could see the frustration and sadness that lined Uncle Blue Raven’s face. He bent and stroked Rumbler’s tangled hair. “Lost Hill will not be easy for either of us, but I promise you, I will not leave you.”
Wren sank to the floor. Lost Hill … She had only seen four Starvings, but the pitiful cries of the babies who’d been abandoned there haunted her souls.
Uncle Blue Raven walked three paces away to the pile of extra furs near Frost-in-the-Willows. Grandmother
rested on her back, her wrinkled mouth open, sound asleep. Blue Raven spread two elk hides across the floor, and stretched out on top, then pulled another down and rolled up in it. In less than a quarter hand of time, his breathing dropped to the deep rhythms of sleep. He must have been exhausted.
Wren’s gaze drifted around the longhouse. The soot-blackened vegetables tied to the rafters glowed silver in the starlight pouring through the smoke holes. Down at the far end of the house, Jumping Badger’s family whispered. Someone laughed softly.
Lost Hill. Oh, gods.
During the winter, Wind Mother blasted it bare of snow. All the trees leaned southward, their ugly trunks twisted by constant storms. Though the hill had a beautiful view of Pipe Stem Lake, no one went there. Her mother had once told her that the cries of all those lost children lived in every blade of grass that sank roots into that forsaken earth. People may not be able to hear the cries with their ears, Wren, but their souls hear them. The cries make a deep ache in the chest that won’t go away until you walk far beyond Lost Hill.
Wren turned to look at Rumbler. He was sucking his finger. The red gleam of the coals sparkled in his eyes. How alone he must feel.
Wren thought about it, then cautiously slid closer to him.
“Are you warm enough, Rumbler?” she whispered. “I would share one of my hides with you if you needed it.” She pulled on the heavy moose hide and handed him a corner.
He did not move.
“If you become cold in the night, tell me. I’ll help you.”
Sobs puffed his chest. “I told you.”
“ … What?”
“That your people were going to kill me.”
His faint voice tugged at her heart.
“I’m sorry, Rumbler,” she said, and quickly glanced around to make sure that no one else could hear. Blood had started to surge in her ears.
A trembling smile touched his lips. Hoarsely, he said, “I tried to fly to the Up-Above-World. Like you said.”
Wren blinked in surprise. “Did you find your mother?”
“No, I—I couldn’t get there. It was so dark, and cold. My Spirit wings wouldn’t work. But I’ve been having dreams about her. I dreamed that she was here. Alive. She was trying very hard to find me, but she couldn’t, and I had no voice to call out to her.”
Wren smoothed the moose hide with her fingers. It felt soft and warm. “I used to dream of my mother, too. For six moons after she died, I had the same dream.”
“What about?”
“I dreamed that the canoe had overturned and she’d been washed downstream. It had taken Mother moons to find her way home, but one day she walked into the village, and she hugged me so hard, Rumbler, I swear I couldn’t breathe.”
When loneliness filled her up inside, Wren still had that dream, and her pain eased.
A soft mournful sound came from Rumbler’s throat.
Wren bit her lip.
After the deaths of her parents and brother, she had begged Blue Raven a hundred times to go and search the banks of the river again. He had, of course, and just knowing that they weren’t there, dying or alone, had made it easier for Wren to sleep.
“Rumbler?” she whispered. “I’m going to go outside to look for your mother.”
His mouth opened, as if he couldn’t believe she’d said it. “You are?”
“Yes.” She reached for her red cape and moccasins. “I can’t be gone too long, but I’ll try to search the area around the village.”
“Tell her I’m here!”
“I will,” she said … though she knew she wouldn’t have to.
All day long, people had been laughing and repeating the stories told by Jumping Badger and his warriors. Briar had died quickly, clubbed to death by Jumping Badger himself, after Rumbler had been torn from her arms.
But none of that mattered.
Wren laced her cape and moccasins, and rose to her feet. “Rumbler, while I’m out, try to sleep. Even though you have seven days to rest and eat, you are going to need your strength to last until your mother comes for you. Lost Hill is a bad place. I’ll wake you when I return.”
Rumbler nodded, and tears flooded his eyes.
Wren tiptoed to the door curtain, and ducked beneath it.
Acorn and Buckeye whirled. Stone knives glinted in their hands. They looked like giants. Acorn was big enough, but Buckeye stood another three hands taller and twice as wide. Wren had to lean her head way back to see their faces.
“It’s just me,” she said.
“Little Wren! What are you doing out here?” Acorn scowled at her. “Get back to your hides.” He gestured to the door with his knife.
“I’m full of night water, Acorn! I have to get rid of it or I’ll never sleep!”
Buckeye made a gruff sound. “Let her go. But be back
soon, or I’ll come looking for you myself. Understand?”
Buckeye said the words as though he meant he’d come looking for her to slit her throat.
“I’m not afraid of you,” Wren said, and dashed across the plaza as fast as she could, out through the southern palisade gate.
Buckeye and Acorn chuckled.
Wren stopped and looked around. Huge birches towered over her. The lodges of the Night Walkers gleamed brilliantly tonight. Every tree and pebble cast a shadow. As the wind blew, splashes of silver danced through the forest, making the frost-coated leaves in the trail sparkle like strewn handfuls of quartz crystals.
Though she didn’t expect an answer, Wren whispered, “Briar-of-the-Lake? Are you out here?”
Trees creaked in the wind, and Wren strained to find words in them.
“Briar? I am Little Wren. If you …” The hair at the nape of her neck crawled as if touched by an unseen hand. Wren glanced around, breathing hard. It hadn’t occurred to her until now that …
“Boy?” Her voice had gone tight. “Boy, if you are out here, leave me alone! I’m here for Rumbler!”
She broke into a run, speeding around the trail that circled Walksalong Village. Every few paces, she called, “Briar? Briar, are you here? Please answer!”
The night seemed to hiss and whisper around her, watching her through speckles of starlight. The faint howl of a wolf rode the gusting wind. It echoed across the hills like the distant roar of thunder. She ran harder.
“Briar!”
When she had finished the full circle, she bent over just outside the palisade gate, and braced her hands on her knees, gasping for air. Shadows seemed to coalesce around her, melting together, growing. Her eyes widened.
Something moved out there … something enormous … with hairy feet. She couldn’t see it, but her souls started to tremble.
Wren leaped through the gate and rushed toward Acorn and Buckeye, her hair flying out behind her. Both warriors scowled as she skidded to a stop, breathing hard.
Acorn looked her over. “I thought you’d been eaten by a monster.”
Wren squared her shoulders. “You think I’m such a child,” she said, and darted between them into the longhouse.
She tiptoed back to her hides, removed her cape, and started unlacing her moccasins.
Rumbler lifted his head, and gazed at her desperately. “Did you find her?”
“No, but I’m going to keep looking, Rumbler. While you are on Lost Hill, I’ll go out into the forest every morning and night, and call to her. Don’t worry, I …”
Rumbler pulled a buffalo hide over his head. The sounds he made reminded her of a hurt puppy.
They sounded like Trickster’s cries the night he’d died.
She took off her moccasins and set them aside, then she crawled into her bedding.
“Rumbler?” she whispered.
When he didn’t answer, she reached out, slipped her fingers beneath his buffalo hide and dug around until she found his hand. She squeezed it tightly. “I’m right here, Rumbler. Everything’s going to be all right. I promise.”
Rumbler gripped her hand as though he would never let go.
Jumping Badger moved through the longhouse with the silence of mist, clutching the fabric doll in both hands. He’d sewn it from basswood fabric, painted its eyes brown and lips red. A slit revealed the doll’s empty stomach cavity.
Sleeping people snored and shifted as he passed. The four fires had burned down to gleaming beds of coals, and threw red light over the bark walls. The scent of burning cedar pervaded the chilly air.
Outside in the black cold, a ghost moaned. He could hear her scratching against the walls of the longhouse, trying to get in. To find him.
Jumping Badger’s long black hair swayed as he knelt beside Little Wren. The bottom fringe of his knee-length shirt hissed over the hide-covered floor.
The girl had called out to Briar, led her here.
Little Wren lay on her back with her hides pulled up to her pointed chin. A wealth of hair haloed her pretty face. Her right arm stretched across the floor, her limp fingers holding the False Face Child’s stubby left hand.
Jumping Badger bent down and whispered in her ear,
“I saw you outside in the forest.”
He rested the doll on the hide over her chest, and slipped his knife from his belt. Picking up a lock of her hair, he intimately brushed it over his cheek and lips. Then he kissed the hair, and blew on it, sending his soul down the shaft and into her body. His warm breath condensed into a white cloud.
Wren’s eyelids twitched.
Jumping Badger cut the lock off, picked up the doll, and stuffed the hair into the stomach cavity. It made a dark glistening well.
Something thumped against the wall, and he lunged to his feet, panting like a hunted animal. Fists. Invisible fists striking the walls …
She wanted him.
Jumping Badger’s gaze searched the dark corners as he walked back down the longhouse. When he reached the fire pit nearest his bedding, he threw the doll onto the coals.
Smoke fluttered up.
Little Wren gasped for breath.
Jumping Badger smiled as the doll’s head burst into flame and the whole fire pit caught. The burst of light drenched the walls and ceiling.
Little Wren cried out, and sat bolt upright. Blue Raven threw off his bedding, lurched to his feet, and ran to Wren’s side.
“Shh, Wren,” he murmured. “You are safe. We are all well.”
Wren blinked wide-eyed, her gaze searching the firelit darkness. “Oh, Uncle!” she whimpered and threw her arms around his neck. “I dreamed the longhouse was burning down around me!”
Blue Raven murmured something Jumping Badger couldn’t hear, and kissed Wren’s forehead.
The False Face Child rolled over and his gaze fixed on Jumping Badger. Black. Glittering.
Jumping Badger backed up to his hides. As he stretched out on top of them, he watched the False Face Child.
The boy lifted his chin and turned his face to the firelight, as if making certain Jumping Badger could see him. He smiled, his teeth glinting, then pursed his lips. The breath he blew at Jumping Badger came out in a sparkling stream.
Jumping Badger’s belly cramped suddenly. He stifled his groan, crawled under his hides, and tugged them over his head.