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

People of the Nightland (North America's Forgotten Past) (46 page)

BOOK: People of the Nightland (North America's Forgotten Past)

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Then something cold plucked at him from the solid blackness … .

“
W
ill he make it back to the main caves?” Kishkat asked. He glanced at Tapa, finding his friend wide-eyed, speechless.

“No,” she said softly, crouching down beside Ti-Bish. “He only thinks he knows the way.” She turned, looking up at Kishkat, her large eyes as black as the caverns themselves. He stepped back. It was as if he’d looked into some night creature’s face, something not quite human.

He felt Tapa’s reassuring grip on his arm. Then, mustering his courage, he bent down, lifting the Guide, seeing the blood draining from the back of his shirt.

Ti-Bish coughed, frothy red bubbling on his lips. “Too late,” the Guide whispered.

“I know,” Skimmer told him. “The world is dying.You understand, don’t you?”

Ti-Bish jerked a slight nod, crimson leaking past his lips. “Skimmer? Do … do you love me?”

“Yes, Ti-Bish.”

He smiled slightly; then his voice changed. “Raven Hunter, is that you?” His eyes had widened, sightless. “Thank you, the light was getting to be too much.” He coughed, spewing red. Then he whispered, “ … Let’s fly now …”

Skimmer reached out, running her fingers along his blood-smeared cheek. Then she closed her eyes.

Kishkat watched for a long moment, and then saw her nod. She said, “He’s reached the Long Dark. Raven Hunter kept his promise.”

Somewhere from down the tunnel, they heard Nashat’s terrified scream.

Skimmer turned her strange black eyes on Kishkat, and his blood ran cold. “Nashat has found the dead,” she said simply.

Scream after hideous scream echoed from the darkness.

Sixty-four

A
shes sat with her war club across her lap. Throughout the long day’s walk, she had kept it in hand, swinging it, practicing a leap, skip, strike, and then whirling, preparing to block a blow.

Silvertip had watched her, as if he’d seen it all before. Once she’d raised an eyebrow, asking, “Problem?”

“Nothing that will not fix itself over time.”

She had swung the club up onto her shoulder, shooting him a sidelong look. “It’s been four days now. Why did you turn us to the south?”

“You will know soon enough.”

“I suppose.” She matched her pace with his. “I thought I heard Mother’s voice last night.”

“I’m sure you did,” he had said simply.

She had pondered that, wondering what it would be like to know everything, including another person’s Dreams. The idea of it was unsettling.

Now, as they sat by the evening fire, Lookingbill snored softly, his mouth open. Dipper placed the last of the wooden bowls in her pack and shot a curious smile at her father, saying, “He’s not as young as he used to be. A full day’s walk used to be nothing for him.”

Silvertip watched the fire crackle and spit, and then looked out toward the north again. He had insisted that they camp on the highest point. Across the moonlit night, the distant waters of Loon Lake could be seen, its surface silver against the black land.

“He will make it, Mother. Most of the danger is past now.” Silvertip rubbed his nose, as if it itched.

Dipper glanced at Ashes. “Are you ever going to lay that club down?”

“No,” she replied. “They put me in a pen once. They will never do it again.”

Silvertip turned his large eyes on hers. “The pens will be gone soon. No others will be built in our lifetimes.”

“Idiocy,” Dipper murmured, “putting people in pens. We don’t even do that to animals.”

Ashes felt the sudden tension in Silvertip, watched him rise to his feet, staring out at the darkness. Then he started to walk out past the fire.

“Where are you going?” Dipper called.

“I have to speak with someone.”

“You don’t go past the line of guards,” she insisted.

Ashes walked a step behind, casting suspicious glances around. The Lame Bull camps had been laid out in a large circle, and Silvertip walked past one after another until he reached the outer edge.

People watched them pass, pointing, some whispering, others smiling and waving. Ashes carefully nodded, her gaze roving, searching for danger.

Passing the last camp, she said, “Going beyond the fires could be dangerous.”

“No,” he answered. “Not tonight.” He glanced at her. “If you weren’t Raven Hunter’s perhaps you could hear him as clearly as I can.”

“Hear who?” She shifted her war club, trying to widen her eyes to the dark forest beyond the camp. The way led downhill now, winding around spruce and patches of sumac. Moonlight limned the prickly spruce needles and silvered the sumac, budded now with the first hints of spring.

Ashes gasped, tightening her grip on the club.

A large black wolf stood in a clearing where a great spruce had toppled and now lay rotting into the duff. Even in the moonlight, the animal’s eyes seemed to glow an odd yellow, as if lit from within.

“Greetings, Grandfather,” Silvertip said respectfully. For a long time, he and the wolf stared at each other, Silvertip whispering under his breath, then pausing, as if receiving an answer.

Finally, Silvertip nodded, saying, “I understand.”

Ashes felt rather than heard the rasping of feathers on the cool night air. She looked up, seeing her breath cloud in the moon’s white light.

The raven sailed around the clearing, gliding on midnight wings to perch on an old branch that stuck up from the long-fallen tree. The raven—a bird comfortable in the daylight—now peered intently at the wolf, as if distrustful.

Silvertip nodded respectfully to the bird, turned to Ashes, and said, “The Guide is dead.”

For a moment, Ashes wanted to leap and scream out a whoop of victory, but something held her back. “Did Mother kill him?”

Silvertip shook his head. “She would have saved him.”

“Why? She hates him.
I
hate him.”

He reached down, fingers tracing the old worn sides of the Wolf Bundle. “She has accepted her destiny. Another part of the balance is restored.”

“How?”

“Keresa came to Wolf Dreamer; your mother has gone to Raven Hunter. A trade—opposites crossed. Keresa has turned to peace and light, your mother to chaos and darkness.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that she now carries the Raven Bundle.”

Ashes pointed at the raven. “Is that why he is here?”

He nodded. “You are Raven Hunter’s. He has sent a Spirit Helper to ensure the balance is kept.”

She walked out toward the bird, fully aware of the wolf watching her intently. She lifted the club. “I can take care of myself. But thank you.”

Silvertip grinned in the moonlight. “In many ways, yes. But we have a long way to go. Listen to him, Ashes. He was sent for you.”

To the north, a low rumble could be heard.

“It comes,” Silvertip said. “I would see this.”

“What?” she asked.

“The end of the world.”

He led the way down a little farther. From a rocky knoll, they
could see Loon Lake, glowing silver in the light. It came from the west. The surface seemed to roil, changing slightly in color.

“Can you see the beach down there?”

She followed his finger to the pale strip of sand in the distance.

“Watch it,” Silvertip said, seating himself. He seemed oblivious to the wolf and raven, as they perched beside them, and watched as the sandy strand slowly disappeared.

E
vening gloom lay on the land as Windwolf followed Keresa toward the compound that held the Sunpath captives. He could just make out dark forms through the gaps in the fence. The enclosure had been constructed of rocks, sections of mammoth rib, and long bones all laced together with roots and strips of old hide. It was the sort of thing the Nightland people cobbled up for caribou drives.

And, like caribou drives, he suspected that the warriors gleefully darted anything that tried to wiggle through the flimsy barrier.

As Kakala trotted toward the fence, he glanced up at the scattered puffs of cloud that blew steadily northward to blot the early-evening stars.

Windwolf could just see Kakala’s ironic smile. “Thinking of something, War Chief?”

“Only that you must have your guts tied in knots, Windwolf. One wrong word from me, and you’ll be in there with the rest. I’ll be a hero.You’ll be the captive.”

Windwolf’s thin smile reeked of danger. “Perhaps you shouldn’t have allowed me to keep my weapons.”

“A couple of darts won’t do you much good.”

“Good enough,” Windwolf said softly. “You’ll be dying at the same time I am.”

Kakala chuckled under his breath. “Well then, perhaps we should just do it my way. Unlike Karigi, I keep my word.”

When they got to within atlatl range, shouts went up from the compound, and two warriors trotted out toward them.

Kakala said, “It’s time to Dance. I hope you brought your sacred mask.”

“I’m wearing it,” Windwolf muttered.

A skinny bald warrior called, “War Chief Kakala! What are you doing here?” Then he smiled. “It is good to see you here. You wouldn’t believe the rumors that have been flying about you.”

“Rumors are like songbirds; they sound filling but make a poor feast.” Kakala stepped out to meet the men and said, “What is your name, warrior?”

“Jaron.” The man bowed, nodded to Keresa, and looked at Windwolf.

Kakala quickly said, “This is … Water.”

Jaron bowed slightly. “The Elders said they would send someone to inspect the slaves, but we didn’t know it would be you.”

He thinks the Elders sent us … .

“Thank you, Jaron,” Kakala said. “But I come with orders of my own. Have your warriors seen to the packing of their things?”

“Yes, War Chief.”

“Then you are to take your warriors, have them return to their camps, and carry all of their belongings to the caves.”

Jaron hesitated. “But Karigi said—”

Coldly, Kakala said, “I was unaware that Karigi had been appointed high war chief by the Council.”

“He has not, H-High War Chief.” Jaron swallowed. “As you order, High War Chief.” He glanced past Kakala. “I assume you will take responsibility for the captives?”

Kakala looked back. “Fan out; take the others’ places so they can get about their business.”

Windwolf watched Kakala’s warriors trot out to either side, gesturing the others to head home. He could hear calls of greeting in the night. But then, Kakala’s men had always been well trained.

Only after Jaron trotted off after the others did Keresa say, “Well, that went easily.”

Windwolf muttered, “I’m not used to things being easy.” He glanced around worriedly. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

They walked up to the narrow gate, little more than a couple of worn poles that marked the entrance. Inside he could see people squatting, huddling together for warmth. In the gloom, he couldn’t make out faces.

“Are Jaron’s warriors far enough away?” Kakala asked.

“I think so.” Keresa stared off into the distance. “Bishka, keep a watch for us.”

“Yes, Deputy.” He trotted off around the curve of the enclosure.

Windwolf laid his darts to the side and began sliding the poles off the rocks on which they’d been braced. To those closest to the opening, he said, “These are your orders. You will walk out with your belongings. You are to head straight south. No one is to speak; no one is to laugh or shout.You must be across Lake River by no later than four days.”

“Who are you?” a man asked.

“I am called Water. The Council has decided that they have no need for captives.” Then he added, “But that could change at any moment. If you’re going, go. Anyone who lingers might be called back.”

People rose, filing past him. He watched as they hurried along, slipping out into the night, heading back south.

Windwolf stepped back and turned to Kakala. “Thank you for this, War Chief.”

Kakala nodded, an anxious set to his shoulders. “You’re not finished yet, Win … Water. They only have a night’s head start. Karigi will be after them as soon as he discovers the escape.”

“Hopefully, he’ll be too anxious to follow the Guide.”

“We can hope.”

A woman paused. “There are some who cannot walk.” She gestured. “Back there.”

“I’ll see to them.” Windwolf nodded, and watched the trickle of people passing by.

“I’ll come, too.” Kakala turned. “Keep watch, Keresa.”

“Of course. I think our people are fidgeting to get home.”

“Dismiss them. Tell them I will speak with them later.”

“Yes, War Chief.” She turned, trotting away.

BOOK: People of the Nightland (North America's Forgotten Past)

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