People of the Fire (16 page)

           
 
Across from White Calf, Hungry Bull, Three
Toes, and Black Crow squatted, tense features accented by the flickers of
firelight. They stared at her, uncertain, nervous. Three frightened young men.
She chuckled in dry amusement.

 
          
 
“You all look like you're afraid I'll hop over
this fire and eat you."

 
          
 
Black Crow swallowed, throat bobbing. "I
heard stories about you. Chokecherry said you weren't all human—that you could
change into an owl at night and fly up to the stars. They said you could talk
to animals, talk to . . ."

 
          
 
"Ghosts?" she supplied when he
couldn't finish. Wearily, she took a deep sigh, stretching her knotted legs
out, looking down to where the fire glowed. "No, I don't talk to ghosts
... but I wish I could."

 
          
 
Her words hit them like cold wind. They
waited, muscles tightening under smooth skin, eyes gleaming uneasily, hands
propped to lever themselves up if they needed to flee in a hurry.

 
          
 
"Oh, stop that! What's the matter? You think
the whole world is filled with evil? Who's spreading this dung-filled idea?
Look at you! Three strong young men sitting here, scared to death of one thin
old woman." She shook her head in disgust as they lowered their eyes.
Dropping her voice, she added, "Look around you. See the plants? The
stars? The very dirt? Hear the nighthawk and the owl? Feel the wind? None of
this is bad. Life isn't bad . . . nor are ghosts. You think a man's soul
changes just because he dies and rises to the stars?"

 
          
 
She cataloged their silent faces.

 
          
 
"You see, the question you have to ask is
why? Why would a man's soul change after he dies?"

 
          
 
"If you talk to ghosts—"

 
          
 
"I don't!"

 
          
 
"But you said—"

 
          
 
"I said I would if I could." She
rocked to ease her aching hip. 44 Yeah, I'd like to know what's on the other
side. The old legends say it's like a Dreaming. All is one, and one is all. I'd
like to know. That's what. Am I scared of what I might learn? Of course.
Learning things always scares you. Learning is like walking on sand. You never
know about the footing . . . when it might shift under your feet and leave you
off balance. But if you don't walk, you don't get anywhere, don't see anything
new. You'd be better to sit in your lodge, screened from the world by that thin
hide, and starve to death."

 
          
 
. Hungry Bull frowned, a perplexed look on his
handsome features. Three Toes sucked at his lower lip while Black Crow
scratched at the back of his head.

 
          
 
"Now, get your sleep. We'll start for the
People tomorrow."

 
          
 
Rolled in his sleeping robe, Hungry Bull
stared up at the sky, wide awake. Why couldn't he believe the old woman?
Premonitions of danger and trouble stirred that sixth sense common to hunters.
Mouth dry, he looked over at where the old woman lay breathing easily.

 
          
 
A shiver sliced its way up Hungry Bull's
spine. Spirits ran loose on the land, Dancing for souls.

 
          
 
Blood Bear walked down the long hills from the
uplands south of the
Moon
River
. To his right, slightly behind him, the
tall peak of the Beaver Tooth caught the morning sun. Before him the river
curled and wound through the broad floodplain. Even here the grasses crunched
underfoot. No rain had fallen in this parched land.

 
          
 
Before him lay the river—and a choice. East or
west?

 
          
 
High above, an eagle sailed in the thermals,
its path ever westward. Since his early childhood, he'd heard of the Power of
eagles. Very well, he'd go west. One way suited him as well as another.
Besides, a person never knew. That moment of insanity he'd had might have
worked after all. At the thought, a curious tingle burned in the scarring stump
of his little finger.

 
          
 
Blood Bear turned his steps as he reached the
hard silt of the floodplain. West. After all these long weary years of
wandering, maybe luck had turned in his favor.

 
          
 
How wonderful it would be not only to recover
the Wolf Bundle, but to kill the
berdache
—and perhaps
beat his wife before him into the camps of the Red Hand as a reminder of how
she'd disgraced him so long ago. No one would forget Blood Bear after that. And
as punishment for harboring his runaway wife, he'd wage a new war on the Short
Buffalo People. Considering what he'd seen of the plains peoples, none had the
spirit to stand before the Red Hand.

 
          
 
The Wolf Bundle flexed its Power. It seethed,
remembering Heavy Beaver's hard hands, the malignant hate in his mind as he
heaved the bundle into the night. Anger whirled and swelled within it.

 
          
 
In the camp, men y women, and children slept,
minds tormented by nightmares of violence and rage. Heavy Beaver whimpered in
his Dreams, feeling as if a black fog suffocated him.

 
          
 
The Wolf Bundle waited.

 
          
 
Little Dancer woke in the night, chilled by
the dew that condensed on the leaves around him. The hide he lay on had
softened with the moisture. He shivered and sat up, instinctively looking for
his mother first and the stars second. Perhaps an hour remained until the false
dawn—or so he judged. Learning to tell time by the stars took practice. They
changed so with the seasons.

 
          
 
He rubbed a knuckle in his eye, but couldn't
see Mother anywhere. Among the shadows, the sage still bowed under the weight
of the meat. Two Smokes lay on the other side of the fire. The bedding the
berdache
had brought for his mother remained folded, hair
side in, against the brush.

 
          
 
Little Dancer shivered again, made uneasy by
more than the nippy cold in his limbs. The night seemed to hover anxiously,
like the voices of the antelope that had called to his mother.

 
          
 
He stood, clutching up his robe, and paced the
few steps to the sullen glow of last night's fire. Two Smokes lay with his head
under a bent arm. The soft breathing of the
berdache
came as a relief to Little Dancer. Not since the Wolf Bundle had been abused
had Two Smokes slept easily. Little Dancer squatted over the fire, pulling his
hide around like a tent over the coals. Warmth rose around him, caressing,
bringing life back to his stiff limbs, driving the chill out. A pungent tang of
smoke filled his nostrils.

 
          
 
From the darkness, a nighthawk's cry sounded.
Insects clicked and chirred in the sage. Like a winter frost, tension drifted
in the air, closing down, icing the soul the same way the morning dew had
chilled his bones and flesh.

 
          
 
Where was Mother? The heat grew uncomfortably
around his bottom. He stood, starting back toward the place he'd lain earlier,
hesitating, crossing instead to settle himself next to the
berdache
.

 
          
 
That's when he saw the wolf. A big black
animal padded out between the sage. Like a spirit, the creature stopped, keen
yellow eyes catching the glint of the low fire.

 
          
 
Little Dancer swallowed hard, staring around
to see why none of the dogs reacted. The beasts lay asleep, unaware of the
intruder in their realm.

 
          
 
Looking back, he met the wolf's eyes, sharing
a feeling of promise. Then, like a denizen of the imagination, the huge animal
ghosted into the darkness.

 
          
 
Two Smokes jerked as Little Dancer curled next
to him.

 
          
 
"Little Dancer? Are you all right?"

 
          
 
"Scared. I saw a wolf. Big and black. It
looked at me."

 
          
 
Two Smokes reached to lay an arm over the boy,
hugging him close. "Don't worry."

 
          
 
"I've heard talk. While I was out in the
bushes, I overheard
Walkalot
Woman and Sleeping Fir.
People say Heavy Beaver will Curse my mother. What does that mean? What will
happen? Little children say they Curse each other . . . and sometimes rocks,
and snakes, and scorpions. But when a Spirit Dreamer Curses, it's different,
isn't it?"

 
          
 
"It's different."

 
          
 
"What will happen to us if Heavy Beaver
Curses my mother?"

           
 
"You'll be fine. He probably won't Curse
her anyway." Two Smokes added an
Anit'ah
phrase.
"Sun rises, sun sets."

 
          
 
"You mean that we can't change what will
happen? Like the sunrise?"

 
          
 
"Your
Anit'ah
gets better all the time."

 
          
 
"Because you make me talk it."
Little Dancer frowned into the night. "Two Smokes?"

 
          
 
"Yes, little one?"

 
          
 
"You don't like it here, do you?"

 
          
 
"What do you mean? I'm fed. I have a warm
lodge. Your mother and father are kind. I have you to wake me up in the middle
of the—"

 
          
 
"But I've heard that sometimes . . .
well, the men hurt you." The boy felt his friend tense, but he plunged on.
"And people make jokes about you and what you do with your private places.
I've seen the other children teasing and making fun of you because you wear a
dress. That all hurts, doesn't it?"

 
          
 
"Shouldn't you be sleeping now? It was a
long day and you're probably—"

 
          
 
"That's a way of not answering a
question, isn't it? Asking another question?"

 
          
 
"I suppose."

 
          
 
"But you wish you were back with the
Anit'ah
, don't you?"

 
          
 
Two Smokes swallowed loudly. "Yes."

 
          
 
"Why don't you go? I think things are
pretty bad here. I've heard the
Anit'ah
still have
buffalo up in the mountains. Maybe they don't have a Spirit Dreamer who Curses
nice people like my mother. And you wouldn't get ridiculed. And men wouldn't
catch you out gathering your plants and throw you down and lift your skirts
to—"

 
          
 
"
Shh
! You sleep
now. Tomorrow is going to be a long day and-"

 
          
 
"Two Smokes? Isn't that another way to
keep from answering? Trying to make me think of other things

 
          
 
Silence stretched. Finally, the
berdache
said softly, "Once long ago, I made a
mistake—and a promise. I swore something on the Wolf Bundle.''

           
 
"What did you do? It wasn't something
bad. You're a good person. What did you swear?"

 
          
 
"You know better than that. You don't
tell about promises and Power, not lightly. Maybe, someday, if you're good,
I'll tell you. In the meantime, I can't leave you, not for a while anyway. And
yes, Little Dancer, I would rather be with the
Anit'ah
.
They understand and value the Power of a
berdache
.
They don't blame me that I would love a man instead of a woman. To them a
berdache
is good, someone to bring luck."

 
          
 
"But why does a
berdache
happen?"

 
          
 
Two Smokes shrugged in his robes. "I
don't know. Maybe a man's seed plants differently in a woman's womb. Maybe
Power touches the soul—Blesses it—as it comes to seek a home in a newborn baby.
You know that men and women think differently.
Berdache
are in between . . . different—not man or woman. Just
berdache
.
Between the worlds, yet separate. Only these Short Buffalo People don't accept
me as a human being. To them, I'm something else—a monster to be feared."

 
          
 
"Maybe we should all run away to the
Anit'ah
?"

 
          
 
"Your father wouldn't like that. Your
mother wouldn't want to go either. They've made war with the
Anit'ah
. Your grandfather and grandmother were killed by
Anit'ah
. Do you think Hungry Bull or Sage Root would want
to go live with people who'd done that? You know how they scowl when I teach
you the
Anit'ah
language. Among the Red Hand, they
might feel worse than I feel here. Do you want that?"

 
          
 
"Why do you teach me
Anit'ah
?
And all the stories about First Man who brought all the people up from under
the world? Do you think I'll be
Anit'ah
one
day?"

 
          
 
The long silence stretched again before
TXvo
Smokes whispered, "Maybe it's my way of keeping
it alive. Maybe I'm paying for my mistakes. Sleep now."

 
          
 
Little Dancer's mind rushed with questions.
What about the
Anit'ah
? What about his mother? And
Heavy Beaver? If the Spirit Dreamer Cursed his mother, what would happen? Could
she really die?

 
          
 
He began to dwell on that, knowing Two Smokes
didn't want to talk about it. A brooding dread grew in his gut. Heavy Beaver
wouldn't kill his mother. Why should he? Sage Root was loved by everyone. And
Little Dancer loved her more than any person on earth. Thoughts whirled in his
restless head. Fear lingered, tracing around his queasy stomach, shivering at
the edges of his muscles. Anxiously, he blinked at the night.

 
          
 
He'd never forget the night Dancing Doe's baby
was born. He'd never forget Heavy Beaver's look of disgust, of thinly veiled
hatred for his mother. So long as the day and night danced across the skies,
he'd never forgive the shaman for abusing the Wolf Bundle and kicking Two
Smokes.

 
          
 
And if the Spirit Dreamer really did Curse
Sage Root . . .

 
          
 
"Two Smokes?"

 
          
 
"Yes."

 
          
 
"If Heavy Beaver Curses my mother, I'll
kill him."

 
          
 
"Hush. Little boys don't kill Spirit Men.
They respect their elders. You don't want to fool with things, boy. You just
want to behave. Hear me?"

 
          
 
"Yes." But I'll kill him, Two
Smokes. I won't forget what he did to you—to the Wolf Bundle. He'd just better
not Curse my mother.

 
          
 
Weary, so very weary. Sage Root stared at the
long strips of meat she'd been turning every hour or so. Most had dried,
shrinking in the hot sun, jerking in the dry sucking air. Ten antelope dried
into a bundle a single woman could carry in a big pack. Chokecherry worked the
other side of the brush with Meadowlark and Makes Fun. Others waited, slowly
caving in to the power of hunger, fear of Heavy Beaver eroding as they watched
the meat being packed.

 
          
 
Her nerves hadn't let her sleep despite her
exhaustion. What had she done? How could she insult the antelope by turning her
back and walking away? Hunger ate at her people. How could Heavy Beaver Curse
the meat so callously? Didn't they have enough trouble?

 
          
 
Where is he? The worst part is waiting. She'd
forced him, defied him openly. Mocked his power once again.

 
          
 
She straightened, squinting into the morning
sun
ing
the deep blue vault of the sky for any sign
of rain. Overhead, small puffy clouds floated past, headed ever eastward,
refusing to mass into a life-giving rain.

           
 
"Mother?"

 
          
 
She turned, seeing her son struggling under
the weight of a water bag. His tongue stuck out the side of his mouth as he
staggered forward.

 
          
 
"See, I brought the water. Hardly lost a
drop!"

 
          
 
"You're becoming quite a man. Keep this
up and we'll have to give a naming in another season or two. Are you ready for
that? Ready to earn a real man's name?"