Wren finished washing their bowls out with snow, and headed back for the shelter. They’d made it by leaning fallen saplings around a large boulder. The front of the boulder had been scooped out by winters of rain and wind, leaving a lip of overhanging stone on top. It made for a perfect campsite. They had laid poles on three sides of the boulder, which meant they had to move some to the side when they wanted to come in or go out. Eight hands high, the shelter stretched fifteen hands long and about eight wide. An adult would have a hard time fitting in, but it had turned out to be perfect for two children.
She clutched the clean dishes to the front of her dark blue shirt, moved the shelter poles aside, and crawled in. The firelit warmth struck her painfully. Rumbler sat in the middle of the shelter before the low flames, his back against the boulder. He looked sad and lost. Wren moved the poles back into place, sealing the warmth in.
Firelight flickered over Rumbler’s short black hair, and downcast face. Once they’d built up the flames, the shelter had warmed quickly. Rumbler’s fox-fur cape and his mittens rested in the corner to his left. The pale blue shirt he wore, decorated with whelk and columella shell beads, looked fresh down to his hips, but then it bore a coating of dried mud.
Wren stowed the clean dishes in her pack and slumped
against the boulder beside him. He hadn’t said a word through supper.
“Rumbler? Let me check your hands. The spruce-needle tea is steaming. I think we should clean them.”
Pus had soaked two of the black strips of cloth that wrapped his fingers, and it worried her. She’d been washing out the cloths in spruce-needle tea every night and drying them before the fire so they would be fresh in the morning, but the Shadow Spirits had entered the wounded fingers anyway.
Rumbler studied the bandages, then held them out to her.
Wren reached for her folded deer-hide cape and gently laid his hands on top of it. “This won’t take long, Rumbler, then you can go to sleep. I know you must be very tired. After I found out … I—I slept all the time.”
He concentrated on his hands. “Mossybill … he ruined them. Just like Marmot’s hands. They’ll never work right again.”
“I know, Rumbler.” She carefully unwrapped the fingers, and laid the strips of cloth aside. “But at least they look better.” The cauterized flesh had shrunken around the protruding bones and, in most cases, healed well. But the stubs of his two little fingers remained red and swollen.
When Wren lifted the right little finger to get a better look at it, Rumbler flinched.
“I’m sorry,” she said, and turned it gently. “The Shadow Spirits have made a whole village in here, Rumbler. I wish I had listened more carefully when old Bogbean gave her Teachings on Healing plants, then I would know what to—”
“Licorice,” Rumbler whispered.
“What?”
He looked up, and she could see the hollow ache that
sparkled in his eyes. “The leaves or ground roots of the licorice plant will kill Shadow Spirits.”
Wren cocked her head. “Do you have any? In your Power bag, maybe?”
Rumbler shook his head. “No, I just carry the Great Three Spirits.”
Wren sat back and eased his finger down on top of her folded cape. “I’ve never heard of them. What are they?”
Puzzled reluctance crossed his round face. “I’m not supposed to say,” he murmured. “Among my people only the chosen are taught about the Great Three.”
“Like in a Healing Society? Do you have to go through a ritual before you can learn about them?”
Rumbler nodded. “Yes, and it’s very scary.” He lifted his hands and scrunched them so they resembled talons, then made a hideous face. “Monsters come from the underworlds and drag you down into the darkness at the center of Grandmother Earth’s belly. If you don’t get eaten by the strange creatures that live there, then you get to learn about plant Spirits.”
Sparks popped in the fire, and whirled upward toward the smoke hole. Wren said, “My grandfather used to see monsters in the underworld. What sorts of monsters did you see? Can you tell me, or is that secret, too?”
“I can tell you. We talk about Spirit journeys all the time,” he said in a low voice, “so people can understand their strange ways better.”
Wren leaned back against the boulder and crossed her legs at the ankles. “My grandfather once saw gigantic bats, the size of bears, in the underworld. He said they swooped down on galloping buffalo and sucked blood from their necks. A big flock of those bats chased him from the underworld, diving and squealing at him the whole way. I heard that story for the first time in my third winter, and it scared the liver out of me. That night,
I pulled my blanket around my neck so tightly I almost suffocated. Did you ever see those bats?”
“No,” Rumbler said with wide eyes. “But I’ve seen snakes with wings, and trees with human legs. Everything down there is either trying to trample you or bite you. The worst monsters are all teeth. They slide around on their chins with their fangs bared.” He demonstrated, thrusting his jaw forward and gnashing his teeth.
Wren lowered her brows. “I always thought I might want to be a Healer, but maybe not.”
Rumbler looked at his hands, then at her. “You would be a great Healer, Wren. Look what you did for my fingers. Most of them are almost well.”
She smiled shyly at the praise. “I’ve always liked Healing people. That’s why I would like to know what the Great Three are, in case I need them to save someone’s life in the future. But I don’t want to go against your society’s Teachings. That wouldn’t be right.”
“I’ll tell you,” Rumbler said softly, and lowered his gaze to his hands. “Because you want to be a Healer. And—and because I want to tell you.”
Wren could see in his face that he thought it might be a small way of repaying her for taking care of him. His smile brushed her souls like pure white feathers. “I won’t tell anyone, Rumbler. I promise.”
He nodded, and took a breath. “The Great Three are papaw seeds, yew needles, and the leaves of mountain laurel.”
“What do the Spirits cure?”
Rumbler slid closer to her, and the wavering firelight threw his shadow over the boulder like a prancing Earth Spirit. “These are dangerous Spirits, Wren. If you don’t treat them with respect, they will kill you.”
“I promise not to touch them, Rumbler. I just want to know what they do.”
Rumbler wet his chapped lips, and whispered, “You can touch them if you want to. I know you wouldn’t use the plants for bad things, Wren.” After a brief hesitation, he continued. “You already know about the Papaw Spirit, that the seeds ease pain. But the leaves are also good in poultices. You can apply the poultice to an abscess and it will start going down immediately.” His gaze darted around the firelit shelter while he thought. “The Yew Spirit cures fevers, and pain in the joints. It also helps to expel afterbirth. The last is the Mountain Laurel Spirit. She is also the most Powerful of all, Wren. I knew a man once who was out gathering the leaves and accidentally got some of the honey from the flowers on his fingers. He must have touched his mouth before he washed his hands. He made it back to the village, but he died horribly.”
The serious look on Rumbler’s face fascinated Wren. At times like this he stirred a sensation of awe in her chest—and a little fear. The deep dark wells of his eyes had gone black and shiny.
Wren wondered if maybe Mossybill and Skullcap had met the Mountain Laurel Spirit. She said, “Why would you carry a plant like that, Rumbler?”
“Because mountain laurel cures as well as kills. Tiny amounts dissolved in water will ease heart pain, and jaundice. If you mix the leaves with a lot of water to make a wash, it will kill lice and ticks. But if you ever touch the mountain laurel, Wren, you have to wash your hands quickly. The tiniest bit rubbed in your eyes, or mouth, will make you very sick.”
Wren dipped a cup of spruce tea from the pot at the edge of the fire, and set it on the floor. As she swished one of the soiled black strips into the steaming liquid, she said, “If it can kill lice, maybe the same kind of wash would also kill Shadow Spirits. I don’t mean that
I wish to try it on your fingers, but sometime I would like to see if it works.” At the look of fear on his face, she added, “Don’t worry, I’ll try it on me first.”
His fear grew to horror. He murmured, “But … you are all I have.”
Wren smiled sadly as she squeezed out the cloth. “Yes, we’re both alone now, aren’t we? Our families—”
“We have each other.”
Wren nodded. “Yes, we do. Thank the Spirits for that.” She reached for his hand. As she washed around the swollen little finger, she said, “I’ve never had a friend like you, Rumbler. I mean a real friend. Other than Trickster. The children in my village didn’t like me very much.”
“Why?”
Wren lightly pressed on the flesh around the bone, and pus oozed out. She cleaned it away, rinsed the cloth again, and continued with her poking and prodding. Rumbler squinted against the pain.
“I don’t know;” she answered. “Dark Wind and Vine, two girls my age, said my mother’s death had stunted my growth, and that I didn’t know how to act like a girl.” Strange that those words still hurt. She could feel them like daggers in her stomach. “They said that’s why no one liked me.”
Wren dipped her cloth again and wrung it out, wondering what Dark Wind and Vine would be doing tonight. Sitting around the supper fire with their families, laughing, and teasing each other? Maybe speculating on what had happened to Wren and the False Face Child. She tried to shove the images away before they took hold, but they crept inside her on spider feet. She saw her grandmother smile, and heard old Bogbean chuckle, and every thread in her souls longed to be there with them.
“I think you act like a girl,” Rumbler said. “Except a lot braver. Braver than most boys, too.”
Wren smiled. “I’m brave, but you’re braver than me, Rumbler. I don’t think I could have let somebody cut off my fingers.”
He brought his newly cleaned little finger close and grimaced at it, while Wren worked on the other little finger. “I knew you wouldn’t hurt me, Wren.”
“Then you had more faith in me than I did, Rumbler. I wasn’t sure I—”
“You saved my life. You gave me your food, and your cape and—and this beautiful shirt.” He touched the pale blue sleeve, adding, “You couldn’t hurt anything, Wren. Not on purpose.”
Wren pretended to concentrate on draining the Shadow Spirits from his finger. That way she wouldn’t have to admit to wanting to break Dark Wind’s nose, or tell him about the time she’d knocked out Leaping Elk’s front teeth. He’d deserved it, the little bully. He’d been tormenting Trickster, stabbing at him with a sharp stick. At Trickster’s yelp, Wren had run into the plaza to find Trickster’s front shoulder bleeding.
Wren looked at the knuckles of her right hand. It had taken almost a moon for them to heal. Which was half the time it had taken Leaping Elk to grow new teeth.
She dipped her cloth once more, wrung it out, and spread it over the hearthstones to dry. As warmth seeped into the cloth, the tangy fragrance of spruce needles filled the shelter.
“Why don’t you roll up in the fox-fur cape and try to sleep, Rumbler. I’ll finish putting away the food bags.”
Rumbler yawned, and reached for the white cape. As he slipped it over his head, he said, “Wren? I—I’ve been thinking about something.”
“What, Rumbler?” She got on her knees, reached for
the blue food bag, and tucked it into her pack.
“Do you remember me talking about my father?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been thinking that maybe we should go and try to find him.”
Wren had just picked up a yellow bag. Instead of putting it in her pack, she lowered it to her lap, and turned to peer at Rumbler.
He gazed at her from beneath long lashes, his lower lip clamped between his teeth, as though afraid of what she might answer.
Calmly, Wren said, “Do you know where he lives?”
“I think so. Once, when I was very little, I heard my mother whispering to my grandmother about it. She said that after my father discovered she was heavy with child, he decided to go far away, to the Picture Rocks in the north.”
Wren sank to the floor. “Aren’t the Picture Rocks the place where all the Faces of the Forest gather for grisly ceremonials? They eat baby’s hearts, and decorate themselves with human bones?”
Rumbler nodded. “Yes. But they won’t be doing those things now, Wren. They hold their ceremonials in the spring and autumn.”
She blinked. “They do?”
He nodded.
“Rumbler, I didn’t think anybody knew when they held their ceremonials.”
“The Faces don’t want people disturbing their rituals. That’s why they keep them secret. But some people know about them.”
“Rumbler, I—”
“I won’t let them eat you, Wren. They know me. They’ll listen to me.”
She tucked the yellow bag into her pack, and tried to
force nonchalance into her voice. “I’ll go with you wherever you want me to, Rumbler, but we should think more about this. Tomorrow, when we’re rested, we’ll—”
“Wren? Little Wren?”
The voice froze her blood.
Rumbler whirled to his left, peering breathlessly at the southern end of the shelter. “Wren? Who—”
“It’s my uncle. Rumbler, they’ve found us! Oh, gods. You have to get out! Hurry! Get out of here!”
Wren grabbed her bow and quiver, then suddenly jumped for the pile of dirt she’d dug from the fire pit. She scooped it over the fire, dousing the light.
In the sudden darkness, she heard Rumbler scramble toward her on his hands and knees. He breathed the words in her face: “Wren, where should I go? What should I do?”
“I don’t … I …” She’d started shaking, and had to clench her fists to get a hold on her nerves. “Rumbler, here, take my bow and quiver.” She shoved them into his hands. “Do you remember that trail that leads over the hill and down toward Leafing Lake?”
“Yes.”
“If I can, I’ll meet you down on the lakeshore tomorrow morning. Do you understand? Run! If you get killed then everything I’ve done was for nothing. I want you to live. I’ll try to find you tomorrow.”
“But Wren, I …” Tears constricted his voice.
Wren found his shoulders, hugged him, and said, “Wait until I’ve stepped out the opposite end of the shelter before you go.”
She spread the wall poles as quietly as she could. Moonlight streamed in, shining on Rumbler’s terrified face, and the bow and quiver in his hands. “As soon as I’m gone, you crawl out through here. Shinny up through
that crevice in the rocks. No one should be able to see you. Understand?”
“Yes.”
She crawled for the other end of the shelter and moved the poles aside. “Ready?” she whispered.
Rumbler whispered, “I love you, Wren. Goodbye.”
Wren gave him a confident nod, then lurched through the opening and madly dashed down the hill, hoping to lead the hunters on a good chase before they caught her.
“Wren? Wren, it’s Uncle Blue Raven! Wait! Stop!”
She leaped a fallen log and ran headlong for the deer trail she’d seen as they’d climbed the hill at sunset. In the moonlight, the trail gleamed like a slithering white snake. When she hit it, she ran flat out, her legs pumping for all she was worth.
Feet pounded after her.
“Wren, for the sake of your ancestors, stop! I’ve come to help you!”
Wren ran harder, her lungs panting.
The trail rose steeply, then plunged down through a fragrant grove of spruces. Thick roots laddered the trail. Wren leaped the first two, but the third jutted up sharply. She tripped over it, and toppled face first into the frozen dirt. She scrambled to her feet, and started to run again, but someone tackled her from behind, bringing her down hard.
“No!” she shouted. “Let me go! Let go!”
“Wren, it’s me! Stop fighting!”
He forced her onto her back, and she gazed up at her uncle’s face. His soft brown eyes tightened when he looked at her.
“Oh, Uncle.” The choking sobs caught her off guard.
Blue Raven picked her up and hugged her against his chest. “Blessed gods, I’ve missed you, Wren.”