People of the Wolf (27 page)

Dancing Fox ran a finger absently along the dart tip.
Could I stand to be near him? Could I stand to see him every day without holding him close? Could I give up Runs In Light to live in exile out here by myself?
She swallowed hard, looking

up, to the sun. The time for Renewal grew closer. A slow ache built under her heart.

"For him," she whispered, "I could give this up." Talon nodded, exhaling heavily. "I think maybe you're being foolish ... but I understand."

A summer like none he could have imagined. Blue Sky Man glowed above, his ponderous belly only hidden by occasional clouds. The flies, mosquitoes, and gnats rolled across the green land in droves. Sprigs of willow and dwarf birch rose from the rocks, lining the yellow-caked sides of the stream. Broken Branch smiled in the sun, eagerly attacking the moss and plants with her digging stick, creating feast after feast for dinner. Blossoms, sweet and delicate, scented the slow breezes in a rich promise of bear berries. Sour dock and wild rhubarb greened above the verdant blaze of willow and alder.

Overhead, flights of snow geese, ducks, and chattering ravens passed in a whir of wings. Curlew called lonely from the ponds to the east. Eagles twisted and turned, spiraling against the endless blue.

Wolf Dreamer floated in the spring, blessing the stink of the geyser that kept the columns of bloodsucking black flies and mosquitoes at bay. The day before, he had marched to the big river with Heron. The tumult of the water had shaken him to his bones. Such Power, such violence, the very ground reverberated from the tormented sandy flood.

"Never seen it this high," she muttered, looking across the rush. "Never."

"Where does it all come from?"

She turned, features stony. "Your Big Ice, Wolf Dreamer."

So much? Only the salt water was so large—and almost tame compared to the river thrashing its way to the north.

He settled back, letting the warm water support him, and cleared his mind. Peace filled him. The battle had almost been won. Time after time, he'd forced himself, each attempt bringing longer and longer spans of silence. Heron had been patient.

"Not even a child learns to walk in a day," she'd reminded.

The feeling of water lapping at his sides, slapping in his

ears, soothed him. The voice of the water, he'd discovered, resembled human speech. Lulls punctuated the noise, lulls of pure silence.

By some sense, he felt her presence, raising his head to watch her disrobe. Even in her old age, Heron's beauty remained. Her breasts, though sagged with age, still held an allure as did her flat stomach, unspoiled by children. Firm legs and arms bespoke the graceful essence of woman.

And Dancing Fox? Would she have that look at Heron's age? He tried to picture her, the image of her bursting youth forming in his mind. She walked in his imagination, hips swinging, eyes sparkling promise as she made for him. His manhood hardened.

Her hair would shine blue black in the sun, tumbling down over her smooth shoulders. She dove seallike into the pool, water rippling from her brown back. Beside him, she came up, breasts bobbing. Her touch would be light on his skin as she reached for him. He would turn, stroke her, holding her close as her legs went around him. He could feel her as she opened herself, ready to ...

"You have something in your mind?" Heron asked, popping the image, causing him to start. Water rushed into his nose, leaving him coughing and sneezing as he struggled to get his feet under him.

A wicked light gleamed in her eye. She looked at his hard maleness, protruding from the water. "Not this old woman. Too old . . . even for a handsome boy like you."

He gasped, rolling in the water to hide himself, shame running hot in his veins.

She laughed, diving under the water, forcing him to turn again to hide himself.

Her old eyes twinkled as her head broke the surface. He huddled there, chin barely above water. "I'm still a man," he challenged, anger covering embarrassment. "Dreaming doesn't take
that
away from you."

She wiped her face of the crystal beads of water and chuckled dryly. "Oh, you're a man all right. Seems they think of only one thing." Then: "But excuse an old woman. People coupling, that's part of the Dance."

He swirled the water with his hands, hoping the shimmer-

ing ripples obscured what the water revealed. Desire drained; he felt better.

"It wasn't you I was thinking of."

She moved to sit on a rock, the water lapping about her waist. "Ah, a young woman?" She looked out over the willows, partially shaded now by the stark white font of geyser steam. "Is she waiting for you?"

"She's not . . . Crow Caller took her as a wife." He splashed frustration. "She ate of the wolf, accepted the Dream . . . but she followed him. A wife doesn't ..."

"Run off with another man," she finished. "But she could have."

"It would have brought dishonor. She would never—"

"More likely she
fears
Crow Caller. Fears what he would do to her." She wrung water from her hair, appraising his defiant glare. "What's this I see in your eyes? A bad case of young love?"

"Don't," he warned. The pain of losing Dancing Fox seared his chest.

She nodded, giving in. "I won't torment you about her. . Her love is your burden."

"Burden?" he gasped incredulously. "More like solace."

"I think you'll see it differently in the near future."

"Didn't you ever long for a man? Didn't you love your Bear Hunter?" He regretted the words as he spoke them.

She watched him, impassive for several moments. "Yes, I did. Would have given anything for him. Thought about killing Broken Branch when she weaseled her way into his robes."

"Why didn't you go back? As ... pretty as you are, any man would have come here with you."

She shook her head, sighing. "No, no man." Looking to the sky, she worked her lips. "Wolf Dreamer, you must know this. Dreaming—real Dreaming—doesn't leave room for a mate. When a man and woman are together, they take a part of each other. His or her problems become yours. Coupling produces children. No way around it. Children demand all your attention—and they deserve it. So much work goes into turning an infant from an animal into a human being. Children have no sense of time, they need attention
now.
You

can't Dream when your child is hungry, or has a question, or gets cut on a chert flake."

"That's why you're still here after all these years?"

"That's why. No man, no temptation. Just me and my thoughts and Dreams. I made that decision when Bear Hunter went to Broken Branch." She smiled wearily. "And I was young then, hurt. I didn't want to have to see him . . . and her."

"And now she's here."

Heron tilted her head. "It's been a long time. He's many Long Darks dead. Both Broken Branch and I have changed. And she's brought me a different man. One more important than a lover could ever have been.

"Oh, I could wonder about what-if's, but if you look hard enough, there's a purpose, a reason why everything happens. Maybe you were calling me ... even then.''

He frowned, moving up to sit beside her. "You're sure it was me in your Dream?"

Her eyes left no mistake.

"But why would you Dream of me?"

She drew a full breath. "You're important to the People somehow. Maybe we'll all die if you don't find that hole in the ice."

A tremor of anxiety touched him. He fumbled with the gritty surface of a rock. "What should I do about Dancing Fox? She fills my thoughts more every day. I can't concentra—"

"Your choice, Wolf Dreamer." The brown orbs of her eyes revealed nothing. "These gifts of yours, they're powerful. I see you changing. The man you were, the one she knew, doesn't exist anymore. Worse, you're growing so quickly into someone different, she'll hardly know you when she meets you again. Will she understand? More importantly, will you want to go back to what you were before the Dreaming?"

"You tell me. You've walked this path."

"I have no answers for you, but I can tell you the Dreaming is like eating a spirit plant. Once started, you can't get enough. It fills you, drives you, guides you."

"Constantly? Isn't there time for—"

"Constantly."

He frowned, watching steam twirl over his head. "That's a heavy price to—"

"A terrible price."

He propped his chin on one knee, staring unblinking into her serious eyes. Wet strands of silver-shot hair draped over her breasts. A grim smile curled her lips. "Is the salvation of the People worth it?"

Branches of dwarf birch and willow twined through the mist of the hot springs, stretching into the turquoise sky. The yellowish green crust on the boulders at the edge of the pool sparkled in the golden sunlight.

Wolf Dreamer shook aside the sweat-dampened ends of his" long hair where they clung in curls to his forehead; his oval face glistened with sweat. He watched as Broken Branch used a hand-sized stone and flat rock to pound the dried corpses of ground squirrels into paste. She mixed the flesh with mashed berries, then slid handfuls into caribou intestine. After each handful, she poured hot fat into the ropy sack. Broken Branch rammed home the whole lumpy mass with a stick until the gut bulged.

He stood uncomfortably, thinking. They'd hunted, Dreamed the caribou in again. And this time, he thought he'd heard a single breath of the One voice they shared. But had he? Or had he simply imagined it? Heron's steps crunched over gravel behind him and he turned, smiling at her.

"Come," she said, heading for her shelter.

He followed, eyes losing focus in the narrow darkness. She threw a finely tanned hide at him, which he caught before it touched the ground.

"The flies are gone. The frost has sent them to hiding. How many days since you've eaten?"

"Three."

"Go high. At least a day from here. Remember the Dance. Dream."

He took the robe and turned, pausing to look back. "I called them all the way this time, didn't I?"

She studied him, thoughtful. "I did nothing. You called; they came. We killed enough for winter. We'll have fat for the cold times. Meat for strength."

"I thought . . ."He hesitated, afraid to mention it lest it be a false perception.

"What?"

"For a moment, I thought I heard a breath of the One."

"What did it sound like?"

"It didn't have a sound . . . really."

A wry smile lit her face. "Then maybe you did hear it. Is there a 'voice' we share with the animals that goes deeper than the world we think we hear around us?" A veiled look in her eye, she waved him away. "Go Dream. Listen for it."

Uneasy, he walked into the light, turning his steps west toward the ice-shrouded mountains. She always did that, left him wondering what was real . . . what was imaginary. Had they come to his call? Was there really only One voice for the One Life? Or had it been accident that they'd walked into his trap? What was real?

This year, the shelters looked shabby, worn, poorly repaired. Dancing Fox led the way down the slope slowly, aware that Talon hobbled painfully behind. The old woman wasn't as strong as she'd been before. Since the starving days when they'd left Buffalo Back's camp, some part of Talon's soul had been diminished. She hobbled along, little more than an ancient wraith in hide rags.

Before them, the camp stretched, nestled on the edge of

the marshy flats, muskeg spreading out into the northern horizon in a green haze. The flies and mosquitoes would be miserable here this year. To the east, the Big River raced in a torrential flood, overfilling its banks to drown portions of muskeg. To the south, behind the camp, the rumpled gray hills rose to obscure the horizon until they merged with the mandibular teeth of the glacier-patched western mountains.

From the smattering of shelters on the terrace overlooking the muskeg, winding spirals of blue smoke rose toward the

sky. The odors of cooking meat, wet dog, and camp trash already carried on the air. A rack of fish had been placed beside a shelter to dry; a young boy with a stick guarded it from the dogs. People sat around smoldering fires, hiding in the smudge while they talked and gestured.

"You don't have to wait for me," Talon called, voice thin and wavery. "Go. Go find your Runs In Light. I'll be along."

With a fleeting smile, Dancing Fox began to break into a run—and stopped short, a cold chill in her heart.