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Authors: W. Michael Gear,Kathleen O'Neal Gear

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BOOK: People of the Nightland (North America's Forgotten Past)
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He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and guided him across the chamber to speak with him privately, but Windwolf heard Lookingbill say, “What did he tell you?”
While the two of them whispered, Windwolf asked, “What is that?”
“It’s the Wolf Bundle,” Dipper whispered, her gaze on her son.
“The Wolf Bundle?” Windwolf frowned. “Wolf Dreamer’s own Spirit bundle? The one he made after he fought Grandfather White Bear?”
“It’s been passed down through our family for tens of generations.”
Ashes glanced up at Skimmer, then Windwolf, and finally her gaze went to Silvertip. She seemed to be watching his tormented expression. She asked, “Why would Wolf Dreamer want to talk to that boy?”
In a clipped voice, Skimmer said, “Wolf Dreamer is dead, Ashes, and has been since the beginning of the world.”
Ashes’ brows drew together.
When Lookingbill placed the bundle in his grandson’s hands, Dipper let out a small cry and put a hand to her mouth. “Not my son,” she whispered. “Blessed Ancestors, please.
Not my son!
”
T
he voices had begun to whisper in Kakala’s ears on the fourth day. He no longer saw the people who came to stare, call taunts, and toss their refuse at him.
The world had collapsed, fallen in, compressed to the cramped square of wood that confined his doubled body. For the most part, Kakala huddled, eyes closed. Behind the tightly pressed lids, he ran in green fields, his hand in Hako’s. He watched the sunlight gleaming in her blue-black hair, watched her slim body as she sprinted beside him.
“I love you so much.”
In answer, Hako twisted her head, hair flying, partially obscuring the radiant smile she flashed his way.
“You are going to die here,”
a voice whispered into his ear.
He had started, blinking, shooting frightened glances to the side—and found nothing but the heartless wood.
“Go away,” he whispered.
“We have come to watch,”
another voice mocked from above his head. But when he’d looked up, only the hazy sky arched over the confining bars.
“I did nothing wrong.”
“Oh, yes, you did.”
“I served my people.”
“And this is what service has brought you to!”
The voice chuckled, the rasping sound of it unnerving.
“I am nothing.” He stared down at his scarred hands where they rested between his bent knees. The feeling was gone from his legs, drowned by an endless aching pain.
The world is pain.
He blinked again, aware only of the beating of his heart, the air that he drew into his lungs.
“No different than an animal.This is the great Kakala!”
“Stop it.” But the hard bark of his voice, used to command, made only a weak rasp.
He clamped his eyes shut, clapping hands against his ears to block the voices that chattered and whispered.
Nothing. I am nothing.
Desperately he searched the darkness for another vision of Hako. But she, too, now eluded him.
“War Chief?”
He barely heard the voice, muffled through his hands.
“War Chief Kakala?”
He laughed, the sound maniacal as if rattled around inside his empty soul. “No, I’m not playing that game.You have tormented me enough.”
“This is a mistake,” the muffled voice pleaded. “We must let you out.”
“Oh, yes. Out to what? Out like Hako?”
“Who?”
“My wife. But I’ll fool you. When my soul’s finally free of the pain, it will find her.”
“I didn’t know you had a wife.”
“I didn’t. Not after Brookwood Village. They killed her here. In the cages. Where they’ll finally kill me.”
He felt the cage shake, and blinked his rheumy eyes.
The images eluded him for a moment: Night. The star-shot sky overhead. When had the sun set? How had he missed it?
A thin shape hunched as it fingered the thick knots that imprisoned him.
Kakala blinked. “What are you, phantom? Can’t you get inside to whisper to me?”
“These knots … they’re difficult.”
“They’re tied with wet sinew … so that it dries hard. They wouldn’t want me to pick them apart.”
“I have to get you out, War Chief.You have to find Skimmer for me.”
Kakala made a face, shook his head, shifted, and cried out at the pain of movement. He drew a deep breath of the cold night air. As it escaped from his lungs he saw it fog in the starlight.
Kakala reached out, feeling the cold reality of the bars as his fingers wrapped around them. The thin phantom hadn’t vanished as he’d expected, but continued to worry the knots.
No, this was real: an actual human being plucking ineffectively at the sinew.
“I don’t know who you are, but if some warrior comes along, they’ll put you in with me because of what you’re doing.”
“I don’t think so,” the soft voice said. “He wouldn’t let it happen.”
“He?”
“Raven Hunter.”
“Of course.” He slowly tried to straighten his back. “Raven Hunter talks to you, does he?”
“Not as much as I’d like.”
“Me, either,” he added dryly. “Look, friend. I was serious. If they catch you trying to let me out, they’ll make you wish you’d never been born.”
The dark form hesitated, and Kakala could see the shadowy face staring in at him. The gentle voice said, “I’ve wished that before. Back before Raven Hunter came to me. I didn’t understand. All of those terrible things, they were necessary. I had to know hunger, loneliness, and despair before I could understand that they were distractions. Raven Hunter didn’t come to me until I had lost all of myself.”
“Guide?” Kakala whispered incredulously. “Is that you?”
“I’m sorry, War Chief. I just learned about what happened to you. I came as quickly as I could.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because we need you.”
“We?”
“You have to bring Skimmer to me.”
“I already did. She was among the captives I took from the Nine Pipes band. Just as you ordered. I turned her and the rest of the women over to Nashat.”
The Guide stopped short. “Nashat never brought her to me. He brought a woman called Blue Wing. I never could understand why.”
Kakala cursed under his breath. “I remember Blue Wing. Tall, attractive, with long hair. Goodeagle couldn’t get enough of her on the trail.”
“He never listens to me.”
“You talk to Goodeagle?” Kakala made a face. “Why?”
“I don’t know Goodeagle.”
“Lucky you.”
“I meant Nashat. He never listens.”
“Noticed that, have you?”
The Guide sighed, pulling his hands back from the knots. “I have to go and find something to cut this.”
A familiar voice from the darkness said, “No, you don’t.”
“Keresa?” Kakala’s heart leapt. He watched as her dark form emerged from the shadows; behind her, other men slipped through the night to stare warily around.
“War Chief,” she said severely. “It figures I’d find you in a mess like this.”
“And what were you going to do?”
“Chop you out of there,” she said firmly, shooting the Guide wary looks.
The Guide asked fearfully, “You can free him, Deputy Keresa?”
“Of course, Guide.” Keresa stepped forward.
Kakala heard the whistle, followed by a snap, and the cage shivered under the impact. She took three more whacks at the bottom binding, and then turned her attention to the top. Finished, she laid a woodworking adz to the side. Keresa’s strong hands wrapped around the bars, tugged, and one side came free.
Helping hands reached in to pull Kakala from the cage. He groaned, toppling onto his side, legs like fire as he extended them.
Keresa bent over him, her hands running down his spine. “It’s going to hurt for a while.”
Kakala laughed, panic barely masked. “I’ll bear it.”
He saw Keresa straighten. “Guide, what are you doing here?”
“I came to free the war chief.”
She studied the thin man in the starlight. “Nashat isn’t going to like that.”
“I know,” came the weak reply.
 
 
W
indwolf sat with his back to the stone, elbows on his knees, wrists loose. He had watched the fire burn down to coals, casting periodic glances at Skimmer’s form where she slept with her daughter in the rear.
Dipper and Silvertip lay side by side; the boy whispered, the words mostly incoherent. But on occasion, the boy would say, “Wolf Dreamer?” with enough anguish to send shivers down Windwolf’s spine.
Is the boy really a Dreamer?
He leaned his head back against the stone and wondered. To do so was a diversion that kept him from pondering his own mad plan. What had seemed inspired took on the cloak of the ludicrous. His plan now seemed little more than the ravings of desperation.
Since they’d arrived, he’d secretly endured the same fear that lined the faces of those closest to him: wondering how they’d survive Kakala’s next attack. But it angered him to be reminded of it every moment by their eyes—eyes reverent with faith in him. They believed he could protect them, and of all the things that could be said about him, how could a man who had lost his wife, who had watched his people destroyed and dispersed, save this vulnerable band of Lame Bull People?
He sat, back against the resisting stone, and put his hands on either side of his head, pressing hard, trying to force some sense into his worry-laced soul.
“Come on, Goodeagle,” he said, barely audible. “Don’t let me down. Tell Kakala exactly what you think I’ll do.”
But in the heat of battle, he knew he wouldn’t have time to second-guess Goodeagle. A sharp ache invaded his chest. He fought it, filling his mind with hate. He thought he’d explode. Remembering.
He could see Goodeagle’s face so clearly, see the almost Dreamy look in his eyes.
How could I have been so foolish?
“You balance each other.”
Bramble’s voice haunted him from the past.
“You are brutally practical. Goodeagle reminds you of the gentler aspect of life.”
Ah, yes. So gentle. He winced at the memory of that hideous lance jutting out between Bramble’s blood-smeared breasts.
Is that what you wanted, Goodeagle? She was your friend, too.
After a finger of time, he crawled to the bedding Dipper had laid down, stretched out on the hides, and stared at the shadowy ceiling as he examined his narrowing options.
Too often thoughts of Bramble intruded—he imagined touching her hair, her skin.
He’d trusted Goodeagle—trusted him like a brother.
It’s my fault. I should have known.
Goodeagle had been dropping clues for moons: a missed meeting here, a lame excuse there, a change in his eyes.
Bramble had tried to warn him … .
Across a silken bridge of memory, he heard her say, “
Something’s wrong with Goodeagle. He has a sickness in his heart.”
He closed his eyes.
And now, I am going to bet all of our lives on him. On the things he’ll tell Kakala.
S
itting beside Kakala, Keresa studied the huge Council chamber, and slowly shook her head. The honeycomb of ice glittered in the light of the fire. The opulence of the place amazed her. The bluish dome of rock seemed to twinkle in the firelight.
Kakala moaned softly, and shifted painfully on the thick layer of buffalo, elk, and musk ox hides where they’d laid him.
The rest of her warriors had stared around uneasily at first, gawking at the painted parfleches, the wealth of hides, and paintings of the animal Spirits. These things were the plundered loot of the Sunpath People, carried here on the backs of captives, to create a display of Nightland might for Nashat, Ta’Hona, Satah, and Khepa to admire.
But at what cost to us and the Sunpath?
She shot a sidelong glance at the Guide, trying to ferret out his true motives. Thin and hollow-cheeked, Ti-Bish sat cross-legged on a plush giant beaver hide. His beautifully tanned caribou-fawn shirt had been decorated with images of Raven. He wore a cape made of the midnight black feathers over his shoulder. The man’s hair was greasy, pulled back in a braid that snaked down his back.
The Guide periodically reached out when Kakala groaned, and at the mere touch, the war chief stilled, almost sighed with relief.
What sort of man is he?
The question knotted in Keresa’s soul. In the Guide’s name, they had gone to war in a way that had been completely alien to her people. From hunters and occasional raiders, they had become dedicated killers. But at what cost?
She dared not count the dead, or remember their faces. All of those friends and companions, like Maga, whose souls now inhabited the camps of the Star People. How many women and children had been left fatherless? To what ultimate purpose?
She ground her teeth, watching the fire—a wealth of wood packed in on the backs of captives—burn into smoke that rose up through the ice.
A droplet of water spattered on the leather beside her.
“The hole in the ice is there, Deputy,” the Guide said, as if reading her thoughts.
“Of course,” she told him, masking her own doubts.
Ti-Bish gave her a knowing smile, his eyes warming. “If it helps, you won’t be making that passage.”
She started. “I won’t?” A chill flowed through her, images of Maga’s body filling her thoughts.
Please, tell me it won’t be a gut wound!
Ti-Bish fixed his understanding eyes on hers. “Power has another fate in store for you. You and the war chief are the lace that mends us.”
“The lace … ? I don’t understand.”
“No, but you will. The lace must be wetted, then allowed to dry into a tight binding.Your soul isn’t made for the paradise of the Long Dark.You must see the Raven Bundle to dry land.”
“You speak in riddles, Guide.” She took a deep breath, aware that most of her warriors, weary from days on the trail, had succumbed to the soft hides and dozed off.
In a soft voice, Ti-Bish said, “Follow your heart, Keresa. It will lead you in the right direction. This world is ending. Washed clean. Power is turning; something new is being born.”
“And what would that be?”
“The future.” He shrugged, reaching down again as Kakala gasped in his sleep.
“What did you give him?” she asked, indicating the little wooden cup beside Kakala.
“An herb tea made of moss, phlox, and a certain mushroom. He is Dreaming, allowing his soul to fly to the past.”
“With his wife?” she asked curiously. Thoughts of her own youth, of being a misunderstood girl, filled her. Once again she could see her parents’ disapproving stare as she returned from her first hunt. At nine, she’d run off, spent four days on the tundra, and returned with a brace of partridges, two hares, and a pika. The load had almost been more than she could carry.
She had expected praise, but her father had beaten her, insisting in no uncertain terms that such doings were for boys. Her older sisters had just rolled their eyes.
And where are they now?
Both women were widows, with six children among them, living on the largess provided by Sunpath captives who bore food up from the forested lands to the south.
“Your children will be the binding,” the Guide told her.
“I have no wish for a man.” She almost snorted her derision. She had yet to meet one who could stand to put up with her ways. Well, all but Kakala, perhaps. And their souls, so close as warriors, would have rubbed raw as man and wife.
“And he has no wish for you,” Ti-Bish added. Then he smiled. “Yet.”
She chuckled. At least it wouldn’t be Nashat!
At that moment, the Ash Clan chief, Khepa, entered the room, stopped short, and stared with startled eyes.
“Guide?” the old man asked, his right hand trembling uncontrollably.
“Greetings, Councilor,” Ti-Bish said, suddenly uncomfortable.
“What are these warriors doing here?” The old man’s glassy eyes took in the sleeping warriors. “And isn’t Kakala supposed to be in a cage?”
“I … I freed him.” Ti-Bish couldn’t seem to meet Khepa’s eyes.
“You … But, Nashat …”
“Nashat what?” came the sharp query as Nashat himself strode in, stopped short, and recognized Kakala. His eyebrows arched sharply, and his gaze fixed on Ti-Bish. “Guide? What is going on here?”
“Well, you see … Kakala … he was in a … cage.”
“He
failed
you!”
“No … that is …” Ti-Bish swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on his hands.
Dumbfounded, Keresa watched the Guide fumble with his fingers. She stood, kicked Kakala hard, and stepped between Nashat and Ti-Bish, who also stood, shifting awkwardly.
“There had better be a good explanation for this,” Nashat growled.
Keresa braced her hands on her hips, stating, “The Guide ordered him freed.”
Nashat stopped short, eyes half-lidded. “I thought you were hunting Windwolf, Deputy.” Then he gave her a sly smile, his gaze lingering on her body. “But, for certain consideration, I might overlook your dereliction of duty. Perhaps we could discuss it later, in my chamber?”
“We will
not
,” she snapped, caution vying with a sudden anger. She was aware of Kakala, awakened by her swift kick, sitting up on the hides, his eyes oddly unfocused as he peered around. Several of her warriors had awakened, and were nudging the others.
Keresa shot a hard look into Nashat’s eyes. “The Guide asked us to help him remove Kakala from the cage.” In a more serious tone, she added, “We
always
follow the Guide’s orders without question. He said Kakala had to obtain the woman Skimmer.”
“Yes, yes,” Ti-Bish said, stepping up just behind Keresa’s shoulder.
Giving Ti-Bish a withering glare, Nashat said, “Perhaps we should step outside, Guide. I would hear your reasons in a place where no idle stories could be mistakenly carried from this place.”
Keresa’s voice dropped. “The Guide has already given us
his
orders. They are clear, Councilor.”
She met Nashat’s hot stare, fully aware of Khepa’s amazement.
Come on. Put your foot fully into the trap, Nashat!
Instead, he gave her a crafty smile. “Of course, it shall be as the Guide wishes.”
As he spoke, Satah and Ta’Hona stepped in.
“Good,” Keresa said. “Then, as the Guide ordered, Kakala, as head war chief, will take all of his warriors south in the pursuit of Windwolf and the woman Skimmer.” She turned, facing Ti-Bish. “We thank you, Guide. And wish you to know that we will pursue your goals with all of our soul and being. Upon my honor, we shall not return until Windwolf is dead and the woman Skimmer has been safely delivered to your care.”
“Yes, of course. Thank you, Deputy.” But Ti-Bish kept shooting frightened glances in Nashat’s direction.
Keresa stepped close, voice a whisper. “Nashat serves
you
! If you need us, call.”
Ti-Bish blinked, an odd relief in his expression. “Thank you, Deputy.”
Keresa avoided the frothing anger stewing behind Nashat’s hard face as she motioned to her warriors. “Come on, on your feet. Two of you, help Kakala. I need the rest of you to fan out. Find our people, collect packs, see to your weapons. I want us on the trail within two hands of time.”
“And this time,” Nashat added through gritted teeth, “you
will
teach the Lame Bull a lesson. And
bring back Windwolf’s head
!”
Keresa gave him a slight bow. “And Skimmer, Councilor. Lest you forget.”
Nashat’s lips were twitching, a terrible promise burning within.
Keresa gave him a faint nod.
Don’t even think it, Nashat. I’ll rip your throat out before you lay a finger on me.
She gave Ti-Bish a grateful smile. “Bless your wisdom, Guide.”
Then she led her warriors from the room, wobbly Kakala supported between Bishka and Rana.
In the cold tunnel, Kakala asked, “What just happened back there?”
“I placed us between the lion and the bear, War Chief. But at least you’ll face them standing up instead of doubled over.”
 
 
I
n the middle of the night, Silvertip awakened suddenly. The rocky chamber was dimly lit, the coals little more than gleaming eyes in the hearth. He snuggled under his bear hide and felt Ashes’ eyes upon him.
Cold seemed to creep from every part of the chamber, twining out of the rock to stroke his warm body. He shivered and pulled his hide up, leaving only his eyes showing. His breath came back warm.
The Wolf Bundle rested beside him. He kept glancing at it. He hadn’t heard any voices since Grandfather put it in his hands, but his Dreams had been so vivid, a great black wolf telling him things that had splintered and slipped away as he awakened. Then he remembered: It was something terrible, about blood, and water, and crashing ice.
The wolf’s voice came back with frightening certainty:
“You must die before you find the path!”
He nervously crushed the hide with his fingers. The girl was still looking at him.
To his surprise, she shoved her hides off, put on her cape, and walked across the chamber.
Silvertip watched as she knelt beside him. Her beaverhide cape, with the hair turned in for warmth, had been painted blue with white stars. It was pretty. She was pretty, too. She had long black hair and an oval face with large black eyes. Her nose was small and narrow.
She leaned over him and whispered, “Did you really hear Wolf Dreamer’s voice in that Spirit bundle?”
Silvertip nodded and stared up at her.
Ashes’ eyes narrowed, as though she was thinking about it. “My mother says Wolf Dreamer is dead.”
“Of course he’s dead. He’s a Spirit.”
“Then how could you hear his voice? Are you a Dreamer?”
“I don’t know.” Silvertip propped himself up on his elbows and cocked his head. “The Wolf Bundle is like a trail. You can follow it to go visit Wolf Dreamer in his Spirit Lodge.”
“In the skyworlds?”
He lifted a shoulder. “I guess so. But Grandfather told me that sometimes the trail also leads to the past or the future.”
Ashes sat down cross-legged on his bedding hides, and scrutinized him as though he were a nasty bug. “Why would he want to talk to you? You’re just a boy.”
Silvertip lowered his gaze and brushed at a piece of gravel on the bear hide. “When the Bundle talks to me, Wolf Dreamer says that no one can hear him but me.”
“I was watching you. You looked scared.”
“I was scared.”
Many times in the past Grandfather had playfully held the bundle to his ear, and he’d felt a prickle like sticky insect feet at the back of his neck. Tonight had been different. The deep voice had been soft and kind.
BOOK: People of the Nightland (North America's Forgotten Past)
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