People of the Earth (21 page)

 
          
 
"But if we go back, we're headed right
into Black Point country."

 
          
 
"That's right. So what's left?"

 
          
 
She threw another look behind her. "The
Sideways Mountains. And, well, beyond that there are the People. We're so few.
Maybe I know of a place we can go without violating their territory."

 
          
 
"Wherever it is, we'd better hurry—and
make very few tracks in the process."

 
          
 
Flying Squirrel took charge the minute Wind
Runner gave his report. The White Clay leaped to the task of taking down the
camp. Children cornered the dogs and fitted leather pack harnesses despite
whines and yelps. Scanty possessions were rolled and stuffed into
parfleches
, which were in turn lashed to travois and hooked
to the suddenly anxious dogs. Lodge poles were hurriedly pulled from within;
the carefully cured lodge covers fluttered down around those who still worked
inside.

 
          
 
White Ash shot a quick glance at Wind Runner;
he had collapsed onto a roll of hides and immediately dropped off to sleep. The
terrible journey reflected in his slack face. For a moment she struggled with
an urge to reach down and caress his cheek. No, to do so would only embarrass
him. Curses on his preoccupation with the silly marriage rules of the White
Clay.

 
          
 
With the proficiency Bright Moon had taught
her, White Ash packed, getting the dogs in order, grimacing at the way the ribs
stuck out on the eager animals. Hunger gnawed everyone's belly. Four buffalo
lay two days' hard journey to the south. And the trail might be full of hostile
warriors. More than once she caught herself looking for Bright Moon, waiting to
hear her comment. The hollowness in her breast expanded.

 
          
 
The sun already slanted to the west, and
shadows stretched blue in the early spring cold as the White Clay started on
the desperate journey south.

 
          
 
Over the crackling of the fire in
Bitterbrush's lodge, Bad Belly could hear the faint sounds from Larkspur's
lodge across the camp. Laughter and exclamations carried—even through the earthen
walls of the house pit.

 
          
 
Larkspur's orders had been explicit. "You
make sure the children are all right. Keep the fires going in all the lodges.
Make sure our dogs don't fight with the Trader's."

 
          
 
Bad Belly had objected, "I want to hear
the Trader's news."

 
          
 
She'd stared at him, gaze smoky as she blinked
her eyes. "Someone has to see to camp. We'll tell you what the Trader
said."

 
          
 
She still punishes me for not telling her my
promise to Warm Fire.

 
          
 
He looked over to where
Tiiber
and Lupine slept, Lupine curled in her big brother's protective arms. Tuber had
turned sullen, hiding a smoldering anger in his breast since his father's
death. He didn't have any more than a couple of years of boyhood left. Would he
carry that explosive anger with him into manhood?

 
          
 
Trader coming. Go.

 
          
 
Warm Fire had known. The Dream had been real,
not the mutterings of a man in fever. Bad Belly frowned as he ran the tips of
his fingers through the hollow concave of Bitter-brush's
metate
,
the grinding slab, where she milled seeds and roots into flour. He traced
patterns in the dust that clung to the heavy sandstone . . . and then stared at
what he'd wrought: the outline of a wolf.

 
          
 
And the black wolf had been standing there.
How come "he hadn't seen the animal's tracks? Every time something
important happened, the black wolf appeared, staring at him from the shadows.
Or did his imagination trick him?

 
          
 
Leave . . . Go. . . . Warm Fire's words
pricked at him like greasewood thorns.

 
          
 
Bad Belly reached behind himself to pick up
the dart shaft he'd prepared with such skill for Warm Fire. The wood seemed to
pulse in his grip, as if to remind him of the promise made. He balanced the
perfect shaft in his hand . . . and blinked away tears of frustration.

 
          
 
Left Hand—a Trader from another people—had
listened to him with the same thoughtfulness Warm Fire had once shown him.

 
          
 
You don't fit. The words rankled.

 
          
 
Bad Belly gently replaced the shaft, careful
not to damage the feather fletching. He sighed and stood, ducking out through
the flap into the night. Morning lurked just over the horizon; Larkspur had
talked most of the night away. The sounds issuing from the old clan leader's
lodge had dropped in volume, coming sporadically now.

 
          
 
We take Dreamers very seriously.

 
          
 
And I'm supposed to save a Dreamer? Bad Belly
looked up at the stars. The wind blew warm tonight, herald of a coming
spring—just as the Trader's arrival anticipated the changing of the seasons.
Traders everywhere would be setting out now, turning their steps to various
destinations, packs loaded with interesting things. How would it feel to travel
like that?

 
          
 
Bad Belly scratched Trouble's throat and went
to check on the Trader's dogs. They lay in a circle around the pile of packs,
guarding them as they were supposed to, keeping away rodents and other pests.
The camp dogs remained in their places around the lodges, having been thrashed
into understanding that the Trader's animals weren't to be molested.

 
          
 
They’ll destroy you here. Beat you down bit by
bit.

 
          
 
Bad Belly walked over to the pile of sage he
and Left Hand had packed in and picked up some of the gnarly brush. He paused,
staring at the mound and remembering the afternoon's work. He and Left Hand had
actually had fun, talking about how the rocks looked in the south, and about
the giant lake of water so salty you couldn't drink from it. What made one lake
clear, another muddy, and yet another full of salt?

 
          
 
Forcing himself to the task, he replenished
the fire in each of the lodges, stirring up the coals around the firestones and
adding more sage.

 
          
 
That done, Bad Belly lifted the flap of
Bitterbrush's lodge and glanced in to make sure the children still slept
soundly. Then he squatted in the shadow of the lodge, watching the moon rise
above the edge of the Round Rocks. Almost round, it might have been a clay ball
dropped on hard soil, the way one side lay in shadow.

 
          
 
Shadow? Did something—the sun?—shine on it?
Maybe it didn't have any fire of its own? The idea appealed to him. He slipped
into the shelter and found a round rock among his possessions. Against the
firelight, it might have been the moon. Depending on which way he held it, he
could mimic the cycles of the moon.

 
          
 
The giddy excitement gripped him for only a
moment. Who would want to hear his idea? Left Hand might. But Left Hand sat in
the center of Larkspur's lodge—and Bad Belly knew better than to interrupt such
a council over something as silly as the moon being in shadow.

 
          
 
He ducked outside again, his rock in hand, and
looked up at the moon. He could barely make out the darkened sliver. Yes, just
like a shadow. The yawning grief rose inside. In another day, in a time now
past, he would have immediately run to tell Warm Fire. The loss pulled at his
heart.

 
          
 
He heard steps and looked up. Left Hand stood
there. "I see you've taken good care of my dogs."

 
          
 
"They're good dogs."

 
          
 
"You sound sad."

 
          
 
"I was just thinking."

 
          
 
"About Warm Fire? Larkspur told me about
him. She made a great point of explaining how the Healer, Black Hand, had so
much Power crackling around him that the stones almost floated. And how Warm
Fire's soul left despite such heroic efforts. People don't usually talk in such
detail about how great a Healer is."

           
 
Bad Belly shrugged, grateful that the night
hid his expression. "Black Hand is the best we have these days."

 
          
 
"Something about Warm Fire's death
bothers Larkspur. And it's not Black Hand."

 
          
 
"Oh?"

 
          
 
Left Hand settled himself across from Bad
Belly. "Warm Fire must have been a wonderful man."

 
          
 
"Yes. I miss him. Life's not the
same."

 
          
 
Left Hand sat in silence for a while before
saying, "I'm a Trader. I guess it's part of the Power, but sometimes I get
a feeling from watching people. You and he, you were very close, weren't
you?"

 
          
 
Bad Belly held his peace.

 
          
 
"That's one of the reasons Larkspur is
upset with you. I could tell by the way she talked."

 
          
 
"Warm Fire told me to leave this
place," Bad Belly whispered absently, hardly aware of what he'd said.
"Don't tell anyone. Please." That feeling of friendliness he harbored
had betrayed him. That, and the need to talk to someone again. Now his gut
tightened.

 
          
 
Left Hand gestured around. "Isn't there
some other camp where you could go? Where they'd like to hear about these
things you think of? I'd imagine you'd be good to have around the fire on long
winter nights."

 
          
 
Bad Belly tapped a nervous fist on the ground.
"No one would want to offend Larkspur."

 
          
 
"Have you ever thought that maybe it's
your Power? That maybe you need to find your own calling? Me, I found mine when
I was young. I climbed to a high place and fasted for four days. Trader Power
came to me, and I knew it was right. I've been all over. I've seen places you
can only imagine. I've tasted the saltwater of the Western Waters and ridden on
the waves with the Boat People. I've eaten the big fish they spear out of the
Silver
River
and smoke over alder fires. I've seen the
places where the Antelope People live—down in the red sandstone canyons, where
water runs under stone arches. I've walked to the huge river in the east, where
the Masked Dancer People live in the forests and care for the wild-rice stands.
They float on the water in hollowed-out logs and cast nets to catch fish and
wear masks to make themselves look like Spirits. I've walked the Short Grass
Plains and shared the hide lodges of the Buffalo People. I've eaten creatures
the likes of which you can't imagine at the camp fires of the Swamp People,
where the Father Water joins the southern sea. So many things ... so
many." Left Hand smiled at the memories. "Maybe you haven't found
your Power yet."

 
          
 
"Do I have any?" Bad Belly couldn't
ignore Warm Fire's claim. I saw in the Dream. You y re the important one. Power
wants you.

 
          
 
"Everyone has Power." In the
darkness, Left Hand leaned his head back, eyes on the stars. "We have a
legend. Once the Wolf People and your people were at war. At the time, your
people lived like the Buffalo People do in the Short Grass Plains. Your
warriors came up from the plains, hungry, ready to drive us from the mountains
since all the water holes had dried up and the rains never fell. We were
losing, and in the middle of a great fight, a Dreamer rose—a Dreamer who drove
your warriors off by setting fire to trees. At that time he Danced with fire,
and he brought you here, to the
Wind
Basin
, and taught you the ways of the earth and
how to use seeds for food."

 
          
 
"Fire Dancer?"

 
          
 
"Yes, Fire Dancer. And between us, he
made peace. Over the years we've raided each other at times. Traded at others.
Generally, our peoples have gotten along. The elders among my Wolf People, they
keep the legends. They learn them, word for word, to remember the meaning of
Fire Dancer. We are told that Fire Dancer gave your people the vision, the way
to seek his own Power. Since that time, you've lost that vision. You asked if
you had any Power. Yes, my friend, you do. Everyone does."

 
          
 
My friend. That's what he called me. Bad
Belly's soul ached.

 
          
 
"I don't know," Left Hand continued.
"I think it's the way you live that's changed you. Among your people, only
the Healers and the clan leaders keep Power. It's as if it's been removed from
everyone but the leaders. Up there somewhere." He pointed at the sky.
"But it's not, you know.

           
 
Power is what you feel around you. Part of the
rocks, trees, plants, and animals. It fills the soil as well as the sky. You
need only to seek, to allow yourself to feel."

 
          
 
"I know what you're talking about."
Bad Belly smiled into the night. "I get that feeling when I watch antelope
fawns being born. Or maybe when the sunset is streaked with red and
orange."

 
          
 
"I think perhaps you do. I can see it in
you. But these others? I think they've begun to remove themselves from part of
the world. Maybe it's the way your shelters are built. Maybe it's the fact that
you stay in one place. I was listening to Larkspur talk about the Spirit that
lives in the spring back of the camp. Later I heard her mention the Spirit that
stays in an old dead log up on
Green
Mountain
. I find myself wondering about that. You've
taken the One and split it up into pieces."