People of the Fire (10 page)

 
          
 
Without the Traders, blue stones couldn't come
from the far south.
Olivella
,
dentalium
,
and oyster shells from the western ocean wouldn't be traded for special beads.
Beautiful tool stones of
chert
and obsidian, elk
ivories, dried delicacies like buffalo tongue or finely crafted robes could not
leave his own area for that of the River Peoples in the east.

 
          
 
But the Traders did more than bring goods a
people couldn't find where they lived. They carried news of the land and
animals. The Traders brought information about wars and different bands of
people. Although Blood Bear had never been there, he knew of the oceans to the
west and south from the Traders' tales. He'd never met a member of the Thunder
People in the far south, but he knew they shaved the sides of their heads,
scalp locks hanging far down their backs in a single braid. The Father Fish
People, he'd been told, lived many tens of days of journey to the southeast and
ate mostly fish because they didn't have buffalo. He'd learned of many people through
the stories of the Traders.

 
          
 
Three Rattles hunched his back, slipping out
of the
tump
-line, letting the heavy pack slide to the
ground while the dogs came up to nose Blood Bear's own animal. At the first
growl, he cuffed his beast, ordering it away.

 
          
 
"Been a long journey," Three Rattles
told him, pointing far to the south. ''Not good down there. Been a lot of
raiding.
Buffalo
aren't doing good. Most of the people are
camped along the rivers—mostly running mud now. Then there's places south of
Moon
River
where the dirt blows so bad you can't see.
I crossed places where sand drifts across the earth like snow in the winter.
Nothing growing there. Nothing to eat. Got to carry rations. Each time I go,
the dunes get bigger." He paused. "What's news here?"

 
          
 
Blood Bear shrugged. "The same. The
People want rain."

 
          
 
Three Rattles looked Blood Bear up and down.
"You been out by yourself." The unspoken question remained.

 
          
 
Blood Bear bridled and forced himself to sigh.
"I won't go back until I find something."

 
          
 
"You're Blood Bear."

 
          
 
"I'm Blood Bear. I didn't know my fame
had spread."

 
          
 
Three Rattles laughed, squatting down on his
haunches. "Got some special stuff here. Dried fish from the south ocean.
Not much left, only a taste or two. Share?" He reached up with some
brownish-looking flaky stuff.

 
          
 
Blood Bear took the small piece offered and
bit into it. He couldn't quite decide if he liked the curiously oily taste. The
fish had been too long in the pack; a slightly rancid aftertaste remained in
his mouth.

 
          
 
"Not buffalo," said the Trader,
" but still food."

           
 
Blood Bear squatted. "You wouldn't have
heard of a woman traveling south, would you? Among the Red Hand she was known
as Clear Water. She left my people eight summers ago with a
berdache
."

 
          
 
Three Rattles nodded. "I heard. You've
been looking that long?"

 
          
 
Blood Bear stared out over the baked flats.
Only the greasewood looked green. Casually, he lifted a shoulder.

 
          
 
"No, I've heard nothing of a woman from
the Red Hand. Me, I've been up and down. I like going along the mountains clear
south to the wet lands. I go south for a year. Then I go north for a year to
spend time with the White Crane and see my relatives. After the winter, the
voice calls and I go south. In the four trips I've made, I never heard of this
woman. That still leaves a lot of places to look, east and west and
north."

 
          
 
"She had something that belonged to the
Red Hand."

 
          
 
"The Wolf Bundle."

 
          
 
Blood Bear's heart skipped. "Then you
know."

 
          
 
"I know. I know something else, too. You
may not have had to go so far in your searches. Last spring I camped with a
Short Buffalo People band where
Moon
River
and
Sand
River
join into one. I heard jokes about a
berdache
who eats grass. That was last spring, so I don't
know how far to trust the strength of those stories. You know, information,
like sinew, gets old and cracks and falls apart with age."

 
          
 
Blood Bear frowned into the distance.
"Two Smokes used to collect grasses. He'd chew them sometimes, but mostly
he put them in his pack."

 
          
 
"This could be him. The
berdache
they laughed about picked grasses. They said he
had a sacred bundle with him. The other thing I remember is that he limped.
Buffalo
ran over his leg or something."

 
          
 
"Remember the band he was with?"
Blood Bear's heart seemed to boom like a pot drum at Blessing. He
stru
to keep himself still, fighting the urge to fidget and
rock on his heels.

 
          
 
"Heavy Beaver's. They normally range on
Moon
River
. Raid the Red Hand every so often. But then
I guess you raid back."

 
          
 
"We haven't raided much in the last few
years. The spirit of the . . . Well, we just haven't raided." But if this
berdache
was Two Smokes, that would change.

 
          
 
"You know, that's why the Red Hand and
the White Crane split so long ago. It was a fight over the Wolf Bundle. I don't
know all about it, but it's old. Very old. We still have legends about
it."

 
          
 
Blood Bear stood. "Heavy Beaver's band.
They camp on
Moon
River
."

 
          
 
He helped Three Rattles with his pack, handing
the man his Trader's staff. "I don't have anything to trade now. But maybe
someday I will."

 
          
 
Three Rattles' face broke into an enigmatic
smile. "Good luck, Blood Bear. I hope to trade with you someday. I'll want
something back for my fish."

 
          
 
Blood Bear lowered an eyebrow, thoughts on the
crippled
berdache
and
Moon
River
. "You'll have it." With a wave,
Three Rattles was off.

 
          
 
For long moments Blood Bear watched the Trader
and his dogs heading north. He checked his bearings; the
High
Mountains
lay directly east.
Moon
River
didn't lie all that far to the north. All
he had to do was reach the river and find the Short Buffalo People camp of this
Heavy Beaver.

 
          
 
It wouldn't take him long. Not now.

 
          
 
The Wolf Bundle floated in the boy's Dream.
Perhaps he was the one.

 
          
 
From the shimmering of the Spirals, Wolf
Dreamer's voice warned, ' 'Be careful. Too much of a taste of Power at so young
an age, and he could go the way of Heavy Beaver. He is only a child. ''

 
          
 
The Wolf Bundle pulled back, disengaging. The
Wolf Dreamer had been right. It must wait, abide by the great Spiral of the
universe. Time remained meaningless. Now existed, as it always had . . . and
always would.

 
          
 
But another ' 'now'' would come . . . if the
child proved strong enough.

            
Kowwww
!
The cry lingered on the still air.

            
Sage Root wiggled the
stick that held high a thin flag of white hide. She crouched behind a
prairie-dog mound, keeping low, face screened by a clump of sage she'd twisted
from the ground. Despite their ability to outrun the wind, antelope had limits.
Those, she hoped to prey on today.

            
For the moment, she
couldn't think of Little Dancer's Dream—or what it meant. The antelope had
come, just as the boy insisted they would.

            
Her body lay in the
sunlight, as sinuous as a powerful snake. Her rich thick hair glistened a deep
lustrous black.

            
Her work dress clung
tightly to her sweat-damp body, accenting the full curve of her hip, stretched
by the taut muscles of her buttocks, and the powerful lines of her legs.
Broadshouldered
and narrow-
waisted
,
she drew men's gazes. Even the old men watched as she passed, eyes lighting at
the approach of such a healthy, sensual female. Despite the two children she'd
borne Hungry Bull, her belly remained flat, her breasts full and high.

            
Across the
sage-strewn drainage, the antelope buck pranced, turning sideways to stare at
her. The doe continued to walk ever closer, head lowered cautiously, curiosity
obsessing her. The rest of the herd watched, some following the doe, others
pausing to nibble at sage.

            
Come on, you’ve all
got to follow. You've just got to!

            
In her head, Sage
Root hummed the antelope song, fearing to Sing it out loud, fearing her Power
wasn't great enough to meet the needs of the People. The memory of her son's
gaunt face hovered in her mind. If only they could trap the antelope.

            
If only Hungry Bull would come
back, singing and dancing the news of a buffalo trap. If only it would rain. If
. . . If . . .

 
          
 
And the threat of Heavy Beaver continued to
loom, glaring and threatening, even in her imagination. Bad days, he'd said.
Bad days indeed.

 
          
 
Sage Root jerked the stick again, causing the
snow-white prairie-dog hide to flutter.

 
          
 
Kowwww
! the doe
called as she stepped cautiously over bunches of gnarled sage. Not far now. The
wing walls of the laboriously constructed trap spread to either side. If they
came only a couple of lengths closer, she could whistle the call to spring the
trap.

 
          
 
Sage Root let the doe peer at the waving bit
of hide for a moment and wiggled the stick again, distracting her from looking
back at the buck. Then the doe came trotting forward, the rest following along,
the buck, as usual, waiting for all the does and new fawns to take the lead.

 
          
 
She chewed her lip, sawing it back and forth
between strong white teeth. Almost . . . just a little farther. The wind teased
the bit of white hide, dancing and waggling it lazily.

 
          
 
Khowwwww
! The doe
called again, others echoing their curiosity.

 
          
 
The antelope bands were still small this time
of year. The does had just fawned, scattering to conduct their birthing in
secret, dropping twin fawns in thick sage to hide them from coyotes, wolves,
and eagles until the young could suckle enough of their mothers' strength to
run like the wind. Finally, the herd had begun to come together again, the
mothers seeking the protection of more eyes and ears.

 
          
 
The buck passed the brush clumps marking the
boundaries of the trap. The lead doe had come so close, ears up, walking
nervously. So far, she hadn't signaled with the white patch of her rump, hadn't
barked the retreat call. To either side, the wing walls of the trap stretched.

 
          
 
Sage Root—heart beginning to hammer—wet full
red lips and filled her lungs. Her whistle shrilled in the wind, a perfect
imitation of a bull elk's bugle.

 
          
 
The doe jumped and scampered, head back,
trotting nervously. And from the sheltered pits dug at the end of the wing
walls, the women and children of the tribe exploded, screaming, yelling, racing
to close the gap.

 
          
 
The lead doe flashed her white rump patch in
alarm, trying to slip to the side, finding a solid wall of woven sagebrush. She
quivered, dancing sideways on lightning feet; the herd followed in panic.

 
          
 
Sage Root waited, fists clenched, heart
pulsing in her chest as the antelopes' escape route was cut off. Behind the
milling herd, the women and children closed in. Shouting and singing, they now
advanced, pushing the antelope into the bottleneck of the trap. The lead doe
turned, finding only one avenue of escape, and charged down the narrow runway
into the arroyo. As the antelope pounded past, Sage Root thrilled to the sight
of their flying bodies. She gripped her weapons firmly, a thrill like orgasm
pulsing through her.

 
          
 
In the dust of their passage, Sage Root
scrambled to her feet, racing after them, her long black hair flying in the
pell-mell rush of the chase. She stood at the narrow end of the chute leading
into the arroyo, knowing the antelope had to come back this way—that they'd
entered a dead end from which they couldn't escape.

 
          
 
She waited, holding a long dart like a
thrusting spear in case the antelope came racing back.

 
          
 
"We did it!" Fire At Night appeared
at her shoulder, a stocky boy of fifteen, fast and agile despite his bulky
body. His chest heaved as he panted, darts ready in his hand. He'd hesitated at
first, daunted by Heavy Beaver's warnings about women hunting. Now he seemed to
have forgotten his reservations.

 
          
 
"You can hold this end? Maybe keep Throws
Rocks here? If they get out, we're all going to be hungry."

 
          
 
"We'll do it. It's a thing to Sing
of."

 
          
 
She grinned at him, slapping his shoulder,
before climbing up the side of the trap, onto the eroded terrace, running to
where the antelope piled up, with barely enough room to turn, starting back
down the narrow passage.

 
          
 
As they raced back, Sage Root
nocked
a dart, balancing letting it fly with all the power
in her supple body. True to the mark, the dart caught the lead doe full in the
body, completely transfixing her. She stumbled and went down. The herd piled
into her kicking body. Fawns bawled anguish and fear. Antelope scrambled,
panting hard, hooves pounding. A curling pall of dust rose as Sage Root
nocked
another dart and speared the next doe that passed.
About her, others appeared, whooping and yelling as they hurled darts down into
the narrow confines that trapped the antelope. One or two panicked animals
scrambled over the carnage, running a gauntlet of darts back down the arroyo.

 
          
 
Out of darts, Sage Root grinned at the kicking
pile of dying animals. Dust streaked her face and hair, a song of joy in her
heart. From where she'd left it earlier, she picked up a hide sack full of her
butchering tools.

 
          
 
For the time being, no more infants had to die
as Dancing Doe's had. No more pangs of hunger would pull at the People in the
night. For the moment, they would eat. To fix the old trap had been a gamble,
the work done in secrecy lest someone tell. Chokecherry's sobering reminders of
Heavy Beaver's Power lurked like hungry weasels in her mind. She couldn't shake
his promise of retaliation that night of Dancing Doe's difficult delivery.

 
          
 
"Hey, you first!" Makes Fun called,
offering her the honor of the first meat. "You put this together."

 
          
 
She flushed slightly at the compliment. Yes,
she'd defied Heavy Beaver, taken the risk to make this happen when she'd seen
the antelope winding down toward the river. The old trap had been so close to
the route the antelope would take back to the uplands that the opportunity
couldn't be wasted. She'd argued passionately, aided by the hunger in the eyes
of the children. Uneasy at first, the People had followed.

 
          
 
Sage Root smiled back at Black Crow's wife and
jumped down the dusty bank. Before her, the lead doe panted, a froth of blood
bubbling around her nostrils. The fletched end of the dart shuddered with each
dying breath.

 
          
 
Sage Root knelt over the dying doe, reaching
out to stroke her head. "Forgive me, Mother. It is the way of things that
men—like antelope—must eat. Bless your meat to our use. May your soul run like
the wind to Dance among the stars." The thrashing doe relaxed, the deep
pools of brown eyes meeting hers, as if admitting the reality of the
Starweb
, woven by the Wise One Above.

           
 
Sage Root lifted the heavy
hammerstone
.
With the skill of long practice, she slammed it down on the doe's brain. An
echo sounded in her mind, the memory of a newborn infant's skull popping on the
hot rocks.

 
          
 
Then the work began in earnest, amid songs,
jokes, and toothy smiles. The People gutted and sliced and packed meat from the
trap. Hungry mouths consumed the livers on the spot, offering first-meat rites
to friends and helpers, heedless of the red that dribbled down bobbing chins.
Blood smeared strong brown arms and legs as quarters were handed up for the old
women to cut into strips. In the shadowed arroyo, the hollow crunch of chopper
stones on bone, mixed with laughter, filled the air.

 
          
 
"Get them strips off," old
Chokecherry directed. "Weather this hot, you got to strip the meat quick.
Get it laid out on the sage. You don't, more
maggots'll
eat it than People!"

 
          
 
Sage Root arched her back to soothe the ache
of bending over. A grit of dust ground in her teeth, a fulfilling taste of
blood and fresh liver on the back of her tongue.

 
          
 
"How many did we get?" She wiped at
the perspiration on her face, streaking her beautiful features with red
smudges.

 
          
 
"About three tens of fingers. Throws
Rocks and Fire At Night didn't let a single one escape."

 
          
 
With her
hammerstone
,
Sage Root split a pelvis, splaying the legs to expose the meat. Using a sharp
flake, she cut the tendons and skin, severing the sacrum with her
hammerstone
, cutting the hide underneath. She lifted the
last of her animals to eager hands above, leaving only bloody gray silt under
the litter of white and brown antelope hair. Grabbing a blood-encrusted hand,
she scrambled up the gritty side of the arroyo, squinting in the bright light
of the afternoon sun.

 
          
 
About her, sagebrush had turned red under the
weight of long strips of meat drying in the sun. Here and there children romped
and played, waving hands, shooing flies from the wet meat.

 
          
 
"See? You didn't believe me, but I knew
they'd come. I sat up on the hill, feeling them."

 
          
 
She turned, smiling, seeing Little Dancer
where he pranced and waved a sagebrush branch over a bloody bush. "Look!
Food! Food for everyone!"

 
          
 
"Hey! Watch it. Watch where you wave
that. You're knocking the meat off. Get sand in it, and you eat it."

 
          
 
Sobered, he dropped his gaze, face lining as
he turned his attention to keeping the flies away.