Wren wandered the longhouse, using her chert knife to pry up stone flakes that had been trampled into the dirt near the doorway, and to pick at the bark peeling from the sapling frame. Often, she lifted the leather door hanging and peered out at the blustery afternoon. All day long, Wind Mother had been acting like an enraged bear, slapping tree branches, scratching the ground, kicking twigs and gravel into Walksalong Village. Even the Cloud Giants looked angry. Black and brooding, they tumbled over each other, racing across the sky.
Wren dawdled, studying the poles that framed the door. Since the False Face Child might die today, her grandmother had ordered Wren to dress in new finely tailored pants, and a knee-length shirt. White spirals decorated the blue fabric. When the boy died, Uncle Blue Raven would come into the village and ask everyone to gather for the final ceremony where they boiled the boy’s body and stripped it clean of flesh. Usually, the dead child’s bones were buried beneath the floor of the longhouse. That way, if he chose to, his soul could enter a woman’s womb and be reborn. But Wren didn’t know what her clan would do with Rumbler’s bones. They hated him so much they might throw his bones to the village dogs.
She hacked at one of the doorway poles, and her grandmother snapped, “For the sake of the Ancestors, Wren, come and sit down! You’ve got Bogbean jumping at her own wheezes!”
The two old women had been spinning dog hair since midday and several long sticks lay beside them, wrapped with different colors of the yarn. Frost-in-the-Willows looked especially tall and weedy next to Bogbean’s girth. Even during Starving times Bogbean remained corpulent. It always astounded Wren.
“I don’t want to sit down, Grandmother,” Wren protested. “I’m too nervous.”
“About what?”
Bogbean put a hand on Frost-in-the-Willow’s arm. “She’s worried about the False Face Child. When Blue Raven took the boy out to Lost Hill, Wren begged him to let her go along.”
Frost-in-the-Willows arched her thin white brows. “It is against tradition and you know it, Little Wren. You will see your uncle, and the boy, at suppertime when you take Blue Raven his meal.”
“But I—”
“Don’t talk. Listen.” Her grandmother pointed a stern finger. “No one may go to the hill, except you. You must honor the obligations that go along with that privilege. You go, you deliver food, and you return home. That is how it’s done.”
Wren turned her gray chert knife in her hands. “I wish Rumbler didn’t have to—”
“Starflower determined his fate. It is done. Stop thinking about it.”
More gently, Bogbean said, “Grandfather Day Maker makes no promises that we will see all the days we wish to, Wren. We must live the best we can, and be happy that our lives are no worse than they are.”
Frost-in-the-Willows made a half disgusted, half amused sound. “Don’t you realize, Wren, that the False Face Child is lucky? If Blue Raven hadn’t begged Starflower for leniency, the boy would be out in the plaza this instant with a fire under his feet. Be thankful.”
In a small voice, she said, “I am. Thankful.”
“Besides,” her grandmother added, “people usually get what they deserve.”
Wren slowly lowered her knife. The smiling faces of her mother and father, and little Skybow, appeared on her souls. Then Trickster trotted happily into the picture, his white tail wagging. Without warning, tears rolled down her cheeks. She looked dumbly at her grandmother.
“What’s wrong with you?” her grandmother asked. “You look like a hurt animal!”
“D-did my family deserve to die?” Wren demanded to know. “Did Trickster? He never did anything wrong! He was a good dog, and a good friend to me. I—”
“No one wishes to hear your babbling!”
How many times had adults told her they didn’t want
to hear what she had to say? As though her thoughts could not possibly matter.
Wren tucked her knife back into her belt sheath, grabbed her white fox-fur cape from the pegs near the entry, and ducked outside into the gale. Long black hair whipped around her slender face, tangling with her eyelashes.
“Oh, let her go,” she heard her grandmother say. “She is such a troublesome child. She always has been. I remember right after—”
In the empty plaza, the village fire pit had blown clean of ashes. Long streaks of gray created a starburst around the rocks. She ran past it to the northern palisade gate. Lost Hill sat at the bottom of the trail. As long as she did not set foot on the hill, she would not be violating any rules. She glanced up at the afternoon rays slanting across the forest. She had at least two hands of light left, and the gods knew, no one in Walksalong Village was going to miss her. At least not until the time came for her to carry Uncle Blue Raven’s food to him at dusk. She would be home long before that.
Pinecones and twigs scattered the trail. Wren leaped them as she ran.
Where the trail veered around the toppled maple, Wren bent over to peer into the gaping hole left by the roots. Water had leeched from the ground and soaked the pebbles in the bottom of the hole. They resembled polished jewels.
Wren reached down, and plucked a red stone from the side of the hole. One of the sacred colors, red meant life. Red stones also frequently hid the quivering body of the bad twin, Red Flint. She held it to her ear, didn’t hear it breathing, and put it in her cape pocket, then she started running again.
With each gust of wind, shadows and sunlight swayed
across her path. She sprinted past the bare oaks at the foot of the trail, and out onto the beach. Waves dashed the shore, throwing spray two body lengths high. As the droplets fell, they sparkled like the rainbow. Wren watched them for a few moments, then glanced to her left at the grove of trees where she had seen the bloody boy. Though it had happened eight nights ago, it seemed like eight heartbeats. Her pulse raced as she searched the tangled deadfall, and brush. “ … You will come with me. Power has decided.” In the daylight she wasn’t so scared, but when she had to come down here to deliver Uncle Blue Raven’s food at dusk … she prayed she didn’t wet her new pants.
She glanced at Lost Hill.
Uncle Blue Raven sat near the top with an elkhide around his shoulders. His bow and arrows lay beside him, and he had a small fire going. About fifty hands down the hillside from the fire, Rumbler lay. His small misshapen body had been stretched out and his hands and feet bound, then staked down.
He rested about two hundred hands from Wren, but she could see him clearly. He wore only moccasins and his black shirt. The shell ornaments sewn across his chest winked when the wind blew them. The cold must be eating at his bones, but he looked so still, so brave.
An eagle spiraled over the hill, and Wren wondered if it was really an ordinary bird or a Thunderbird in disguise. The personal Spirit Helpers of Grandmother Earth, Thunderbirds possessed great Power. They gave Grandmother Earth drink when she thirsted, cleansed her when she needed refreshing, and kept her fruitful. They also stoked fires in their skyforges and threw flaming arrows at the forests to burn away underbrush and create lush green meadows. From early spring to late fall, the Thunderbirds
diligently tended to the needs of Grandmother Earth, then, in winter, they played. Often that play included changing themselves into eagles.
Wren’s brows pinched. The eagle’s circles tightened. He picked up speed. When he neared the top of Lost Hill, a whirlwind of dirt and old leaves churned up beneath him. The funnel twisted into the sky like a dirty serpent. It stormed across the slope, blasted Uncle Blue Raven, then corkscrewed its way down the hill. Just before striking Rumbler, the funnel vanished. All the old leaves it had been holding aloft came fluttering down.
Wren’s jaw slackened as they landed around Rumbler, covering him like a thick brown blanket.
“Did you call out to the Spirits for help, Rumbler?” she whispered. “Is that why …”
He lifted his head.
Wren straightened in surprise. She hadn’t expected him to hear her. The breeze must have been just right to carry her voice to him. She glanced at her uncle to make sure he wasn’t watching, then gave Rumbler a quick wave.
Rumbler looked at her for as long as he could, his mouth moving, then he sank to the ground.
Defeat filled Wren. She tried to memorize every line in his face, the way his stubby arms and legs lay, even the glimmers on his black shirt. If a person had to die, it seemed to her that the people responsible should at least have to watch it happen. Perhaps if everyone in Walksalong Village were required to sit Vigils, fewer people would be condemned.
Wren had to force herself to swallow before she could breathe.
She stayed at the bottom of Lost Hill, watching, until the light began to fade, and she knew she had to go home.
Silver Sparrow added branches to the morning fire. Frost coated the grass, and outlined the trail like fresh snow. His breath misted as he leaned over the soot-coated pot hanging from the tripod at the edge of the coals. The tea smelled tangy. Made of dried crabapples and hardened chunks of maple sap, it had a deliciously tart flavor. He’d been up for about a hand of time, getting the fire going, boiling water for tea, setting out gourd cups, and rolling his hides. His pack sat an arm’s length to his left. Dust slept on the other side of the fire, her beautiful face serene. Beyond her, a long forested ridge curved down to the shore of Leafing Lake. The treetops gleamed in the faint gray of dawn. The brightest lodges of the Night Walkers twinkled above the indigo water.
Sparrow sank back upon his deerhide, and watched the winking dance of the sparks as they climbed through the winter-bare oak branches into the dark sky. Yesterday had been a very long day. From early morning, until almost dark, they had run, walked, and run some more, until they’d reached the three canoes that Earth Thunderer Clan always left hidden in the brush along the lakeshore. He could feel every one of his fifty-three winters in his joints.
Sparrow rotated his shoulders. “Blessed ancestors,” he whispered. “I hurt all over.”
He reached for one of the cups, and dipped it full of hot tea. When he started to drink, his reflection stared back, his beaked nose, bushy white eyebrows, and blunt chin clear. His white braid draped his left shoulder. As he tilted his head to examine the wrinkles around his eyes, Dust spoke.
“You look ancient.” She still lay rolled in her blankets.
“I look wise.”
“You’ve started to believe that drivel people say about you, Sparrow.”
He grinned. “Why don’t you rise so we can be on our way.”
She propped herself on one elbow and long silver hair tumbled over her shoulders. “Blessed gods, it was a cold night. My bones ache.”
“I fear we shall see more cold nights before this is through, Dust.”
She yawned. “Where do you think Cornhusk is?”
“I don’t know. Probably half a day ahead of us. He canoes the lakes, and runs the trails, constantly. You and I are lucky if we can run for a finger of time before we sprawl face first into the dirt.”
Dust gave him a faintly amused look, and threw off her blanket. Like him, she’d slept in her clothes. She extended one long brown leg, and massaged her calf muscles. Her groan affirmed his opinion about their aging bodies.
“Hurts, eh?”
“No worse than the rest of me.” She got to her feet and walked to the fire. The creases in her leather cape would fall out as they traveled, but right now they resembled a thick web. Dust knelt, and reached for her pack which lay at the edge of the hearthstones. Drawing out a wooden comb, she began running it through her hair. The long waves from yesterday’s braid picked up the fire’s gleam and seemed to flicker and spark.
Sparrow had missed this morning ritual more than he’d realized. Seeing it again brought him a pleasurable anguish. When they’d been married, every night before retiring he’d combed her hair for her. Beneath his hands,
that lustrous wealth had gone from deepest black to pure gray, and he’d cherished the changes in each strand.
“We should reach Walksalong Village in six days, shouldn’t we?” she asked.
“Yes. If we push ourselves to the limit of our elderly endurances. We should make it on the evening of the day between the new moon and the full moon.”
“But’s that’s good, isn’t it? We’ll be able to pick up Rumbler and escape under the cover of darkness. We’ll be home by the full moon.”
Sparrow swirled his tea. “I hope so.”
Her comb halted. “What does that mean? You didn’t Dream something, did you?”
“No. I just have this knot in my belly. I’m worried that Jumping Badger might do something completely unexpected.”
“You mean like surround us with fifty warriors?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
She started combing her hair again. “Well, then you’ll have to deliver one of your famed speeches.”
“Famed? My speeches?”
“Cornhusk says so.”
He sipped his tea. “In Jumping Badger’s case, I doubt any of my speeches, famed or not, will have an effect. I barely know him, Dust. I met him once, ten winters ago when we were still Trading with the Bear Nation. He wasn’t even war leader then. He was a surly boy. I was in Walksalong Village to speak with their Headman, Blue Raven. His mother, Frost-in-the-Willows, was there, and Jumping Badger strutted through the longhouse.”
“Well, he’s afraid of you. That’s enough.”
Sparrow gulped the rest of his tea, and poured the dregs on the fire. Steam exploded as drops of water bounced across the logs. “Just in case it isn’t, maybe I’d better start thinking up speeches.”
Dust tugged her hair over her right shoulder and began plaiting it into a thick braid. “What are we eating?”
“I thought we’d pull one of those food bags out of your pack.”
“You’ve always been lazy, Sparrow. You haven’t started anything? Nothing at all?”
“I started the tea.”
Sparrow reached for a cup, dipped it full, and handed it to her.
Dust set it on the ground, and finished her braid. After she’d tied it with a cord, she tucked her comb into her pack, and drew out two birch-bark bags, one painted blue, the other red. “Here,” she said as she tossed him the blue bag. “Since it’s too late to start anything hot, this will have to do.”
Sparrow unlaced the bag and drew out a thick slice of beaver jerky. “What’s in the red bag?”
“Corn cakes.” She pulled one out and took a bite.
He eyed it longingly. “With roasted hickory nuts?”
She nodded, closed the bag and tucked it back into her pack.
Sparrow ripped off a piece of tough jerky and chewed. And chewed.
They ate in silence.
Wind Mother ambled through the valley, rustling the trees and grass, and swinging the pot on the creaking tripod.
Dust shivered. “Great panther, it’s cold.”
Sparrow rose to his feet, picked up the deerhide he’d been sitting on, and walked around the fire. “Yes, and Rumbler is staked out in this, with no cape or blanket.” He handed her the hide. “We should—”
“Keep the hide, Sparrow. You need it as badly as I do.”
He roughly draped it over her shoulders. “Don’t tell
me what I need. I know far better than you, and always have.”
He walked back to his side of the fire, and tucked his cup into his pack. The sky had begun to gray. “Dawn Woman is waking,” he said. “We should get to our canoe.”
Though she wore her fox cape and wolfhide mittens, the cold wind sucked the warmth from Wren’s body. In the dim blue-gray light, the snowflakes appeared to come out of nowhere, pirouetting down silently onto the Sunshine Boy’s naked branches, and Wren’s upturned face. Snow glistened on her eyelashes.
She knelt beside Trickster’s grave. “I don’t know what to do, Trickster. A nightmare woke me. I was cold with sweat and crying. I—I was back at the river, where my parents’ canoe washed up, and I knew that Mother was dead, and all my strength with her.” Snow began to fill the grave again. She brushed it away. “I was alone, and I didn’t know which trail led back to Walksalong Village. But I could hear you barking, Trickster, far away, and I tried to follow your voice. I knew that if I could find you, I would be safe.”
She wiped her nose with her mitten, and let out a halting breath. The snow swirled down like feathers plucked from the Night Walker’s lodges. Four hands blanketed the meadow. It looked bright and luminous in the pale morning glow.
“I forgot to bring you a toy today, Trickster. I’m sorry. Tomorrow I—I’ll bring your blanket. I’ve been sleeping with it around my feet at night. But I think you need it more than I do.”
Wren gazed down with blurry eyes. “Do you remember Rumbler? He was staked down”—she turned and pointed to the spot twenty hands away—“right there. Remember how he cried?”
Wren tucked her hands beneath her fox-fur cape and shivered. “I’m afraid that he …”
Movement caught her eye. A hundred hands away, down near the trail, something dark passed between the tree trunks. She held her breath, listening, watching. Probably a deer.
She brushed Trickster’s grave clean again. “Rumbler’s in real trouble,” she whispered. “I’m afraid he’s dying. I know it’s the will of our people, Trickster, but he hasn’t done anything to deserve death. I think that Mossybill, Skullcap, and White Kit just died. It happens. People die for no reason. My parents and Skybow did.” More softly, she added, “And you did.”
She shivered, and whispered, “I’ve been thinking terrible thoughts, Trickster. I want to do things that I know are wrong. Things that will get me into a lot of trouble. I’ve seen twelve sun circles. I should know my place and my duties to my clan. But I—”
Wren jerked to her left again. As dawn neared, light grew in the shadowed places, and she could make out what appeared to be two men. Both tall. They stood in the trees just off the trail. One had his arm braced against a tree. They stood very close together, as if speaking confidentially.
Wren whispered, “I love you, Trickster. I’ll be back. I promise.”
Rising to her feet, she crept into the brush that bordered the meadow, and worked her way toward the men, ducking under branches, sidestepping deadfall, until she could see them more clearly.
Cornhusk faced her. His rotted front teeth gleamed
when he smiled. “I canoed like a warrior,” he said. “They’re old. It will take them longer, but they should be here tomorrow night, or perhaps the morning after.”
The man standing with his back to Wren dropped his hand from the tree and clenched it into a fist. “I have the meeting place picked out.” Jumping Badger! “First, Sparrow will remove his curse. Then I’ll kill them both. After that, I’ll steal the False Face Child and sell him to the Flicker chieftains. They pay handsomely for such prizes. They cut dwarfs apart slowly, eating the flesh as they go, to gain the dwarf’s Spirit Power.”
Cornhusk straightened. “What purpose will killing two old people—”
Jumping Badger took a threatening step toward the Trader. “Four nights ago, I had a Power Dream. In it, I saw Silver Sparrow’s army of ghosts. They swooped down upon me from the clouds, and slithered up from holes in the ground.” Jumping Badger leaned closer to Cornhusk, and Wren could see his dark eyes glimmer as he said, “They’re hunting me, Trader. I have to stop them. If even one member of Silver Sparrow’s clan survives, I will die. That is my Dream.”
“Well, that’s very interesting, Jumping Badger, but I don’t want any part of this!”
Jumping Badger thumped Cornhusk’s chest with a hard fist. “Then only your wife will be able to recognize the pieces of you I leave behind.”
Cornhusk said, “I’m home so rarely, I doubt even she would recognize them, but I—”
“And don’t try to run off before I’m finished with you.” Jumping Badger’s voice went low. “Understand?”
Cornhusk jerked a nod. “I do. Yes.”
“Good.”
Jumping Badger stalked away through the forest, leaving
Cornhusk alone. The Trader wiped his brow on the sleeve of his buffalo coat, vented an exasperated, “Crazy!,” and bent down to watch Jumping Badger through the weave of branches. When Jumping Badger had walked out of sight, Cornhusk slowly followed.
Wren eased down to the snow.
“Oh, Spirits. I don’t have much time.”