Iron-gray light streamed through the smoke hole, waking Dust Moon with a start. Her heart pounded as she propped herself up on one elbow to look around. Had it gotten so late? The fire had burned down to coals. A soft
red gleam coated the interior of the lodge, dyeing the baskets on the walls, and the black hair over Rumbler’s face.
Sparrow lay on his side facing Dust, fast asleep. A wealth of white hair fell around him. Her gaze drifted over the deep lines in his face, the dark circles beneath his eyes, the sensual curve of his lips, his beaked nose.
In their entire life together, she had never longed to touch him more than at this moment.
But she didn’t. The sight soothed her. Rumbler lay on his back with the top of his head touching Sparrow’s, and his hand buried in Sparrow’s hair, the embers in the fire pit behind them wavering redly, the rich scent of wood smoke blending with that of damp bark walls.
The innocence and stillness made the night to come seem unbearable.
If she died it didn’t matter, but it was very important to her that they live.
The night of Flintboy’s death, after Sparrow had left her, she had lain in their bedding, alone for the first time in her life, and screamed at the gods. And at Sparrow. His strength had anchored her to the world and, without it, nothing had seemed quite real. During the eighty-three days of his absence, she had wandered the village like a sleepwalker, only half-alive, caught in a terrible nightmare from which she could not escape.
Every instant she had feared Sparrow was dead, and prayed that the gods would give her the strength to stand it. Somehow she knew she would have to, for the sake of their daughter and grandchildren. For their clan.
But the thought of him being dead had left her longing for death, too.
She didn’t ever want to feel that way again.
Sparrow’s hand rested palm up on the warm buffalo
hide between them. Dust reached out and lightly touched his fingers.
An ache swelled her heart.
This might be their last day together, and she wanted to tell him a thousand things.
She let her finger trace the side of his forefinger down to the curve of his thumb.
His eyelids fluttered. He murmured, “Worried that by tomorrow we might be dead?”
“Death doesn’t frighten me, Sparrow,” she whispered.
“The idea of living without you frightens me.”
His lips twisted in a slight smile. “You’ve been reading the tracks of my souls.”
She studied his closed eyes. “Have I?”
“Yes.” He opened his eyes, and propped his head on his hand. “I’ve been thinking …”
She gave him a few moments to continue, but when he occupied himself smoothing his fingers over the curly buffalo hide, she said, “I already hate the idea, Sparrow, and I’ve only heard the tcne in your voice. What is it?”
“It’s practical.” He sucked in a deep breath. “There’s no reason for both of us to be in the thick of the fighting. I—”
“I’m staying here with you. I can shoot a bow.”
“I know that, it’s just that … well … Rumbler won’t go to the forest unless one of us goes with him, and he will certainly be safer out there than in the village. Also, just as importantly”—he clasped her hand and drew it against his chest—“Dust, please, I don’t want you here.”
“But you need me here. Gull said they needed every bow—”
“I remember what he said.” He clutched her hand more tightly. “But I also know that if you are beside me, I will be so concerned about you, I won’t be much good to Gull.”
He looked at her, and in those dark loving eyes she saw his fear.
Her voice quavered. “Sparrow, you are not a young man. This battle—”
“Has to be fought.”
“Sparrow—please—just—I don’t want you to die.”
He gave her a somber look. “It makes me very happy to hear you say it, Dust, but you must realize that my chances of staying alive are much better if you aren’t in the fight. I’ll be able to concentrate, and you’ll be able to protect Rumbler. You know as well as I that if you give Rumbler into someone else’s hands, and stay here with me, you’ll be worried sick about him the entire time. You’ll be preoccupied worrying about Rumbler and me. I’ll be preoccupied worrying about Rumbler and you. Rumbler will be worrying about both of us. This is a simple matter. We will all feel better if you and Rumbler are hiding in the forest.”
Wind puffed beneath the door curtain and fanned the coals. The resulting flare of scarlet light lit his eyes. He lifted Dust’s fingers and kissed them. “Pretend you’re a clan matron,” he said. “What would you advise us to do?”
She scowled. “I still don’t like it.”
“But Rumbler and I do, don’t we?” He stretched to look at Rumbler.
Dust had been so involved in the discussion she had not even considered the boy might be listening.
Rumbler brushed his hair behind his ears and sat up. His round face had a rosy hue.
“I won’t be scared if you’re with me, Grandmother.”
“I know, Rumbler, but …”
The door curtain lifted and Hungry Owl stuck his head inside. He had donned a dark moose-hide cape. With the hood pulled up, his young face looked very pale.
“A heavy mist has rolled in,” Hungry Owl said. “Our lookouts can see nothing. You might want to get up.”
Sparrow threw back their blankets, and got to his feet. As he picked up his bow and quiver, he said, “Thank you, Hungry Owl. Where are your people gathering?”
“We’ve built a fire in the trees to the north.”
“We’ll meet you there shortly.”
Hungry Owl nodded, said, “Please empty the teapot over the coals before you leave. We’re killing all the fires in the village.” Then he let the curtain drop. His steps retreated quickly, and Dust could hear hushed voices outside.
Dust put her cape back on, and handed Rumbler’s fox-fur cape to him. The boy took it, and slipped it over his head, waiting wide-eyed for directions from either one of them.
Dust said, “Rumbler, don’t forget your bow and quiver.” She handed them to him, and then picked up her own.
Rumbler clutched the weapons to his chest. Softly, he said, “Wren’s bow and quiver.”
“Oh. I should have known. Thank the Spirits for Little Wren. Rumbler, you still have a half-full teacup. It might be the last you get to drink for a time. Why don’t you finish it.”
“Yes, Grandmother,” he said and reached for the cup. While he drank, Dust locked gazes with Sparrow. He shrugged into his buffalo coat, and gave her a small confident smile.
“I trust,” she said, “that you asked your Spirit Helper for a little assistance.”
Rumbler answered, “I asked mine. They said they would come down from the skies.” He set his empty cup by the fire, and pushed by Dust, trotting for the door. Before he exited, he added, “Grandfather asked his,
too.” He ducked outside, and they could hear him emptying his night water.
Dust gave Sparrow an uncomfortable look.
Sparrow spread his arms helplessly. “I don’t know who he talks to.”
“Did you ask for help?”
“Of course I did.”
Sparrow reached for the teapot. As he poured the liquid over the coals, sizzling, spitting clouds of smoke erupted.
Dust picked up her pack, and headed for the door. She ducked out into the dreary afternoon, and held the curtain aside for Sparrow. As he ducked out, he looked at Rumbler, who had joined the people gathered by the fire pit ten paces away, and whispered, “When you get the chance, find out what else he knows.”
“Like whether or not we win?”
“No, Dust. Like whether or not we live.”
Cornhusk eased a low-hanging spruce bough aside and scanned the woods. Through the thick mist he could barely see five paces ahead. Red maples and sugar maples canopied the trail. Mist dripped from the bare branches, creating a constant patter against the forest floor. His mangy buffalo coat clung to his body like wet rawhide.
It unnerved Cornhusk. They couldn’t be more than one or two hands of time from Sleeping Mist Village, and not even he, who had traveled this trail a hundred times, could be sure where they were.
As he shoved the bough aside, the pungent tang of spruce needles encircled him. He listened to the forest.
No wind whispered. No birds chirped.
He had learned from long practice that a man could not be too cautious when approaching a village that had been recently attacked. Some became overzealous in their pursuit of security. Three winters ago, he’d heard that Jumping Badger had attacked Grand Banks Village. The foodstores had been raided. Since starving people often traded rare and precious goods to feed their children, Cornhusk had loaded his packs with corn, marsh-elder and sunflower seeds, beans, squash, and other staples, and hit the trail. He’d blithely trotted into Grand Banks Village with a broad smile on his face. Before he’d reached the center of the plaza, dozens of bow-wielding people had surrounded him—many too young to realize the ill effects of killing a Trader.
He’d discovered soon thereafter that the Grand Banks Clan believed a Trader had betrayed them to their enemies, in order to profit from their needs.
He had genuinely been innocent. But it took a few very disagreeable days, and watching them eat all the food in his packs, to convince them.
He didn’t wish to repeat that experience.
Spotted Frog edged alongside Cornhusk. Flying Skeleton had coiled the patron’s black braids on top of his head and secured them with a wooden comb. The patron’s bloated face glowed red from exertion. “What do you see?”
Cornhusk ran his tongue between the gap in his missing front teeth. “Thick mist, Patron.”
Spotted Frog gave him an incredulous look. “Is this the way to Sleeping Mist Village?”
Cornhusk cocked his head, and scrutinized the trail. “Probably.”
“Probably?”
Warriors crowded behind. Spotted Frog, peering over
his shoulders, their bows nocked and ready. Murmuring broke out.
“I can’t be sure, Patron. I could verify our position from any high point—if we could see. But we can’t. The most I can say, then, is that I think this is the trail.”
Spotted Frog wiped his sweating brow with his sleeve. “Are there no other landmarks on this trail? Boulders, lightning-struck stumps, oddly shaped trees?”
“Yes,” Cornhusk replied. “There is a hillside of downed trees half a hand of time before reaching Sleeping Mist Village. A tornado ripped through two winters ago. It snapped trees in two, and flung them about like kindling. But I haven’t seen that yet.”
Spotted Frog inhaled and let out a deep breath. “Well, let us proceed. If we are on the wrong trail we will know it by dusk, won’t we?”
“Definitely. Even with this fog, Sleeping Mist cannot be more than two hands of time away.”
“Very well.” Spotted Frog nodded. “Continue, Cornhusk. We will follow you.”
Cornhusk shifted his weight to his left foot. If anyone out there had laid a trap, the first person in line would be a sacrificial offering to appease their uncertainty. He didn’t particularly like the idea that it might be him.
He said, “Patron, are you certain you don’t want your warriors to lead the way? After all, there are so many more of them, and they are far better—”
“Yes. I’m certain. My warriors have never been here. You have.” Spotted Frog lifted his chin, and drummed his fingers on his bow, daring Cornhusk to display more spineless traits.
After glancing at the slit-eyed warriors, Cornhusk decided he’d better not.
He waved them all forward. “Yes, come along. Follow me.”
Dust Moon, Rumbler, and Sparrow stood in the circle with fourteen members of Sleeping Mist Clan. Rumbler leaned against Dust’s legs, his hands buried in the folds of her skirt, his white hood covering his short black hair. Sour gum trees towered above them. The fire sizzled in the shower falling from the branches.
Hungry Owl stood with his arms folded, looking down at Gull who knelt before him, his silver-streaked braid over his left shoulder. Gull wore a beautifully tanned buckskin coat, but it had no decorations, no beads, or quillwork, not even a fringe. Nothing to catch the eye, and reveal his position to an enemy warrior. He carried his bow and quiver over his right shoulder. Firelight shadowed the deep wrinkles in his heavy brow.
“We have advance scouts out, Patron,” Gull said. “But I do not expect them to be of much use in this fog. At most, if they see someone coming, they may be able to give us a few hundred heartbeats of warning.”
“I understand,” Hungry Owl said. “Go on.”
Gull drew a map in the mud with his finger. “Our eleven warriors will assume their former hiding positions.” He made dots in the mud showing the locations. “The rest of you may join any warrior you wish. I assure you he or she will be glad for the extra eyes. And we should leave one person here to keep the fire built up.”
Hungry Owl said, “To draw our enemies into the village?”
“Yes,” Gull answered. “The closer we can get them to come, the more the blaze will blind them, and the more light we will have to shoot them by.”
Hungry Owl’s full lips pursed. “Keeping the fire will
be the most dangerous of all positions. Who did you have in mind for—”
“I will,” Sparrow said.
Dust jerked around with her mouth open. “But Sparrow, why you? Why not someone—”
“These people are risking their lives to help us, Dust. I will not have Patron Hungry Owl placing one of his loved ones in a position that I am best suited for.”
Hungry Owl said, “Why are you best suited for this position?”
“I don’t have time to tell you the whole story, Patron,” Sparrow answered, “but I think that if Jumping Badger sees me standing alone, he will want to speak with me, and his people will follow him into the plaza.”
Gull turned to look up at Hungry Owl. “That is a good reason, Patron.”
Hungry Owl looked at the firelit faces around him, and asked, “Does anyone have an objection to Silver Sparrow serving as fire keeper?”
All eyes rested on Sparrow’s calm face.
Dust reached for Sparrow’s hand and gripped it tightly.
Hungry Owl bowed his head, and the firelight accentuated the curve of his turned-up nose. “You are brave, Silver Sparrow. You will be fire keeper.”
Sparrow inclined his head, and smiled.
He appeared tranquil and composed, but his hold on Dust’s hand tightened until it hurt.
Gull’s voice went low. “Most of our loved ones are hidden at the Hollow Rocks. The rest of us must keep the Walksalongs here, and busy, as long as we can. The more we kill, the less likely they are to want to prowl the forests for missing members of Sleeping Mist Clan. Do we all understand this?”
Nods went round.
Dust Moon’s throat ached at their expressions. They
had suffered greatly in the last battle, yet they stood here risking everything they had left to help her, and Sparrow, and Rumbler—distant relatives they had seen, perhaps, three times in their lives.
She lowered a hand to Rumbler’s hood, and patted his cheek through the thick fur.
“Very well,” Gull said, and rose to his feet. “Let us take our positions.”
As people vanished into the mist, Hungry Owl came around the fire to speak with Dust Moon. Beads of water pearled his hood and cape shoulders. “What did you decide about Rumbler? Shall he be taken to the Hollow Rocks with the other children?”
Rumbler groped in the folds of Dust’s skirt for her leg, and held on to it as if it were a raft in a raging ocean.
“No,” Dust said. “Rumbler and I will go into the forest by ourselves. We both have bows.”
Rumbler let out a relieved breath.
Hungry Owl said, “As you wish. There is much vine-covered deadfall all around the village. Any would make a good hiding place.”
“Thank you. I think we’ll hide somewhere to the west. I want to keep an eye on the fire.”
Hungry Owl nodded. “Yes, I understand. I would suggest the berry hill. It is covered with vines. There are many tunnels inside. Most are too small for humans, but a few have been hollowed out by wolves. If necessary you could crawl through them on your bellies.” Hungry Owl pointed. “That way.”
Dust said, “Thank you. If you need us, that’s where we’ll be.”
“And if you need me,” Hungry Owl said, “I will be behind the snowdrift to the north.”
Hungry Owl turned and silently walked north.
Dust looked down, and found Rumbler peering up at
her with sparkling black eyes. “Are you ready?”
“Yes, Grandmother.”
She took Rumbler’s hand, and looked for Sparrow. He had stepped away to talk quietly with Gull. When Gull saw her coming, he nodded politely, said, “May the Spirits be with you, Matron,” and left, trotting off to the south.
Dust stopped in front of Sparrow, but couldn’t get words out of her constricted throat.
Sparrow laid a gentle hand against her gray hair, and anxiously studied her face. “Where will you be?”
“That hill”—she pointed—“in the vines.”
Sparrow nodded. “Good. I—”
Dust slipped her arms around Sparrow’s waist and pulled him against her in a crushing grip, nuzzling her cheek against his chest. She could feel him smile against her hair.
After several moments, he said, “Go now, Dust. We may not have much time.”
She pushed away, grabbed Rumbler’s hand again, and headed for the hill.
Mist swirled before them, creating ghostly patterns. Dust squinted at the vague faces and undulating arms that drifted in and out of existence.
When they reached the hill, she saw mounds of vines fifteen hands tall. The berries had grown over fallen timbers, weaving up and around the branches, tying them together like thick ropes. But tunnels remained beneath the timbers, hollowed out by animals.
She climbed higher up the hill, getting a better vantage of the village plaza and the fire where Sparrow knelt. He faced the east, looking down the trail they had come up only a few hands of time ago. A pile of firewood rested to his left.
Rumbler let go of Dust’s hand, got down on all fours,
and crawled into a tunnel beneath the berry vines. The opening spread about four hands wide.
“Come in, Grandmother,” Rumbler called. “It’s big in here. There’s room for both of us.”
Dust lowered herself to one knee, unslung her pack, and looked in at Rumbler. He sat in a hollow about eight hands high and ten hands wide. Vines as thick as her arms crisscrossed to form the ceiling and walls. Children played here. Cornhusk dolls rested to Rumbler’s right. He smiled at Dust, and propped his bow and quiver across his lap. His fox-fur cape shone in the dim gray light. At the opposite end of the hollow, a tunnel barely two hands across led into the heart of the bramble. Rabbit tracks marked the dirt.
She said, “For now, I’ll stay out here, Rumbler. I want to watch your grandfather. I—”
“Shh! We don’t want him to hear us.”
Dust stuck her head inside the hollow. Rumbler tucked a finger in his mouth, and stared at her with huge bottomless black eyes.
“Who, Rumbler? Your grandfather?”
He whispered, “Grandfather’s Spirit Helper.”
The prickle began at the nape of her neck, and crept down her spine. “He’s here?”
Barely audible, Rumbler said, “Yes. He’s been Dancing around the village.”
Dust straightened, and looked across the plaza.
“Doesn’t he want your grandfather to know he’s here?” Dust asked, as she unslung her bow, and pulled an arrow from her quiver. “You’d think a Spirit Helper would notify his own personal Dreamer of his arrival.”
Rumbler crawled to the opening to look out at her. “He says Grandfather’s too fast a runner.”
Dust frowned. “Then how will Sparrow get the message he brings?”
“He just said that Grandfather would, and that … I …”
A pine siskin fluttered down less than ten hands away. The little grayish brown bird had bright yellow on its lower back and tail. The siskin cocked its head to the side, peering at Rumbler quizzically. Then it fluttered closer, landing on the dark tangle of vines directly over Rumbler’s head.
Rumbler eased from the hollow, breathing hard, his cheeks flushed, and knelt barely two hands from the siskin.
Mesmerized, Dust watched.
The siskin lifted its head and chirped.
Rumbler’s fists tightened. Tears filled his eyes. He opened his mouth, as if he longed to speak to the bird.
The siskin seemed to sense it. It nervously hopped away, and perched on the highest vine in the bramble. An instant later, it flew up into the mist.
Rumbler grabbed onto a vine to steady himself, and sank to the ground.
Dust whispered, “Rumbler?”
In a choking voice, he said, “They’re coming. My mother sent the bird to tell us.”