People of the Earth (67 page)

 
          
 
"Death?" His face contorted in
disbelief.

 
          
 
"For the last three nights we have fled.
How many times have we heard Broken Stones warriors? How often have we seen
their fires in the night?"

 
          
 
"Too many."

 
          
 
"You've never seen them make war, Trader.
I have. Behind the Broken Stones come the Black Point. Behind them, the Hollow
Flute, and the Wasp and the—"

 
          
 
"You're wrong, White Ash. I've seen them.
I've Traded to the north ... to all those clans," he answered weakly.
"But this is our home. This is where Wolf Dreamer led us. Here Fire Dancer
renewed the people and Danced with fire."

 
          
 
"That time is gone," she told him
flatly. "Power offers you a new way. The Wolf People have fled to the
foothills. You have very little time to convince them of your leadership and
take them to the east."

 
          
 
"Most of my people will want to retake
the mountains. This soil contains the bones of our ancestors. Our souls are
part of this place." An aching desperation touched his voice. "We
can't leave here!"

 
          
 
White Ash bowed her head forlornly. No one
wants to be a Dreamer. Singing Stones' words echoed. Is this why? Because of
the pain—because of what you know you have to do?

 
          
 
"Power leads you another way,
Trader." She glanced up at the sky. "I can only tell you what I saw.
It's a rich land in the east. Trees were cleared. The tall plant provided food
for many." She closed her eyes, seeing it again. "Life—Power-filled
the yellow-haired plant."

 
          
 
"What else?" Left Hand asked
nervously.

 
          
 
"A mountain made of dirt, with a lodge on
top. The Spirit Man there lifted his hands toward the sun."

 
          
 
"And I'm to lead the people there?"

 
          
 
She nodded. "You have that choice. Or you
can leave your blood here. The Sun People have changed the Power. People have
their place on the Spiral. Where will your children Dance, Left Hand? Along the
Father Water? Or among the souls of the dead?"

 
          
 
Left Hand shivered again, eyes going vacant.
"I saw that in my Dreams." He looked back over his shoulder. "I
walked the old paths . . . and behind me walked the Spirits of the dead. Bones
littered the trails, soon to be covered by the pine needles that fell from the
trees."

 
          
 
She nodded. "Then you know. When First
Man turned himself into Thunderbird, he told me to tell you. The choice is
yours."

 
          
 
Left Hand stood and walked unsteadily to look
west through the aspen. The sun had burned red and orange into the clouds that
hovered over the distant
Red
Rock
Mountains
. Bracing one hand against the white trunk
of an aspen, he shook his head. "The Dreamers should have seen the coming
of the Sun People. When I fled that night, a Spirit wolf ran with Bad Belly's
dog—led me to you. Every time I sleep, the Dreams haunt me."

 
          
 
He faced her, mouth working. "Yes, I
believe your Dream, White Ash. I heard your Thunderbird's wings that night I
camped with Bad Belly in the
Wind
Basin
. 'Find the Dreamer,' he said."

 
          
 
He shifted his attention to Bad Belly.
"You've found her, my friend. I wish you luck. I think you'll need
it."

 
          
 
Bad Belly lowered his gaze.

 
          
 
Left Hand took a deep breath. "Very well,
White Ash, I will go. Give me the Wolf Bundle, and I will be on my way."

 
          
 
"The Wolf Bundle goes south with
us," White Ash told him. "Still Water is the new Keeper. It called
him."

 
          
 
"Still Water? Bad Belly?" Left Hand
spun, a crazy look in his eyes. "The Wolf Bundle is the heart of the
People! It belongs to—"

 
          
 
“To First Man," White Ash interrupted as
she stepped forward and grabbed the Trader by the shoulders. She peered into
his eyes, seeking his very soul. "Search your heart, Left Hand. You felt
the Power when you Dreamed. You know where it belongs."

 
          
 
She saw his fear as his mouth opened and no
words came.

 
          
 
"First Man told me to tell you that if
your people go east, renew the Masked Dancers and prove their worth, a Dreamer
will come who will return the Wolf Bundle to your children. But you must first
prove your worth."

 
          
 
"But I ..."

 
          
 
"Power doesn't come free!"

 
          
 
His resistance crumbled under her searching
gaze. He made one last weak appeal. "I have to take it. If I'm to lead my
people, as you say, I'll—1*11 need it."

 
          
 
She shook her head. "Still Water is the
Keeper now. The Wolf Bundle called him. A new way must be Dreamed for all the
people, or First Man's Dream will die."

 
          
 
Bad Belly stood up, hurt and pity in his
expression. "If it isn't Dreamed, the Spiral will change. I've seen
visions. Seen forests cut down and people enslaved to do terrible things. I've
seen the waters fouled and the air turn brown. I've seen animals penned—and
their souls die while they still lived. The Spiral is in danger. It's up to
White Ash and me to change it."

 
          
 
Left Hand's fists knotted, the muscles bulging
in his shoulders. A glint came to his eyes as he thrust his jaw out. "When
we began the journey that led you to this place, I gave you a gift—fishes'
teeth turned to stone. Is this how you treat the Power of Trade? For a gift . .
. you take the heart and soul of my people?"

 
          
 
"Enough!" White Ash cried, stepping
between them as Still Water's face wrenched with a terrible guilt. A smoldering
fury burned within her. "It's not his doing, Trader. Ask Power why it
turned its back on the Wolf People. Ask First Man, and the Wolf Bundle why it
called a new Keeper! Seek your answers in the Dreams that haunt your sleep. But
don't blame Still Water for the things Power demands of him."

 
          
 
Left Hand took a deep breath, holding it as he
twisted away and stared at the sunset. "Under other circumstances, Bad
Belly, I would kill you for it." He shook his head, a man torn loose from
all he had known. "Yes, White Ash, from the beginning, I knew Power was at
work. I could feel it."

 
          
 
Still Water licked his lips and said
miserably, "I'll send you a gift one day, Left Hand. I don't know what it
will be, but somehow—"

 
          
 
"Forget it, Bad Belly. There is nothing
between us anymore. That Power is dead." He turned to White Ash, eyes
bright with tears. "What can I do? How can I fight you? You . . . you're
Power. You're the Dreamer Bad Belly was called to find. And you tell me I have
to ... to ..." He jerked around to stare at the sunset again.

 
          
 
"Left Hand ..." Still Water began
but stopped at White Ash's touch.

 
          
 
"There's nothing we can say," she
told him. "It's Power. And you know already. The Wolf Bundle first touched
you in your Dreams, called you. Search your heart—and tell me what you
know."

 
          
 
Still Water pursed his lips, dropping his
eyes. "It's unfair. That's all."

 
          
 
"Who said Power was fair? Power works
toward its own ends." Her voice grew distant. "Even if it destroys
whole peoples."

 
          
 
Left Hand nodded. "I know. But I never
thought—"

 
          
 
"I was White Clay," she told him.
"Your people's warriors killed the last of my clan. Once I hated all Wolf
People for what they'd done. Now all of my soul shares your sorrow. Go. Take
the chance Power offers and save your
peopie
. Lead
them east, Left Hand. Follow the rivers to the land of the Masked
Dancers."

 
          
 
At the pain in his face, the terrible longing
for this land, she couldn't stop her tears. He looked at the fading sunset over
the
Red
Rock
Mountains
as if to fix it in his memory.

 
          
 
"I ..." He choked. "I believe
you, Dreamer. I've been to those lands. I know the direction—but not the way of
it. Was that why Power called me to be a Trader? To find the way for my
people?"

 
          
 
She had no answer, and he did not wait for
one. He stopped in front of Still Water before offering his hand.
"Farewell, my friend. I guess we'll never know what the sun burns . . .
but whatever it is, I'm not sure it's good for any of us."

 
          
 
Then he vanished among the aspens, heading
east—a weary man.

 
          
 
Miserable, Still Water asked, "Will it
work that way? Like you said?"

 
          
 
She reached down to pick up the pack.
"Yes. But it hurts. I know. Singing Stones was right, Still Water. No one
wants to become a Dreamer.''

 
          
 
He turned uncertain eyes on her. "Why
have you started calling me by my real name?"

 
          
 
Sadness filled her dark eyes. "You've
been reborn, Still Water. When you touched the Bundle, the souls of all the
people who've ever held it flowed into you and changed you. I felt it like a
bolt of lightning in my soul. We'll never be who we were again."

 
          
 
"I need to know how you feel about
it." Black Hand walked with his hands clasped behind him, head tilted up
at the night sky.

 
          
 
Bitterbrush glanced back over her shoulder.
They had reached the crest of a low ridge. Below them, in the hollow where the
Aspen Springs trickles out of the rock, the dim eyes of the camp's fires
blinked
redly
. Immediately to the south, the Gray
Wall rose like a blot against the darkness. Patchy clouds silvered with
moonlight obscured the starry patterns above. The breeze carried the scent of
sage and
rabbitbrush
, and a tang of dry soil.

 
          
 
Bitterbrush scuffed the soft ground underfoot.
"The moon has come and gone many times since Warm Fire was laid in his
grave." She paused. "I'll always love him. He'll be first in my
heart."

 
          
 
"I understand," Black Hand replied.
"Everyone will love Warm Fire. I wouldn't ask you to forget him."

 
          
 
She sighed and stared up into the night.
"I also understand my responsibilities, and what is good for my
clan." She shook her head. "Grandmother has made her wishes
known."

 
          
 
He chuckled. "Yes, I know. Larkspur has
all the subtlety of a wounded silver bear. But I want to know what you think. I
need to know. Bitterbrush, if you don't want me, tell me now."

 
          
 
"Despite what Grandmother will say?"

 
          
 
He nodded, taking her hands. "Larkspur
doesn't own either one of us. Please, be honest with me. Do you want me?"

 
          
 
She closed her eyes, feeling the warmth in his
hands. How long had it been since Warm Fire had shared his warmth with her? If
she let herself go, she could imagine it was him. A longing filled her.
Memories lingered of the times they'd laughed, of cold nights under warm robes.
Of their tender lovemaking in the mornings.

 
          
 
She didn't want another man. Foolish thought—a
woman's duty to the clan was to be married. She would be the leader one day,
and every man at the Gathering would be eyeing her. Could she stand that?

 
          
 
She'd known Black Hand for a long time.
Remembered him from when she was a young girl. "You bedded Larkspur. ''

 
          
 
"I did."

 
          
 
She took a breath, fighting the inevitability.
"And your Power?"

 
          
 
He placed an arm around her, wrapping his robe
over her shoulders against the chill. "It's been fading for several years
now ... I don't know why. But I want you to know that I prayed with all my soul
for Warm Fire's life."

           
 
"I know you did." The warmth of his
robe settled into her. The Gathering lay three days away, given the pace at
which Larkspur now traveled. From the ridge top, she could see the dark shadow
of the
Monster
Mountains
behind Three Forks.

 
          
 
Round Rock would gain considerable status from
the marriage. In the future, such a marriage could mean a great deal to her.
The whisperings of witchcraft would be stopped dead—and the claims made by
Three Forks would become an amusement rather than a threat. People would look
at her and say, "There goes Bitterbrush, the woman Black Hand gave up
Power for."

 
          
 
She turned to him, her gut twisting—as if her
decision betrayed Warm Fire. 44 I will be your wife."

 
          
 
His arm tightened around her shoulders.
"Thank you, Bitterbrush. I will do my best for you."

 
          
 
“And I for you." Grief mixed with relief.

 
          
 
She savored the warmth of his body as he pulled
the robe around them. “You brought a large robe for so warm a night."

 
          
 
He smiled down at her. “I hoped I would need
it."

 
          
 
She nodded halfheartedly and led him by the
hand to a sheltered spot in the sagebrush. She took the robe from him and
spread it on the soft soil. Curious emotions played within as she slipped her
dress over her head. The cool air caressed her skin. Moonlight edged around the
clouds and cast its soft light on her.

 
          
 
Black Hand sighed, appreciative gaze tracing
her body. He pulled his elk hide shirt over his head, and she undid the lacings
holding his leggings.

 
          
 
The ground cushioned her as she lay back and
took his weight. The feel of him reassured something lost and adrift in her
soul. A familiar longing she'd thought forever gone warmed within, and her body
responded as Warm Fire had trained it to do.

 
          
 
She opened herself, and sighed as they joined.

 
          
 
Something in the sagebrush below them fled
into the night, causing her to start.

           
 
"Rabbit," he whispered in her ear,
pausing for only a moment in his motions.

 
          
 
She lay back and relaxed as the warm, honeyed
sensations built. Deep within, a tiny voice repeated, Warm Fire, forgive me.
Forgive me . . .

 
          
 
The land had changed since Wind Runner had
last sat on this same rock and looked down over the White Clay camp. The snow
had vanished under the summer sun. The frigid winds had softened into mild
breezes that refreshed in the heat of the day. It might be a different
world—someplace strange and Dreamed. He closed his eyes, remembering that cold
winter night. The wind howled,
chittering
snow
crystals across the frozen drifts. The sage rustled under the wealth of stars.
Cold, black night pressed around him, while in the distance the mountains rose
jagged and snow-packed.

 
          
 
When he opened his eyes, it all snapped away;
before him stretched a warm land of aqua sage and sun-washed buff rock.

 
          
 
Out of some twisted impulse, he'd forced
himself to walk through the remains of the camp before he climbed up on the
ridge. The bones had been picked clean. The leather clothing had gone hard,
cracked by sun and wind. Strands of black hair had grown brittle where they lay
in the grass. Charred lodge poles and covers were strewn about a black-ash
smudge where the last council of the White Clay had taken place.

 
          
 
Wind Runner had identified some of the dead by
the bone beads and the bits of shell ornaments scattered about the bones. Old
Falcon, who had smiled with such warmth. Whistling Hare, who had been so wise.
The gray-shot hair clinging to the chewed remains beside the old clan leader
must have been Flying Squirrel's. Standing among the restless dead, he'd raised
his arms to the sky and chanted the ancient Song of the People, imploring
Thunderbird to search for their waylaid souls. Then he'd cried—the final
mourner for the White Clay.

 
          
 
And I could find no trace of White Ash, He
looked out over the shadow-filled hollow that held the remains of the White
Clay. None of those grisly, bleached bones are hers.

 
          
 
He hadn't made a conscious choice to lead the Black
Point this way. Or had he? If Sage Ghost had noticed, or cared, he'd said
nothing. Wind Runner stared down at the gravelly soil of the ridge top as if to
see her tracks imprinted there through the long-melted snow.

 
          
 
Sage Ghost said he had checked all the bodies.
If she'd been there, the old hunter would have found her. Wind Runner waited,
watching, remembering as the sun slid toward the western horizon and dropped
behind the
Red
Rock
Mountains
. Darkness settled over the land,
accompanied by the mixed howls of a wolf pack and an answering chorus of
coyotes.

 
          
 
Looking over his shoulder to the north, Wind
Runner could see the flickering fires that marked the Black Point camp.
Tomorrow he'd lead the people around this place to the other side of the ridge,
where he and Brave Man had circled to sneak up on the buffalo.

 
          
 
Wind Runner filled his lungs with the warm
night air and tried to ease the ache in his soul. He had waited for the
darkness. Now he could imagine White Ash climbing up the slope, snow crunching
under her moccasins. Right there—as clear in his memory as on the night it had
happened.

 
          
 
The moon broke over the horizon and he stood,
as he'd done that night, and retraced those few steps. Here, on this spot, he'd
held her, listened to her as she tempted him to run away with her.

 
          
 
If only I had known. I would have gone, White
Ash. He leaned his head back and drowned in the memories. Her arms went around
him for that final hug.

 
          
 
"Wind Runner?"

 
          
 
Every muscle in his body tensed. For a brief
moment everything spun crazily and his heart shot excitement into his veins. Is
it possible? Can it be . . .

 
          
 
"Wind Runner?" The voice sounded
higher than he remembered, more musical.

 
          
 
He swallowed hard and turned, heart racing.
The woman stood bathed in moonlight behind him—smaller, more delicate of build.

 
          
 
He dropped unsteadily to sit on his rock.
"
Aspen
? What are you doing here?"

 
          
 
She walked over, gravel crunching under her
moccasins. "I came to find you. Grandfather's been worried; he said you
looked terrible. He sent me."

 
          
 
Wind Runner nodded, irritated and grateful at
the same time.

 
          
 
She looked around, cataloging the country with
a practiced eye. She frowned, studying him in the moonlight. "It was here,
wasn't it?"

 
          
 
He swallowed hard, but his voice rasped as he
said, "Right here."

 
          
 
She settled herself on a rock beside him.
"I hope she's alive somewhere and that you can find her."

 
          
 
He smiled wearily. "Do you?"