Children of the Dawn (22 page)

Guard your mate,
answered a voice inside.

While she stirred, Ashan told Tor about Tsurya wanting a new name.

“Little ones,” he said. “What a lot of trouble they are. It almost makes me glad Alhaia the Moon never sent us another.”

“I know,” she said. “Stamping on the ways of their elders, making up their own. And what can we do? The spirits are behind
them.”

Well, she wasn’t sure spirits had anything to do with the latest request, but there was no reason to say so.

He shook his head. “I don’t know, Ashan.”

She said, “First a Shahala, our own Kai El. Now this one, a Tlikit, daughter of that—that—”

“Rattlesnake Woman?”

“That name isn’t mean enough for her anymore. She loves those twins, but she also beats them. I know she does. I’m really
worried for little Tsurya. Tor, there are times when I’d just like to vanish that woman!”

“I don’t think she beats the twins.”

“How would you know?”

“Well, I’ve never seen it.”

“I’m telling you, she beats them. She’s just that kind of person.”

“Ashan, I wonder why you
really
hate her so much. What has Tsilka done to you? She’s been meek as a mouse since Elia died.”

“Don’t be stupid,” she said, annoyed that Tor defended the woman. “Moonkeepers don’t hate people.” She heaped mush on a wood
plate and thrust it at him, then went back to stirring the fever medicine.

The Moonkeeper didn’t
hate
anyone; Ashan
disliked Tsilka.
Beating her little ones was just part of it—she wasn’t the only Tlikit who did that. It was true that Tsilka never said or
did anything wrong to Ashan—nothing that could be proved. But how can you like someone who hates you?

“Aren’t you eating?” he asked.

She shook her head. Arguing with Tsilka had destroyed her appetite.

“What name was given to the little girl?” he asked.

“You know I can’t tell you that,” she said. If the girl
had
a guardian spirit, it was their secret until the Naming Ceremony. “But I will tell you it’s a very interesting name.”

Ashan sniffed the steam rising from the fever medicine, and the smell told her it was finished. She took some extra sniffs,
letting it calm her, then removed the rocks from the cooking basket.

“You know, Tor, I do admire the bravery of these children—one Shahala, one Tlikit—standing up for what they alone believe.
Maybe someday they’ll grow up and fall in love.”

“No! “Tor said, with a violent shake of his head. “They’re not right for each other.”

“How can you say that? They’re just little ones.”

“I can tell. I know my son. Believe me, Ashan, they are not right for each other.”

She was about to ask if he’d seen the path that rabbit drew for Kai El and Tsurya to walk, but the look in his eyes—determined,
almost fierce—stopped her. Whether the little ones were meant for each other was not important at this time in their lives;
she had only been musing.

She wondered why Tor seemed so upset.

Kamiulka, the Autumn Feast, arrived. On the morning of the second day, the One Drum called the spirits and the people of Teahra
Village. It was time again for the Naming Ceremony, one of life’s important rituals. Except for Ashan, who was
preparing herself in the Moonkeeper’s hut, everyone gathered around the ceremonial ground.

Almost everyone,
Tor thought, noticing Tsilka’s absence.
How can she not want to hear our daughter’s new name?

The drum thumped. A circle of mothers danced with waving arms, singing in high, thin voices about a bird’s first flight.

Tor gazed at the twins. His mind wasn’t sure what made one child prettier than another, but his eyes knew. And these two were
beautiful. They had a sparkle, an intelligence that he didn’t see in other little ones—well, except Kai El. It was hard to
keep his pride hidden. He saw himself in their matching faces and wondered that no one else did.

Which one is Tsurya, who wants a new name? Which is Tsagaia, who thinks her old name is fine?

They looked so much alike that Tor couldn’t tell them apart. But were they alike? One wanted to be Shahala—
like her father,
he couldn’t help thinking. The other was happy to be Tlikit. Yet they both had his blood.

He looked at the other child who had his blood.
And then there’s Kai EL He went a way all his own, but he took the name I gave with him
…

But this was his daughter’s day, not his son’s. Tor looked back at his girls. He felt love, and pity. They wore old dresses,
though he had given Tsilka deerhides to make new ones.

A girl should have a new dress for her Naming Ceremony, whether her mother believes in it or not
—

Tor heard Ashan shriek. The drum stopped in mid-beat. He bolted for their hut. Just as he was about to burst in, Ashan stepped
out, looking regal in her Moonkeeper’s garb: the ancient robe of fur and feathers; the long tail of Kusi, the Horse Spirit,
in her hair; high boots of black bear fur on her feet. But he saw the shaken look on her face.

“What happened?” he said.

’There was a bisonsnake in my boot,” she whispered angrily. “I will thank Tsilka for the addition to our stew.”

“Oh, Ashan, I don’t think she’d do that.”

She gave him a narrow look. “All you know about women, Tor, would fit in the shell of a beetle.”

Well, he could not deny that. He wondered if Tsilka would
do such a thing? Maybe it was time for him to have a talk with her.

At least,
he thought,
it was a bisonsnake, not a rattlesnake
…
this time.

The ceremonial ground was silent but for sounds of water and wind. The Moonkeeper walked to the center and faced Where Day
Begins. The One Drum spoke four knocking beats. She raised her arms to the sky and shook deer-hoof rattles, then did the same
for the other directions.

It filled Tor with awe to see his mate like this. He thought how much he loved her.

Having summoned the spirits, the Moonkeeper spoke to the people.

“Some of our little ones have reached seven summers. They went on power quests to meet their Spirit Guardians, and they are
ready for a new part of life. Come, little ones, and tell us what you learned.”

Tsurya, Bot, and Aknit stepped onto the ceremonial ground. When her turn came, Tor’s secret child spoke with dignity beyond
her age.

“I am Tahna, Daughter of a God. Wahawkin the Water Giver is my Spirit Guardian.”

If anyone had looked at Tor, they would have seen the unmistakable pride of fatherhood beaming from him. But everyone was
looking at the little ones.

From her secret spot near the women’s washing place, Tahna could hear talking on the other side of the bushes. One day she
heard some of her Tlikit friends.

“Not only don’t we change our names, but the name itself! Tahna, just a sound, like the first babbles out of a baby’s mouth.”

“She says it means Daughter of a God. She couldn’t pick something like Dove Song or Sage Flower,” said Wenot, whose name meant
Summer Night.

“And to claim the god Wahawkin as her Spirit Guardian—it’s like her mother claiming that Wahawkin is their father.”

“Shh,” said another. “Do you have to say ’Wahawkin’ all the time?”

Tahna tossed a stone into the brush behind the girls, and
they flew up like a bunch of quail. She had to cover her mouth to keep giggles from getting out. Some people, especially those
of Tlikit blood, didn’t even like to
think
about Wahawkin. It might make him come back, and they knew what that god could do.

The Moonkeeper came up on them.

“I heard you,” she said. “No one lies about their Spirit Guardian. If Tahna says it, then it is so.”

Tahna knew that taking a new name had been the right thing to do. She loved being called Tahna, a word all her own. She believed
she had become another person. What she didn’t like about herself, she gave to Tsurya to bury in the past. What she did like,
she gave to Tahna to carry into the future.

S
TRIPPED TO HIS LOINSKIN
, T
OR SAT AT THE
G
REAT
River’s edge with his feet in the water. Heat lay on the land like an unwelcome fur robe. A good strong wind—so much a part
of life along the river—might have blown it away, but the wind had deserted. Tor watched little ones play in the water. They
knew what to do about heat. Grown men were too dignified—especially tribal elders, as Tor was regarded, though he was just
twenty-seven summers.

A man can only wet his feet and wait for dark,
he thought.
Or he could escape for a while.
That’s what Tor decided to do. Others wanted to go with him.

Two summers ago, Tor and a band of Teahra hunters had ventured to the mountains where the sun went down. Days later they had
returned to the village, each with a deer over his shoulders. They could have killed more, but one was easy to carry. Prairie
deer came to the Great River often enough to satisfy hunger, but the Shahala thought the meat of mountain deer was richer
because of what they ate. The Tlikit had never tasted mountain deer, but after chunks of seared meat and portions of savory
stew, they agreed.

Even more important, the Teahra hunters had found pine trees and brought back pungent bark. No one would die for lack of pine
medicine again.

The next day before it got hot, Tor and ten good friends headed out from the village. Under a high blue sky, they were
no cooler than they’d been before, but they were happy to be away. They walked down the Great River for two days, then up
a smaller river that emptied into it.

The land rose. The air was hot, but not so heavy. The place reminded Tor of Takoma’s lower slopes in the land of his ancestors.
The trees changed from ash and maple to pine and oak. Underbrush opened onto grassy meadows where skittish deer grazed.

The men hunted with weapons like the one Tor had taken from the man-eater who killed his brother Beo long ago. The notched
stick that threw a thin spear was a good way to kill some animals—but not bears, as Tor had learned the hard way.

The hunters killed eleven deer in one day. That night they feasted on the hearts. Eating a bite or two raw captured the animal’s
power; deer gave the ability to be constantly alert. They cooked the rest of the heart meat on sticks over a fire. The smell
of dripping juice, the sight of beads of fat sizzling on crisp meat—Tor’s stomach growled. When he ate, the taste was even
better than the smell had promised.

Afterward, the hunters sat with their backs against trees, belching and smiling.

“Eleven,” Lar said. “We head for home tomorrow.”

“Why hurry?” Tor asked.

“I don’t want to carry more than one.”

“We don’t have to hunt. We could hang the meat in trees, and come back for it. It will taste even better in a few days.”

“I suppose we could,” Lar agreed.

Tor said, “This is the farthest we’ve ever come. I’d like to see what’s higher up.”

Takluit said, “It’s hot here in the mountains, but it will be hotter at the Great River.”

Lyo said, “It’s good to get away from women and little ones. The older I get, the more I enjoy it.”

No one was ready to go home. They hung the deer carcasses in trees. After a good sleep, they walked higher into the mountains,
to find what might be found.

Two days later, Tor stood at the top of a ridge, gazing toward Colder. A field of huckleberry bushes spread down the slope
in front of him, stopping at the edge of a dark forest
of lofty cedars that stretched away for days. In the far distance, the snowy peak of a great mountain climbed out of the forest
and reached for the sky.

Tor turned the mountain’s shape around in his mind as if he were seeing it from his ancestral homeland.

Yes, it was Pahto!
The Shahala hadn’t seen the sacred mountain since they’d left the Valley of Grandmothers for the last time, six autumns ago.

Tor pointed. “Look. What do you see?”

“Huckleberries!” Hamish said, stuffing his mouth. “I haven’t had one since I was a boy!”—an exaggeration, but it
had
been a long time.

“No, not just huckleberries. What more do you see?”

“Forest that runs on for days.”

“Snow-covered mountains.”

“Are you blind?” Tor said. “It’s Pahto!”

“It is!”

Cheering Shahala men punched the air, danced around, slapped each other’s backs. Though the mountain was turned backwards,
and very far away, she let them know where they were, in a way they hadn’t known since they’d left their homeland.

The two Tlikit men in the hunting party didn’t understand why anyone would get so excited about a mountain.

“Is that where you used to live?” Wyecat asked.

“No, but we could see her.”

“So?”

“When we can see Pahto, we know where we are.”

“Oh.”

“We honor Pahto. She brings the waters of life to the land of our ancestors. Coyote made the First People up there.”

Tor could have told the Tlikit men more about the sacred mountain, but he had lost them to the huckleberries—sweet, juicy
morsels the size of a fingertip—heavy on the waist-high bushes.

Women would pick the fruits gently, one at a time, but there were no women here to tell the hunters what to do. They stripped
handfuls and stuffed themselves, moaning with delight, laughing at how they looked with purple hands and faces.

When they couldn’t eat one more berry, they threw them at each other… eleven grown men, acting like little ones, but there
was no one to see. Finally they lay down in an open spot and rested.

Tor wanted to see Pahto again. He walked to the top of the ridge. Behind him, the deep forest they had come through stopped,
opening in front of him to the scattered leafy trees and huckleberry bushes. The way the berry field swept down the mountain
made Tor wonder if a long-ago wildfire had taken the forest, leaving a place where sunlight could reach lower plants. Wildfire,
like all the powers of nature, could be a friend to one thing and an enemy to another.