Wren woke again long before dawn. She threw a branch on the fire and yawned. She had been feeding the flames throughout the night, to keep Rumbler warm, and he seemed to have slept well. He lay curled in her white foxhide cape, his round face mottled with firelight. His chest rose and fell in the slow rhythms of deep sleep.
Wren rose and set last night’s turkey and cornmeal soup at the edge of the flames to warm, then hung the teapot from the tripod, and pulled out their cups. When she saw the dirty bowls, she muttered under her breath. Her mother had always told her never to leave unpleasant tasks for morning, that they became more onerous by the light of day. Wren hated the thought of braving the cold
to clean them, but her bladder was about to burst anyway.
As quietly as she could, she gathered the dishes, and duckwalked to the mound of snow that blocked the entry. Using her bowl, she scooped away until a blindingly beautiful night sky met her eyes.
Wren tucked the dishes in her cape pockets, and crawled out on her hands and knees. Starlight glistened through the forest, blazing from the snow-covered branches and twigs. In the midst of a tall maple, silver owl eyes blinked at her.
The stillness of the predawn world awed her. Not a breath of wind stirred the trees. The elegant, swirling lines of the drifts looked as if they’d been sculpted by the gentle hands of Earth Spirits.
She walked away from the shelter and emptied her bladder. Cold nipped at her bare skin. She pulled up her pants and tucked her hands in her cape pockets. As she followed her own footsteps back, she used snow to scrub their bowls clean. Somewhere to the south, a fox yipped, then broke into a bark-and-howl serenade that echoed across the rolling hills.
Wren inhaled a deep breath of the cold air, and listened, hoping the call would soothe her fears.
She’d been trying not to think about what she’d done, but the awful truth kept shouting at her.
She looked eastward. Some of the old people would be rising by now, Walksalong Village coming to life. This was Wren’s favorite time of day. If she were there, she’d be snuggled under her warm hides, listening to the hushed voices that filled the longhouse, sniffing the wafting aroma of breakfast being cooked.
She murmured, “I’ll never be there again.”
It hadn’t occurred to her when she’d cut Rumbler loose that the price she’d pay for saving him would be losing everything that mattered to her.
The emptiness in her chest expanded. She would do the same thing again. She knew she would, but …
Wren tucked the clean dishes back into her cape pockets.
Perhaps, in a few winters, she would hire a runner to go to Uncle Blue Raven, asking his advice. She knew the matrons would never let her come home, but she wanted to see her uncle again. Surely they would allow that. Even if they didn’t, maybe he could sneak away to meet her.
Wren stared blindly at the starlit snow. Her footsteps were wells of shadow … like her heart. Where would she go now? What would she do? And what of Rumbler? She’d rescued him. He was her responsibility. She had to make certain he was all right before she could even think of her own future. But his village was gone, his clan dead. Neither of them had relatives they could turn to. No, that wasn’t true. She had no one to turn to. Rumbler might.
Wren crawled back into the shelter and saw that Rumbler had wakened. He sat on the fox-fur cape before the fire, a pot of tea boiling. His cheeks had a rosy hue, and his eyes seemed brighter.
“Are you feeling better, Rumbler?”
“Yes. I found tea in your pack, Wren. I hope that was all right.”
“Yes. Thank you for making it.” She took their cups and bowls from her pockets and set them by the fire, then sat cross-legged across from Rumbler, and filled the cups. The tangy fragrance of fir needles bathed her face. “Smells good.”
Rumbler sipped his tea, and smiled. He’d been wearing that same black shirt with the shell ornaments for almost a moon. Wrinkled and filthy, it hurt to look at.
“I brought one of my shirts for you, Rumbler,” she
lied—she’d actually brought it for herself. “I hope it fits.”
Wren set her teacup down and dragged her pack over. When she pulled out the pale blue shirt embroidered with whelk shells and columella beads, his mouth dropped open.
“For me? You brought that for me?”
Wren handed it to him. “You need it.”
Rumbler carefully propped his cup on one of the hearthstones and reached for it. As he ran his frostbitten fingers over the fine fabric, made from the soft inner bark of the basswood tree, pain lined his face. He whispered, “I’ve never had such a beautiful shirt.. Thank you, Wren.”
“Why don’t you put it on? It’s been in my pack by the fire all night. It should be warm. Tomorrow we’ll wash your black one so you’ll have an extra to wear.”
Rumbler awkwardly slipped his dirty shirt over his head. Wren stared at him. His short arms only reached to his hips, and they bowed outward from his body. His neck also seemed longer than a normal person’s neck. He put on the pale blue shirt. The whelk shells flashed in the firelight. He smoothed it down with his hands, then smelled the sleeve. “It smells like flowers,” he said.
“My grandmother makes me wash our clothes in rose hips,” she explained. “She says it helps to keep away bugs.”
The sleeves hung almost to his knees. Wren leaned over and rolled them up for him.
Rumbler smiled, then his expression changed. He slowly lowered his arms. “You’ll never see her again, will you? Or any of the rest of your family?”
“If Jumping Badger catches us, I’ll see them, but not for long. I imagine they’ll kill us pretty quick.”
Rumbler lightly touched one of the whelk shells on the
sleeve. He seemed to be contemplating the shape and texture. “You gave up everything for me, didn’t you, Wren?”
“I still have my life, Rumbler. And so do you.” She sipped her tea, and concentrated on the tart flavor. She didn’t want to let him see her cry. That would just make him feel bad, and he’d already suffered enough at the hands of her clan. “Do you think the soup is warm? I’m hungry.”
Rumbler watched her as she leaned over the soup pot. The look in his eyes was not that of a child, but an ancient old man who’d seen too much of life. Despair lived in those dark depths. Very softly, he said, “I’m sorry, Wren.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong, Rumbler. Don’t be sorry.”
Wren picked up a horn spoon and stirred the soup. It had thickened overnight. “This is more like mush than soup, Rumbler, but it’s hot.”
“I like mush.” Rumbler smoothed his hands over his knees. “My mother and I ate mostly seeds and roots.”
“Didn’t you have meat in your village?”
“We had meat.”
Wren frowned. “Then why didn’t you have any to eat?”
Rumbler smiled faintly. “I asked my mother that once. We were eating corn gruel for supper, and I saw that my cousins in the next lodge were roasting venison and wild ducks, and I remembered that a man had paid my mother that very morning with a duck and a haunch of venison. I wanted that meat so badly it made me angry. I said to my mother, ‘People are always bringing you meat to pay for your Healings. Why can’t we ever eat it?’” He tilted his head as if remembering fondly, but with pain.
“What did she say?”
“She said, ‘Would you deny your cousins the meat so that you might have it?’ I said, ‘I like meat, Mother. Couldn’t I have it just now and then?’ Without another word, my mother rose to her feet, took my bowl of corn gruel, and walked to my cousin’s lodge. She gave my bowl to my youngest cousin, Lynx, who was three winters old. In exchange, she took away Lynx’s steaming bowl of duck. My little cousin’s eyes filled with tears, but she did not say a word. She just started eating my corn gruel. My mother walked back and handed me Lynx’s bowl of duck, then sat down again, and started eating her corn gruel.
“I looked at the duck, then at my little cousin, and I went over and returned her bowl. Lynx smiled so joyfully, I cried. When I came back to my mother’s fire, she said, ‘So. What made you happier, my son? Having a bowl of duck? Or giving the bowl of duck away?’”
Rumbler’s eyes shone. “I like mush.”
Wren thought about the story as she ladled his bowl full. “When you are stronger, I would like to hear more stories about your mother. I think I would have liked her.” She handed the steaming bowl to Rumbler.
“You will like her,” he said and set it in his lap, waiting for her to fill her own bowl. When she had, Rumbler started eating like a boy who feared he’d never get another meal. He shoveled soup into his mouth as fast as he could.
Wren ate slowly, enjoying each bite. The flavor of the onions had suffused the cornmeal, and tasted deliciously spicy. Not only that, during the Moon of Frozen Leaves, turkeys scattered at the first sign of a hunter. They might not get any more of this succulent meat until spring.
A branch in the fire burned through and snapped, making the flames leap and sputter. The sudden light threw Rumbler’s shadow on the back wall like a Dancing ghost.
Wren tried not to see. It reminded her of the first moment she’d seen him, hanging from the ceiling like a deadly black spider, his eyes alight. He seemed different now. Innocent and vulnerable. How could a boy change this much in such a short time?
“Do you want more, Rumbler? You didn’t eat very much last night, and you’re going to need your strength.”
He handed her his bowl. “Divide it between us. You will need strength, too, and we may not have a chance to eat again until nightfall.”
She ladled half of the remaining soup into her bowl and half into his. But when she handed his bowl back, she said, “Actually, I brought along a bag of elk jerky. So if we grow hungry along the way, we can eat some of that.”
Rumbler smiled. “You are so smart, Wren.”
To hide her embarrassment, she took another bite of soup, and shrugged. “My uncle Blue Raven taught me how to pack for long trips. He used to be a great warrior. My people tell many stories of his courage.” Her heart ached. “During one battle, twenty winters ago, he saw that a young warrior was about to be shot. Uncle Blue Raven threw himself in front of the youth. The arrow pierced my uncle’s shoulder, but he killed the enemy warrior anyway. On cold nights, that old wound still bothers him.” She filled her mouth with soup to drive back her sudden tears.
Rumbler’s bowl trembled in his hands. He lowered it to rest on his knee. “He is brave. I liked him.”
Wren swallowed. After thirty heartbeats, she could manage a smile. She said, “I will miss him.”
They finished their meals in silence, not looking at each other.
As the fire burned lower, the leaping shadows retreated
to the dark corners, and a soft crimson glow filled the shelter.
Rumbler softly asked, “Did you say goodbye to Trickster?”
Before Wren realized what was happening, sobs wracked her chest. She choked out, “I told him I—I was going to do something that would get me into a lot of trouble.”
Rumbler looked at her with his whole heart in his eyes. “Did Trickster answer?”
Wren wiped her runny nose, trying to remember the exact moment. She hadn’t heard him bark, or whine, but … “No,” she answered, “but I think he wagged his tail.”
Rumbler smiled.
Wren felt better. Talking about Trickster gave her strength. “Rumbler? Where are we going to go? I’ve been worrying about that. I was hoping that maybe you had relatives in one of the nearby Turtle villages.”
“Yes, but I … I have to go home first, Wren.”
“Home?” she asked in confusion. “You mean to Paint Rock Village? But Rumbler, I heard Jumping Badger himself say that he’d burned it to the ground. There’s nothing left. Why would you—”
“There’s something … someone … I have to search for.”
She knew who he must mean. “I—I’ll help you look, Rumbler.”
He frowned at his swollen fingers. He would lose the tips of the first three fingers on each hand, and two knuckles from each little finger. As if wishing to speak of something else, he said, “You are going to have to help me cut off these fingers, Wren. I can feel the Shadow Spirits creeping into my hands.”
“I will, Rumbler. You tell me when.”
He fought to blink back his tears. His eyes sparkled. “Will you help me catch a bird, Wren?”
His voice sounded even more desperate to speak of something else.
Wren reached up to the tangled branches in the roof, and began pulling off strips of bark. “I’ll weave these strips into a net right now, Rumbler. There won’t be any birds until Grandfather Day Maker rises, but we can find the place to set up our trap.”
Dawn’s pale purple gleam dyed the tops of the tallest trees, but most of the shore remained cloaked in slate-colored shadows. High above Blue Raven only the brightest of the Night Walkers’ lodges twinkled. The rest had succumbed to the waking of Dawn Woman.
Blue Raven studied the shore as he paddled by. Yesterday, in the middle of the day, he’d seen a trail leading from the water to the tree line, but it had been so faint, it might have been made by anything, deer, wolves, or people. He’d paddled on by … but the image had nagged him, keeping him awake. He’d risen around midnight, gotten into his canoe, and started paddling back toward this stretch of beach, hoping to take a closer look.
After six days in a canoe, eating only what he could collect from the forest when he stopped at night, Blue Raven paddled like an old man. The way it tugged at his shoulder muscles, the oar might have been made from granite, instead of wood.
He had seen no signs of a pursuing war party. But they were there. They had to be. He knew the souls of the Walksalong matrons.
He’d found only one of Wren’s camps, the one she’d
made on the first night of her journey. It had been snowing. When she’d packed the canoe in the morning, she hadn’t covered her trail from the shore to the water. Perhaps she’d been frightened, and rushing. Or maybe she’d thought the snow would fill in her footprints. Whatever the reasons for her carelessness then, from that point onward she had covered her trail like a wounded warrior who knew he was being followed.
Blue Raven’s brows lowered. A strip of deeper shadows ran straight up from the lake to the rocky shore. He dipped his paddle into the calm green water, and slowed. He couldn’t be sure from this distance, but the shadow looked like a trail … . Not the one he’d seen yesterday. This was much clearer. More recently made.
As he neared the trail, he noticed a glint of white in the brush at the edge at the water. He steered closer. The painted bow of a canoe, almost hidden, peeked from the tangle of vines. The trail led up to it, then veered away, into the forest.
Blue Raven’s heart pounded. He paddled hard for the shore, leaping out in knee-deep water. He dragged the canoe up onto the sand, and went to study the tracks.
The trail had been made by people.
Two people.