People of the Wolf (16 page)

"I . . ." He fumbled for words, smiling imploringly. "Is everything ready here?"

"Of course," Singing Wolf told him stiffly.

He nodded, avoiding people's stares as he walked to the end of the line to stand beside Broken Branch. Jumping Hare took the lead, swinging out on his snowshoes. That day, and the next, forever, he limited his world to placing one step ahead of the next, calling Wolf with every breath. In his memory the green meadows and glistening hides of the animals shone in that vast lushness.

Dark clouds roiled on the horizon, the scent of a storm riding the chill wind. Fading sunlight lay in streaks of rusty gold across Talon's ancient face. The old woman shivered in Dancing Fox's arms, her whole body spasming.

"Stay alive," Fox pleaded. "Live, Grandmother. Live."

She pulled the worn caribou hide around them, but one hide was hardly enough to keep them warm despite the insulating layer of snow. They'd wandered down from the heights into the flats. Here, they found no places where the snow had been blown free of the surface. No exposed dung, no caribou or sphagnum moss, no willow or birch.

Lumps of snow marked places where the People huddled together. This was the end. They all knew it.

"You're a good girl, Fox," Talon whispered. "My legs are feeling warm. My feet feel like they're over coals. You know, comfortable."

Dancing Fox closed her eyes. "I'm glad."

''Freezing's not a bad way to go.'' Talon sighed. ''It really isn't. A person just sleeps."

"Grandmother, you're not going to—"

"Yes, I am. I got a deep cold inside me. A killing cold.

Odd that killing cold makes you ache all over—then makes you warm."

"Hush, save your strength."

"I'm going to sleep warm. Warm," she breathed, a faint smile curling her chapped lips.

Dancing Fox gripped her tightly, hugging Talon to her chest. The bones beneath the old woman's emaciated flesh felt as brittle as dried twigs.

"At least," Talon whispered, mittens stiffly tracing the patterns of light dappling their robes, "I won't die alone."

In the distance, she saw Crow Caller trying feebly to stand. Snow puffed from his robes. He struggled, weaving aimlessly, then fell back to the snow and tumbled to his side to lie still.

Fox smiled.

"A trail," One Who Cries said without emotion. He bent down, looking at the slashed snow, seeing the way it had drifted in. Moving a couple of steps, he kicked at mammoth dung, winter dung, thick with sticks.

Runs In Light glanced at the anxious faces around him. One of the children had been found, frozen in her robes. Singing Wolf supported a little girl who stumbled uncontrollably.

Mammoth? How could weak humans expect to kill a mammoth? Especially a full-grown adult? But the sticks in the dung proved that somewhere, at least, forage existed in the snow. Where enough remained to feed mammoth, perhaps a hare could be trapped? Perhaps caribou? Not even that hope penetrated the lackluster eyes of the People.

"We can't go further," Laughing Sunshine called listlessly. "I can't do it."

Green Water padded over, looking carefully into Laughing Sunshine's eyes, pulling a hand from her mitten to feel Sunshine's cheeks. "We've got to stop for a while. She's going to fall on her face if we push further."

"Me, too," young Moss agreed where he stood on trembling legs.

One Who Cries flinched, eyes searching the gray landscape, looking to the low-hanging clouds, feeling the bite of

Wind Woman's fury. Flakes of snow rushed past, borne on ~ the wind.

"Let's stop. Darkness is falling. Tomorrow, those who can stand will follow the mammoth's tracks."

Runs In Light watched, gnawing doubt leaving him empty. He bent his back, cutting at the packed snow, lifting the light blocks from the drift. If nothing else, his efforts might keep some of the People alive to starve later. His faith in the Dream had stretched as thin as a caribou hair.
Had it been real?
He no longer knew.

Green Water watched him through furtive eyes for a moment before walking slowly over to place a hand on his shoulder. "I don't know what you're thinking, but don't let Singing Wolf's words hurt you."

He shivered and blinked at her, feeling the horrible pang of doubt knotting in his chest. "Maybe he's right. I . . .I'm responsible. I led you here."

"You did your best, Wolf Dreamer. There's honor in that. No one can give more than—"

' 'My best?'' he whispered dully, scooping snow as his eyes darted over the wind-sculpted landscape. "Is that enough? I see their thoughts in their eyes. I see what they—"

"They're just tired," she chided. "Don't judge them so harshly."

He looked around dubiously, scanning the blood red sky behind them. Drifts hemmed them in like walls. "Singing Wolf called me a false—"

"I know. But he's confused. He's facing something he doesn't understand. For the first time since he sucked a teat, he's feeling helpless to provide for his family."

He lowered his eyes at the warm understanding in her frail smile. "None of us are providing for our loved ones."

"It's a terrible reality for a man to face."

"A man?"

Green Water nodded. "I've always felt sorry for men. They take responsibility for so many things that aren't their fault. Like Singing Wolf when he looks at Laughing Sunshine with the death of his baby weighing on him. He fears Sunshine might leave him for another man . . . a better provider."

"That's crazy." Wolf Dreamer chewed his lip. "She loves him."

"But Singing Wolf doesn't see it. Men are just that way." She winked at him. "You should be glad you have us around to keep you out of trouble. Women stay sane in times like these. We have to."

He clenched a fistful of snow. "I'm still responsible."

She patted his shoulder. "Come, rest. I believe in you. Laughing Sunshine, Ocher, and Broken Branch, we all believe in you. We all know what you've done—and appreciate it."

He stared at her as she smiled warmly, then nodded and walked slowly to where they handed blocks of snow out of the excavations.

When they'd cut three cavities from the lee of the drift, he carefully faded back, feeling the trail. Last time, wolf tracks had led him to musk ox. Perhaps this time, Wolf would come. Or perhaps he'd stumble over another winter kill—for Green. Water and the rest.

On unsure legs, he turned into the growing darkness, feeling his way on the uneven surface of the trail.

Black's yipping brought Heron wide-awake.

She sat up and rubbed stiff fists into her eyes. "Something different in that bark of yours," she called out.

Red coals glowed around the rock-heaped fire pit. Retrieving her darts, Heron rose and pulled on her parka. Again the yip came, barely audible over the howling of the wind. She shoved her feet into her boots, snugging the laces tight and binding her hair with a thong before pulling the hood closed about her face. Last, she took her snowshoes.

Before leaving, she settled a couple of faggots of wood on the fire and ducked through the flap. Snow whirled from the darkness—a twisting cascade as she turned her head, half-hesitant to undo the hood and freze her ears. No, not good to get her head wet in this. The head lost too much heat unprotected.

Black barked again. She got a fix on the direction and hesitated. Even with her knowledge of the area, only a fool walked out in the wind-whipped storm. Still, something in Black's call, some wrongness, goaded her onward.

"Never heard you yap like that," she murmured in concern, feet crunching on new snow as she angled away from her home.

She whistled, hearing the faint responding howl. Bending, she tied her feet into the webbing of the snowshoes. Steadfast, dart nocked in her atlatl, she crunched up the slope, into the brunt of the wind. Her lips chilled, making whistling difficult. Snow packed on the front of her caribou parka, forcing her to walk head down to keep the storm from blinding her.

Black yelped excitedly in the distance.

Rested though she was, her aged legs complained, aching in the deep drifts. Time and again, she whistled, following the lead of Black's cry. For what seemed an eternity of night and Wind Woman's incessant harassment, Black's call grew louder.

He bounded out of the dark, whining, the bitch White on his heels, as always, unsure. Black leapt away. Stolidly, she followed.

She almost missed him. He lay half-buried, face cradled in his arms, protected from the force of the gale. The snow around him had been packed by Black's feet. The dog looked up, whining, tail swishing.

"There," she cooed. "Good boy. Just like I trained you, huh?"

She bent down, squinting at his clothing in the blackness. "One of the People. Here?" She blinked, an eerie sense of familiarity taunting her heart.

Frowning for what seemed an eternity, Heron finally pulled his snow-encrusted arm away, looking at his slack features. "Too late." She sighed. "Looks like he's froze."

Heron kicked him in the ribs, hard, and got a groan.

"Come on," she growled. "Get up."

Lifting, she got him to his feet, slipping on the irregularity of the snow beneath. Mammoth trail. Must have been the old bull headed for the hot springs. The boy had followed the tracks.

"Black," she called, supporting the staggering man's weight. "Home, Black."

Obedient, the dog loped away, a charcoal splotch in the windswept night.

Forever they walked. Her breath tore at her lungs. He faltered, trying to keep erect. Even through the many layers of his clothing, she could feel his bones. Starved. One foot at a time, they progressed, Black racing back and forth, leading the way, nose to the piling snow.

An hour later, on the verge of collapse, they crested the ridge, the stranger falling to his knees, almost dragging her down. Hurling condensed clouds of breath, Heron grabbed his hood and slid him down the trail.

He shivered, the spasms violent.

"You gonna die after I've done all this work?" she grumbled. Pulling off her mittens, she undid his parka with stiffened fingers, the dogs nosing about, anxious, reading her disquiet.

The stiff leather came off with difficulty. Heron turned her face away at the odor of him. Sickness and stale sweat hung heavily about him. Teeth chattering, she yanked the last of his clothing off and stripped herself, dragging him over the rocks, heedless of his tender skin until she had him in the warm water of her hot springs.

In the darkness, steam swirled wildly in the wind, enveloping them in a blanket of moist warmth. She held him, feeling the strangeness of human flesh against hers. Keeping his head above water, she listened to his heart, to his breathing. He stirred.

"You're safe," she assured. "Now tell me what you're doing here?"

The boy muttered, voice thick, the words only half-formed. In the darkness, she could read his confused eyes. She knew this boy.
Something inside tensed.

"Long ago ..." she muttered. "You've finally come."

The next evening Heron ducked under the door flap, leaving the wide-eyed boy to stare at her back. He'd remained quiet, absorbed in his own thoughts. She hadn't wanted to push him yet, but would have to soon.

Stepping along the mist-slick rocks at the edge of the pool, she stopped suddenly. The old mammoth lumbered down the hillside and into the pool, soaking up water with his trunk and spraying it over his back.

"Back again, are you? Brought me a human, you know? Followed your trail."

An explosive exhale and a grunt were her only answers as he scented the air warily. He always came before a storm. Regular as the call of a plover, the huge animal plodded to the hot springs to suck up the mineral waters and wade in the steaming pool. She accepted that, understanding how joints ached prior to the storm. Her own, stiff now with pain, reacted the same way.

She waited, speaking softly to her two dogs who watched with pricked ears. She motioned with a flat hand, keeping them steady, silent.

While they had a truce of sorts—she and the old bull—they didn't crowd each other's territory. On a rock, she waited, keeping a cautious eye on the mammoth who stood up to his belly in rolling mist. He swayed his trunk, splashing slightly as though the odor of the mineral springs was distasteful to his sensitive nose.

In the lee of the rocks, the wind didn't touch her, though tiny flakes of snow drifted down from the sky to disappear as they landed on the warm rocks. Magically, from the mist, caribou appeared. Young "one antler" held his head irritably, shaking it, as the itch to shed tormented his lopsided head. Warily, the caribou drank, feeling Heron's serenity.