People of the Fire (75 page)

 
          
 
Like morning rays, warmth flowed through him,
wolf's strength adding confidence to his fearful mind.

 
          
 
"What next?" Two Smokes asked, voice
intruding on Fire Dancer's concentration. As if he lived the Dream, Fire Dancer
looked at the dark bundle where it rested on his clothing.

 
          
 
"A new Wolf Bundle must be made." He
bent and began skinning the thick coat from the hot carcass. The very air
seemed to stifle him, as if he sat under a huge teetering rock, ready to fall.

 
          
 
The pelt he handed to Two Smokes. "No one
among the Red Hand has more talent than you. You must sew it, fit it around the
bundle."

 
          
 
Fire Dancer took the carefully collected
sweetgrass
and wet it, adding more wood to the fire before
he placed a knot of
sweetgrass
on the flames. Yes, he
lived the Dream. Four times he passed his body through the billowing smoke,
feeling the purification.

 
          
 
With his own clothing for a rest, he utilized
an obsidian flake, frowning in the light of the fire. Chanting the lightness,
Power shifted around him, reeking of the night, of the stars above. Tension
brought sweat to his forehead. His mouth had gone dry, making it a labor to
swallow. His gut roiled as he gripped the flake, hesitating. From the darkness,
unseen eyes watched, sending shivers up his back. Taking a deep breath to
steady himself, he severed the worn bindings on the bundle, opening it to the
night.

 
          
 
Was that thunder? Or the imaginings of his
quivering mind?

 
          
 
Power played along his fingers, rippling the
muscles of his arms and chest. His heart danced, a terrible thrill in the
depths of his soul. He felt like of a man who'd outrun a flash flood.

 
          
 
One by one he laid out the contents, fingers
trembling, while sweat beaded on his body. A large bear claw with a bit of
snow-white fur attached. A piece of carved ivory bearing the effigy of a
monster. A large stone dart point of a workmanship Three Toes would have
envied. The point was long and
lanceolate
, fluted at
the base—a monster-hunter's point. A raven's head came next, wound in
sweetgrass
. An ancient stain, like that of blood, caked the
feathers and beak. A sea-shell gleamed opal in the firelight. His fingers
encountered a string of wolf's teeth hung on a cracked and stiff thong that he
dared not try to unwrap. These he placed on the sweet-grass, Singing and
Praying to the Power to make them whole again.

 
          
 
The night shifted, ebbed and flowed. Fire
Dancer tried to take a breath, lungs oddly starved of oxygen. He blinked and
looked up into the night, awed at the way the stars appeared to shimmer
erratically.

 
          
 
With agile fingers, Two Smokes worked, using a
flake to cut the raw wolf hide to form, using the old as his model. At Fire
Dancer's direction, he smoked the piece in sweet-grass, rubbing it clean of
blood with the sacred leaves of sage which gave life and luck. The pungent
scent rose as he worked.

 
          
 
One by one, Little Dancer continued to smoke
the relics, cleansing them, renewing the Power that ebbed and flowed. Night
pressed down—a physical presence.

 
          
 
Two Smokes punched his awl through the wolf
hide, taking care to keep it from touching the ground, blessing the thread he
stripped from wolfs corpse, purifying and working the material until it seemed
perfect Laboriously, he began the double stitch that bound the new Bundle
together.

 
          
 
Fire Dancer waited, watching the path of the
Stars across the night sky, Singing, feeling his soul drift, floating in the
night.

 
          
 
Are we right? He lifted his face to the cool
breeze, wishing he could breathe normally. Beside him, Two Smokes continued his
labors. They sat, two figures hunched against the night.

 
          
 
Have I done it right? Fire Dancer closed his
eyes, a desperation aching within. What if it's not? Will I be horribly maimed
like Blood Bear?

 
          
 
Where they rose on all sides, the rocks seemed
to hang over him with a ponderous weight. A curious blackness dimmed the stars.

 
          
 
Tendrils of Power, like fingers of mist,
snaked through the night. Heavy Beaver dreamed he stood in the middle of his
camp. Around him, men and women chanted and clapped their hands as they Danced.
Each turned adoring eyes on him, smiling their warm wishes, worship in their
eyes.

 
          
 
"You see, Mother. You see what your son
has done?" He raised his hands, hearing his People whoop and holler.
"I've given them the new way. Look at them, strong, powerful. Not even the
mighty
Anit'ah
stand against us. I've remade the
world, as you would have wanted it."

 
          
 
The camp seemed to shine, new hides on the
lodges. Even the dogs looked fat and lazy.
Parfleches
had been stacked about, each brimming with dried meat. The clothes the People
wore had been perfectly tanned, stained with white clay, and worked to a supple
softness by the unceasing labors of the women. Young men paraded, Dancing his
glory.

 
          
 
"This I've done! This is my new Power!
Buffalo Above, look down on your children, purified from the taint. I, Heavy
Beaver, have cleansed the People. I have made this happen."

 
          
 
He lifted his hands to the sky, reveling in
the blue depths, knowing the Sun Man watched, feeling the warmth of his
life-giving rays.

 
          
 
He could feel his mother's spirit rising
above, looking down in approval. About the line of swaying chanting Dancers,
children ran and played, young boys giggling and throwing mock darts made of
grass at each other. About them on the hills, buffalo grazed in clusters. The
whole place seemed to glow with a light as bright as the sun itself.

 
          
 
"Your Dream, Mother. I showed them. Those
who ridiculed are gone, vanquished by the People's war darts. This I have done.
They mocked me. They allowed women to soil their ways. I won."

 
          
 
He spread his arms, a joy almost bursting his
breast.

 
          
 
Already Fat Dog, of the Cut Hair, had begun to
fail. Among those camps, the young men talked of Heavy Beaver and the Power of
the Short Buffalo People. To the east, the Fire Buffalo People had been reduced
to rags, seeking to raid the camps of the River peoples for wild rice and the
plants they gathered there. In the north, the White Crane pushed ever farther
from the
Big
River
, their will eroded by the virility of his
warriors.

 
          
 
"I control the plains! I control the
buffalo. The Spirit World has blessed me. So do I bless my People."

 
          
 
The Dancers continued to beam at him, a
radiant glow in their faces. Yet, through the merriment, a wail arose from
behind the line of Dancers. At first, they seemed not to notice, their
adoration for him alone.

 
          
 
The keening grew, leading Heavy Beaver to
frown. "What is the meaning of this wailing?"

 
          
 
As suddenly, a gust of wind tore through the
camp, flapping the lodge covers, whipping dust from the packed ground. The
Dancers hesitated, trying to cover their faces against the flying grains of
sand.

 
          
 
A woman shrieked, the Dancers looking away
from him, cowering back from some horror only they could I

 
          
 
"Dance!" he ordered, crossing his
arms despite the wind that swept the camp. As the first gusts passed, the gale
blew hot, withering like the heat off a thick bed of coals.

 
          
 
The Dancers cowered, their attention riveting
on the wailing.

 
          
 
Daring the blistering wind. Heavy Beaver craned
his neck to see. The line of Dancers had stopped now, and as suddenly as it had
come, the wind stopped, leaving the camp in silence.

 
          
 
"Dance!" he bellowed, ignored as the
People watched, spellbound.

           
 
"What is this? Dance! Dance for me!"
He raised a fist, voice booming in the silence. For the first time, he noticed
the sky had gone leaden, ominously gray.

 
          
 
The wail carried on the air again and the
People screamed, backing away, fleeing this way and that.

 
          
 
"Stay and Dance!"

 
          
 
A low rumbling rolled across the sky, the
sound of muted thunder before the storm.

 
          
 
Where the People had fled, a lone individual
walked forward from the empty plain. Heavy Beaver swallowed. Another and
another came, as if their figures appeared out of the shimmering mirage that
rippled the air. Where buffalo had once packed the hills, only sunburned and
twisted grasses remained. The silence on the land could have been felt if he
could but force himself to reach out and pluck at it with his fingers.

 
          
 
The figures hobbled closer, worn clothing
hanging in tatters about their bodies.

 
          
 
"Dance!"

 
          
 
The wretches remained on his Blessing ground,
and came closer and closer.

 
          
 
"Go away!" He waved his arms.
"I am the Dreamer, Heavy Beaver! Go away or I'll Curse you all!"

 
          
 
And still they came as he stood his ground,
the unfamiliar sensation of fear clutching in his chest. He blinked, hating the
suffocating heat around him.

 
          
 
"Dancing Doe!" the cry tore from his
throat. The first of the figures could be distinguished now; the cruel shaft of
a dart stuck out from her gut at an odd angle. A glitter filled her eyes. A
baby's voice cried out—and was silenced, as if dashed against rock.

 
          
 
Behind her, Sage Root walked, horrible gaping
wounds in her wrists as the flies buzzed about her. Even in death, her figure
tantalized, a sexual sway to her hips. Chokecherry hobbled along, materializing
out of the mirage. White Calf came behind her, a promising grin on her ancient
lips.

 
          
 
Heavy Beaver raised his arms. "Go back!
This is my Blessing. Go Back! Back!"

 
          
 
They wouldn't stop. A panicked voice in the
back of his mind urged, Run! RUN!

           
 
Sage Root's voice rumbled in the still air, a
cross between thunder and Dream. "We touched the Wolf Bundle, shared
souls. Now Power is loose, Heavy Beaver. Black Power, changed Power. What have
you wrought? We're coming . . . coming for you. Powered by the Wolf Bundle. It
hasn’t forgotten . . . and the time is soon. ''

 
          
 
Whimpering, he turned, sprinting through the
desolate lodges, crying out. No one answered—only the scorching wind whistling
through the empty lodges.

 
          
 
And behind, he could feel them coming, feel
them reaching for him.